Elin Hilderbrand - Beautiful Day

Look at me, Ann thought. My son is getting married. I am the last to be seated. Look at me, goddamn it.

But no, nothing. Helen was determined to act as though Ann wasn’t even present on Nantucket this weekend. To Helen, Ann might have been a complete stranger.

Ann kissed Ryan-beautiful, elegant Ryan, whose attention she never needed to seek-and sat next to Jim, who reached instantly for her hand. By the time Ann had left the groomsmen’s house and made it back to the hotel, Jim was in the room. He had spent the night sleeping in the rental car, he said, and he had the backache to prove it. He had just emerged from the shower when Ann walked in, and his lower half was wrapped in a white towel. Ann had never been able to resist him in a towel or otherwise, and so she had jumped into his arms and he held her as though they’d been separated for twelve years instead of twelve hours. They said nothing, there was no reason to speak when they could read each other’s minds: he was sorry, she was sorry, they had been drinking, it was an emotionally charged situation and they had to deal with it as best they could. He kissed her and slid his hands up her very cute red gingham skirt and she kicked off the painful Jack Rogers sandals and they made love on the grand expanse of their hotel bed, despite his aching back.

It was as Ann was getting dressed that Jim handed her the long, slim box from Hamilton Hill jewelers.

“What is this?” she said.

“Open it,” he said. “It’s your son’s wedding day. You did such a good job with him, Annie, even when I wasn’t around…”

“Hush,” Ann said. “We did a good job with him.”

“Open it,” Jim said.

Ann opened the box, her heart knocking. If the box was from Hamilton Hill, Jim had bought this at home, planning all the while to give it to her today. And she had kicked him out!

It was a strand of pearls-a choker, which was her preferred length. And it had a sparkling diamond rondelle. Ann gasped as she fingered it.

“Do you recognize the stone?” he said.

She thought for a moment that it might be the stone from her grandmother’s ring, the one Crissy Pine had walked off with. Had Jim contacted Thaddeus Pine again and brokered a deal to get the diamond back? But when she looked more closely, she realized it was the diamond from her engagement ring. Her first engagement ring.

“Full circle,” Jim said. “I love you, Ann.”

It had been a romantic moment, more romantic by far than the day Ann had walked down the aisle to Jim thirty-three years earlier. It was more romantic because they had fought for each other, and they had survived.

The Registry, Part II: The Dining Room

I am finding that dying has its advantages. The biggest advantage is that everything is put into perspective. When you were twelve years old in seventh grade, you brought home a sign that you wrote in calligraphy that said, “Only Family Matters.��� Your father and I were struck by this lovely sentiment, and I insisted your father take the sign to his office, which he did. He’s told me he looks at the sign each day and that even as he works dismantling other families, he gives thanks for ours, crazy and imperfect though it may be.

I am here now to tell you that you were wrong. Family is not the only thing that matters. There are other things: Pachelbel’s Canon in D matters, and fresh-picked corn on the cob, and true friends, and the sound of the ocean, and the poems of William Carlos Williams, and the constellations in the sky, and random acts of kindness, and a garden on the day when all its flowers are at their peak. Fluffy pancakes matter and crisp clean sheets and the guitar riff in “Layla,” and the way clouds look when you are above them in an airplane. Preserving the coral reef matters, and the thirty-four paintings of Johannes Vermeer matter, and kissing matters.

Whether or not you register for china, crystal, and silver does not matter. Whether or not you have a full set of Tiffany dessert forks on Thanksgiving does not matter. If you want to register for these things, by all means, go ahead. My Waterford pattern is Lismore, one of the oldest. I do remember one time when I had a harrowing day at the hospital, and Nick had a Rube Goldberg project due and needed my help, and Kevin was playing Quiet Riot at top decibel in his bedroom, and Margot was tying up the house phone, and you had been plunked by the babysitter in front of the TV for five hours, and I came home and took one of my Lismore goblets out of the cabinet. I wanted to smash it against the wall. But instead I filled it with cold white wine and for ten or so minutes I sat in the quiet of the formal living room all by myself and I drank the cold wine out of that beautiful glass crafted by some lovely Irishman, and I felt better.

It was probably the wine, not the glass, but you get my meaning. I will remember the impressive heft of the glass in my hand, and the way the cut of the crystal caught the day’s last rays of sunlight, but I will not miss that glass the way I will miss the sound of the ocean, or the taste of fresh-picked corn.

They changed the order at the last minute, at Jenna’s request. Finn first, Rhonda second, Autumn third, Margot last, followed by Brock and Ellie. Margot knew that Jenna wanted Finn as far away from her as possible.

She was the bride; she could do as she wished.

Finn, Rhonda, and Autumn processed to Pachelbel’s Canon in D, played by two violins and a cello.

Before she processed, Margot checked on the children behind her. Brock held the velvet pillow with the two rings attached. Ellie had a basket of New Dawn rose petals filched from the vines that climbed the side of the house. She was wearing the silly hat, which would add comic-and-cute relief.

It was Margot’s turn. She stepped forward in her dyed-to-match pumps. She thought, Smile. Be poised. She thought, All this planning, all this money, for this one moment. She thought, I saved this wedding. Maybe that was overstating the case, maybe Jenna would have come down from the church tower with the same conclusion on her own, but Margot liked to think that she had been the catalyst. Maybe tonight, or maybe forty years from now, Jenna would tell someone the story of how scared and hurt she had been-and how Margot had hunted her down and how the wedding had been saved.

It was amazing, really, how many thoughts could ricochet through a person’s brain in the period of time it took to walk thirty feet.

Margot was halfway down the aisle when she saw Edge. Her breath caught. He was gorgeous. He wasn’t gorgeous in the way Brad Pitt or Tom Brady was gorgeous; he was gorgeous in a sophisticated, graying, wealthy, powerful way. The manner in which he held himself commanded attention, along with the fine cut of his suit, the sweet, tight knot of his lavender tie. He looked tan, which was impossible because he’d been in court all week-but yes, he had color, his skin glowed with the sun.

Then Margot noticed the woman beside him, a youngish woman with red curly hair and a million freckles, the kind of freckles that Margot would do everything but sell her children to avoid. The woman wore an off-the-shoulder emerald green dress that cinched at her impossibly tiny waist. She and Edge weren’t touching as Margot passed, but Margot could sense they were together. They were together. Edge had come to the wedding with a date, and he hadn’t warned her.

Or maybe he had. There were those two text messages on her phone, and possibly others since then.

Margot kept the smile plastered on her face, but it was a chore; it felt like one of the straps of her dress had snapped and she was trying to keep the bodice from slipping. At that very moment, Abigail Pease appeared a few steps in front of Margot in the aisle and snapped her picture.

It didn’t matter how good a photographer Abigail Pease was, that picture would show heartbreak.

Margot took her place at the altar, just as they had practiced at the rehearsal, but now she was trembling, and she didn’t know where to look. At that moment, the church broke out in delighted gasps and muted laughter as Brock and Ellie processed. Abigail was going crazy with the camera, the hat was a stroke of genius, Ellie was both cute and composed, and Margot knew she should savor the moment because this would most likely be the only time Ellie served as a flower girl. But Margot’s eyes were drilling into the back of Edge’s head. Who had he brought with him?

Suddenly everyone rose.

At the back of the church stood Jenna and Doug.

Margot watched Edge touch the emerald back of the freckled redhead’s dress and lean over to whisper something in her ear.

It was Rosalie, Margot realized. His paralegal. All those tedious hours of work had led to… sex on Edge’s desk or in Edge’s burgundy swivel chair or in the partners’ lounge after hours-or all of the above. Of course, all of the above! Margot’s vision started to blotch. She felt like the turtle who had long ago veered off the side of their dining room table and crashed to the ground, landing upside down. She could not right herself.

Jenna was processing down the aisle on her father’s arm. Her father was holding it together better than the day before; there were no actual tears, although his expression was pained, as though his shoes were too tight. Jenna smiled beatifically, she was a Madonna, Margot couldn’t remember a time when she had ever looked more beautiful. Margot checked on Stuart. His eyes were brimming with tears, and he mouthed, I love you.