The train station in Rome was a sweltering human stew, garnished with fashionable shoes and handbags. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to find Tara and Jenny, and in the end they found me, tackling me in a clumsy group hug with backpacks.
“You’re here!” I said. I clung to them. It had been so long since I’d seen someone from home, and we had a whole precious month planned, two weeks in Italy and two in Greece. “What do you want to do first? Do you want me to take you to the hotel?”
“Please,” said Tara. “I’m dying to dump these bags.”
“Food,” said Jenny. “I’m starving.”
“There’s a spot you’ll love, right near the hotel,” I said.
“Lead on,” said Tara. “I need to keep moving or I’ll fall over. I barely slept on the plane.”
“Is it too early to start drinking?” said Jenny.
“Not in Italy,” I said.
“Picture!” said Tara.
“Now?” I asked. There were people everywhere, streaming past us on all sides.
“Yes,” said Tara. “Now.”
We asked another tourist to take the photo, and we returned the favour, and then we set off for the hotel. In six blocks, we almost died twice. A Fiat swerved at the last moment, and the driver swore at us. Five minutes later a moped did the same, but the driver raised the visor on his helmet and blew us a kiss. “That’s Italy for you,” I said.
Our room had three single, extremely hard, beds but it was cheap and convenient, and breakfast was included. It had a partial view of a courtyard festooned with laundry lines. I sprawled out on my bed while the others unpacked and filled me in on cultural and other developments from home.
“It works like this,” said Tara. “You give me the name of a celebrity.”
“Dead or alive?” I asked.
“Either,” said Tara.
“River Phoenix,” I said.
“River Phoenix was in The Mosquito Coast with Martha Plimpton, who was in Parenthood with Steve Martin, who was in Planes, Trains and Automobiles with Kevin Bacon.”
“Kevin Bacon was not in Planes, Trains and Automobiles,” I said. “That was Ethan’s favourite movie. I must have seen it twenty times.”
“He’s totally in it,” said Jenny. “He races Steve Martin for a taxi.”
“It’s an awesome drinking game,” said Tara.
“We’ll play it tonight,” I said.
“We need to do some wedding planning,” said Tara.
“Tonight?” I said.
“What have we been doing for the last six months?” said Jenny.
“Macro-level planning,” said Tara. “Now we move into the micro-level.”
“What’s the macro-level?” I asked.
“Date, venue, dress, guest list, menu, music,” said Tara.
“Bridesmaids,” said Jenny.
“Bridesmaids,” said Tara. “I have the best ones.” She grabbed each of us by the hand and squeezed.
“No crying!” said Jenny.
“Has there been a lot of that?” I asked.
“You could say,” said Jenny.
Tara laughed. “It’s true,” she said. “Everyone is so nice to you when you get married. It’s overwhelming. There’s so much love.”
Jenny and I exchanged a glance. “And what’s the micro-level?” I asked.
“Gift registry, invitations, cake, honeymoon,” said Tara, counting them off on her fingers.
“Sounds urgent,” I said. “We’d better get to it immediately.”
“Okay, fine,” said Tara. “Maybe it could wait until tomorrow.”
“Maybe you could take a few weeks off, and focus on honeymoon research,” I said. “Ethan would love Italy.”
“They’ve narrowed it down to the Caribbean,” said Jenny. “Europe is too cold after Christmas.”
“Thank goodness she has you,” I said. “I’m the weak link in the bridesmaid chain.”
“Laugh all you like,” said Tara. “You’ll see when you get married.”
“Not on the horizon,” I said.
“Not in this lifetime,” said Jenny.
“Don’t say that,” said Tara. “You can’t say that. You’ll meet the right person and you’ll change your mind. You guys are romantics at heart.”
“You’re projecting,” said Jenny.
“And you’re revisionist historians,” said Tara.
She wasn’t entirely wrong. We’d all been hopeless romantics at one time. What girls aren’t? We had gobbled down love stories all summer long, a new stack each week from the library in town. We loved Jo March and her Friedrich, and Anne Shirley and her Gilbert. And we were fascinated, most of all, by our parents’ love stories.
We made the grown-ups at Berry Point tell us over and over again how they’d met and fallen in love. We tried to reconcile the young couples in the stories with the adults we knew. And as the summers passed, and we grew up, we came to understand that love stories didn’t end happily all the time, or possibly ever.
Don and Greta’s story was the most romantic one of all: Cinderella and My Fair Lady all wrapped up into one real-life version. Greta had been a single mom on a scholarship, working her way through university. Jenny’s father had left shortly after she was born and moved back to Europe. Greta didn’t know his address.
When Jenny was a baby, Greta worked the evening shift at the library, because the old lady in the apartment next door could watch Jenny then. Don, who was a professor, liked visiting the library late at night because he was less likely to run into his students. He was divorced, and had a son in California, who he missed a lot. One night, Don was looking for a book in the stacks, and Greta had that very book on her cart for reshelving! It was Fate, said Greta. Don asked Greta out for breakfast, and within a year they were married. Don treated Jenny like his own daughter, and they became the family they were destined to be.
Except that Don was chilly and boring, and Greta was lonely. And when Peter moved to town, Don didn’t need his new family anymore. And he left Greta and Jenny high and dry, as my mother said, and Greta had to sue him to make ends meet.
And there were Tara’s parents, Kerry and Bill, who had met each other at summer camp when they were teenagers. They were the leads in the camp play, and they had to kiss each other onstage. Kerry was nervous, so Bill took her into the woods to practise where no one could see them. They liked kissing each other so much that they had never stopped, Kerry said.
Except that we rarely saw Bill kiss Kerry, and when he did, it was on the cheek. Kerry liked organic gardening and yoga, and Bill liked cars and golf. Bill ran an advertising agency in the city, and often he had to attend events on the weekends. So Kerry spent most of the summer at the cottage by herself. Neither of them seemed to mind. “Bill gets underfoot when he’s here,” Kerry would say.
My parents were different. They’d met on a blind date in university, where my dad was studying law and my mom was studying French history and literature. Until he met my mom, Dad had only had appetizers, and never hors d’oeuvres. Mom said that she’d never met anyone who made her laugh so much. You had to be careful not to burst into a room, or you might find them kissing each other. It was gross, but also nice.
And then Dad died and broke Mom’s heart.
So we had our reasons for caution, Jenny and I.
“You’ll love the bridesmaids’ dresses,” Tara said. “Won’t she, Jenny?”
Jenny sighed. “Yes,” she said. “Ladies, I am not going to starve to death in a city that is essentially a giant restaurant. That would be a little too ironic, even for me.”
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go.” I’d learned enough about Rome in my travels to avoid restaurants on the main squares, as well as those that had English on the menu. I’d borrowed a Rick Steves guide from an Australian, who’d stolen it from a hostel in Portugal, and found a trattoria in an alleyway nearby that had reasonable prices, delicious pasta, and a lot of backpacking patrons flipping through the pages of Rick Steves guides.
“Seriously, Avery,” said Tara as we walked. “You want to get married someday, don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m a long way from that right now.”
I did want to get married someday, at least theoretically. And I was happy for Tara, and for my brother, Ethan. I was. But it was a lot to take in. At the end of our trip, Tara would return home to finish her micro-level wedding preparations, and start her certificate program in public relations. And Jenny would go home and volunteer at the museum, and do research for one of her art history professors, and work on her applications for graduate school. And I would do a term at University College London until I had to return home in December to squeeze into my bridesmaid’s dress and into a final, structured, required term at the University of Toronto so that I could graduate and . . . that was the problem, of course. I had no idea, and I preferred not to think about it.
“So,” I said, linking arms with Tara, “are you excited?”
“So excited,” said Tara. “I’m getting nervous about the day, though. I hate being the centre of attention.” Coming from almost any other bride on the planet, this would have been a bald-faced lie, but I knew it was true. Tara had always blushed furiously at her own birthday parties and tried to make other people blow out the candles on her cake.
“You’ll be perfect,” I said. “Ethan is ridiculously lucky.”
Tara smiled. “We both are.”
“Tara,” I said. “How do you know?”
“Know what?”
“That you want to be with him forever. How can you be sure?”
She thought for a few steps. “You know Ethan,” she said. “He’s decent, kind, solid. I’ve known him my whole life, so there won’t be any surprises.” We stopped at an intersection, and the cacophony of horns and engines made it impossible to continue the conversation. We launched ourselves into the pedestrian crossing, making it safely to the other side.
“Do you think people feel more alive in Italy because they are always on the brink of death?” said Jenny. We all laughed.
“My answer about Ethan wasn’t very romantic,” said Tara.
“You don’t have to sell me on Ethan,” I said. “He’s my brother.”
“I know,” said Tara, “but I didn’t explain it well. When I’m with Ethan, I feel calm and sure and safe. He’s a rock. I know in my bones that he’ll stand with me no matter what comes at us in life.”
“He will,” I said. My voice caught.
“The two of you!” said Jenny. “Honestly. Enough crying. Is this the restaurant, Avery?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I can’t help it,” said Tara, wiping away tears. “I love you guys so much.”
The waiter ushered us to a table on the patio. “Acqua?” he asked. “Frizzante? Naturale?”
“Naturale,” I said. “Grazie.”
“Prego,” he said. Jenny and Tara looked disoriented.
“Do you want me to order for you?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Tara.
“No,” said Jenny.
We decided on pizza to share. I ordered a bottle of prosecco. We were here, in Rome, together. Tara was getting married. It was cause for celebration. We sat in the sun, savouring the food and the soft alcoholic buzz.
And then Tara said, “Jenny, there’s something I have to tell you. Don and Peter are coming to the wedding.” Wine had a confessional effect on her.
“Peter?” Jenny and I said in unison.
“My mother insisted on inviting Don,” said Tara. “I thought that since we were having Greta, we should leave him off the list. But my mother had . . . strong views on the subject. She has a few divorced friends and she decided on a blanket policy of inviting everyone with a guest. And then Don replied that he was bringing Peter.”
Jenny was silent for a moment. “It is what it is,” she said.
“Are you mad?” asked Tara.
“Yes,” said Jenny, swallowing the rest of her drink. “But not at you.”
“Is it really so bad?” I said. “Peter’s okay. I know he’s not your favourite person, but isn’t that sort of a holdover from childhood?”
“Avery,” said Tara. “I’m not sure this is helpful.”
“I think it is helpful,” I said. “I’m trying to help our friend see that she doesn’t have to spend the rest of her life feeling like a displaced child. I think that she and Peter could have a perfectly civil adult relationship.”
“Do you?” said Jenny. “Do you really, Avery?”
“I do,” I said. We were well into our second bottle, and the wine had made me incautious. “I like you, and I like Peter. In my opinion, you are both smart, interesting, nice people who could have a decent relationship with each other if you could let go of all the baggage.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing over here for the last four years?” asked Jenny. “Letting go of your baggage?”
“Guys,” said Tara.
“This isn’t about me,” I said. “I’m Switzerland.”
“My mother was in litigation with Don for five years,” said Jenny. “Don and Peter are not my friends. They will never be my friends. And the people who are my friends don’t get to be Switzerland. You’re with me or you aren’t.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” I said.
On the last weekend of May, we opened the cottage for the season.
“Nineteen eighty-nine,” said my mother. “Can you believe it, Brian? Time flies.”
“Not quickly enough,” said my father. “That was a long winter. I, for one, am ready for summer. In fact, I’m putting on my bathing suit.”
“You’re nuts, honey,” said my mother. “The water’s too cold.”
“It’s been colder,” said my father. “I’ve never missed a May dip.”
“And I’ve never missed trying to talk you out of it,” said my mother, kissing him. “I won’t change your mind, but I feel duty-bound to try.”
“And I love you for it,” said my father. “Who’s coming in with me?”
We all shook our heads. I wouldn’t have dreamed of stripping off my fleece pants and sweatshirt, let alone diving into the lake.
“Avery, you disappoint me!” said Dad. “You, my most reliable swimming partner! You must be growing up and getting sensible like your mother.”
“Sorry, Dad,” I said. “You’re on your own.”
He headed to his room and soon reappeared in his bathing suit and towel. “I won’t be long,” he said.
“Peter!” I heard him calling as he headed down the path. “Be a man and join me.”
“I’ll go watch,” I said.
I followed my dad down the path and saw Peter coming out of the Haines cottage. I waved, and he waved back. He jogged along the path and caught up to me. He was wearing a bathing suit and a sweatshirt.
“Are you swimming?” I asked.
“I’m conflicted,” he said. “I’m wearing a bathing suit in solidarity. My solidarity may not stretch far enough to go in the water. I’ll start with my feet and we’ll go from there.”
I giggled, and mentally kicked myself. I sounded like such a ditz around Peter. I wished he knew how smart I really was. I was a completely different person than I had been when he met me two years ago. I was fourteen now. I wasn’t a little girl anymore. But he couldn’t see that yet. He didn’t know that I dreamed about him, grown-up dreams, not little-kid ones.
“Hurry up, you two,” Dad called. “I’m going in without you.”
We heard the splash as he dove in. “He’s nuts,” I said. “It’s freezing.”
“He likes traditions,” said Peter. “And an audience. Come on. Let’s go watch, at least.”
We ran down the stairs and around the corner of the boathouse. I expected to see Dad climbing out of the lake, shivering, but he wasn’t on the ladder or the dock. “Still in?” I called. “It must be warmer than we thought.”
Dad didn’t reply. Peter stepped ahead of me quickly, threw off his sweatshirt, and started climbing into the water, one rung at a time, wincing at the cold.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“Stay there!” said Peter. His teeth were chattering.
“Why?” I said, walking to the edge of the dock and looking down at Peter, who was putting an arm around my Dad’s floating body and pulling him toward the ladder. “What is Dad doing?”
“Avery,” said Peter. “Run and call nine-one-one, as fast as you can.”
Jenny and I reached a truce in Rome that afternoon, brokered by Tara. We agreed to “keep it light” and focus on having fun. So we did. Jenny and I had discovered a barrier in our friendship that we couldn’t cross, but we could avoid it. And there were distractions everywhere: beaches, ruins, museums, markets, food, and wine. The trip ended as it had begun, with a group hug at a train station.
Several months later, decked out in a strapless blue satin dress, I sat at the head table after the food had been cleared and the speeches had been given, and watched Tara dance with her dad. When the music stopped, I excused myself. I locked myself in a stall in the bathroom and put my head in my hands. Time passed; I wasn’t sure how much. When I could breathe, I went and stood in front of the mirror and fixed my makeup as best I could.
In the banquet hall, Tara and Ethan were tearing up the dance floor along with most of the wedding guests.
I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Nice speech,” said Peter.
“Thanks,” I said.
“A hidden talent for public speaking,” said Peter. “Just one more reason why you should go to law school.”
“Why is it that every time I see you, you tell me to go to law school?” I said.
“So that I can hire you,” said Peter. “I told you years ago that we’d make a great team.”
“You barely know me,” I said. “Maybe I’m feckless and irresponsible.”
“Maybe I like feckless and irresponsible,” said Peter. “Your eyes are red, by the way.”
“It’s a wedding,” I said. “Everyone is crying.”
“You must miss your dad today,” said Peter.
I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
“Come on,” he said. “There’s a bar down the hall. They make decent cocktails. You’ve had enough pinot grigio for one night.” He held out an elbow, and I let him escort me out of the room. I caught the corner of a tablecloth near the exit and wobbled precipitously on uncomfortably high heels. Peter steadied me.
“Add unbalanced to the list,” I said.
“What list?” said Peter.
“Unattached, unemployed, unfocused,” I said. “The sad bridesmaid.”
Peter laughed. “I’m glad you’re not feeling sorry for yourself,” he said. “So what is it that you’d like to be?”
“Mysterious,” I said.
Peter steered me into the bar. We perched on bar stools and ordered. “I’ve got news for you, Avery,” he said. “First of all, mysterious is seriously overrated. Second, if you want a man to find you mysterious, you’ll have to pick one who hasn’t known you since you were twelve.”
“Maybe I’ve picked up some secrets since then,” I said.
“I’m sure you have,” said Peter. “But people don’t change that much. You’re still the same girl who built that raft with me: determined, disciplined, dogged.”
“Any more ‘d’ words?” I said. I hoped I sounded unruffled, and not like someone who had just been described as “dogged” by her childhood crush. Was “dogged” the least sexy adjective in the English language? “Earnest” could be worse, I supposed, but only marginally.
“Decent? Direct?”
I rolled my eyes.
“What?” said Peter. “You don’t like my word selection?”
“It could be worse,” I said. “You didn’t choose ‘decrepit’ or ‘deficient.’”
“Defensive?”
I sighed. “You win,” I said.
“Good,” said Peter. “So what’s your plan, Avery?”
“Honestly?” I said. “I don’t have one.”
“Are you scared?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Good,” he said again. “Scared is fine, Avery. Scared means you’re awake. Scared means you’re alive.”
“I’ve been alive all along,” I said. “I’ve been travelling. I’ve had amazing experiences.”
“You’ve been hiding,” said Peter.
“I don’t think you know me well enough to say that,” I said.
“Like I said, people don’t change that much,” said Peter. “You are a doer. Doers need to do. Find something to do and you’ll feel more like yourself.”
“But I want to find the right thing to do,” I said. “I don’t want to waste my time.”
“Don’t make the mistake of waiting for the perfect choice to appear,” said Peter. “Just move forward. Apply for a job. Apply for grad school. Strike out on a new path. It doesn’t really matter which one. What matters is that you get some momentum behind you.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” I told him. “You’re doing exactly what you’ve always wanted.”
“Who told you that?” said Peter. “I didn’t want to be a lawyer.”
“What did you want to be?”
“A rock star,” said Peter, grinning. “And I don’t want to be a lawyer five years from now.”
“You have a garage band?” I said.
“I have a campaign team,” said Peter. “It’s like a garage band, but quieter.”
“A campaign for what?” I said.
“That’s the big question,” said Peter. “Federal, provincial, or municipal? I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
“Politics?” I said. “You want to be a politician?”
“I am a politician,” said Peter. “I just haven’t been elected yet.”
“You’d be fantastic,” I said.
Peter smiled. “We’d be fantastic,” he said. “Now go get some experience so that I can hire you.”