After that long last dinner, four long courses long, I served coffee and set out glasses for champagne. It seemed to me that I had begun this meal at the dawn of time and there was an eon yet to run before its end.
I poured Dom Pérignon into the long-stemmed crystal glasses and gave the table a final glance, assuring myself that now I could withdraw. The candles burned, the linens gleamed, and the few remaining pieces of silver shone. The company was seated in pairs. Mr. Theo, plump with bonhomie and self-satisfaction, had the head of the table with Alexis on his right. Beside her, her father and mother wore the expressions of a couple whose begonia has taken first prize at a show—expressions of hard work justly rewarded in this best of all possible worlds. They frequently caught one another’s eye and touched hands and were glad together.
The Mondleighs shared no such gestures. He faced his son, down the length of the table, sternly satisfied, allowing perhaps himself and certainly his son no greater pleasure in the occasion, a weighty presence, stabilizing. His wife shone quietly at his side, despite his efforts to dampen her spirits. She seemed to be in a world of her own; she had smiled her greeting to me, incandescent as a bride.
Miss Sarah and Mr. Wycliffe were fully occupied, on this their first public appearance, with being taken as acknowledged adults. They concealed their affection and appetite for one another and gave most of their attention to Mr. Mondleigh, as the most significant person at the table.
I finished pouring and set the champagne bottle down on the sideboard. It had been a long evening. “Take a glass for yourself, Gregor,” said Mr. Theo.
A generous gesture. I took a glass, filled it, and waited. Mr. Theo stood up.
“This is the last quiet time we’ll have together, so I want to take the occasion to propose a toast, to my bride.” He raised his glass and we all drank to Alexis. “And to her parents”—they were surprised and pleased—“and all happiness to you, Sarah,” he concluded. He sat down again. The three toasts had emptied his glass and depleted others; I took up a bottle and filled them all again, as Mr. Mondleigh tapped with his spoon on his water goblet.
“I didn’t mean to initiate a round, Dad,” Mr. Theo said. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Mr. Mondleigh silenced his son. He stood. He cleared his throat. “Life,” he announced, “doesn’t usually come up to expectations, but this occasion fulfills my hopes. I propose a toast to the bride and groom.”
We drank to the bride and groom.
Mr. Rawling wanted a turn. He pushed his chair back and stood, his glass raised in one hand, his wife’s hand held in the other. “I’ll keep it simple because—because it seems simple to me. Anyone who doesn’t know how much Allie means to her mother and me doesn’t know much of anything. So we want to toast Theo, our son-to-be, and also neighbor-to-be, golf partner—and maybe even investment counselor. We wouldn’t give her over to just anyone, Theo.” Mrs. Rawling’s head nodded in vigorous agreement.
We drank to Mr. Theo. Mr. Rawling sat down. I went around topping up glasses as conversation recommenced, with Mrs. Rawling at once asking Mr. Theo about an usher’s family and Mr. Mondleigh grilling Mr. Wycliffe in yet more detail about his law firm. When Mrs. Mondleigh tapped her spoon against her goblet, conversation didn’t falter. She tapped again. I picked up my own glass from the sideboard.
Mrs. Mondleigh continued her gentle tapping.
“What are you doing?” Miss Sarah asked. “Mother? Women aren’t supposed to—”
“Pipe down, Sarah,” Mr. Theo said. “This is the era of equality.”
“Don’t encourage her, Theo,” Mr. Mondleigh told his son.
“Am I going to have to make a toast?” Mrs. Rawling demanded. “Nobody said anything about the mother of the bride making a toast.”
Mrs. Mondleigh tapped again.
“Whatever you’re thinking of, Elaine,” Mr. Mondleigh said, “I’d be grateful if you’d change your mind.”
“Go ahead, Mother, if you want to,” Mr. Theo exhorted.
“I only want to…” Mrs. Mondleigh began. They finished the sentence for her.
“Embarrass me,” Miss Sarah said.
“Make a toast,” Mr. Theo said. “And why shouldn’t she?” he demanded of his father.
“Well, get on with it, if you must,” Mr. Mondleigh said. “Stand up.”
Mrs. Mondleigh stood. She raised her glass. “I want to propose a toast to…”
“The bridal couple, we know that, you didn’t have to make such a production out of it. Or did you want to include Sarah and her young man too?”
“Brad, his name is Brad,” Miss Sarah told her father. “To Brad, Mother?”
“A toast to love and marriage,” Mrs. Rawling suggested. “Is that what you were thinking?”
“I’ll drink to that.” Mr. Rawling raised his glass. Glasses around the table were raised and drunk from.
“That wasn’t what…That wasn’t my toast,” Mrs. Mondleigh said.
“What is it then?” her husband asked.
“About how Theo’s right, it’s the last private time, and with Sarah’s news…her good news…”
“Coming like a bolt out of the blue,” her husband finished for her. “I know, Elaine, I know just what you mean. No offense, young man,” he told Mr. Wycliffe, “you look presentable to me.”
It was tears that sparkled in Mrs. Mondleigh’s eyes. She didn’t look at anyone. Tears sparkled on her cheeks. “I don’t know what I did, that my whole family thinks it owns…I must have done something. Wrong. Mustn’t I? Sarah? Theo? That’s why I want to leave. After the wedding, of course.”
“What do you mean?” Mr. Mondleigh demanded.
“I mean leave home, David, leave you, and live…”
“Just say what you mean, Elaine, and sit down.”
“Now Sarah’s married, and Theo’s getting married…”
“What the hell is going on?” He pulled her back down into her seat. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
There was a silence.
“Is she drunk?” Mr. Wycliffe asked Miss Sarah.
“Mother,” Mr. Theo scolded, “this isn’t the time or the place, even if you’re serious—”
“It’s all right, Theo,” Alexis said.
“No, it is not all right.” His nostrils flared.
Mr. Mondleigh sat absolutely still, jaw clenched.
“Mummy’s never done anything like this before in her life,” Miss Sarah told her husband. “She doesn’t drink, Brad. So don’t ever say that again.”
“Well,” Mrs. Rawling said. “I think it’s time we said good evening,” she announced. She folded her napkin and set it on the table. “Tomorrow’s a busy day.”
“I’m sorry, Theo,” Mrs. Mondleigh said.
“What kind of a joke is this?” her husband asked.
“It’s not a joke, David. And don’t think I’m crying because I’m upset. I’m crying because…”
There was a silence.
“Finish your sentence, woman. We’re all waiting, if you notice.”
“Mrs. Mondleigh,” Alexis asked, “are you all right?”
Mrs. Mondleigh nodded tearily. “I hope you won’t think I’m trying to ruin your day, dear.”
Mr. Wycliffe pushed back his chair. “I’m going home.”
“Allie? Martin?” Mrs. Rawling asked brightly. “We should be going too. It was a lovely dinner, Theo.”
“I hope you’re not upset,” Mrs. Mondleigh apologized to all.
“And I hope you’re satisfied,” her husband answered. “You needn’t think I’ll give you a divorce.”
“What if the young people are right about…the real bonds. They may all be in the heart. Do you ever wonder?”
“Sarah? Are you coming with me?”
“Allie? You’d better go with your parents.”
“We’ve been divorced for…years, my dear. And you never even knew it.”
“That’s ridiculous. That sounds like some book. Or some soap opera. You don’t mean it, you know you don’t. I don’t know what’s gotten into you. What’s gotten into you? You’d be ludicrous, a woman like you, at your age, walking out on me, the single life at your age—It would be ludicrous. You’re too sensible for that. I’ve always admired your good sense, and I can’t believe you’d do something so out of character. I think you need a vacation, that’s all. You always wanted to go to Mexico, didn’t you? You could go to Mexico. For a month. Or a season. Take Sarah, if she’d like to go, she looks peaky. I’m worried about you, Elaine. I am. You don’t have to speak—here, here’s my handkerchief; there you go—just shake your head if I’m right. If you didn’t mean it. If it’s just some—mood, just shake your—I thought so.”
He looked around but I was the only one left in the dining room.