Mystic Summer (26 page)

“Why teaching?” she asks finally, when I finish. In the midst of the smell of coffee and cafeteria food, I'm somewhat thrown by the philosophical question.

“I love kids.” A lame textbook reply. “What I mean is, I love
getting to know who my kids really are. And what they're good at or curious about. I like guiding them in the direction of their strengths.”

She doesn't get sentimental like some do. But she doesn't glaze over like many others do, either. “Isn't it hard to give kids those kind of creative opportunities, given all the standardized testing in classrooms these days?”

Despite the fact that her only child is long out of school, Mrs. Wilder is abreast of educational trends. I sit up taller. “It can be. But assessments also give us valuable information. I guess it'd be nice to have more of a balance.”

“Balance is good. If an unrealistic goal.”

It's a sweeping statement.

Mrs. Wilder leans forward. “Maggie, has Cam shared much about his last year with you?”

I don't want to cross the line at divulging private conversations. But then, so many lines have been crossed already. “Yes, some of it.”

“Then you know how he came to be a single father.”

“I do.”

“And you also know how special Emory is.”

I glance outside. There are no clouds in the sky. I'm spiritual enough to take that as a good sign. “Cam told me about her heart condition. About the ASD. But he said she's doing well.”

Mrs. Wilder smiles sadly. “She is, for now. But we don't know what the future holds, and Cam has already struggled so hard just to keep up with the present.” She looks directly at me. “In the last year, he left his field of work, moved back home from across the country, and started a new business. All with a new baby. It hasn't been easy.”

“For any of you,” I rush to add.

“What I mean to say is that Cam's life has been full of surprises. Difficult surprises.”

“I know.” Though even as I say the words, I realize I don't know. Not like Mrs. Wilder must.

“Despite all the strides Cameron has made, there will always be the matter of Emory's mother.” Mrs. Wilder does not call her by name. “She could come back at any time.”

Lauren Peale, who, to my knowledge, is not coming today. I wonder how Mrs. Wilder feels about her. Whether she views Lauren as a missile gone off its trajectory, capable of shattering all that Cam has constructed for them, or as a missing piece to an incomplete puzzle.

She smiles sadly. “I'm happy that you're doing well, Maggie. You were always a bright girl. I want the same for Cam.” She pauses, a stray tear in the corner of one of her eyes. “He deserves it.”

On this we are united. “I couldn't agree more, Mrs. Wilder.”

“Then please. Let him focus on Emory and his life here.” Her expression is unyielding. I recognize it.

It's a version of the expression I've seen on my classroom parents' faces, when they are sharing a life-altering event with me: when a child is diagnosed with a learning disability, or the family is going through a divorce. Parents carry their children's hurts. And Mrs. Wilder is holding an enormous basket of her own hurts right now.

“Cam is an amazing man, Mrs. Wilder,” I tell her. “He's going to get through this.”

Mrs. Wilder's smile is gone. “Then you understand that he can't suffer any more disappointments. Not right now.”

A flash of protest rises within me. I would never hurt Cam. And besides, we're not a couple of high school kids anymore. But when I look across the table at his mother, there is nothing I can argue.

“You've still got stars in your eyes,” she says. “You're one of the lucky ones.”

Set against the hospital, it becomes clear how my being here is brief and complicated, frivolous amid a backdrop rich with perspective. My intentions may be good. But perhaps they are also more than a little bit selfish.

T
he wedding party has landed in Mystic Village. Like a fleet of pastel soldiers, the girls arrive in choreographed union. The men are the opposite, rolling solo at unscheduled times, and their counterparts scramble to pick up forgotten groomsmen at T. F. Green Airport in Providence or the New London train station.

Trent's family, the Mitchells, are first to arrive, in two distinct units. But there are immediate changes to be made. Trent's father and the new Mrs. Mitchell, a rakish blond in her late twenties, are registered at the Inn at Mystic. Which, unfortunately, is where the first Mrs. Mitchell and her three sisters have also registered. Set atop a grassy rise overlooking the village, the Inn is rather intimate. And Trent is quick to point out that intimate will
not
work for the extended Mitchell family.

Evan and the groomsmen are all booked at the Marriott, which is unfortunately sold out, July being high tourist season. Since the first Mrs. Mitchell and her family have reserved three rooms between them, and Mr. Mitchell and his consort only require one, it is neither quickly nor quietly decided that Mr.
Mitchell will have to move his young wife to the Marriott. Evan has kindly agreed to trade.

“You didn't have to do that,” I tell him when I meet him in his new lodging at the Inn that night.

“It was no big deal. Besides, you won't believe the room Trent's dad is giving up.”

Apparently the new Mrs. Mitchell prefers largesse, as was apparent from the eight-piece Louis Vuitton luggage set that Evan helped to haul down to their car. The
room
from which she was displaced took up the entire upper east wing of the Inn, a legendary suite featured in lifestyle magazines. “Mags, we've got the place all to ourselves. A suite with a balcony overlooking the water!” I can only imagine the new Mrs. Mitchell's face when she lays eyes on Evan's standard double.

We drive over to the Red 36, a trendy spot at Seaport Marine, but it's an uneventful night by our Boston standards. Everyone's traveled in after a week of work, and tomorrow is Friday, with a full day of appointments, followed by a catered luncheon at Mrs. Crane's house and the rehearsal dinner.

The Chicago cousins have had too much to drink at the bar. Erika joins them, but even she is going at half her usual speed.

Evan and I find seats at the raw bar and order a couple beers and a platter of littlenecks. “So, how's the job search going?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I only just found out last week” I say. “But I'm working on a couple applications.”

He shrugs and sips his beer. “No time like the present. I was reading this article in the
Globe
about successful work habits the other day, and it talked about how critical it is to keep moving.
When one goal fails, start another. You know? You want to get out there as soon as possible.” Evan enjoys reading health and motivation articles and staying on top of positive lifestyle trends, something I usually find charming.

When I give him a look, he seems confused. “What? I only meant that it's healthy to keep moving forward. You know, build the momentum instead of letting yourself get dragged down.”

“I'm not getting dragged down,” I say, prickling. “We've got the wedding this weekend, and I plan to start looking in earnest on Monday.” The fact that I have to assure Evan that I'm on top of things bugs me. He should be the one reassuring
me
. I've barely had time to process Darby, beyond sharing the news and doing some desultory online searches. “You're going to be fine, kid,” my father had said. “I know there's something great out there for you!” Then, retrieving his checkbook from the desk, “Here's a little something to tide you over.” When I tried to explain to my dad that I was still getting my paycheck through the end of the summer, he'd pushed his check back across the kitchen counter to me, with a wink. “Then put it in a rainy-day jar.” It was sweet and typical of my dad—not trying to fix the problem for me, but letting me know that he believed I could; and that he'd have my back until I did.

I'd expected more of the same from Evan.

“I'm sorry,” Evan says now. “I'm just trying to be positive.” He looks genuinely confused. And maybe even a little annoyed.

“I know you are, but right now all I need is a little encouragement. And maybe even license to wallow. Or complain a little. Is that okay?” Evan has always been so sensitive, so
thoughtful. But it's been over little things: giving me flowers, ordering me a drink, calling to check in. We've never had to straddle something like this before.

Evan shrugs. “Okay, Mags. I just think it's more helpful to stay positive.”

It's not a real fight. It's not even an argument. But it's largely disappointing.

By eleven thirty Peyton and Chad come over to say good night, Peyton stifling a huge yawn. “We're gonna hit the hay,” she announces. It makes me realize how tired I suddenly am.

Erika squeezes between us and plops down on the free stool next to me. “I'm beat, too,” she admits.

Evan throws up his hands half jokingly. “Is everyone packing up already?” he asks. “The night is young!”

“Actually, I think I'm going to head back to my parents' tonight,” I tell him. “I'm tired, and all my stuff is there anyway.”

I catch Erika looking at me sideways.

Evan shakes his head. “Don't be silly. I can drive you home first thing in the morning.”

I should be thrilled for this night alone at the Inn together. I don't want us to be irritated with each other. “You're right,” I say. “I'll be right back.”

Erika reaches me before I get to the restroom door. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”

She trails me to the large bathroom mirror and watches me arrange my hair. She looks unconvinced.

Peyton has followed us in. “Is this about Cam?” Erika asks me outright.

With the sudden arrival of the wedding party, I haven't had
a spare second to pull the girls aside and fill them in. “Emory had her cardiac procedure yesterday morning in New Haven. I can't stop thinking about it.”

Erika's got the nose of a bloodhound on the trail. “About Emory? Or about her dad?”

I meet her gaze in the mirror. “Both, okay?”

“Okay.” She dabs some lip balm on her lips. “How are they doing?”

“I don't really know.” Cam texted me late last night: two lines—
Em did well and she can go home tomorrow. Thanks for coming by—
a message that left me wanting more information, more
something
. “He said things went okay. But I don't know much more.”

Peyton looks aghast. “She's just a baby, and she's having to go through heart surgery?”

“It's a catheter that they run through a small incision. It's not as invasive as open-heart.” But still.

Erika touches my shoulder. “So, you went.”

I nod. “Briefly. But I don't want to bother them.” I don't add that Mrs. Wilder's words have been the only thing standing in the way of my contacting Cam since. As sharp as they are to hold, she's right. My life is not here anymore. And Cam's life is.

“I think that was best,” Erika says. “It's sweet of you to want to help, but this is heavy stuff. It's not something you can rescue them from.”

I look up at my friends; their voices are as soft as their expressions. It's the old joke among us girls come to life: I'm the rescuer. Of stray pets, of wayward students, of birds that fall from nests. I can't seem to help but stumble across their path.
Or maybe it's into them. Erika's just looking out for me, but still, it stings.

“Come on, you guys. I'm not trying to rescue anyone. I'm just trying to be there for him.”

There's a beat of silence. Then Peyton pats me emphatically on the rear end. “And someone else is out there waiting for you. Let's go.”

She's right. Evan is standing by the door holding my jean jacket. When he slips it over my shoulders, I let myself fall against him. It always strikes me how I fit just so against the crook of his shoulder.

“Everyone ready?” Peyton asks. She ushers us out in her usual mother-hen fashion. Erika laughs at something Trent says and loops her arm through mine. We walk out as a noisy group of friends into the warm night along the pier, each one of us linked with another. Like Mrs. Wilder said, there are stars in our eyes. And I can't help but wonder, why are we the lucky ones?

T
he incongruity among the bridal parties is striking. As salon appointments and rehearsal timetables are dispensed to the women attendees, the men are somehow allowed free rein to wander in various recreational directions; the golf course, the club courts, and the hotel pool. “So unfair,” Peyton complains. “I'd rather go have a beer with the guys than get a gel manicure with Trent's two mothers.”

Trent pops by the Crane house mid-morning, where all the women have gathered for coffee before being dispatched to our nail appointment and dress fittings, and is received like a prince. That is, by everyone except Erika. Whipping from room to room with a notepad, ignoring her mother's pleas to eat something, she's already directed the cousins to call the salon and push back the manicures fifteen minutes and has asked Trent's mother to check in with the groomsmen who are supposed to be bringing their tuxes over.

I've been assigned the task of hanging Erika's gown, which has just returned from being steamed, along with her veil. Something I am more than capable of managing, but Peyton
is hot on my heels on the carpeted staircase. “Be careful not to drag it,” she cautions me.

She follows me right into Erika's room and watches as I unzip the garment bag and attempt to hang the veil alongside the dress. “No, no, you shouldn't put the veil in the dress bag. It needs to be kept separate so it doesn't wrinkle,” she tells me.