Love In The Air

“Well!” he said. “Big day tomorrow! Good night, my dear.”

“Good night, Papa.”

“Try to get some rest.”

He turned, and, with too quick a step, betraying that he felt he was making an escape, joined his wife.

Walking down the aisle with her now, Dick brimmed with pride. This was a mixture of fatherly pride and self-regard, for as he saw all the smiling people look at them, he had the impression that they were admiring him as much as Charlotte. He was looking well, although it was true that his middle had grown a shade thicker than he liked. He had to watch that and take some more exercise. Still, he thought about the silky claret and the fried artichokes at lunch and the grilled ham and cheese sandwich, the chocolate, and almost purred. He thought about his wife wearing her satiny slip, which revealed her shoulders and the smooth inside of her breast. He glanced up the aisle: in her suit she looked chic and shipshape. She had pinned her hair up so that it was as neat and tight as a flower bud (Janet had had her hair “done,” balloon-style). There was something both orderly and vibrant about it all that made Julia particularly desirable; he wanted to tear off those clothes like the paper and ribbons of a crisply wrapped birthday present. Later that night, when all this was over and they were in their room, he would order some brandy …

Dick and Charlotte were approaching their destination. She was smiling broadly and crying a bit and trembling on his arm. Ahead of them stood Peter Russell, the man Charlotte would marry. He seemed like a decent fellow. By Dick’s lights, indeed, he was ideal. The only real danger that daughters posed, in Dick’s view, was that they might marry some fantastically successful young guy who would show him no respect. All he needed was to have some aggressive kid who was making a fortune ironically calling him “sir” all the time. And with a second serve like a bullet. At the same time, it mattered to Dick that his sons-in-law be suitable. Given these considerations, Charlotte had made an exemplary choice. This young man, Peter, was perfectly presentable. He worked for Beeche, the financial outfit, doing … in fact, Dick didn’t exactly know what he did there. But he had a good well-paid professional job at a place everyone recognized. Peter was deferential. There had been a much older Frenchman with whom Charlotte had become involved, a dark, dramatic know-it-all bohemian from an ancient family. He would dominate the whole house with his restlessness, and, correcting Dick on some point of history or politics, he would be downright rude. Thank God he was gone. Peter was far from being that way. When he called Dick “sir,” it was with unqualified courtesy.

Dick saw the row of bridesmaids, some of whom he vaguely recognized. One was a true knockout. Deirdre looked overweight in her dress; Dick had never seen her face so made up. It didn’t suit her. Then the smiling minister. Dick had known these virile, confident churchmen, impossibly self-assured. The groom, looking quite nervous and sallow but smiling bravely. Ah, well. Poor bastard. He’d be moderately miserable for the next forty years, but he’d be okay. Next to Peter was his best man. A writer. Julia had sat next to him the previous night and had said he was “very interesting.” He looked like a fruit. Then, stretching to Dick’s right, the line of ushers, who, overall, were not too grotesque a sampling of youths. There was David, looking skeletal. At least he had cleaned up, even shaving, albeit patchily.

Now it was time to hand Charlotte off. He pressed one of her hands in both of his and gave her a smile, which she returned tremulously. Then he took a couple of steps back and awaited his cue to say, “Her mother and I do,” after which he would withdraw to the front pew and sit between his wives. Janet would smile at him, as if to say, patronizingly, “Good job.” But mixed with that smile would be detestation. As the mother of the bride, as the hostess of the big party to follow, as his ex-wife, she would be surrounded, despite her outward composure, by an invisible, agitated cloud of female anxiety, nostalgia, sentiment, bitterness, joy, envy. For the next forty-five minutes, he would be subject to all these emanations, and every time she moved, the scratchy noises made by the tulle or some damn thing she was wearing would irritate him. He would try to take solace in the calm, erect presence of Julia on his left. She would look perfect and act perfectly, he knew, throughout this whole—ordeal. He could not wait until it was all over and they were alone, and he would dishevel her. How satisfying that she belonged to him.

“Oh, Peter, you looked so handsome up there, and she is such a lovely girl. We’re so happy for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Matthews. Charlotte and I are so happy you could come.”

“Well, Peter, so it’s life without parole, is it?”

“Oh, Dan!”

“It’s not so bad, son. Food’s decent, and sometimes they let you out for an hour, you know, have a walk around the prison yard.”

“Oh, Dan!”

Peter laughed appropriately. “Great to see you, Mr. Matthews. Thanks for coming.” They were friends of his parents. The wife was short and thin; the husband was short and stout, with a red face. He had gripped Peter’s hand so hard as to cause him pain. They had a son whom Peter used to smoke pot with; he now ran a landscaping business.

Everything had gone well. They had heard a reading from Colossians. Reverend Micklethwaite had given a brief sermon (“I always tell the bride and groom not even to bother listening, because they’ll never remember a word of it anyway”). They had said their vows. Charlotte had had a catch in her voice. Jonathan had proffered the ring at the right moment and Peter had slipped it on Charlotte’s finger. They had kissed. They had gone down the aisle while the organ blared out an anthem. Flushed with excitement, they had been driven to the reception. Some long kisses in the back of the limousine. “I love you, Peter.” “Oh, Charlotte, I love you.” The photographer, a dark little man of foreign aspect, had behaved like a vicious dancing master and the picture taking was over quickly. And now they were in the receiving line.

He did love Charlotte. She looked very pretty today. He did love her. She was laughing, giggling! She had given him a passionate kiss in the car, and her thin lips seemed engorged. He could not think of a single reason not to have married her. They had some fun talks. She was bright. She was a good person, without excessive neuroses (sure, her family, but everybody had a family). He liked her friends, and they had some in common. He did love her.

Everything had gone well. The family members and friends from both sides were meshing easily. Charlotte’s and Peter’s parents were behaving as well-socialized grown-ups do. Peter’s were interchangeable with all the other members in their set, a set that entirely lacked the éclat of the guests from Charlotte’s side, but the Russells could hold their own, and these distinctions didn’t bother anyone very much. So it was all going well. As for protocol, the only slight lapse was that Isabella, the one truly stunning bridesmaid, had practically joined the receiving line. The maid of honor and the best man were supposed to be there, but not any of the other attendants. But Jonathan had been talking to the girl and they kept talking as he took his post, so that guests would try to shake her hand too. She was Chilean and very tall, with black hair but fair skin. When she laughed at something Jonathan said, she lowered her head and looked up at him through her long lashes. Her forearm was a slender shoot. In time, she wandered off, with a glance back at Jonathan, who attended more faithfully to his duties.

Later, Peter heard Jonathan saying to Charlotte’s jolly, round great-aunt, “Now, you know, Mrs. LeMenthe, it’s really not fair of you to upstage the bride this way, looking so beautiful!” Then Jonathan looked over again at the Chilean, who was talking to someone. She noticed this and slid her eyes toward him. Peter sighed. Who knew where this would lead? Jonathan worked fast. Then Peter supposed that they had book festivals in Santiago, in February, when it was summer down there. First-class ticket. The girl was drinking champagne, and Peter was thinking about how the tall, slender, delicate flute resembled her. These considerations abstracted him so much that he did not notice the guest who was now before him, having already chatted with Charlotte.

“Oh! Holly! Hello!”

“Hi!”

“I saw you in the church.”

“I saw you there, too.”

“Everything okay? Have you gotten a glass of champagne? Some hors d’oeuvres? They have these little puffy ham things—”

“Yes, I have everything I could want, and it’s all perfect.”

“Good, good. So—I was okay?”

“You were perfect.”

“And how about Jonathan? The way he handled the ring? Outstanding.”

“Not bad. I like to see a sharper attack on the pocket. But not bad.”

Peter and Holly stood there looking at each other, and all of his urges flooded back. This was the moment to seize her and run off.

Holly pressed his hand with both of hers. “I hope so much that you will be happy, Peter,” she said. “I know you will. To see you happy makes me very happy.” She began to cry. “Oh, how silly!” she said. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, then crumpled it up. “I get to kiss the groom, don’t I?”

“Of course.”

They kissed on the cheek.

“Have a great trip,” Holly said. “Send a postcard and call us as soon as you get back.”

Us.

So it was all over. Peter had to put aside his hope or dream or fantasy, or whatever it was. He had married Charlotte, putting the final barrier between them. Holly could not be his and now he could not be hers. He had watched and waited to see if her bond to Jonathan would crack. Three years. Three years of dinners with the two of them, of watching her cook while they waited for Jonathan. (“Of course you can help! Let’s see—how about making some lemon zest?”) Three years of abashed answers to her discreet inquiries about his romantic life. Three years of going with them to the beach, and seeing her remove, to take one example, the short white denim skirt she had worn over her bathing suit, so coarse against her smooth thigh; and the flecks of blond hair against her tan forearm, slivered, golden glints. Three years of hearing her say things like “I was reading that new book the other day, you know, Europe in the High Middle Ages? And you know what’s really funny?” Three years of hearing her tell the truth when it would have been easier to lie, of seeing her help out friends, of watching her save a pupil from some ghastly situation or other, in addition to teaching her the ablative absolute. Even now, at this moment, while one of Charlotte’s cousins was telling him how much she loved their China pattern, Peter could feel the pressure of Holly’s hands. And he thought about the three years of seeing her overtip.

Well, forget it. After three years, it seemed clear that Holly was not going to break Jonathan’s heart and throw herself at Peter. How many millions of times Peter had considered taking some action of his own. He could have declared his true feelings. After all, she had once had a crush on him, if only for two minutes! And how many millions of times had he imagined her response, assuring him with utmost kindness that they were friends and that that was how she wished them to remain. Peter, such a nice guy. He could have told her the truth about Jonathan. You just didn’t do that to one of your mates, though. And he just couldn’t do it to her. In any event, the effect would have been so destructive to her that the messenger would hardly have been a candidate for Jonathan’s successor. In fact, Jonathan would probably have found a way to turn it all to his advantage (“I’m afraid of how much I love you”), and then the whole tearful drama of the second chance would have brought them even closer, as would their mutual disgust for the weasely busybody who had interfered. So Peter had simply lurked and waited, to no purpose. Holly would never be free. Never. So it was time for Peter to give up. To put her away from him. He felt a little like someone who had joined the French Foreign Legion to get away from a married woman with whom he had fallen in love. Farewell, dear friend (chère amie

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