Chapter Thirty-Three

 

Eight Months Later

 

 

“How do I look?”

Marianne stood before the full-length mirror in the dressing room. In its reflection was herself, in a white gown fitted close at the bodice and waist, then trailing onto the floor in a long train. A veil of white lace framing her blond curls tamed in an elegant chignon.

Elegant. A figure not quite as willowy as before the baby, but almost as thin as before. The groom-to-be wouldn’t notice the difference or care, as Eleanor knew.

Behind her, Eleanor was reflected. A business suit with its jacket removed, a corsage pinned to her blouse and her tailored skirt all but hidden by the dramatic spread of Marianne’s gown. “You look beautiful,” she answered, softly.

Marianne turned around to face her. “Good,” she said. “I’ve never worn anything like this before. You know, Elly.”

“It suits you,” Eleanor answered. Bending down, she pulled a jewelry case from her bag. “Here, I brought you these. Something borrowed.”

She snapped it open, removing a double strand of pearls from inside. Marianne’s lips twisted into a smile.

“Your pearls,” she said. “They’ll look nice with it. Thank you.” There were tears gathering on the edge of her vision; in her voice was a slight choking sound which lasted only a moment before she was herself again. “Would you put them on me?” She lifted her veil aside and turned around again.

“Do you have something blue?” Eleanor asked. The gown was new; the veil was their mother’s, one of the few relics from their family’s past which somehow survived various relocations and years of storage.

“Don’t ask what,” Marianne answered. “But yes, I do.” In the mirror, the pearls slid into place as Eleanor fastened the clasp. She gazed at the reflection.

“Who would have thought we’d be here, Elly?” she asked. “Me, being the sensible, responsible grown-up. And you – you doing everything different –” She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s not what anybody thought about us, is it?”

Eleanor hesitated. “Are you happy with this?” she asked. “I know Miles is good to you. But – you never –”

“I know what you’re trying to say.” Marianne answered. “He loves me, Elly. And he loves the baby. Crazy about her, actually.” She adjusted the veil again, which had slipped to the side while the pearls were being clasped. “He spent a whole afternoon building towers out of blocks with her. Not that she can really do more than knock them down –” She trailed off at this point.

“He waited for you,” said Eleanor. “Longer than anyone else ever did. I suppose that’s something in his favor, right?” She smiled, finding that it was harder than she thought. For the image of Miles’s eager, wistful face was supplanted momentarily by Will’s.

Will, who was married and somewhere with his lovely society bride this afternoon, possibly unaware of Marianne’s wedding, although she doubted it. Will would know. He probably knew the place and the hour. The name of the former rival whom he displaced, who now displaced him in Marianne’s life.

“He did,” Marianne answered. “He shouldn’t have. But I’m glad he did.” She smoothed her dress. “I know it’s all true, Elly. He doesn’t even care about my keeping the studio, although he thinks I should get one somewhere safer, of course...”

“He does love you,” said Eleanor. Who wanted to hear the one reply that she knew wouldn’t come. Not yet, although it was not impossible. Not with Marianne, at any rate.

“I know.” She turned towards Eleanor again. “He said he likes my latest sculpture. The birds on the wire.” She was smiling, although she was blinking back her tears fiercely with these words.

Eleanor wrapped her arms around her. “I’m sure he does,” she said, feeling Marianne’s shoulders shaking. “I’m sure of it.”

She didn’t want to hear Marianne say she was right about this. Not about Miles, nor about Will. Even if it was really true, it would be painful to hear it said aloud. In a few minutes, that pain would ebb a little, and they would move from this spot and go down to Marianne’s future life.

Marianne’s arms tightened around her. “You were right,” she said, softly. “I should have listened to you.” The tears were still there in her voice, but it was more wistful at this point than painful.

“Not about everything,” Eleanor answered, feeling her throat constrict.

“It will be fine,” Marianne said.

“It will be,” Eleanor repeated. “You’ll be happy, Marianne. Won’t you?”

“I will.” She sighed. “Oh, Eleanor.” Within that sigh, those words, was everything they did not say at this moment, when the past of certain possibilities was held by its last thread.

They stood like that for a long moment before they went downstairs and into the sunshine.

 

 

*****

 

 

The wedding was an outdoor one, held on the church’s lawn. Guests lined either side of the aisle, a white stretch of muslin which reached a wicker altar no doubt designed by one of Marianne’s friends, woven with pink roses and bridal’s wreath.

The minister stood beneath it in his clerical robes. Miles stood waiting, his tuxedo perfectly pressed and his smile beaming on his plain face. Eleanor felt a pang of pity for how enraptured he looked as Marianne emerged from the doors, and a sense of love for someone who could love and long so patiently for the same person against all odds. Even in the face of the bald reality that they loved someone whose heart was entangled elsewhere.

She squeezed Marianne’s hand one more time. On her sister’s face, a smile – not as radiant as Miles’s, but a real one, nonetheless. The girl beside her, Miles’s sister, apparently, in the dress of a bridesmaid, handed Marianne a bouquet of pink roses and baby’s breath.

“Wish me luck.” Marianne glanced at Eleanor.

“Luck.” Eleanor released her hold on Marianne’s fingers. She offered a smile of greeting to Miles’s sister, then climbed down the steps, towards the small crowd waiting for the ceremony to begin.

Guests on the bride’s side – the right side of the aisle, it seemed – consisted of Marianne’s art and poetry crowd, whose manner of dress for her wedding was slightly more formal than their usual style.

A dark-skinned elderly woman, Mrs. Kirby, Eleanor knew, was in a flowered dress and floppy-brimmed hat, with Margaret’s baby stroller parked before her. The baby was asleep, her small mouth open, small fists clenched against the elaborate baby dress which Eleanor had bought for her, blue with ribbon roses trimming it.

She had Will’s dark hair beneath the tiny wreath of blue fabric flowers around her head. But Marianne’s eyes and the beginnings of the Darbish nose.

Eleanor lifted one of the small hands momentarily, feeling how lightweight and soft it seemed against her own. The baby did not wake up in response, although she stirred. Mrs. Kirby smiled and said something too softly for Eleanor to hear it. With a smile, she squeezed carefully into place beside them.

Some of the staff from the Herald was there, a handful of people who showed up more out of politeness for Eleanor than for deep friendship with Marianne. Except for possibly Brandon, who stood in the second row of guests.

He was wearing a brown suit, neatly pressed, a corsage of pink and white tucked in his buttonhole. His hair was neatly combed, and she was pleased to see that he had not dyed the grey from it, as his publicist suggested he should. He edged closer to Eleanor, who turned and smiled at him.

“I’m glad you came,” she said.

“What else would I do on a Saturday afternoon?” he asked. A gruff answer, beneath which she detected a thread of humor. He shifted his weight and glanced towards the steps where Marianne was poised to descend with her two bridesmaids, then towards the crowd of Miles’s family and friends.

“How is Montpelier?” he asked. Not looking at her with these words, although the question was clearly intended for her. She smiled, wryly.

“Good,” she said. “It’s nice to be back. Here, I mean. But it’s nice to be home, too.”

He paused. “Where is Edward?” This emerged stiffly, she noticed.

“He's here," she answered, quietly.

Brandon cleared his throat. "It worked out, then," he said, brusquely. "You and the stranger from the airport."

Eleanor blushed. "It did," she answered, "Is, I mean. Working. But as someone once told me in a roundabout way, you have to be sure it's the right choice for you both. You have to have time to heal ... time to know yourself ... if you want it to last."

"That sounds more like your advice than anyone else's," Brandon answered.

"The best advice sometimes comes from friends who know us better than we know ourselves," she answered.

Brandon glanced at her. A quick, searching gaze that said nothing, although it seemed to ascertain the truth of her words before he looked away. "I can't imagine that's true," he answered. "You know yourself. You only have trouble when you pretend that you don't."

She smiled, wryly. "Perhaps," she answered.

“Ah.” He cleared his throat and studied the ground for a moment. “I read your column,” he said.

“Do you like it?” She glanced at him.

“Yes,” he said, meeting her gaze. “The changes are mostly good. Not all perfect, of course, but the personal touch is effective. Sound advice, of course, as always.” He paused. “I have the – the app, that is. The one that pops up with it when it’s published.”

“You do?” she asked.

“Of course. The videos – they’re good. You have a talent for that sort of thing, it seems.”

“Hardly.” She laughed. “But thank you.” It was nice to know that he was aware of “Ask Eleanor’s” progress. A warm feeling stirring at the thought that he read her words – although not quite as warm a feeling for the thought of him watching her onscreen, where she found herself still hesitant in the face of praise. Too stilted, her words onscreen, she felt. Too painful to watch comfortably. Yet.

“I saw you on the morning cable program this week,” she continued. “On the player trade rumors for the next season.”

He sighed. “Did you,” he repeated, although flatly. “I hope it seemed better to the viewers at home. It gets dull. Doing that sort of thing, the commentary, the public lectures. But it’s good for the book, everyone says, and so I keep on. At least until I finish it. The book, I mean. Due in September.”

The book was a compilation of his war journal and the articles he had written, although woven together into a streamlined nonfiction novel. She had seen its cover: a photograph of Brandon gazing sternly off in the distance in a foreign desert city. The image was new to her, since Brandon had very few photographs of himself and seldom displayed them anywhere.

“Send me a copy,” said Eleanor. “I’ll buy one, of course. But I would like to read it before everyone else, if I could.”

“Of course,” he answered. “And don’t buy one. Why would you do that when I was already planning to give you one? In fact –” But here, he didn’t finish speaking. A violinist had begun to play, not “The Wedding March,” but some variation on a familiar aria, to which Marianne’s bridesmaids proceeded down the aisle.

They had fallen silent in response to this cue. Eleanor watched the graceful progress of Miles's sister and another girl, whose relationship to either bride or groom was unknown to her. She was aware of Brandon stirring beside her, his arms tucked behind him. His eye was not fully on the wedding’s beginning movements, his body restless with something else, some emotion which was only faintly discernible in his eyes when they flickered towards herself.

Before he said it aloud, she knew what his words would be.

“Those poems,” he said. His voice was low. “The ones I mentioned before.”

“I remember,” said Eleanor.

“They were for you,” he said. A fumbling tone, but within it, a deeper thread of emotion. He looked at her and she met his glance more fully. There, she saw its truth, more plainly than her imagined version, or Brandon's words. The one that Marianne had said was there all along. Which Eleanor had seen before, she realized, from the moment at her party.

“I know,” she answered, softly.

Reaching across, she touched Brandon’s hand. Her fingers touching his own, feeling them close around hers in response, holding her hand, tightly. A touch of friendship between them, of regrets and might-have-been, of possibilities behind them and the new roads of distance and separation ahead.

For a moment, their fingers were interlocked. Then Eleanor's hand was free again. Marianne was down the aisle, the bouquet of flowers trailing before her, the vision transformed into a prism of crystal and light. Then Eleanor blinked, and the tears in her eyes were gone again, leaving only the view of Marianne before the altar with Miles.

She made her way through the crowded reception afterwards. She could see Edward near one of the refreshment tables, a glass in his hand. He caught her gaze and smiled, stirring the warm, familiar ache in her chest. Maybe it would always last, she thought. Maybe when they knew everything about each other that it was humanly possible to know, she would still feel this thrill at the sight of him in a crowd.

She crossed the grass. Marianne was watching her, she realized. She caught a glimpse of her sister's smile, the traces of happiness in its curves, and of a deeper perception, as if she read what was in Eleanor's thoughts.

Eleanor smiled back.