Wedding in Great Neck (9781101607701) (24 page)

“You okay?” Ohad looked neither angry nor alarmed.
If she had been the wild thing, he was all calm, stasis, and control. He acted as if it were nothing to have a fifteen-year-old girl grab him and try to thrust her tongue into his mouth;
no big deal,
his look seemed to say.

“I’m fine,” she croaked. And then she took off, not toward the stairs but in the other direction. The first door she opened was the door to her mother’s room. Luckily Gretchen was not in it, but the keys to the car were tossed casually on a nightstand, and Justine grabbed them and went back out into the hallway. Ohad was gone—yes!—so she could make her escape: down the stairs, streaking through the house, and into the garage.

It was still pouring, but who the fuck cared about that now? Her hand trembled as she tried one car and then another; the keys started the third car like a charm, and she was behind the wheel in seconds, revving up the engine and ready to go. Ennis had taught both her and Portia the rudiments of driving already; even without a permit, she could
do
this. She knew she could.

She’d eased the car awkwardly out of the garage and down the driveway, fumbling until she found the windshield wipers. No one even noticed. Then she was miraculously on the road, creeping along, trying to keep her hands steady as the rain sluiced down the windshield and made seeing, much less driving, a nearly impossible task.

Still she kept at it, driving away from the big, ugly house, the pool, the locus (oh, she was good, really good, with her SAT vocab, wasn’t she?) of her unending humiliation.
Fuck the wedding, fuck Angelica, fuck Ohad—oh God, how she had wanted that very thing! But she had to stop thinking of that now. There were other things to focus on. She’d find the train station, leave the car parked somewhere, and head back to Brooklyn. She had a key to the house; she could let herself in. She would find comfort in her room, her books, her bed, and in their ancient cat, Rani, who was being fed by a neighbor this weekend. Rani! How Justine longed to bury her face in the tabby’s soft fur, gaze into her round green eyes. She knew there would be no judgment in them. No judgment, no expectation, and no blame.

Almost there,
she told herself, hands still trembling but remaining on the wheel. She forced herself to maintain her grip despite the tremors.
Almost there.
And then the terrifying blare of the siren, the cop car alongside her, and the mortifying exchange with the pair of officers who picked her up and brought her here to the station on Stepping Stone Lane.

What a stupid name anyway. It didn’t sound real at all; it sounded made-up, like something in a lame kids’ story. Maybe it was; maybe this was all made-up, a crazy, convoluted dream she was having. Maybe she’d wake up, and this day would start anew: she’d find herself back in the vast media room at her Grandma Betsy’s, glaring at the monster-sized electronic equipment or twitching with impatience as Portia snored.

But then the officer came back into the room with a step so silent that it took her by surprise. This time she couldn’t close her eyes and blot him out; he’d already seen
her looking at him, and it was too late to pretend she hadn’t. “Your parents are here,” he said. Justine blinked, momentarily crushed by the knowledge that this was no dream, and that there was no do-over button in the real life—
her
real life—that was unspooling right now, this minute, as she sat here and waited for whatever was coming next.

B
y the time Lincoln had reached the second tent, he’d set the umbrella down. It was useless anyway, and the effort of hanging on to it in the wind was more trouble than it was worth. He pulled up the hood on the slicker over the back of his head. The tent seemed firmly set in place, but Lincoln still held out hope that the rain would stop. Angelica should not have to get married in a downpour.

He kept walking, picking up his pace when he neared the bar. He didn’t want to be tempted again even for a minute. That had been a close call. Too close for comfort. And even though at the time he’d been pissed as hell that Gretchen’s appearance had stopped him, right now he was extremely grateful that she had. Because for him there was no such thing as one drink. Never had been, never would be. No, if he’d let himself slip, one drink would have been two, and two, three; before he knew it, he’d be on a pull-out-all-the-stops bender. He cringed, imagining the scene he might have made: insulting Donny boy, growing weepy over the
bride, lamenting his loss of Betsy, punching Bobby, pow, right in the kisser—on and on. Lincoln knew he’d been a loud, messy, exuberant drunk, and no doubt he would be one still. Angelica would have been so disappointed, so hurt, and Gretchen—finger-wagging, naysaying Gretchen—had saved him from the whole sorry mess of it.

He was in such a hurry that he didn’t notice there was someone else on the path until they had nearly collided. “Ohad,” he said, surprised. “What are you doing here?” Lincoln had met his future son-in-law only once, a couple of years ago, before he and Angelica had become engaged. They had flown out to LA for a quick visit, staying in a garden cottage at the Chateau Marmont and sparing Lincoln the embarrassment of hosting them at his modest studio near MacArthur Park. He’d liked the guy, but he was also a little intimidated by him; Ohad was so fucking macho, it hurt. It wasn’t just the looks; it was the whole damn package.

“I was looking for Justine,” Ohad said now. He wore a navy Windbreaker, and droplets of water shone on his black hair. No hood for
him.

“They’ve found her already; Gretchen and Ennis went to get her at the police station.”

“Police station?” Ohad looked alarmed. “What happened?”

“She took one of Betsy’s cars; the police picked her up a few miles from the house.”

“Oh,” said Ohad. “I didn’t know.” A few drops of water slid down his face, and he quickly brushed them away.

“How would you?” Lincoln said. “You weren’t there
when Don got the call.” Then he added, “Why were you looking for her anyway?”

“It’s complicated. Something happened between us,” Ohad said. When he saw Lincoln’s skeptical expression, he added, “I can’t say what it was. Not right now, anyway.”

Lincoln said nothing. He didn’t like the sound of that. What the hell could have happened? He hadn’t put the moves on her, had he? The thought made Lincoln feel sick. And then murderous.

“I think Justine would rather I didn’t broadcast it,” Ohad said gently. He looked at Lincoln engulfed by the yellow slicker. “What are you doing out here, anyway? The wedding’s going to start soon.”

“I’m looking for Lenore,” Lincoln said. He didn’t know what to think about Ohad and Justine, but he couldn’t focus on it now. As Ohad had pointed out, the wedding would be starting very soon. And Lincoln had to find Lenore before it did.

“I’ll tell Angelica,” Ohad said. Lincoln watched as his about-to-be son-in-law continued walking toward the house. Gretchen and Ennis should have gotten to the police station by now; he hoped they could sort things out quickly. He decided he wouldn’t say anything about his exchange with Ohad—not yet. First he wanted to see Justine for himself. Talk to her. Then he could decide what to say and do.

Lincoln kept going, passing a privet hedge and then coming to a stand of tall pines. Could Lenore be out here somewhere? He had a hunch she was. No particular reason why. Just a hunch. But a hunch was better than nothing. He
looked right and he looked left. Nothing jumped out at him. He was a lefty, so he’d try going left first. See where that took him.

As he walked, he tried to be methodical in his search, looking in both directions as well as up and down. He called her name at regular intervals and then stopped to listen for a possible reply. He’d been walking for about fifteen minutes when the thought came to him that he’d been wrong; maybe he should turn around and go in the other direction after all. His hunch had not panned out. But then a flash of color snagged his attention; he could see something a slight distance off in the grass.

He hurried over to inspect. It turned out to be a scrap of brilliant, flame-colored material. The finished edges and perfect square suggested it was not a scrap but a scarf. Just the sort of scarf that Lenore, with her crazy colors, her flounces and ruffles and bows, might have worn—and dropped—on her walk. Wet and muddy as it was, he stuffed it into his pocket and picked up his pace. “Lenore!” he yelled into the wind. “Lenore, are you there?” Nothing. Still Lincoln kept going, calling, calling, calling until his voice was hoarse. His tooth continued to hurt, the pain a steady counterpoint to everything else. She was out here, damn it. He could feel it. He just had to zero in on where.

“Lenore!” he fairly shrieked. “Lenore!” And, thank the living God, this time there was a reply. He couldn’t quite make it out, but he began to trot in the direction of the sound. The impact of his steps intensified the throbbing of the tooth; with each footfall, pain drove through his head
with a fresh, lacerating twist. “Lenore, I’m coming!” he called. “Where are you?”

“Over here,” the voice called faintly. “I’m in the bushes.” He kept going in the direction of the sound. Trees, grass, sand, mud, and, everywhere he looked, rain. But over there, wasn’t that a clump of bushes? He was wheezing with exertion and anxiety when he found her, a crumpled little heap of person, sopping wet and hunkered down under the meager protection offered by the foliage.

“Lincoln!” she cried weakly.

“Are you all right?” He thought she looked strange and then realized it was her hair, which hung straight down, plastered to the sides of her head as if with glue. The familiar poofs and waves had given her volume; without them she seemed to have shrunk several inches.

Lenore nodded. “I’m all right. I fell and hurt my ankle. But I don’t think it’s serious, just a sprain.” She gestured to her foot, perched on a rock. “What time is it?”

He checked his watch. “A little after five.”

“Thank God! I haven’t missed the wedding.”

“No,” he said, and he smiled. “You haven’t missed a thing.” Then he looked at her knees. “You’re bleeding. We should get those scrapes cleaned up. Can you walk?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.” He wished he had thought to bring a blanket for her, but, then again, it only would have gotten soaked. Betsy. Betsy could bring a blanket. Or ask someone else to. He pulled out his phone and punched in the numbers.

“I found her,” he said when his ex-wife answered. “I found her, and she’s fine.”

“Oh, Lincoln,” Betsy said. He could hear the relief flooding her voice. “You’re my hero.”

Lincoln puffed at her praise. “She hurt her ankle, and she’s a little banged up, but I’ll get her back to the house as soon as I can. Have Caleb come and meet me. Tell him to go out the kitchen door, past the pool to the edge of the property and turn left. I’ll be coming back the way I came, so he can keep in touch via cell. Oh, and, Betsy—” He looked down again at the old, frail woman on the ground. “Have him bring a blanket too. A thick, warm one.”

Lincoln lifted her easily; she was like a child in his arms. But though she was not at all heavy, the act of carrying her made him deeply uncomfortable. She had never liked him, never thought he would amount to much, and she was right: he hadn’t. And, sensing her disapproval, he had not liked her either. Yet here they were, the rescued and the rescuer, engaged in their unexpectedly intimate dance.

“Lincoln,” she said. “Lincoln, I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you found me. How grateful and how overjoyed. If I had missed the wedding…”

“I know, Lenore,” he said. “That would have been terrible. For all of us.” And he meant it. Lenore had lived long enough to see this wedding, and she cared so much about it. She deserved to be there.

“I misjudged you, Lincoln,” she said as if he had not spoken. “I misjudged you, and I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean?” he said, though of course he
knew; he’d known for decades. The tooth, which had miraculously calmed down for a few minutes, had once again started unfurling its insidious tendrils of pain.

“I thought there was something weak about you. Something vague and not quite one hundred percent. But I was wrong. You are one hundred and ten percent. You are”—she paused, and her head (it was so small, really) touched his chest—“magnificent.”

“Thank you, Lenore,” he said quietly. “That’s very nice of you to say.” At that moment his cell phone buzzed, and he fumbled around in his pocket to get to it. Caleb. “Where are you?” he asked and then listened to his son’s coordinates. “Okay. I’m coming along that way. Five minutes, seven max, and you’ll see me. You have the blanket? And a big umbrella? Good.” He clicked off.

“Caleb is coming to meet us,” Lincoln said.

“I’m so glad. I was worried about him. That boy he brought with him—no good. I knew it from the start.”

“You’re right about that,” Lincoln said. To his amazement the rain seemed to be tapering off; it had become more of a drizzle now.

“But I was even more worried about Justine,” Lenore continued. “That’s why I went to find her first.”