Just Friends (48 page)

Freya felt humbled. How little she knew of human nature. Here were two people she could have sworn would dislike each other on sight; yet they had slotted together like a key in a lock, opening the door to a new future together. It looked so easy. If only—

“I now pronounce you man and wife.”

A chorus of uninhibited sobs broke out behind her. That would be Cat’s mother and the other da Filippo women. Italians were so emotional. A cascade of glorious, liquid music poured from the organ loft. Freya ducked her head and glared at the tips of her exquisite new shoes. Just for a moment, she was feeling rather Italian herself.

“Congratulations,
Mrs. Madison
.” Jack bent to kiss the bride.

Candace smiled at him triumphantly. She was practically airborne on a waft of gauzy white material—veils and trains and other stuff he couldn’t name. There was no sign of the tongue stud today.

“Come on, everybody.” Jack winced at the commanding boom of his father’s voice. “Let’s go back to the house and
celebrate
!”

“Sweetie, how can I ever thank you?” Cat threw her arms around Freya, high as a kite. “You’ve been wonderful.”

“Don’t be silly. I just—”

“No, she’s right.” Michael gave Freya’s elbow an appreciative squeeze. “We’d never have gotten all this organized without you.” He gestured at the roomful of guests, already attacking the party food. “You’ve done a great job.”

“Fantastic!” agreed Cat.

“Really incredible,” Michael added.

“Nonsense. Thank
you
for giving me the chance. I’ve loved doing it.” Freya smiled. She hadn’t done this much smiling for months, and her cheeks ached.

They all stood beaming at each other until Freya pretended to remember that there was something vital she must check, and managed to shoo Michael and Cat away to join their guests. She watched them go with mingled affection and relief. It wasn’t that she
minded
that Cat and Michael had fallen in love. She didn’t mind that Cat had moved into Michael’s apartment and was sleeping in the bed only recently vacated by herself. She didn’t mind helping Cat to choose her outfit, compile her wedding-gift list, order the flowers, arrange the reception. She didn’t even mind being a bridesmaid—at least they hadn’t made her wear a stupid garland on her head. It was just a little ... painful. There was still a slight awkwardness between the three of them, though they did their best to pretend otherwise. The story of the shortened trousers was now a hilarious joke. Ha, ha! Freya’s bedroom revelations had been wiped from memory. They all agreed that it had been quite miraculously providential that Cat had been able to take advantage of Michael’s spare ticket for the Ring Cycle.

Freya was glad now that she had gone back up to Cat’s apartment that terrible, rainy night, though it had taken every scrap of courage she possessed to put her own misery aside, and absolve Cat and Michael of guilt. She was proud of herself for behaving so well. In fact, she had behaved bloody brilliantly for months and months. She had spent hours of overtime with Matt Scordano, encouraging him, bullying him, persuading him to think about his work and not the velvet mafia of critics—with the result his show had been a colossal success, both financially and critically, and Lola Preiss had finally stopped questioning Freya’s every decision. On the home front, she had finally signed a rental lease on a long-term apartment in Tribeca and redecorated it herself. Last month she had christened it with a huge dinner party for Cat and Michael and their separate groups of friends, though she nearly had a nervous breakdown over the cooking—not to mention reencountering those friends of Michael who remembered
her
as the girlfriend. It was a lovely apartment with a proper doorman, a sunny aspect, and spacious views; it even had a small spare room for her father, who was coming to visit next month. At a personal level, although Freya had told Cat about Jack and Tash—and Cat had denounced Jack in a very satisfying, robust manner—she hadn’t gone on and on about it. It seemed selfish to wallow in misery when Cat was so happy; Freya had made a big effort to redirect her energies into showing how delighted she was for her friend.

And she
was
delighted. She’d loved being swept into the heart of the da Filippo family, who were openly jubilant at having got Cat married at last. It was fun to be here at the center of a party that had taken off with such a roar of good humor. Italians certainly knew how to enjoy themselves. A small band played brassily in one corner. Everywhere she looked there were cakes oozing with cream, dredged with sugar, soaked in marsala, studded with almonds and dried fruit. There were cratefuls of
asti spumante
, emptying at a terrifying rate. The room was above a restaurant in Little Italy, owned by Cat’s fourth cousin’s brother-in-law’s son. Already it was packed to capacity with wolfish uncles and dyed-blond aunts, children in velveteen suits and frilled dresses, even a little dog that looked like a floor mop and was called Pookie. The now-legendary Blumbergs were here, of course, beaming at everyone and holding hands, a walking advertisement for marriage.

Whoops! There was Mrs. Petersen, in navy blue. Freya changed direction smartly. It had been decided to skate over any connection between the deranged ex-girlfriend who had pretended to be a Spanish-speaking cleaner and the Englishwoman acting as maid-of-honor. As it was, Mrs. Petersen had suffered one of her worst attacks ever on learning that her beloved Mikey was marrying a woman she hadn’t even met, let alone approved: a career woman (feminist), a New Yorker (hard), in her thirties (after Mikey’s sperm), from an Italian background (Catholic!). Even though Cat treated her like an empress, begged for permission to call her “Mother” and lavished praise on her son, Mrs. Petersen maintained an expression of noble martyrdom—that faltered into a quizzical frown every time she caught sight of her new daughter-in-law’s best friend. So far Freya had resisted the temptation to click her fingers and shout
“Olé!”

She lost herself in the crowd, drinking and chatting and trying to suppress memories of the last wedding she had attended. This was Cat and Michael’s day, and she wanted it to be perfect. At one point she caught sight of the pair of them together: Cat talking animatedly, carving the air with her hands, while Michael watched mesmerized, as if a goddess had floated down on her cloud. Cat was carrying her nephew Tonito on one hip, his fat legs tucked comfortably around her waist. She glowed with happiness. Freya was prepared to bet good money that Cat would be pregnant herself within the year. She pictured Cat in the Chinese restaurant, only a few months ago, loftily insisting that she didn’t
need
a man, and smiled at the tricks life played.

Freya kept herself busy, checking that the food and drink were circulating, that there were enough chairs for the older guests, and helping to fill glasses for the toasts. Then everybody gathered close, someone rapped on a table for silence and Cat’s father stepped forward. His dark eyes raked the room. “I have only one question,” he growled. “Why did it take her so long?” Freya listened with affection as he talked about Cat’s character and achievements—her big heart, her fighting spirit, her tiny forgivable flaws—until, with an old-fashioned formality that she found moving, he took his daughter’s hand and placed it ceremonially in that of her husband’s. Now it was Michael’s turn. Freya nibbled at a thumbnail, wondering how he’d measure up, hoping he wouldn’t be too ponderous and sentimental. When Cat confessed that she had first been attracted to Michael because of his wonderful sense of humor, Freya had only just managed to refrain from retorting “His
what
?” But now, as he began to tell the story of how he and Cat had met as antagonists in the Blumberg divorce case, Freya saw that Cat was right. People were laughing. He was funny! Love had made him confident. He even looked different, his hair shinier, his eyes brighter. Freya was glad for him, but his happiness was also the gentlest of rebukes. She had seen Michael as dependable and “nice,” but ultimately boring; it had taken Cat to light that bonfire inside him.

Cat was hilarious. She interrupted Michael regularly—correcting his stories, chipping in with asides, once even smoothing his hair into place. He took it all with patient good humor, teasing her back, calming her down. Cat made her own short speech, naturally; this was, she announced, an equal opportunities marriage.

After the speeches, time seemed to hurtle forward. A car had been booked to take Cat and Michael to the airport; they were flying to the Caribbean for a week of sun. There were suitcases to be taken downstairs. Someone needed to pay the band. There was a minor diplomatic incident when, for no apparent reason, Pookie bit Mrs. Petersen on the ankle. Cat and Michael slipped upstairs to change. While she waited for them to reappear, Freya noticed Cat’s grandmother sitting alone, apparently overwhelmed by the noise and bustle. She must be well into her eighties, poor thing. Freya walked over and stooped low. “May I bring you something?”

The old woman took her hand gratefully and drew her into the next chair, glad of someone to talk to. In her eccentrically accented English she told Freya what a marvelous party it was, how handsome she thought Michael, how lovely Cat looked in her wedding suit. Freya smiled and smiled. She agreed that everything was quite, quite wonderful.

Mrs. da Fillipo stroked Freya’s hand while they talked. Her own were small and incredibly fragile, the skin soft as worn velvet.

“You are not married?” she asked.

The question took Freya by surprise. She looked down at her ringless fingers, suddenly jolted out of the comfortable mundanity of small talk. “No,” she said shortly.

“Someone special?”

“No.”

“But why not? You are so pretty.”

Freya tossed her head. “Men aren’t everything.”

“That depends on the man.” The faded eyes peered shrewdly into her own. “You have never been in love?”

Freya felt her lip tremble.
Please stop!
“Oh, love.” She shrugged. “It’s such a silly word. I mean, how can you tell?”

The old woman smiled and patted her hand kindly, as if they both knew Freya was talking nonsense. “The first time I saw my husband,” she said, “was at his engagement party to someone else. But that didn’t stop me.” She chuckled. “A woman always knows. And when she knows, she must
act
.”

“But ... it isn’t always easy to know what to do.” Freya dropped her flippant tone and met the old lady’s gaze frankly.

Mrs. da Fillipo gripped her hand tight and leaned forward urgently. “You must follow your heart. You
must
. Gianni and I were married for fifty-six years. I miss him every day.” Her kind, creased face clouded with sorrow. Freya swallowed hard.

“Oh, look!” she said brightly, pointing at Cat and Michael, who had reappeared in casual holiday clothes and were making their sentimental farewells. Cat came over to say good-bye to her grandmother, and Freya gave up her seat to allow them some privacy. She wandered aimlessly through the crowd, trying to regain her equilibrium, and found herself face-to-face with Michael.

“Great speech.” She smiled.

He stretched out his arms and pulled her into a warm hug. “Promise to invite me to
your
wedding.”

“Of course,” said Freya, rather stiffly. She knew he meant to be kind, but it was not his most well-chosen remark. “Don’t hold your breath,” she added, trying to make a joke of it.

Then it was time to say good-bye to Cat. Now that the moment had come, Freya was suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of loss and loneliness. Old friends who knew you through and through, good and bad, and loved you anyway, were hard to replace. She feared that their best-friends relationship would never be quite the same again. She hugged Cat tight. “Have a wonderful, wonderful time,” she told her.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m going to miss you so much!”

“Rubbish! You’ve got Michael now. And he’s got you.” She smiled. “I’m so happy.”

Finally the bride and groom were ready to leave. They stood together at the door to the stairs, with guests gathered around them in a tight circle to wish them well. “Good-bye everybody!” shouted Cat. With a theatrical wave of her arm she tossed something into the air.

The bouquet sailed up to the ceiling high above Freya’s head, where it seemed to hang for long seconds. Then it spun downward in a whirl of cream and gold and bronze. Freya saw its tiny petals catch the light and turn into a shower of sparks. Down it came, faster and faster. Oh, no! It was heading straight for her. How would it look if she let Cat’s bouquet smash to the floor? Surely someone else would catch it?
Please.
But no one did. At the last moment she put out her hand and caught it.
Aaaah
... sighed the crowd.
Bravo!

Freya stared into the tender open hearts of the flowers. They were so beautiful. Her fingers tightened on the stems. Then she burst into tears.

There was a ripple of consternation. Freya covered her face with her hand.
Please ... no! Don’t do this, Freya.
But she couldn’t control the gasps that jerked her shoulders and tore at her chest.