A Nantucket Wedding(11)

The sisters shared a smile. How many times had their mother spoken those exact words to them? They kissed their mother’s cheek and dutifully went up the stairs.





four


Jane brushed and flossed her teeth and brushed her hair and washed and creamed her face and rubbed lotion into her hands. She’d already changed into the tank top and boxer shorts she slept in. In her room, the bed with its sumptuous Frette linens waited, the bedside table piled with magazines, books, and a crystal carafe of water and a glass, in case she woke in the night and was thirsty. From the antique dresser, a light, sweet perfume drifted from a vase of fresh flowers.

It was all so…sensual. Too sensual. It was so unsettling. This evening had been strange.

Probably, Jane decided, flicking off the bathroom light and crossing the room to her bed, she’d simply had too much to drink. Felicity certainly had. She’d confessed she seldom drank so much, as if that wasn’t obvious. She’d almost stumbled up the stairs to her bedroom. Jane followed, waiting to catch her if she fell, but Felicity made it to her bed, where she did fall, wham, like an axed tree, onto her bed. Immediately she was asleep and snoring. Jane took a mohair throw from the back of an armchair and laid it over her sister.

    Now Jane slid into her own bed, and she was completely awake. She usually mentally composed a list of duties to be performed the next day and somewhere along the way she fell into sleep. But tonight she couldn’t wrench her mind into its reliable categorizing. Frivolous thoughts flashed through her brain—if she didn’t have her hair cut for the next three months, it could be twisted up and held with a dazzling clip—she was glad her mother was at last having a romantic wedding—should she get a tan, would that look good against the deep rose dress? And why was she so agitated about this anyway?

She gave up, turned on the bedside lamp, and reached for one of the books on the bedside table. Oh dear, it was a bodice ripper. A bare-chested man held a curvaceous woman wearing a dress much like some of the bridesmaids gowns they’d seen. They were on a beach or in a boat, whatever, blue water rippled in the background beneath a sky blazing with light. The man’s black hair was as long as the woman’s blond locks, and he had abs like no real man Jane had ever seen. She touched her finger to the man’s chest, as if she could feel—

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she said and tossed the book facedown on the bed. Had she lost her mind?

Whatever, she wouldn’t get to sleep this way. Throwing back the covers, she slid her feet into flip-flops and crept out of her room and down the stairs. She’d racewalk down the beach. That would tire her out.

The moon wasn’t quite full but large enough and close enough to cast the world into shades of silver. No wind blew, so the waves quietly slid up to the shore and away, making sighing sounds. Jane was slightly cool in only her tank top, but she knew as she walked that she’d warm up, so she pattered down the steps and through the wild roses to the beach.

The frothy white curls of the waves made her think of some of the wedding gowns she’d seen on the slide show. As if all brides wanted to look like a princess on their wedding day. Ridiculous, really.

    Jane had never bought into that whole fantasy. First of all, she was well aware that no matter how gorgeous the wedding, at least half of all marriages ended in divorce. There was no ceremony for divorce and women certainly didn’t look like princesses by the time Prince Charming had morphed back into a frog. She didn’t see any sense in spending thousands of dollars on one event when that money could be used toward an apartment in the city.

For their own wedding, Jane and Scott had decided to put some money toward a trip and go low on expenses for the actual marriage ceremony. After all, Jane’s stepfather had died, unexpectedly of a heart attack, in January. The three women were still mourning. It hadn’t seemed right to throw a festive ceremony in that same year. Jane and Scott had just finished law school and passed the New York bar. They chose to be married by a justice of the peace on a bright April morning in a conference room at the Logan airport Hilton in Boston. That made it easy for her mother, sister, and friends from the Boston area to attend. Her best friend, Lisa, and Scott’s best friend, Brendon, came from San Francisco and D.C. to be witnesses. They all enjoyed a privately catered lunch after the ceremony. Jane and Scott flew out that afternoon, to L.A., where they picked up their rental Jeep and drove to Death Valley.

Jane’s friends had shrieked when she’d told them she was honeymooning in Death Valley.

“Those words don’t belong in the same sentence!” Lisa had said.

“Scott and I love hiking,” Jane reminded them in a serene and reasonable tone of voice. “Death Valley is a hiker’s paradise, with endless canyons and hills made of minerals so they’re streaked turquoise and rose. We’ll see coyotes and ravens and salt plains and snowcapped mountains. Plus,” she added, knowing this would win her friends over, “we’ll be staying at The Oasis at Death Valley. Google it. It’s luxurious, a green oasis in the middle of the desert. We’ll hike all day or swim in the pool or play golf or horseback ride, and if we’re exhausted at the end of the day, we’ll get massages.”

    “Still,” Marcy said, “it doesn’t sound very romantic.”

Jane had shrugged. “Scott and I have lived together for two years. I’ve seen him clip his nose hairs. He’s put up with me when I’m PMSing. We don’t need fantasy. We want to hike.”