Elin Hilderbrand - Beautiful Day

She decided she would start with Doug Carmichael and tell him how touching she had found the rehearsal. But Doug was all the way out by the cannon and the flagpole, talking to a young woman with dreadlocks, whom Ann guessed was one of Jenna’s fellow teachers at the sustainable preschool. Then Ann spied Doug’s wife, sitting alone at one of the patio tables, drinking a very large glass of chardonnay and attacking a bowl of cashews. Ann approached. The woman’s name was Pauline, though Ann always had the urge to call her Paula.

“Hi, Pauline,” Ann said. “Mind if I join you?”

“Please,” Pauline said. She had the demeanor of someone sitting at home alone, rather than smack in the middle of a party, but she snapped to attention with Ann’s words and pulled her hand out of the cashew bowl.

“Lovely party,” Ann said. “This is such a beautiful club.”

“Is it?” Pauline said. “I hate it here.”

Ann tried not to appear startled. “Oh,” she said.

“Nantucket in general, I guess,” Pauline said. “So precious, so… I don’t know, self-satisfied.”

Ann had been thinking the same thing only that morning; she had about as much love for the North as General Lee. But Nantucket had grown on her over the course of the day. There had been the leisurely morning at the hotel, then Ann and Jim had strolled into town. They had shopped at galleries and antique stores. Ann had bought a painting of the ocean, all swirling blues and greens; it wouldn’t exactly blend in with their sprawling Victorian-which had once been owned by a nephew of the tobacco baron W. T. Blackwell, and Ann had painstakingly decorated with help from Southern Living-but it would be a nice reminder of Stuart’s wedding. Ann had also bought a straw hat with a black grosgrain ribbon, exorbitantly priced, but when she tried it on, Jim declared she had to have it. They had eaten a lunch of clam chowder and Caesar salad on the wharf, and Ann had tanned her legs in the sun.

“People seem to love it,” Ann said neutrally. She wished she hadn’t committed to sitting down. She cast about the party, looking for someone else she knew, somewhere else she could go. She saw Ryan with his boyfriend, Jethro; they were standing so close to each other that their foreheads were nearly touching. Ann was a Republican in a southern state, but parenting Ryan had given her an advanced degree in tolerance and acceptance. Jethro had become one of Ann’s favorite people in all the world. He had been raised in the Cabrini-Green housing projects on the south side of Chicago, a fact that had shocked Ann at first. Jethro’s manners were as elegant as if he’d been raised at Buckingham Palace. He was smart and funny, he spoke fluent Italian and French, he was the editor in chief at Chicago Style magazine. But right this instant, Ann wished that Ryan and Jethro would not announce themselves as so openly gay. They were at the Nantucket Yacht Club. The place was as straitlaced as a Junior League event at the Washington Duke back home. But Jethro had never been one to hide. Black and proud-the only person of color at this entire party, except for a Korean gal whom Jenna had gone to college with. And gay and proud.

Ann turned back to Pauline and smiled. Pauline’s nose was deep in her wineglass. Ann scrambled for something else to say, something that would lead her organically to an exit.

Pauline set her wineglass down with a sharp ching!

“Do you ever feel like maybe your marriage isn’t exactly what you thought it was?” Pauline asked.

Ann’s mouth fell open. She was wearing a sleeveless shell-pink sheath, but at that moment, she felt completely naked. Exposed. She turned her head away-she couldn’t meet Pauline’s intense, questioning gaze-and at that very second she saw Helen Oppenheimer enter the party. The crowd seemed to hush; something about Helen’s presence demanded it. She was a six-foot blonde, still as statuesque as ever, wearing a flowing, one-shouldered dress that was the brightest yellow Ann had ever seen. It was canary yellow, the yellow of a bushel of lemons, a juicy sunburst yellow. She was blinding and beautiful. Ann realized then what a terrible, terrible mistake she had made.

She shifted her gaze back to Pauline. “Yes,” she said. “I do sometimes feel that way.”

Ann stood up. Where was Jim? Just as she was about to curse him, she felt a pressure on her elbow. He was right next to her.

He said, “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

“Get what over with?” Ann said.

“We have to say hello,” Jim said.

Of course they had to say hello, but Ann didn’t want to. She wanted Helen to stand alone, ostracized, gawked at-because soon people would figure out who she was. Furthermore, Ann hadn’t rehearsed a greeting in her head. She might say, “Hello, Helen. So glad you could come.” Or “Oh, Helen, hello. Lovely to see you.” Both lies-Ann wasn’t glad Helen had come, she had been certain Helen would decline, and it was not lovely to see her, in fact it felt like having an ingrown toenail. Ann hadn’t allowed for the possibility that Helen would look so… amazing. It was devastating to admit, but Helen Oppenheimer looked better than ever. The dress was magnificent, and she was wearing a very high pair of nude patent leather heels that made her legs look a mile long. It was so unjust. Helen was the home wrecker. How dare she choose to flaunt her height and her beauty here, at Ann’s son’s wedding! Ann squeezed Jim’s hand until she was sure it hurt. It was also unjust that the person she needed to support her was the person who had caused this catastrophe in the first place.

Across the patio, Ann caught Olivia’s eye. Olivia mouthed the words Oh, shit.

“All right,” Ann said. This was her own fault. She had been intent on gloating. Now she understood why pride was a deadly sin. “Let’s do it.”

“Short and sweet,” Jim said.

Together, they approached yellow Helen. Ann’s molars were set. Chance appeared out of nowhere to kiss his mother and take her arm. Helen beamed at him and touched his face. With his height and his transparent complexion, Chance was all Helen; there was almost nothing of Jim in him.

Helen was so enraptured by the sight of her son that she didn’t seem to notice Ann and Jim until they were at her feet. She towered over Ann like a queen over a royal subject, and Ann rued her decision to wear flats.

“Hello, Helen,” Ann said. There was something else she’d meant to add, but further words escaped her. She found herself scrutinizing Helen now that she was closer to her. Helen’s skin was smooth and tanned. Had she had work done? She had almost no makeup on-just a little mascara and something to make her lips shine.

“Oh, hey therrrrrrre,” Helen drawled. She acted as if Ann and Jim’s presence at this function had caught her by surprise.

Then there was the quandary of how to physically greet her. Ann held out her hand, and Helen leaned forward and executed a double-cheek kiss. Ann thought, God, how pretentious. This was Nantucket, not the Cap d’Antibes.

Jim said, “Helen.” That was all, just her name, the barest acknowledgment of her presence. They did not kiss or shake hands.

Helen said, “I’d just luvvvvvvv a drank.” Ann had lived in Durham since her freshman year at Duke; she had heard many a variation on the southern accent, and had even developed a slight one herself. But Helen’s syrupy Scarlett O’Hara irked the hell out of her. Helen was originally from Roanoke, Virginia. She had been painting her nails and wearing hot rollers since she was six years old.

Ann said, “We’re so glad you could come.”

Helen smiled. Ann waited for a response. She waited for Helen to say, You were so kind to invite me. Thank you. But instead Helen said, “How about y’all point me to the bar?”

Ann was rendered speechless.

Helen said, “Never mind, Chance will help me find it. Won’t you, Chancey?”

“Sure, Mama,” Chance said.

Helen took Chance’s arm, and the two of them strolled off.

“There,” Jim said. “We don’t have to speak to her again for the rest of the weekend.”

“I guess not,” Ann said. She knew she should be relieved that the interaction was over, but instead she felt cheated. Where was the thank-you? Where was Helen’s acknowledgment of Ann’s largesse?

The Photographer

Abigail Pease. Accept no substitute.

For some reason it was Margot who had been chosen to go back to the house and wait for Nick and Finn to return from the beach while everyone else headed to the yacht club. Margot understood that her father and Pauline and Jenna and Stuart all had to get to the club pronto, but why couldn’t Kevin and Beanie go back to the house to wait for Nick? It was Kevin’s premise that since Ellie had to be walked back to the house, Margot should be the one to go.

“Brock has to be walked back, too,” Margot said.

“We’re taking the Grahams and the groomsmen to the club,” Kevin announced. “The pleasures of minivan ownership: seating for eight.” He patted Margot’s shoulder in the most condescending way possible and said, “We’ll see you in a few minutes.”

It would be more than a few minutes, everyone knew that, because once Nick and Finn did return, they would have to shower and change. Margot wanted to go to the yacht club to see Edge. She had been patient, she hadn’t been a sourpuss about the mortal damage to her phone, she hadn’t gotten drunk with Griff at ten thirty in the morning-but now she wanted her reward. She wanted to see Edge.

Back at the house, Emma Wilton was waiting. Margot gave her money to take all six kids down to the Strip for pizza, then to the Juice Bar for ice cream, then to the playground at Children’s Beach.

“Please,” Margot said, “try to get Ellie out of her bathing suit. She might listen to you, since you’re not her mother.”

At eight o’clock, Emma was to bring the kids home to watch a DVD. With the wedding tents set up, there could be absolutely no roughhousing in the backyard.

Once Emma and the kids took off down Orange Street, Margot was left to sit and stew alone. She realized it might be a good thing if she wasn’t at the yacht club exactly on time. If Edge got there first, he would wonder where she was; he would be the one waiting while she made an entrance. This thought calmed Margot for a few minutes until she grew antsy again. She allowed herself to grow infuriated first with Kevin, then with Nick. Nick was thirty-seven years old, he was an adult, he had an advanced degree, he negotiated player contracts worth millions of dollars, he was quoted all the time in the Washington Post and even occasionally on ESPN. How could he allow himself to completely miss the rehearsal-and not only him but Finn, as well. How irresponsible!

It had crossed everyone’s mind that something had gone awry. Nick and Finn had been at least a hundred yards offshore on their paddleboards. When Margot had corralled the kids to leave, she’d shouted to Nick, and he had waved and pointed to his wrist-indicating, she thought, that he would be along in a few minutes. Maybe either he or Finn had fallen off the paddleboard; maybe they’d gotten swept out to sea, maybe they’d drowned. Jenna had tried calling and texting Finn, and Kevin had tried Nick, with no response. But of course their phones would be on the beach. Margot knew in her heart that they weren’t in any danger. Nick was too much of a competent asshole to meet with tragedy.

You can’t tell me you wouldn’t love an opportunity to vent your frustration with your family to a friendly acquaintance.

The grandfather and grandmother clocks announced the quarter hour in brassy unison. Margot closed her eyes and tried to achieve a Zen moment. She had always loved the mellow, honeyed chiming of those clocks; it was a sound particular to the Nantucket house. It was the sound of summertime; it was the sound of her childhood.

Six fifteen. Margot was the least Zen person on earth. She went to the fridge and poured herself a glass of wine.

She thought about Griff. He had come into the offices at Miller-Sawtooth in the second week of March. Griff’s first interview with Margot-for the head of product development with a pre-IPO tech firm called Tricom-had gone so well that she knew he would end up on the final slate. Griff’s third interview with the powers that be at Tricom, including Drew Carver, the CEO, had taken place on the morning after Margot had spent the night at Edge’s apartment for the one and only time. Margot had been a flustered, sex-exhausted, lovesick mess. She had spent time in the ladies’ room, trying to pull herself together-makeup for under her eyes, perfume to mask the smell of pheromones, her inner voice reflecting on what Edge had asked of her. It would really mean a lot to me, he’d said, tracing his finger along her jawbone. When Margot emerged from the ladies’ room, Harry Fry, her managing partner, had asked if she was okay. Harry had served as Margot’s champion within the company; he believed she had been blessed with “perfect instincts.” Harry must have known to look at Margot then that she was not okay, but she had stared him dead in the eye and said, “Yes, I’m fine,” because to be a woman in this business was already a disadvantage, but to be a louche, trashy woman who would be willing, perhaps, to compromise her principles for her lover was unacceptable. Harry Fry’s number one mandate-indeed, Miller-Sawtooth’s number one mandate-was that personal lives did not come into the boardroom. No individual prejudices. Ever.