And then she saw Scottie in the coffee shop.
That whole day she felt like a chasm had opened up in front of her, a big black hole she was powerless to escape. He’d come for her—all the way across the country—and he was going to wreck her life. In a way, it helped that she later got the email; it gave her a chance to answer him, to try to end it before it got any worse. She did feel temporarily better after sending him her response, but that night she was anxious, her mind filling with images from California, a jittery sensation racing across her skin. Just to make it stop, to try to relax her body, she flipped onto her stomach and masturbated, feeling half aroused and half sickened by the thoughts that kept entering her mind. She made herself come, and afterward, exhausted, hollowed out, she at least felt that maybe she’d be able to get some sleep.
But there was still that chasm, black and bottomless, that she couldn’t entirely shake out of her mind.
CHAPTER 9
Her few married friends had all told her that their weddings had been a blur, that you never got a chance to eat, let alone enjoy, any of the food, and you’d be lucky to get a moment alone with your spouse. Most of that turned out to be true for Abigail on her wedding day, but she still enjoyed herself.
The ceremony, held in the upper loft of the barn, was fairy-tale-like, the entire place lit by white candles. She thought she’d be nervous—thinking back on her few high school experiences on the stage—but she was okay, more emotional than she thought she’d be, cognizant of the enormity of the moment, of what it meant to pledge yourself to one person for the rest of your life. She felt great in her wedding dress. She’d never been a girl who dreamed of wearing the perfect white dress for her wedding, and she’d considered wearing black just to be different, but then she’d found an online site that sold vintage wedding dresses and fallen in love with a butter-toned organza dress from the 1940s. It was simple—a sleeveless bodice and an A-line skirt—but was covered in beads and sequins. It was long enough that it covered her single tattoo, a barren tree that ran from her hip halfway down her left thigh. When she’d seen herself in the dress with her makeup and her hair done (she’d given the hairdresser pictures of Audrey Hepburn from Roman Holiday), she’d felt as though she was looking at a stranger, that she was a fictional character, an impostor. She told herself it was a natural feeling, something every bride must feel, but she wasn’t sure. The feeling of disassociation had something to do with what had happened in California—Scottie, thank God, had not replied to her email—but it also had something to do with Bruce. Who was this rich, attentive man? And who was she, that she was marrying him? It wasn’t just that he was a stranger, it was that she sometimes felt like a stranger to herself as well. Like everything she was now doing to prepare for this wedding was happening automatically. She was going through the steps, almost like clockwork, and not unhappily. It just felt strange. Was she still an arty girl who went to the city to be a writer? Or was she a small-town girl like Zoe? She was neither, it appeared. She was about to be the wife of a very rich man. And that felt as bizarre to her as anything.
Bruce wore a very classic Brunello Cucinelli tux, and Abigail realized that she’d never seen him in any kind of suit before. He looked relaxed and handsome, and the cold that he’d been fighting the past few days had disappeared.
Bruce’s father, whom Abigail had met only once, sat with her parents, and they all got along, or seemed to, anyway. Bill Lamb was a retired truck driver, a hardened version of his son who looked uncomfortable in the suit that Bruce had bought for him. But he kept claiming that he was having the best day of his life, and he even danced later in the evening, several times with Abigail’s mother, and at one point with all the bridesmaids.
Abigail’s favorite part of the wedding was the cocktail reception. The photographer had taken pictures prior to the ceremony, Abigail not feeling superstitious about the groom seeing her dress, so that after they were declared husband and wife, everyone could go straight to the reception, which was set up on a sloping lawn with a distant view of the Hudson River. A few tents had been erected but weren’t needed. The skies were clear, and the temperature was somewhere in the sixties. It was perfect. The signature cocktail was a sidecar, served in a coupe. Toasts were made, the oyster bar hummed, and when Abigail’s heel sank into the lawn and she nearly fell over, Bruce managed to catch her.
Dinner truly was a blur, but it might have been the two cocktails. Abigail managed to eat half of her sea bass with parsley cream sauce and was amazed that it didn’t taste as though it had sat in a warming tray for the last two hours. More toasts were made, including a showstopper by the actor Martin Pilkingham, who embarrassed Abigail by listing off all the Boxgrove actors she’d had a crush on, including Zachary Mason, the actor to whom she’d lost her virginity. Zoe sat next to Abigail through dinner and kept up a good appearance even though she hadn’t reconciled yet with Dan. Usually a big eater, Zoe managed just three stalks of asparagus and drank half a bottle of wine, and she was the first on the dance floor after the traditional dances had ended. During the band’s second set Zoe slipped and hit the floor, and when Bruce’s best man, Darryl Cho, a married computer programmer from California, helped her up, she thanked him by kissing him full on the mouth. The other bridesmaids helped Zoe to her room, then reported back to Abigail that they’d managed to at least get her out of her bridesmaid dress before she passed out on the bed.
Toward the end of the evening Abigail spotted her parents sitting together at a table on the edge of the dance floor. Each had been dancing, and they now looked sweaty and tired. Abigail joined them.
“The original Baskins,” Lawrence said. “Together again.”
“You guys have fun?” she said.
“God, yes,” Amelia said. “Did you see your aunt Mary on the dance floor?”
“How could I miss her?”
“Bruce was very sweet,” Lawrence said. “He introduced himself to everyone in our family and acted as though we are all normal.”
“And he invited us down to see a show in New York after you two get back from your honeymoon,” her mom said.
Abigail, slightly tipsy, suddenly said, “He’s going to want to talk with you about the theater. He wants to bring it back.”
“What theater?” Amelia said. “Our theater?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, God. Please derail him. I don’t think I have it in me.”
“What about you, Dad?”
“He wants to invest in the theater and bring it back?”
“He does. Very badly.”
He took a deep breath. “Two years ago, I would have given my right arm for an investor. But what’s done is done.”
“Well, look, at least hear him out. He’s so excited to talk with you.”
After the conversation, when Abigail was returning to the dance floor as the band was breaking into a swing-style version of “Friday I’m in Love,” she caught a glimpse of her parents leaning into each other, half smiles on their lips. She had a moment of clarity, not that they were going to get back together, but that they weren’t. They were too comfortable with each other post-separation. They were friends, and nothing more.