Good Riddance(66)

“Play where?” I asked. “Why did you say that?”

“Just a figure of speech,” Jeremy said.





33


Two Birds with One Stone



Was Peter Armstrong really marrying his newly divorced ex–office manager and defacer of thank-you notes? Apparently so, because I was invited to their wedding via Paperless Post.

I called his cell and, without greeting or preamble, went straight to “Isn’t this kind of sudden?”

“I’m sixty-eight years old. How can a wedding be sudden at sixty-eight?”

“I meant how well do you know her?”

“For starters, let’s call her by her name, which is Bonnie. And I’ve known her since I made partner in my firm.”

“Which was when?”

“A simple ‘congratulations’ would be nice.”

“I just meant . . . she seemed cuckoo.”

That was not well received if I was correctly interpreting his sharp intake of breath. “You and she had an unfortunate introduction. She’d never done anything like that before, and she’s apologized.”

“Not to me she hasn’t!”

“We thought—we were wrong, obviously—that inviting you to the wedding was an apology. I’m beginning to think that this decision was misguided.”

With that, he’d penetrated the fortified guilt center in my brain. I said, “I’m sorry. I got fired this week. It’s made me a little crazy. I’ll come and I’ll behave. Okay if I bring a plus-one?”

“We figured you would. Presumably not that woman you brought to the reunion.”

I told him God, no, she and I weren’t speaking; in fact, it would be good to get out of town.



One doesn’t invite a man to a wedding reception casually, especially if he’s a frenemy. I’d start with the news that Senator Peter Armstrong was engaged, then work my way up to the ask. When to approach? ASAP, I decided, since the wedding was one month away. I waited for Jeremy’s return from work, easy to calibrate since lately he’d been singing or whistling at high volume upon his arrival. Was it an attention-getting device? When I heard a spirited “Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks, I don’t care if I ever get back,” I was ready, lipstick applied, dressed in my coat and backpack to give the impression that I was going somewhere.

I feigned surprise at finding him outside his door. He smiled, and said, “Why, it’s Miss Maritch. Qué pasa?”

“Not much.”

“Where are you off to?”

“Whole Foods. Need anything?”

“Um, probably. But I don’t want to hold you up.”

“Go check. I can wait.”

He unlocked his door, stepped back, and gestured, After you. Inside, I stopped in the foyer, waiting in the manner of a delivery person who knows his place.

Without asking, he slipped my backpack off my shoulders and pointed me toward his living room. There, I planted myself picturesquely in front of his window, its river view and the lights of New Jersey beyond. Was my pose too artful? Too wistful? Would that be a bad thing?

His kitchen survey was taking more time than expected. And was that the sound of ice being harvested, then rattling in a cocktail shaker? After another few minutes, he returned with two martinis. “Gin, three olives, right?”

“It hasn’t been that long.” I took mine, leaving him free to dim the wall sconces. I’d taken off my coat, exposing the black jersey dress underneath, its deep V-neck ruling it out as daytime attire.

“Looks like there’s a cocktail party at Whole Foods,” he said.

“I went to one earlier and didn’t bother to change,” I lied. To shelve any further discussion of that nonevent, I announced, “I heard something interesting today.”

He, then I, took a seat on the couch a sisterly distance away. “I’m listening,” he said.

“Peter Armstrong is getting married. The senator? From the reunion?”

“Right. Your alleged father. Remind me: not already married?”

“Never! And you won’t believe who he’s marrying—the woman who intercepted my thank-you note—remember that?—and sent it back, defaced.”

“He’s marrying that crackpot?”

“Yes! And I’m invited to the wedding.”

Unprompted, and to my amazement, he said, “Awesome! Think you can bring someone?”

“Meaning you?”

“Yes, me. I’m in!”

In? Without knowing where I stood and if he was the last man I’d ever invite? Unsure if it was a sincere yes, I put forward a list of out clauses: “It’s not in New York. Not a taxi ride away. It’s in New Hampshire. It’ll take four, five hours to get there. You haven’t even asked when—”

“When is it?”

“March nineteenth, a Saturday.”

“I’ll make it work. In Pickering, I hope.”

“No, in Exeter. At an inn.” It took me a few moments and several sips of alcohol for his question to register. “Why would you be hoping for Pickering?”

“To see it. To get a feel for it.”

“Except there’s nothing there.”