Chapter 5 - A Marriage That Began in the Hallway
Noah followed Lillian past the coat check. He had never imagined spending his wedding night searching for his wife among employees stacking folding chairs.
He found her in a hallway near the kitchen, holding both hands against the cold wall.
“I'm not trying to take sides,” he began.
“You took sides when you invited him.”
“I made a decision I thought might help.”
“You made a decision for me.”
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
Her eyes flicked toward him. She had expected a defense. His answer left her nowhere easy to direct the next accusation.
“I should've told you, Lil. I didn't want to start another argument about your family while we were planning flowers and seating charts. That was cowardly.”
She wiped her nose with the edge of her sleeve. “I spent a year choosing the right shade of white. It turns out that wasn't the hard part.”
From the kitchen came the metallic slam of an industrial dishwasher. The wedding coordinator passed them carrying a box of unopened sparklers, glanced once, and kept walking.
“Are you angry at Maeve,” Noah asked, “or are you angry that she made you feel like the girl who stayed behind again?”
“You make it sound like a therapy worksheet.”
“That's fair.”
“I'm angry because she had nine years to tell me she let Mom's last call ring out. Nine years. And you stood in there acting like I was the one who owed everybody an apology.”
“I wasn't saying you owe everybody an apology. You do owe your sister one for what you said on the microphone.”
“She wasn't there.”
“I know.”
“You weren't either.”
“No.”
Lillian put her forehead against the wall. She and Noah had met five years earlier in a bookstore, where he worked weekends to help pay off a graduate-school loan. He had fallen in love with the way she stopped to read books aloud to children who couldn't find their parents. She had fallen in love with a man who listened longer than Richard Hart ever had. Now, on the day they had promised to listen to each other for the rest of their lives, she hated his willingness to contradict her.
“Do you want to leave?” he asked.
She looked toward the dining room. Her new relatives were still inside. His mother had traveled from Portland. The musicians had been paid. The cake was half cut.
“I want us not to be the couple everybody talks about for the wrong reason.”
“That ship left about forty minutes ago.”
She snorted despite herself. Noah offered his hand. She took it, but not with both of hers, the way she had at the ceremony.
Back in the room, the DJ asked if they wanted to do the first dance. Noah looked at Lillian. She nodded, and they moved onto the polished floor as a piano track began. Halfway through the song, he felt her shoulders loosen. When she began to cry, she pressed her face into his jacket and the guests politely pretended not to see.
Aunt June caught her elbow before she could reach Lillian. June had been Eleanor's oldest friend and had never been interested in which Hart daughter was supposed to be the responsible one.
“I'm going to tell you something,” June said. “Your mother talked too much when she was worried, and your father talked too little. You took after him. Lillian took after her. It's a terrible combination.”
“Thank you, June.”
“You're welcome. I didn't say either of you was bad.”
June adjusted a pearl necklace that was always a little crooked. “You know what your mother told me at the hospital? She said she hated that there were two good daughters and only one of her. She couldn't give you both what you needed. She knew it.”
Maeve had spent nine years believing a parent's love should have resolved every impossible decision. She wasn't prepared for Eleanor to have admitted that she couldn't.
“Did you tell Lillian?” Maeve asked.
“I tried. She was tired and angry. She thought I was telling her to forgive you before she'd gotten a chance to tell you what it cost her. I was, a little. I had to apologize.”
June moved toward the restrooms, leaving Maeve with the realization that the older generation had made its own share of mistakes, some of which had never become family legends.
Maeve watched from the edge of the room. She could leave now. The bride and groom were dancing; even the older cousins had begun to relax. Instead she waited until the song ended and approached Lillian with the expectation that her sister might refuse to look at her.
“I lied by omission,” Maeve said. “You're right.”
Noah stepped aside. Lillian's jaw was still wet against the lace at her shoulder.
“Why?”
“Because if I told you I'd seen the call and waited, I'd have to admit I chose to keep working for a few more minutes when I knew I might never hear her voice again.”
“Were people dying?”
“People were hurt. They needed help. And I was afraid if I stopped, I wouldn't be able to start again.”
“That isn't the same as not being able to call.”
“No.”
Lillian's expression was hard but more tired than angry. “You always have a good reason. Even when you did something bad.”
Maeve absorbed it. “So did Dad.”
“Don't make this about him.”
“I'm trying not to.”
“Try harder.”
Lillian turned and returned to Noah. Maeve stood alone beside a centerpiece of roses that had begun dropping petals. Celia joined her with her coat folded over one arm.
“Was that necessary?” Celia asked.
“Yes.”
“Was it necessary right now?”
Maeve had no answer.
They left together without speaking. In the elevator, Maeve checked the viral clip again. A longer version had appeared: the microphone accusation, the general approaching, Noah's surprised response. Beneath it, strangers argued over whether the Navy officer had a right to wear her uniform at a wedding. Nobody knew what the argument was actually about, but that didn't slow them down.
Celia watched Maeve read.
“Put it away,” she said. “It's your sister's wedding, not a referendum.”
Maeve put it in her pocket. A few seconds later her phone vibrated.
It was a photograph from Lillian. Their mother's letter lay opened beside two untouched pieces of cake. The message under it contained only six words:
May you like
I don't know what to believe.
