Wedding in Great Neck (9781101607701) (20 page)

L
enore was torn. She simply had to find out what had made Caleb cry like that—with such abandon, such sorrow. He sounded devastated, her sweet boy. She had a strong hunch his tears had to do with that Bobby person, though until she spoke to her grandson, she could not be sure. But she also wanted to talk to Justine, whose puzzling behavior earlier this afternoon continued to prick the edges of Lenore’s consciousness. Something was not right with that girl, and Lenore was determined to find out what it was.

What to do? Justine, then Caleb? Or Caleb and then Justine? And could she hope to talk to both grandson and great-granddaughter and still have time to have her hair blown out before the wedding? This too was important; she was intent on looking her best.

Since Caleb’s room was on this floor, she decided to check on him first. She passed one of the maids—Esperanza, yes, that was it!—in the broad hallway and smiled at the girl. See, her mind was still sharp. Today she remembered the names of
both
maids all by herself with no help from anyone. Still smiling, Lenore stopped in front of the door to Caleb’s room. She raised her fist to knock but was startled by a knock from the other side. No, not a knock. More like a thud. Something had been thrown against the door, and the impact caused it to vibrate slightly in its frame.

“I saw you.” That was Caleb’s voice; Lenore was sure of it. His words, icy and furious, were perfectly distinct; he must have been standing directly in front of the closed door. “I saw the two of you, okay? So don’t try to bullshit your way out of it.” There was an answering murmur from within the room, but Lenore couldn’t make out the words.
Sorry
was one of them; that much she could glean. The rest was indistinct. The speaker—Bobby?—was not so conveniently situated for eavesdropping.

Lenore stepped back.
Eavesdropping
was just a fancy word for
spying
. And as badly as she wanted to find out what her boychick had seen and if in fact it was connected to the sobbing she had heard earlier, she was not going to spy on him to find out. No, she would wait for Caleb to tell her; she had supreme faith that he would. And when he did, she wouldn’t say,
I told you so; I knew he was phony-baloney from the minute I laid
eyes on him.
No, she would say nothing of the kind. She would just listen and offer the soothing words she prayed would ease the hurt.

Lenore turned resolutely from the door and descended the stairs. Rain was pelting the big windows with gleeful abandon. Lenore knew that Angelica and Betsy would no doubt view this as a tragedy, but Lenore had lived long enough to know that rain, even on a wedding day, wasn’t a tragedy; it was barely even a blip. After all, Betsy had planned every last detail perfectly. There were elaborate enclosed tents, which would keep the rain from blowing in on the wedding party and the guests. There were dozens of compact, white folding umbrellas, each trimmed with a discreet border of gray, to hand out, and there were pairs upon pairs of clear plastic sandals—small, medium, and large—so that no one’s shoes would get ruined. The wedding would proceed as planned. Angelica, flanked by her handsome groom, would be the most radiant of brides. The music would play, champagne corks would pop, and Lenore, dressed to the nines, would be there to see it all. Somewhere in the vast house Betsy’s little dog gave a single, exclamatory yip, as if to punctuate Lenore’s musings.

Where was Betsy? Kitchen? Den, where the hair and makeup girls had been stationed and were now attending to a couple of the bridesmaids? Lenore did not see or hear her anywhere, but when she poked her head into the laundry room behind the kitchen, she ran smack into Lincoln, her former son-in-law, just as he was walking out. What was he doing in there, anyway? A load of whites? He looked to be in a big hurry, but stopped when he came face-to-face with her.

“Lincoln,” she said. Should she hug him? She wasn’t sure and didn’t especially want to, so she extended her hand.

“Lenore,” he said. “It’s been a long time.” He took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

“How have you been, Lincoln?” Lenore had known all about the drinking, of course; everyone had. Was he still drinking now? She’d heard not, but you never knew with these things.

“I’ve been fine. Great, in fact. Because today is a great day. A great day. If only this damn rain would let up, it would be absolutely perfect.” He glanced over at the small laundry room window.

“The rain won’t spoil a thing,” Lenore said. “You wait and see.”

He looked as if he was trying to decide whether she was making fun of him. “Maybe you’re right,” he said finally. “Maybe you are.”

“Have you seen Angelica yet?” Lenore asked.

Lincoln shook his head. “I just saw Gretchen, though. And Portia.”

“Not Justine?”

“No one seems to be able to find Justine,” said Lincoln. Lenore was quiet as she thought of her great-granddaughter scrabbling urgently in the grass. “Gretchen, Ennis, and Portia were all wondering where she was,” he added.

“Ennis is here too?” Lenore was surprised. She had been told Ennis had declined the invitation—good thing too. What had changed? And why had no one told her?

“I guess it was kind of a last-minute decision. Gretchen is pissed as all get-out.”

“She said that?” Lenore decided to overlook his vulgarity; he could be crude, but he did care for his children.

“No. But I could tell. She had that look.”

“What look?” asked Lenore.

“You know,” Lincoln said. “That
verbissen pisk.
It could curdle milk.”

Lenore had to smile.
Verbissen pisk
—a sour, angry face—was an expression her own mother had frequently used; Lenore had not heard anyone say it in a long while. But she didn’t want to be disloyal to Gretchen. “Can you blame her?” she asked. “The way that man behaved.”

“Of course, of course,” Lincoln hastened to agree. “I can understand how she feels.”

“We all can,” Lenore said. She had not planned on Ennis. How would he figure into her scheme for introducing Gretchen to Mitch? Would they all be at the same table? She sincerely hoped not. Suddenly she felt she could not spare another minute to chat with Lincoln. She had so much to do before tonight. She needed to hurry.

“Well,” she said brightly. “Kiss the bride when you see her. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled you’re here.” And she marched off resolutely, leaving Lincoln standing in the doorway just where she had found him.

Caleb would have to wait, Lenore decided; her great-granddaughter’s disappearance was a clear sign of something, though she did not know what. What she did know was that Justine needed her—needed all of them really—and so she set out to locate her. She went back upstairs and began a methodical search of all the rooms up there; Justine was not in any of them. Nor was she in any of the downstairs rooms, not even the basement lair where she and Portia had slept last night.

Without saying anything to Betsy—who was marching about the kitchen issuing orders and clutching that absurd little dog as if it were a security blanket—Lenore took one of the white umbrellas earmarked for the guests and stepped outside. Even though it was pouring, there was plenty of activity out here, what with people making sure the tent poles were secured and rolling down the flaps, and the handsome, bare-chested, heavily tattooed gardener—Lenore hoped he would be dressed by the time the guests descended—going back and forth repositioning the potted plants. She ignored them all. Her instinct told her that Justine was also shunning the flurry and bustle; she wanted to be someplace where everyone wasn’t. Someplace that was hers alone.

Lenore set out on the path leading to the swimming pool and gave only the merest acknowledgment to the dense plantings of pale pink and white heirloom roses whose petals were beaded with raindrops. These were not the only roses on the property; directly behind the house was a formal rose garden. Lenore had not even seen the garden since she’d arrived, but if the rain ever let up, she would see it later at the cocktail reception.

As she walked, Lenore remained on the lookout for anyplace—shed, cabana—where Justine might have been hiding. But Justine was not to be found, and so she kept going. Lenore had never been to this part of Don’s property before; when she visited her daughter, they tended to remain indoors. If they did go out, it was only to sit by the pool or in the rose garden. Sometimes they drove into town and had lunch at one of the nice little places on Middle Neck Road, or to the posh stores at Americana Manhasset, where Betsy would insist on buying a present—a scarf from Hermès, a Gucci bag—for Lenore. So this was all new to her.

She was vaguely aware from Betsy’s explanations of how far the property extended—beyond the well-manicured privet hedges on either side of the house were tall pines, and beyond those, dense wooded areas that spread out in either direction. Don had deliberately left them wild and overgrown, though there were some serpentine paths that wound through them. The girls had liked to play here when they were younger, and Lenore had a feeling that Justine might have come this way today.

Lenore kept walking, not sure if she was still on the property. She did not see any paths out here. She must have been nearing Long Island Sound, which was about a mile from the house. The ground showed streaks of sand, and the shrubbery was wild and unkempt. Even though she could not see the water, she could smell it, and the moist salt air clung to her cheeks, her lips. Under the white umbrella, Lenore felt pleasantly cocooned. It was a beautiful rain, really—lush and warm and not at all threatening. It was good luck to get married on such a day; she’d tell Angelica that when she got back.

Getting back. Lenore realized she had better start thinking about that. She was not wearing a watch, so she did not know the time. But surely it was getting late, and she was having no luck finding Justine. She was annoyed by her failure; failure had always irked her. Yet there wasn’t much more she could do. Justine could be anywhere out here or not here at all. Lenore still wanted to try to speak to Caleb, and there was the matter of both doing her hair and getting dressed; Betsy had planned for some prewedding photographs. Plus Lenore realized that she was a bit winded from her walk, and she might actually need to take a teeny tiny nap before the evening’s festivities.

The dense trees had thinned out, and the wind was stronger, yanking on the little umbrella and turning it inside out. Lenore fought with it valiantly, but the wind was stronger than she was; a rude gust snatched the thing up and sent it skittering, broken and useless, beyond her reach.

Impatiently she turned back in the direction of the house. Only where exactly
was
the house? She could no longer see it from where she stood. But it couldn’t be too far away; she hadn’t walked for all that long. Should she go right or left?

The wind whipped around her as she tried to decide. The filmy leopard-print blouse that seemed so perfect when she had put in on earlier was now wet and sticking to her skin. Ordinarily she would have put on a raincoat—she had brought a canary yellow one with white piping along the pockets and collar—but she had been in such a hurry that she had not bothered to go back upstairs to get it. She now regretted her haste.

It seemed better to start going in one direction, even a direction that might be wrong, than to stand here getting wetter and more chilled by the minute. So she started off again, walking as briskly as she could given the slippery ground and her own not-entirely-confident footing. She was tired, she really was; though she tried to ignore and suppress the fact, it was there nonetheless, dogging her along with the rain.

None of this scenery looked familiar, not a bit of it. Of course, she had not been paying strict attention to her surroundings; she had been preoccupied. But it was unsettling that nothing stood out as a landmark. A flash of lightning suddenly split the sky and then was gone. Lenore was panting now, panting like a small, alarmed animal. Rain dripped from the end of her nose and off her chin; she swiped at her face angrily. She was going to have to sit down pretty soon, even if meant sitting here out in the open.

But wait. What about over there? There were some scraggly bushes that might offer a little protection. A little protection was better than none. She summoned whatever strength she had left and set off for the bushes. And then her foot in its dainty, slick-soled sandal slipped on the wet grass, and down she went in an unceremonious heap.

“Ooh!” she cried, but softly, as if she did not want to waste any of her precious energy. And she was not hurt anyway, not really. Just flustered. When she tried to get up, though, she discovered that she must have turned her ankle in the fall; even putting a little weight on it sent a slice of pain that coursed as swiftly as that flash of lightning right through her. “Ooh,” she said again more loudly as she sank back down.

She could not get up; she absolutely could not. Her ankle, she saw, was starting to swell. There was no way she could walk on it. What to do? Sit and wait to be rescued? Who would know that she was here, and how long would it take for anyone to come looking? What with all the excitement over the wedding, it might be some time—a long time, in fact—before anyone missed her.