It’s Alby’s wedding day, and Jen’s so nervous for her she’s up at the crack of dawn, nursing a coffee on the back porch. Both Jace and Chris are still in bed. The weeks have flown by, and while she’s enjoying the excitement of getting the studio ready, she’s also enjoying this rare, quiet moment, with nothing to do until Mikolaj picks her up to help Alby get ready.
The dawn is unfurling low ribbons of dusty orange across the lawn, through the trees, sending bands of soft light to catch the ripples of the river. The indigo sky is slowly fading with smudges of light, as if a giant is wiping away the night. The birds welcome the show with sweet, enthusiastic arias. It’s a precious, beautiful day. Jen remembers that she used to always feel this way in the morning, and doesn’t know how that ever got away from her.
She picks up Saint’s tome and pages through it randomly. Saint’s handwriting is so small, so inward, as if the thoughts will run away from her if she let’s them loose. Jen remembers getting her letters in school. Provocative. Funny. She was a good friend back then, a kindred spirit. For all her amends, she still doesn’t know what the fuck happened.
Maybe they became themselves.
She pulls a Manila envelope out of the steel file cabinet, and grabs a sticky note and a pen.
“Thanks for the read,” she scrawls. She adds a smiley face as an afterthought. There’s nothing more she feels like saying. So she bundles it up and seals the envelope. She is almost surprised that she still remembers the address on Bertrand. It’s been seven years since she lived there, and she’d only stayed a while.
She slides the package into her bag, and pads back into the kitchen. Life is stirring.
Alby floats to the door to let Jen in, sporting a gorgeous teal kimono that parts slightly with the baby bump. Up close, she looks tired, as if she hasn’t slept a wink.
“Sweetie, what’s up,” Jen asks as Alby throws her arms around her and just holds tight in a hug.
“George never came home from his stag,” she says, lips trembling, face struggling for composure.
Jen gasps, then realizes neither of them should be surprised. Who the hell has a stag the night before the wedding? Don’t those guys watch the movies? Everybody knows it’s a recipe for trouble. These are the thoughts running through Jen’s head while she puts on a brave face and decides to instead distract the bride with makeup and curls.
Rosemary shows up half an hour later, and half an hour late, which is uncharacteristic enough to cause Alby further distress. Finally, Jen opens a bottle of champagne and makes mimosas. What the hell, she thinks, this could be a wild day, with or without the groom. Little did she know then that some would say it would have been a better day sans groom.
At 1 p.m., Rosemary pulled Jen aside while Alby was having a word with the officiator.
“Does Paul have any fucking clue where George is?” she asks.
“Paul was home by 3 a.m. But he said the rest of the guys were going to get something to eat, and that Alby’s PR girl had shown up at Comfy’s,” Rosemary says, sotto so Alby can’t hear.
“You mean Alice? Holy shit, not good,” Jen says. There was a little history over Alice. They never understood why Alby didn’t fire her.
“You don’t think the jackass spent his last free night at her place, do you?” Rosemary asks.
“They don’t call him Georgie Porgy for nothin’. Call Paul and ask him to swing by her place. We’re t-minus one hour.”
Rosemary disappears to make the call and Mikolaj slides in the back door. He’s been the point man (her “man of honor” as Alby’s taken to calling him) for the florist, the tent people, the musicians and the caterers. He looks it too, hair disheveled and still in sweatpants.
“Hey there, you look like you could use a mimosa,” Jen says, pouring him one.
“Thanks, but what I really need is five minutes to go home and shower,” he says, gulping it down anyway.
He gasps and then leans in and whispers “Any ignsay of the roomgay?”
Jen tells him Rosemary is following a lead. He looks at his watch and makes a face, walking backward toward the door. Elsa, the officiant, gives Alby a hug and glides over toward Jen. Jen doesn’t know a lot about hand-fasting rituals and has never been to a Wiccan wedding, but Alby has already explained the ceremony to her. Jen has the honor of holding the rope and passing it to Elsa when instructed to do so. At the moment, she’d rather wrap the rope around George’s neck and sully the sacred circle. But she doesn’t say this to Elsa, who is flooding her with minutiae about the ceremony, most of which she can’t quite absorb because she is preoccupied with wondering whether or not Rosemary has reached Paul and whether or not someone will locate the errant groom. The minutes are flying by, and soon enough, sixty will have passed and people will be showing up to be seated in the makeshift garden cathedral.
Jen thanks Elsa and takes the rope and wanders over to Alby, convinced she needs to get the bride out of the plane of increasing action.
“Darling, shall we retire to your chambers and enjoy some beverages,” Jen says, doing her best to lighten the mood.
Alby, for all her trademark poise and strength, looks like a little girl about to cry. She’s quite beautiful in her luscious cream gown, flowers woven into her raven hair, blending with the glittering net of the veil. Jen has tried to hide the dark circles under her eyes with concealer. If she cries now, they’ll need to start over, but if she doesn’t cry, Jen’s afraid shell explode. Gently, Jen leads her back to her bedroom, where they’ve made a makeshift salon.
“Why is he doing this to me,” she wails once Jen closes the door.
Jen pulls her into her arms and the floodgates open Alby’s warm tears are rolling down Jen’s neck and onto the damned bridesmaid dress. Better mine than hers, Jen thinks.
“Because he’s a scared little boy, Alby. They all are, and it sucks. But he’ll show up,” Jen says, not entirely certain that’s the truth of it.
Just then Alby’s cell rings. She takes a deep breath and wipes her eyes. The phone keeps on ringing, so Jen knows it is George, who has decided to grace them with his presence.
“Thank god you’re alive, I am so going to kill you,” Alby answers.
Jen decides this is a good time to leave the room. On her way out, she sees Rosemary coming up the stairs, resplendent in her hot-pink-goth-maiden gown. It becomes her.
“She’s talking to him now” Jen whispers.
“I know. Paul called me back. He was passed out at Alice’s and the idiot slut didn’t know what to do or who to call,” Rosemary whispers back, voice thick with disdain.
“Is he coming?” Jen asks.
“Of course, if she lets him.”
They sigh. She’ll let him. And not because all her friends and clients will be standing around eating hors d’ouevres on her dime, but because love is a sickness for which there’s no cure, except to step back outside the logic of love, disoriented and wondering where the hell you’ve been.