Elin Hilderbrand - Beautiful Day

“I wasn’t thinking of Beth,” Doug whispered.

“What were you thinking of, then?” Pauline asked.

He didn’t answer. Pauline’s insistence that he was thinking of Beth led him to think of Beth. He thought about their wedding, which had been held in New York City. The ceremony at St. James’ on Seventy-first Street, the reception at the Quilted Giraffe, wedding night at the Pierre Hotel, where they had arrived, giddy and exhausted, at three in the morning, after a late-night excursion to Chinatown because Beth had been so busy talking and having her picture taken at the reception that she hadn’t eaten a thing, and she found herself with an insane craving for soup dumplings.

Doug remembered sitting across the tiny, soy-sticky table holding Beth’s hand as she slurped her soup dumplings. She was still in her white dress. The old Chinese women fussed over her; they petted her hair, they admired her ring. Doug remembered wanting to shoo them away like flies.

On the way back to the Pierre, Doug had asked Beth how many children she thought they should have.

“Four,” she said. “Two boys and two girls.”

That had seemed like a tall order to Doug, but all he’d wanted at that moment, and every moment after, was to make Beth happy.

“You got it,” he’d said.

In the next instant, Doug had watched all the traffic lights on Park Avenue, as far as he could see, turn green at once. It had been a moment of electrifying synchronicity.

The last page of the Notebook, he wondered. What did it say?

Dinner Menu

Beef, but not tenderloin. Something more flavorful. Ribeye? New York Strip?

Fish, not chicken. Swordfish, maybe, or striped bass, but only if you can get it locally from Bill Sandole at East Coast Seafood.

Baked potatoes with toppings-good cheddar, sour cream, crispy bacon, snipped chives. When I am gone, one of the things I will miss the most is a loaded baked potato.

Grilled or pan-roasted vegetables, not boiled.

Warm snowflake rolls.

A really good salad, sourced from Pumpkin Pond Farm.

Make it different from what people expect. Make it better.

She looked good,” Ann said. “Don’t you think she looked good?”

“Who?” Jim said. He was standing in front of the mirror, tugging at his necktie.

“Helen,” Ann said. “She looked beautiful, better than ever.” Ann hated saying the words, but they were true, goddamn it. They were true. Ann decided she would be the one to say them so the thought was out in the open and not festering in Jim’s brain. Ann was scared. She was terrified that Helen would steal Jim away again.

Jim approached Ann with open arms and pressed her against his chest. He ran his hands up and down her back in that way she loved. He smelled like melted butter.

“How was it at the hospital?” Ann asked.

“What do you mean?” Jim said.

Ann pulled away. “Did you sit with her in the waiting room?”

“I sat in the waiting room and she sat in the waiting room,” Jim said. “Was I with her? No, not really.”

“Did you sit next to her? ’ Ann asked.

Jim sighed. “Yes,” he said. “More accurately, she sat next to me. I couldn’t very well get up and move. That would have been awfully rude.”

Ann could not clear the color yellow from her field of vision. “What did you two talk about?”

“We barely spoke at all,” Jim said. “A little bit about Chance. We both marveled that his allergy to shellfish had escaped our notice for nineteen years.”

Ann did not love the phrases “we both marveled” or “escaped our notice.”

“I felt like Helen was blaming me because I was with Chance when he ate the mussel,” Ann said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jim said. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

Ann sat on the edge of the bed and kicked her flats off into the room. She felt small and insignificant and ugly. Helen Oppenheimer had been making her feel that way for twenty years, since the wine-tasting group, since the hot air balloon ride. Ann was incensed by the image of Jim and Helen side by side in the hospital waiting room. It was too reminiscent of Jim in the hospital on that Easter Sunday, crowing to Ann over the phone about how large and healthy his newborn son was.

Ann said, “Did you talk about anything else?”

Jim said, “Not really. I read Sports Illustrated. Helen was texting.”

“Who was she texting, I wonder?” Ann said. “The younger lover?”

“No,” Jim said. “They broke up.”

“They broke up?” Ann said. “How do you know this?”

“She told me,” Jim said. He whipped his belt out of the loops, removed his pants, and tossed them unfolded into the gaping mouth of his suitcase. Ann, of course, had placed all her clothes in drawers, neatly folded, except for the things she had to hang, which were in the closet. Neat Ann, Catholic school Ann, Saint Ann.

“She told you when?” Ann said.

“In the car ride,” Jim said. “I asked her how Brad was doing, and she said they’d split. She got tired of him, she said.”

“She got tired of him?” Ann said. The lover Brad was ten years Helen’s junior, he was a successful doctor, and she got tired of him? Ann didn’t like this one bit. Helen was single, she was free, and everyone, especially Ann, knew that Helen didn’t do well alone. “And she told you this? In the car?”

“Ann,” Jim said. “If you wanted to know what Helen and I talked about, you should have come along to the hospital. I wanted you to come. I was practically begging you.”

“It was Stuart’s rehearsal dinner!” Ann said. She was starting to hit her upper register, which was never a good sign. She took a moment to regroup, but the vodka martinis were wringing out her brain like wet laundry. For twenty years she had been a reasonable woman when dealing with Jim and his situation. But not tonight. “Stuart is my son, and he’s getting married tomorrow! I didn’t feel like I should miss his rehearsal dinner because Chance got sick. Chance… isn’t my son, Jim. He’s your son, and he’s Helen’s son.”

“Please calm down, Ann,” Jim said. “You’re absolutely right.”

“I know I’m absolutely right!” Ann said. She walked over to Jim and automatically turned her back because she needed him to unzip her dress. He did so, and then he helped to slip it from her shoulders, but she batted him away. The dress dropped to the floor in a pink puddle, and she left it there. She pulled on the white waffled robe over her bra and panties. “I hate her.”

“Ann…”

“I. Hate. Her.”

“Well, then,” Jim said. He paced the room as he unbuttoned his shirt. “Well, then, you shouldn’t have invited her here.”

Ann thought, And you shouldn’t have fucked her. And you shouldn’t have knocked her up. And you shouldn’t have married her.

Inviting her had merely been a generous, considerate way of dealing with the heinous predicament Jim had put them in.

She pointed to the door. “Get out,” she said.

“What?” he said.

“Get out!” Ann said. “I want you out!”

Jim took one, two, three steps in her direction, but she did not lower her finger. “I’m serious, Jim. Get out of this room. I don’t want you here tonight.”

“But Stuart…”

“What do you care about Stuart?” Ann said. “What do you care about any of us?”

“So let me get this straight,” Jim said. “You decide for some reason unbeknownst to me or anyone else to invite Helen to this wedding. It was your decision, Ann Graham, and yours alone. I was dead set against it, and I think I made that clear. And now, because Helen is here and because Chance had an unforeseen allergic reaction-where, I might add, he almost died-I am now paying the price.”

“Paying the price?” Ann said. Jim hadn’t “paid the price” the way Ann had paid the price, not by a long shot. He had come back to Ann as contrite as a man could be; he had cried, he had sent flowers, he had attended counseling with Father Art, their parish priest, he had shown up for every one of the boys’ school and sporting events with his hat in his hands begging forgiveness, he had done everything short of renting a billboard on I-80 renouncing his sins-but had he actually paid a price? Ann thought not.

She dropped her arm. “Get out,” she said quietly.

“Annie?” he said.

“Please,” she said.

The Cake

It has been my experience that people don’t eat the cake, or that by the time people eat the cake, they are so drunk that they don’t remember the cake. Therefore, my suggestions regarding the cake are going to be loose. You want a pretty cake; it will be featured in photos. They do a basket-weave that is very Nantuckety. Use buttercream icing-NOT FONDANT. Fondant is impossible to eat. Decorate with flowers? Sugared fruit? Ask for matching cupcakes for the kids?

My one hard-and-fast suggestion is that when you and Intelligent, Sensitive Groom-to-Be cut the cake and feed each other, you do so nicely. Maybe this shows my age, but I don’t like playing around with the cake, smearing it in each other’s face or hair. Yuck!

Margot woke up in her bed, sandwiched between Ellie and Jenna. Her left arm was asleep. Downstairs, the phone was ringing.

Margot extracted herself by climbing over Ellie, who wouldn’t wake up unless there was an earthquake and an ensuing tsunami. She shook out her hand in an attempt to get the blood circulating again. Outside, she noted, there was blue sky and birdsong.