The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [185]
“Snails aren’t so bad,” he said. “They’re chewy. Kind of like garlic gum.”
Phoebe made a face and then she laughed. “Gross,” she said. “That’s gross, Paul.” The breeze moved lightly in her hair, and her gaze was still fixed on the scene before them: the moving guests, the sunlight, the leaves, all woven through with music. Her cheeks were scattered with freckles, just like his own. Far across the lawn, his mother and Frederic lifted a silver cake knife.
“Me and Robert,” Phoebe said, “we’re getting married too.”
Paul smiled. He’d met Robert on that first trip to Pittsburgh; they’d gone to the grocery store to see him, tall and attentive, dressed in a brown uniform, wearing a name tag. When Phoebe introduced them, shyly, Robert had immediately taken Paul’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder, as if they were seeing each other after a long absence. Good to see you, Paul. Phoebe and me, we’re getting married, so pretty soon you and me will be brothers; how about that? And then, pleased, not waiting for a response, confident that the world was a good place and that Paul shared his pleasure, he’d turned to Phoebe and put his arm around her, and the two of them had stood there, smiling.
“It’s too bad Robert couldn’t come.”
Phoebe nodded. “Robert likes parties,” she said.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Paul said.
Paul watched his mother slip a bite of cake into Frederic’s mouth, touching the corner of his lip with her thumb. She was wearing a dress the color of cream and her hair was short, blond turning silver, making her green eyes look larger. He thought of his father, wondering what their wedding had been like. He’d seen the photos, of course, but that was just the surface. He wanted to know what the light had been like, how the laughter had sounded; he wanted to know if his father had leaned down, like Frederic was now doing, to kiss his mother after she’d licked a bit of frosting from her lips.
“I like pink flowers,” Phoebe said. “I want lots and lots of pink flowers at my wedding.” She grew serious then, frowned and shrugged, the green dress slipping a little against her collarbone. She shook her head. “But me and Robert, we have to save the money first.”
The breeze lifted and Paul thought of Caroline Gill, tall and fierce, standing in the hotel lobby in downtown Lexington with her husband, Al, and Phoebe. They’d all met there yesterday, on neutral ground. His mother’s house was empty, a FOR SALE sign in the yard. Tonight, she and Frederic would leave for France. Caroline and Al had driven in from Pittsburgh, and after a polite if somewhat uneasy brunch together they had left Phoebe here for the wedding while they went on a holiday to Nashville. Their first vacation alone, they’d said, and they seemed happy about it. Still, Caroline had hugged Phoebe twice, then paused on the sidewalk to look back through the window and wave.
“Do you like Pittsburgh?” Paul asked. He’d been offered a job there, a good job with an orchestra; he had an offer from an orchestra in Santa Fe, as well.
“I like Pittsburgh,” Phoebe said. “My mother says it has a lot of stairs, but I like it.”
“I might move there,” Paul said. “What do you think?”
“That would be nice,” Phoebe said. “You could come to my wedding.” Then she sighed. “A wedding costs a lot of money. It’s not fair.”
Paul nodded. It wasn’t fair, no. None of it was fair. Not the challenges Phoebe faced in a world that didn’t welcome her, not the relative ease of his own life, not what their father had done—none of it. He suddenly, urgently, wanted to give Phoebe any wedding she wanted. Or at least a cake. It would be such small gesture against