The Perfect Couple(42)

Karen hasn’t talked to Bruce about life after she’s gone because he refuses to acknowledge the inevitable—which, she supposes, is better than him accepting it too readily. As the assembled guests raise their glasses to Celeste and Benji, Bruce gazes down on Karen with an expression so filled with tenderness, with love and awe, that Karen can barely meet his eyes. Her ardor matches his own, but she is a realist. Cancer has made her a realist.

She has, for example, come to terms with the likelihood that Bruce will remarry. She wants him to. It won’t be the same, she knows. He will always love her first, last, and best. The new wife will be younger—not as young as Celeste, Karen hopes—and she will add a new vitality to Bruce’s life. Maybe the new wife will have a job that provides money for traveling, real traveling—national parks, cruises, bicycle tours of Europe. Maybe Bruce will take up yoga or watercolor painting; maybe he’ll learn to speak Italian. Karen can imagine these possibilities without jealousy or anger. That’s how she knows it’s time for her to go.


After dessert, she and Bruce dance to one song, “Little Surfer Girl.” Karen has always loved this song even though she has never been anywhere near a surfboard. She heard her father sing it once, in the car, when she was a little girl and that was all it took. Her father’s happiness and his carefree falsetto had been contagious. Bruce knows about this memory and so he croons in Karen’s ear. They are dancing—shuffling, really—among the other guests. No one is staring at them, she hopes, or taking photos or marveling that a woman so sick can still dance.

When the song is over, everyone claps. The band, it seems, is calling it a night. The evening is drawing to a close.

Celeste appears out of nowhere. “D-D-Did you have fun, B-B-Betty?”

“So much fun,” Karen says. “But I’m exhausted.”

She feels Bruce’s hand against her back; even the light pressure is excruciating. The oxy is wearing off, leaving her nerve endings to glint like shattered glass. She needs one more oxy before she falls asleep.

“We have a big day tomorrow,” Bruce says.

Celeste says, “T-T-Tag is really looking forward to having a drink with you in his st-st-study. A drink and a Cuban cigar. He’s been t-t-talking about it all week.”

“He has?” Bruce says. “News to me.”

“I’ll get B-B-Betty up to b-b-bed,” Celeste says.

“No, no, darling,” Karen says. “You go have fun. It’s the night before your wedding. You should go out with your friends.”

Celeste gazes across the yard to where Benji and Shooter are filling up cups of beer at the keg. Shooter looks up, then jogs over. Karen is embarrassed at how handsome she finds him. He’s as good-looking as the teen idols from her era—Leif Garrett, David Cassidy, Robby Benson.

“Mrs. Otis,” he says. “Can I get you anything? I happen to know where the caterers stashed the extra lobster tails.”

This makes Karen laugh despite the knives starting to twist in her lower back. How darling of Shooter to remember that Karen likes lobster, even though the days when she might have enjoyed a midnight snack are gone.

“We’re going to bed,” Karen says. “But thank you. Please take my daughter out on the town.”

“I need my b-b-beauty sleep,” Celeste says.

“You’re beautiful enough as it is,” Shooter says. “You couldn’t get any more beautiful.”

Karen looks at Shooter and notes the expression on his face: tenderness. Celeste inspires it in people, she supposes.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Karen says.

“The defense rests, then,” Bruce says. He kisses Celeste’s forehead, then nudges her gently toward Shooter. “Go have fun, darling.”

“But Mac, T-T-Tag wants—”

“Your father will go find Tag for a drink,” Karen says. “I’m perfectly capable of getting myself to bed.”

Shooter takes Celeste’s arm but she pulls away to give Karen one more hug and a kiss on each cheek. This is an echo of how Karen kissed Celeste good night when she was growing up. Does Celeste realize this? Yes, she must. Karen would like Celeste to come upstairs, tuck her in, read her something, even if it’s just an article from the issue of Town and Country on the nightstand, and then lie with her until she falls asleep, just as Karen used to do with Celeste. But she will not be a burden. She will allow—indeed, encourage—Celeste to pursue her new life.

Bruce turns to Karen. “Let me just walk you upstairs.”

“I’ll be fine,” Karen says. “Go find Tag now so you can come up to me sooner. I’d prefer that.”

Bruce kisses her on the lips. “Okay. Just one drink, though.”


Karen takes her time on her way to her room upstairs. She wants to experience the house at her own pace. She wants to touch the fabrics, sit in the chairs to judge their comfort; she wants to smell the flower arrangements, read the titles of the books. She has never been in a house like this, one where every piece of furniture has been professionally chosen and arranged, where the clocks tick in unison and the paintings and photographs are lit to advantage. The other homes Karen has visited in her lifetime have all been variations of her own—corner cabinets to display the wedding china, sectional sofas, afghans crocheted by maiden aunts.