Every Vow You Break(13)
Two bitter, creative people don’t really go together, not for a long and happy marriage anyway. Bruce would balance her out, keep her grounded.
She texted Zoe:
the wedding is on.
Before she got a text back, she decided that lying down was a bad idea. She got up and watered her plants and thought some more about Bruce and how he saw the world. It was so different from how she saw it. Even though she’d grown up in the warmth of a happy family, with a roof over her head, there had always been a dark side to her, someone who considered the world vaguely threatening. She expected the worst, knew it could all come crashing down. Had she picked that up from her parents? She supposed she had. Her father, even though he was a dreamer, was quick to fold when the going got rough. Every time the Boxgrove Theatre was putting on a new play he’d be filled with anticipation, excited by the possibility that, creatively, they were on the cusp of perfection. But he’d also been filled with anxiety, worried that what they were putting on would be a total disaster. In reality, it was never either of those extremes. But the fact that they never produced a play that was truly remarkable—at least in his own estimation—continued to vex him, and after every season he would slip into a depressive episode that lasted throughout the month of September.
Abigail’s mother was different. To her, the theater was a financial enterprise first and a creative enterprise second. If they made money, she’d be happy enough. But the theater hardly ever made money.
Thinking of them now, she suddenly wanted to hear one of their voices. Abigail called the landline, her father picking up after three rings.
“Hi, Daddy,” she said.
“Who’s this?” he responded. It was an old joke.
“Mom must be out.”
“She is. Why’d you ask, because I picked up the phone?”
“I guess so. I expected her. Are you living back in the house?”
“No, I’m still above the garage. Your mother is out, so I’m sneaking back in to look for my copy of Shakespeare’s Imagery.
You know, the Spurgeon book. You don’t happen to remember where it is, do you?”
“No.”
“I know that the last time I saw it, it was next to the sofa in the study, but it’s not there now. Your mother probably moved it somewhere.”
“Dad, I was thinking of coming home for a weekend before the wedding, spend some time with the two of you.” Abigail was surprised even as she said the words.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes, of course it is. Just thought it would be nice. What’s going on this weekend?”
“I work Saturday at the movie theater,” he said, stretching the word “theater” into three highly stressed syllables, “but that will give you some time with just your mother. No, please come. We’d love to see you. What about Bruce?”
“Bruce and I will be spending the rest of our lives together.
Besides, he’s cramming as much work into his weekends as possible before the wedding and the honeymoon. It’ll be great to see you both.”
“Come up. I’d love it. We’d love it.”
CHAPTER 7
She took the train to Northampton, where Zoe picked her up. It was late afternoon, the second weekend of September, but the first weekend that actually felt like September. The sun was high and bright but there was a bite to the air. Zoe convinced Abigail that they should grab one quick drink in town before heading to Boxgrove.
“How was it seeing Bruce?” she asked Abigail, after they’d both ordered Negronis at the Tunnel Bar, a cocktail place built into an old railway tunnel.
“It was fine. Great. He’s very excited about the wedding.”
“He give you details about his bachelor weekend?”
“You mean, did I give him details about my bachelorette weekend?” Abigail said.
Zoe smiled, leaning back because their drinks were being delivered. “I guess,” she said.
“Yeah, I told him all about it. He said it was no big deal.”
“Really?” Zoe leaned forward again, incredulous.
“No.”
“Oh. But it was okay?”
“It was good to see him. I’m hoping to forget certain details of that weekend. I’m hoping you do, too.”
Zoe turned her fingers in front of her lips and mimed throwing away the key.
At six-thirty Zoe dropped Abigail off at her parents’ house.
Walking from the curb to the front door, Abigail could see her parents through the bay windows of the living room, her father studying the bar and her mother moving back and forth in the open-plan kitchen area. She’d wondered if they were going to put on a united front during her visit, and it seemed that she had her answer.
She opened the door to the smell of roast chicken.
After dinner, Abigail’s mother went to bed first. It had been a perfectly pleasant evening, during which the most controversial topic was where to sit creepy cousin Roger at the wedding reception.
“Port?” her father said, now that Amelia was gone.
“Sure. Why not?”
He poured two glasses, then resettled on the plaid recliner that had always been his favorite chair.
“You and Mom are very chummy,” Abigail said.
“We get along still, so long as we don’t talk about certain topics, and so long as I remain in the guesthouse.”