Good Riddance(74)

“And was voted most likely to succeed,” I added.

“Did he date in high school?” she asked.

My father said, “That sort of thing doesn’t make its way into the principal’s office unless there’s some kind of trouble. Why do you ask?”

The bride’s mom said, “I guess . . . a lifelong bachelor.”

“Some of us are late bloomers,” said Jeremy, knocking his shoulder into mine.

I checked the mayor’s expression. He was looking a little tight-lipped himself. His mother said, “I went to high school with Pete, and I can tell you this: He was not a late bloomer.”

Kathi must’ve been avoiding the same thing I was, which was the topic of the groom’s past love life, because she said to the bride’s mother, “Your granddaughters are adorable.”

Their dual ungenerous, churchy responses were looks that conveyed, Handsome is as handsome does.

I thought all of this prickliness deserved a quasi-rude question: “They won’t be staying with their father while their mother’s away?”

“Their father . . . hasn’t quite made peace with the divorce yet,” said the stepdad. And even though most of us had started in on our salads, he changed the subject by asking if we could say grace. One by one we joined hands. Jeremy and I kept our eyes open while Pastor Stepdad—as it turned out—intoned, “Dear Lord, thank you for the blessing of bringing Bonnie and Peter together in marriage today. We ask you to bless their marriage and their family. Help them stay strong in any adversity and treasure and protect the joy of marriage. Please bless this food we are about to receive, and let this reception be an honor to You. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”

“Amen,” we echoed. Jeremy gave me an ironic New York City smile. Kathi said, “That was lovely. Thank you.”

I said, “Very positive.”

“You’re a man of the cloth?” asked the mayor’s mother.

“I am. Retired.”

I asked why he hadn’t performed the ceremony.

There was a brief silence. His wife said, “The reverend doesn’t perform ceremonies for divorced people.”

It begged the question, But aren’t you Bonnie’s stepfather? Doesn’t that mean, by definition, that you married a divorcée?

The mayor asked, “Do you perform same-sex ceremonies?”

That earned only a frown from the stepdad and a shake of his wife’s head.

“Not because you’re homophobic, though, right?” I asked.

My father was giving me a look. Don’t spoil the party. Be nice.

I said, “I withdraw the question.”

Kathi, skilled changer of subjects, asked Jeremy if he’d started shooting a third season, then offered, “Jeremy stars in a television series called Riverdale.”

“Not stars in,” he corrected. “Just a minor character.”

The mayor said, “Riverdale! No kidding! I love that show.”

His mother asked, “Do I watch that with you?”

“Not so far. I watch it over at Greg’s.”

Jeremy asked, as if it were his own fondest wish, “You get to live with your mom? How great is that?”

His mom said, “Just since I lost my husband.”

The mayor said, “It doesn’t hurt me at the ballot box. I make jokes about it—not about my dad, about my mom being my campaign manager—”

“Though I’m not. He likes to say that.”

“And I’m known at city hall for the lunches she packs me.”

“I don’t know why,” said his mom. “Tuna fish five days a week. Even though I warn him about the mercury.”

Kathi said, “Maybe just the novelty of a mayor brown-bagging it.”

I said, “I don’t live with my dad, but we’re neighbors. He moved to New York after my mom died”—my messaging to the wet blankets: not divorced but widowed.

“We both walk dogs for the same outfit,” my dad said.

“Which is how we met,” said Kathi. “He walked my Westie.”

“Still do,” said my dad.

A waiter was circling, asking, “Salmon or filet mignon?” and pouring either red or white accordingly.

And then the bride and groom were standing behind Bonnie’s mom and stepdad, and asking if everyone was having a good time.

I said, “So far so good.”

“This must be Jeremy,” Peter said.

“Thank you for having me. The ceremony was beautiful. As is the bride.”

Bonnie said, “I like him!”

My dad said, “And I’m Daphne’s father.”

“A lot more than that,” said Peter. “Everyone here know that he was the principal of PHS? And a great one? Though young, right? You were just out of grad school back in the day?”

My dad said, “Well, three years out. I always hoped you wiseacres thought I was older than I was.”

“Wiseacres?” repeated Bonnie’s mother.

“Not I,” said Peter. “Right, Mr. Maritch?” He smiled. “Still can’t call him Tom.”

The bride smiled, but I sensed she was hearing Pickering lore at every table and had had enough. She said to her mother, “Dad did a great job, didn’t he?”