The Lies That Bind(46)

“Which photo do you think I should use? For the obituary?” she asks. “They want a headshot, so some of these won’t work, and some are too blurry.”

Amy fans about seven photographs on the counter and my eyes go straight to a wedding portrait that looks professional. In it, Grant is wearing a black tux, and she’s in a gorgeous off-the-shoulder mermaid-style gown, her hair long and loose but pulled back on the sides. There are flowers in her hair. His arm is around her waist, pulling her close, and they are gazing adoringly at each other, seemingly oblivious to the friends and family who surround them.

“Wow. You look gorgeous,” I say.

“Thank you,” she says. “Feels like forever ago.”

“Where was your reception?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

She tells me the Pierre, a faraway look in her eye. “We filled the room with white and blush peonies…and danced to jazz and big band classics….”

“Sounds like a fairy tale,” I say, staring at her, aching with jealousy. Even if he’s gone. Even if he cheated on her. She still got to marry him. He belonged to her. Oh my God, I’m jealous of a widow. What is wrong with me?

“It was a fairy tale….It really was…but—” She stops, her expression changing from wistful to troubled.

“But…what?” I say, then stop breathing for a few seconds.

She shakes her head and says, “Nothing…It’s just…I don’t know….It was my dream wedding. But I don’t think it’s the wedding that Grant wanted….Actually…I know it wasn’t the wedding he wanted.”

    On some level, this makes me feel better, and I hate myself for being so petty.

“What did Grant want?” I say.

“Something simple…”

“Like…smaller?”

“Like…City Hall,” she says.

Yes, I think. That is the Grant I knew. A cabin in the woods over the Hamptons.

“I feel guilty about it,” she continues.

“That you had a big wedding?”

“That I did a lot of things the way I wanted….But I guess that doesn’t matter now, does it?” It seems to be a rhetorical question, but then she looks right at me, as if waiting for an answer.

Flustered, I shrug, searching for the right thing to say. Anything to say.

“I don’t know…I wouldn’t say it doesn’t matter….But I don’t think you should have regrets about your wedding, either….I’m sure he just wanted to make you happy.”

She nods and says, “Yes. He tried very hard…but it wasn’t always easy.”

“Relationships are never easy,” I say.

She nods, then asks me, out of the complete blue, “Are you dating anyone?”

Both startled and flustered by the question, I start stammering, wondering if she’s at all suspicious. “Well…that’s a long story…but sort of….I mean…I was in a long-term thing…but then we broke up…at the start of the summer,” I say, my words slurring together as I realize that I am officially buzzed.

“Why’d you break up?” she asks.

“He wasn’t ready to commit,” I say, then tell her about that day in Bryant Park, how he told me he thought we’d made a mistake. Suddenly I wonder if maybe I had made a mistake, too blinded by my attraction to Grant to see things clearly. After all, Matthew would never have cheated on me. No chance.

    “Do you still love him?” she asks.

I shrug. “Part of me will always love him,” I say, feeling so nostalgic for the past, though it’s hard to say whether it’s for Matthew or for the world before 9/11.

I can feel her staring at me as she says, “You should go see him. Find out if there’s anything still there.”

I just look at her, at a loss for words, thinking I never expected the conversation to go in this direction. “How did you know?” I say softly. “That Grant was ‘the one’?”

She bites her lip and says, “There wasn’t a big moment. We just sort of transitioned from friends into dating….” She reaches for the pictures and plucks one out randomly, like a game of Old Maid. I look down and see that it’s a photo of them together. They’re both wearing winter coats, hats, and gloves. Behind them is the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, all lit up.

“Were you dating when that photo was taken?” I ask.

She gives me a funny look, then says, “No. That’s actually his brother, Byron.”

“Oh,” I say, looking more closely. “Gosh, he looks so much like Grant there.”

“Yeah,” she says. “They used to look more alike.” She puts that photo down, then picks up another from their wedding day.

I start to ask another question, but she suddenly sweeps up all the photos and returns them to the box, putting the lid on, pressing it firmly closed. “Sorry,” she says. “I just can’t look at these anymore.”

“I understand,” I say, completely exhausted myself. “I should go, anyway….I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Oh, you don’t have to go,” she says. “I didn’t mean that….”