A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [102]
(Had Agnes been wrong, she wondered now, to make Louise blind? Had she been too heartless?)
The song was too brief, and Agnes minded when suddenly it was over. She wanted to clap, but one didn’t clap at weddings. She felt she needed more of the music. She had a sense of having almost reached something inside herself that needed to be got at.
Agnes blinked. The justice of the peace was pronouncing Bill and Bridget husband and wife. So soon? Was the service over? Agnes had hardly heard a word.
She knew she must compose herself now. There would be a dinner, toasts, a sense of celebration. The entire weekend had been leading to this moment. Agnes would have to say that she always cried at weddings. She ought to have warned them. How pathetic, she would add, trying to make a small joke of it. She would sidestep all questions, exclaiming over Bridget, Josh’s singing, Rob’s playing. How lucky they were to know such talented people!
Agnes stood, her knee stiff from having held herself so tightly. There was a small crowd already around Bill and Bridget. Jerry, tieless, in a charcoal suit. Julie smoothing the bun at the back of her head. Harrison shaking Bill’s hand. Bridget hugging Josh. Rob, standing to one side, barely containing his pride in his partner. No, Agnes thought, she must go back to her room and wash her face. Did she have any Visine in her toilet kit?
“Agnes,” Harrison said.
Agnes turned, and with one tug, Harrison pulled her into him. Her face was pressed against his shirt and tie. She could smell his soap or his aftershave. He asked her no questions, for which Agnes was grateful.
Harrison held her for a long time. Agnes was aware of people moving, of voices subsiding.
Agnes drew away from Harrison. “I’m just . . . I don’t know,” she said.
“You’re a mess,” he said, examining her. “Where’s your room?”
“Twenty-two.”
“I’ll walk you up there and wait for you.”
“You don’t have to —”
Harrison cut her off. He put his fingers under her chin and tilted her face up toward his—her unlovely, ruined face. It had been years since a man had touched her just this way.
“Agnes,” Harrison said. “What’s wrong? Why are you so sad?”
She wanted to tell him—oh God, she wanted to tell him—but what exactly would she say? I love a man, have always loved him, but he only loves me back sporadically with long, inexplicable gaps in between? No, that simply could not be said, not to this kind man in front of her.
So,” Jerry was saying, “here’s the deal. You board a plane and take your seat in first class. After a few minutes, six Arab men get on the plane and take seats, also in first class. Let’s say one of them is carrying a copy of the Koran. The question is: do you get off the plane?”
For a moment, the table, which had been noisy with two and sometimes three conversations running simultaneously, was quiet. Agnes pondered Jerry’s question.
After the ceremony and the drinks that had followed, the wedding party had settled around the long table in the same private dining room as the night before. No need for place cards this evening, however. No need for Nora’s careful planning. Or perhaps the very randomness of the seating had been part of Nora’s planning. Though the dining room suggested a wedding, with its anemones and ivory damask linens, the mood was more relaxed than it had been earlier. A half dozen bottles of champagne had been opened. The toasts had been made. A first course of pumpkin-cranberry soup had been consumed. Agnes was drinking a delicate white wine, though she didn’t know the name of it. She was hardly a connoisseur.
“I’d only notice if they were good-looking,” Josh said