A Wedding in December_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [98]
Bridget glanced over at Matt’s friend Brian and smiled. The boy whose face looked better today—it appeared as though he had sanded his skin—smiled back. She wondered if Brian had ever been in a wedding before, if he’d even been to one. She would keep an eye on him, make sure he was included in all the festivities.
“Matt,” she said, remembering that she needed to speak to her son. She put a hand on his arm. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
Matt went white-faced.
“No, no,” Bridget said quickly. “It’s not about me. Well, it is. A small fact. When Bill and I met each other again, he was still married.”
Matt’s relief was immense. “I knew that, Mom.”
“What I mean to say is, Bill and I . . .”
Matt put a hand up. “It’s okay,” Matt said. “Really.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
Bridget wasn’t sure Matt knew precisely what Bridget had been about to confess, but it was clear Matt didn’t want to hear any more. That was fine with Bridget. She’d made her attempt. She was in the clear.
The justice of the peace put her hand on Bridget’s elbow, a signal to leave the hallway and enter the library. Bridget would be first in, followed by Bill, then Matt and Brian, and then the justice herself. Bridget’s heart did a little tick, and her hands began to shake. She had to press her lips together to stop the trembling, and—wouldn’t you know it—a hot flash was starting. It hit her face first, and then her shoulders and neck. She could feel it in her armpits. She would ruin her suit, but that was all right. She hated her suit, she just hated it. She worried that the panty line of her one-piece would show through the skirt girdle. And why did she and Bill have to stand facing forward? The guests might be distracted by the back of her wig, its least convincing part.
When she entered the room, Bridget saw her mother and sister seated in the front row. Both smiled, and her sister gave her a little wave. They had arrived in time for lunch, which they’d eaten in the dining room, both of them exclaiming over the treacherous drive out from Boston and the hideous condition of the roads, the exaggerated claims an effort to avoid having to mention, on Bridget’s wedding day, the word “cancer.” It was, Bridget had reflected then, a word almost medieval in its power to evoke fear. She could think of few others that could compete. Terrorist? No, too impersonal. Nuclear war? No, that was two words. Death? Too commonplace, too abstract. It didn’t carry with it the sense of a slow and torturous decline. Terminal? Yes, possibly. A definite possibility.
At lunch, her sister had admitted that she was impatient to visit the outlets before she had to return to the inn to do her hair. Bridget’s mother, suffering from arthritis, went to her room to lie down. Bridget, never one for winter sports, sought the solitude of the bridal suite. Wasn’t it natural to want to be alone on one’s wedding day? Bridget would have been happy with a single room. She didn’t want to see Bill or have to talk to him before the ceremony. But how could she reasonably have requested two rooms? Only young women, virgins, did that these days. Well, these days, no one was a virgin.
Bill stood beside her and took hold of her hand. Behind her someone was sobbing. Her mother? No, wrong side. Agnes? It couldn’t possibly be Agnes, Bridget thought. Who else was sitting there? Bill’s hand on her own—he was squeezing her—had the desired effect of slowing her breath. She thought the hot flash was subsiding as well. Rob caught her eye and mouthed something Bridget couldn’t quite catch. Love you?
Do you promise to love, honor, cherish, and protect . . .
Bridget took a quick peek to her side. Yes, it was Agnes who was sobbing. But why? Agnes hardly knew Bridget. They hadn’t been exceptionally close at Kidd, and they hadn’t seen each other in twenty-seven years. Bill gave her hand an extra squeeze, and