Mission Hill (12 page)

“It's formaldehyde.”

It's a straight shot up Beacon Street to the Gardner Club. We leave the car with a valet, arriving a few minutes ahead of the ceremony. The club's maître d', Caz Munro, greets us at the door, offering flutes of champagne atop a silver tray. He's wearing black tie, but you'd never mistake him for a guest.

“Greetings, Ms. Endicott,” he says, smiling brightly. “It's a wonderful night for a celebration.”

Caz always welcomes me and my family as though he spent the whole day eagerly awaiting our arrival. I think he spits on our food when we're not looking.

Inside, the club reeks of old Boston. There are a couple of hundred people chatting, milling around, and drinking champagne. Ty takes in the tattered Persian carpets and dusty leather-bound books. I take in the women, decked out in their elegant yet understated dresses. Some of the guests take in me and Ty, their eyes darting back and forth between the two of us. Looks of curiosity, disapproval, and, from my former high school rival Minnie Dorset, jealousy. Ty cuts a handsome figure, even in a rented tux.

“I've passed this place a million times,” Ty says. “I always thought it was some rich guy's private house. Seems like there's a lot of history here.”

“Once, I was waiting for my grandfather to finish his card game, I killed time by reading the club charter. Beware, there's a rule against whistling.”

“Got it.”

“Seriously, no whistling on the premises.”

“I'll do my best to refrain.”

Caz announces it's time for the ceremony and directs people into the designated room. As expected, it's lovely, with rows of gold chairs facing the bowed floor-to-ceiling windows. A white lattice arch, capped with a garland of white roses, will serve as the wedding altar.

I've avoided talking to Ty about the seating situation. When I told my mother that I planned to bring a date, she made it clear that she would prefer that he not sit with the family in the front row. She said it would send the wrong message and I'm ashamed that I didn't challenge her. I haven't had the heart to share her sentiments with Ty.

“Where should I sit?” he says.

“With me,” I say as though there's no question about it.

I'm not going to let my mother's inane rules and arcane protocol hurt Ty's feelings. I slip my arm through his and walk with him down the aisle.

“Hello, Abigail,” my mother says. “We were concerned you weren't going to be here for the family photos.”

She gives me an air kiss and inspects my dress with raised eyebrows. She looks chic with her sleek blond bob and her simple teal gown. As I introduce her to Ty, her smile looks frozen. I can tell that she is not pleased, even with the Botox injections. My father gives me a hug and Ty a handshake.

The location of the service was the subject of great controversy. My parents wanted Charlie and Missy to take their vows at the Advent, our Episcopalian church on Mount Vernon Street. Missy's mother wanted to host the ceremony at Saint Cecelia's, her Catholic church in Providence. My brother and his bride aren't particularly religious, but they are snobs, so they decided to say their I do's here, at the Church of the Brahmins.

The ceremony is tasteful and efficient, just like the couple. Charlie looks boyish in black tie, as though all he did to get ready was run a comb through his thick, dark hair and throw on a tuxedo. He spends hours on the squash court maintaining his lean physique and competitive edge. Missy looks like an effortless beauty—her brown hair is long and loose under my mother's delicate lace veil; her cheeks are pink, glowing. She spent much of the day in the makeup chair to achieve this natural look.

After Charlie and Missy exchange vows, everyone moves to a large reception room for cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, emphasis on the cocktails. My parents stand in the receiving line with the newlyweds. I lead Ty as far away from them as possible, to the other side of the bar.

“The bride looks like she's gonna fit right in with your folks,” Ty says.

“Missy comes off as a Main Line preppie, but she's far from it.”

“Meaning her parents had to work for a living?”

“Her parents were fifteen when they had her. Her mother was homeless and gave up parental rights to her father, who abandoned her when she turned seven. She lived in foster homes until she turned sixteen. Then she was adopted by an elderly woman in Cranston.”

I admire Missy. Somewhere along the line, she decided that she wanted more for herself, and she figured out how to get it. She was valedictorian of her high school class and put herself through the University of Rhode Island. She got good grades, great recommendations and, according to Charlie, perfect scores on the GMAT.

A waiter comes by with a tray of crab cakes. We each take one and I devour mine in one bite. I can't remember if I've eaten anything today.

“Where'd Missy and Charlie meet?”

“At Harvard Business School, or
The
Business School, as my parents call it, as though there's only one.”

“They're both in finance?”

“Charlie is positioned to take over the family business—buying up American companies and shipping the jobs overseas. Missy is a portfolio manager at Fidelity.”

Ty intercepts a waiter who is passing around a platter of boiled seafood. I grab a shrimp by the tail and dip it into cocktail sauce.

“How did your mother take to her?”

“Initially, she did everything she could to discourage the relationship. But she softened once she came to learn how much they have in common. Missy hosts great dinner parties, always wears white on the tennis court, and is a member of the Junior League.”

“Sounds perfect.”

I look over at Missy, who is smiling awkwardly as lecherous Freddie Finch hugs her and cops a feel. She has a good heart. I know that her affectations come from a place of deep insecurity, but sometimes I have the urge to fling her copy of
The Social Register
into their marble fireplace and watch it burn.

Ty heads to the bar to get us drinks while I pose for family pictures. The newlyweds, my parents, Missy's mother, and I smile for the camera. After a few shots, the three women move to the dining room to inspect the floral centerpieces. My father excuses himself and goes over to backslap a client. The photographer takes a couple of candids of me and Charlie.

“I wish George could have been here,” Charlie says. “I would have liked to have had him as best man.”

“I keep expecting him to walk into the room,” I say. “It feels like he just went outside for a smoke.”

“He would have liked Missy.”

“He'd be happy for you.” I scan the room. “But he'd have given you a ration of shit for your choice of wedding venue. He hated this place.”

“Almost as much as you do.” Charlie's smile turns serious. “Abs, I'm worried about you.”

“This is your night—enjoy it.”

“Why did you take that case? Orlando Jones made your life a living hell. Did you forget how devastated you were?”

“I haven't forgotten,” I say. “And I know you haven't either. You came through for me.”

Growing up, Charlie and I were inseparable. We spent summers on Martha's Vineyard, bodysurfing in Chilmark, eating fried clams in Edgartown, stealing penny candy in Tisbury. The day after Crystal died, Charlie flew in from Hong Kong. He sat with me at the funeral and accompanied me to Orlando's arraignment. He persuaded me not to drop out of the Latin competition, used flash cards to test me on the declensions, traveled with me to Sacramento for the convention. He even helped me stitch together a toga for the after-party.

“You ought to reconsider some of your decisions. Your judgment is compromised, professionally and personally.” He looks over at Ty.

“Don't be too quick to judge. He's a good guy.”

Ty is standing at the bar, nodding and listening intently to Dickie Lodge, who is probably regaling him with tired stories about how he crewed at Oxford and competed at Henley like a hundred years ago. Ty surveys Dickie as he would an exotic animal at the Franklin Park Zoo. Before I can excuse myself and make my way over to rescue him, I'm hijacked.

“You're wearing black to a wedding?” my mother says in a stage whisper.

“It's Armani. That should account for something.”

“Armani makes other colors.” She grabs Charlie's arm. “Come say hello to the Coolidges.” She whisks Charlie away.

Ty returns with a bottle of Heineken and a glass of Malbec.

“If social climbing were an Olympic sport, my mother would medal. She's always been a social butterfly, but it's gotten worse lately.”

My mother made her millions the old-fashioned way—by landing a multimillionaire. Her family was far from destitute, but she's not old money like my father. She grew up in Bronxville, and her father owned a chain of grocery stores. She went to Miss Porter's School and Smith College, and has never worked a day in her life.

“Maybe it's the pressure of the wedding,” Ty says.

Suki Stevens, Beacon Hill's most insufferable gossip, nears. I try to grab Ty and make for the library, but it's too late.

“Abigail, darling. I haven't seen you in eons,” Suki says.

She gives me a triple air kiss and looks me up and down. Touching the ends of my hair with the palms of her hands, she lets out a mournful sigh.

“Let me give you the name of my stylist,” she says.

I didn't have time to get to Newbury Street for hair and makeup with the rest of the wedding party, but I look fine. My hair was cut and colored three weeks ago. I ignore her remark and introduce her to Ty, who extends his hand to shake. She smiles tightly.

“I never see you anymore. Whatever are you up to these days?” she says.

“I'm still with the DA's office.”

I look at Ty, wishing we had established the cocktail party equivalent of a safe word, like a sneeze or a snort.

“You and all your murderers. I don't know how you do it,” she says. “Or, frankly, why you do it.”

Screw her. I take Ty's arm, and we move away. My father sees us, waves, and comes over.

“Glad you could join us, Tyson,” he says. “We've been worried about you, muffin.”

Ty throws me a look and raises his eyebrows.
Muffin?

“I know, and I appreciate it, Daddy. But I'm fine.”

“I don't think it's safe for you to work there anymore. Tad Gleason would love to have you at his firm. Why don't you give him a call?”

“Stop.”

He turns to plead his case to Ty. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”

Knowing better than to get involved, Ty smiles and shrugs. My father gives up and moves on to greet some guests.

Caz uses a small mallet to sound the chimes—dinner is served. We all move to the main dining room and take seats. There are two dozen round tables, decorated with beige linen cloths and lush bouquets of flowers—soft-pink ranunculus, white hyacinths, and cream-colored tulips.

Missy took charge of the seating chart and put me in between Ty and my uncle Chippy, who is already two sheets to the wind. Chippy takes a gulp from his glass of single malt as he yammers on about his fourth ex-wife and how she took him to the cleaners. He should have learned his lesson about the division of assets and alimony three divorces ago. I nod, pretending to care, as I cut into my overcooked filet mignon.

“I hear you're a fan of the symphony, Mrs. Endicott,” Ty says to my mother, trying to find common ground.

“We're on the board,” she says.

“I'm a big fan of Andris Nelsons,” he says, but it's too late. My mother has already turned away and is now feigning interest in Lottie Thayer's unremarkable antique cameo.

“I understand you're a musician,” my father says, trying to make up for my mother's rudeness.

“That's right,” Ty says.

“Tenor sax?”

Ty and I exchange looks. My father's question has caught us both off guard, since we've never mentioned what Ty does for a living. I should have known that my father would get his own intel.

“You've done your homework,” Ty says.

“You'd better believe it.”

Ty nervously tries to assess whether my father is friend or foe. “What else did you find out?”

“I know you've played with some of the greats—Cecil Taylor, McCoy Tyner.”

“Sounds like you know a lot about jazz.”

“I played trumpet in college.”

“You did?” Ty and I say at the same time.

“I think I still have it in the attic somewhere.”

“Don't even think about taking that thing out of storage,” my mother says, turning away from Lottie.

“I didn't know you were listening, dear.” My father smiles. “I do have to admit, I'm no Dizzy Gillespie.”

“That's the understatement of the century. If you go anywhere near that instrument, I'll file for divorce.”

My father ignores her. “I'd like to hear you play sometime, Tyson.”

Ty's parents are the opposite of meddlers or snobs, which isn't necessarily better. They're divorced, aging hippies who met at Woodstock, fell in love, stoned, stomping around in the mud, listening to Joan Baez. Their marriage lasted about two years.

Last summer, Ty introduced me to his father, Jasper, who is white, at a gig in Saratoga. He showed up with his then partner, Ronald, and said that he was a documentary filmmaker, living in New York. He talked a great game, but when I probed, he had all sorts of ideas but had never actually completed a project. And he didn't really live in New York; he was subletting a studio apartment in Jersey City.

I met Ty's mother, Melody, who is black, at the Regattabar in Cambridge. She was passing through Boston on her way to a yoga retreat in Lenox. She lives in Vermont and claims to own a bed-and-breakfast. She's invited us to stay, but every time Ty tries to take her up on the offer, she can't accommodate us. I'm pretty sure she just works there as a reservation clerk and isn't allowed guests.