“So it would seem,” I said nonchalantly, doing my best to make it seem as though finding a caterer had been a simple feat. Meanwhile, I’d been pacing excitedly, waiting for her to come home.
“Who’d you get?”
“The Chelsea,” I said. Located in downtown New Bern across the street from my office, the restaurant is housed in the building where Caleb Bradham once had his offices when he formulated a drink now known as Pepsi-Cola. Remodeled into a restaurant ten years ago, it was one of Jane’s favorite dinner spots. The menu was extensive, and the chef specialized in exotic original sauces and marinades to accompany typically southern meals. On Friday and Saturday evenings, it was impossible to be seated without a reservation, and guests made a game out of trying to guess what ingredients had been used to create such distinctive flavors.
The Chelsea was also known for its entertainment. In the corner stood a grand piano, and John Peterson—who gave Anna lessons for years—would sometimes play and sing for the patrons. With an ear for contemporary melodies and a voice reminiscent of Nat King Cole’s, Peterson could perform any song requested and did well enough to perform in restaurants as far-flung as Atlanta, Charlotte, and Washington, D.C. Jane could spend hours listening to him, and I know Peterson was touched by her almost motherly pride in him. Jane, after all, had been the first in town to take a chance on him as a teacher.
Jane was too stunned to respond. In the silence, I could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall as she debated whether or not she understood me correctly. She blinked. “But . . . how?”
“I talked to Henry, explained the situation and what we needed, and he said he’d take care of it.”
“I don’t understand. How can Henry handle something like this at the last minute? Didn’t he have something else scheduled?”
“I have no idea.”
“So you just picked up the phone and called and that was it?”
“Well, it wasn’t quite that easy, but in the end, he agreed.”
“What about the menu? Didn’t he need to know how many people were coming?”
“I told him about a hundred in total—that seemed about right. And as for the menu, we talked it over, and he said he’d come up with something special. I suppose I can call him and request something in particular.”
“No, no,” she said quickly, regaining her equilibrium. “That’s fine. You know I like everything they cook. I just can’t believe it.” She stared at me with wonder. “You did it.”
“Yes.” I nodded.
She broke into a smile, then suddenly looked from me to the phone. “I have to call Anna,” she cried. “She’s not going to believe this.”
Henry MacDonald, the owner of the restaurant, is an old friend of mine. Though New Bern is a place where privacy seems all but impossible, it nonetheless has its advantages. Because a person tends to run into the same people with regularity—while shopping, driving, attending church, going to parties—an underlying courtesy has taken root in this town, and it is often possible to do things that may seem impossible elsewhere. People do favors for one another because they never know when they might need one in return, and it’s one of the reasons New Bern is so different from other places.
This isn’t to say that I wasn’t pleased with what I’d done. As I headed into the kitchen, I could hear Jane’s voice on the phone.
“Your dad did it!” I heard her exclaim. “I have no idea how, but he did!” My heart surged at the pride in her voice.
At the kitchen table, I started sorting through the mail I’d brought in earlier. Bills, catalogs, Time magazine. Because Jane was talking to Anna, I reached for the magazine. I imagined that she would be on the phone for quite a while, but, surprising me, she hung up before I began the first article.
“Wait,” she said, “before you start, I want to hear all about it.” She drew near. “Okay,” she began, “I know Henry’s going to be there and he’ll have food for everyone. And he’ll have people there to help, right?”
“I’m sure,” I said. “He can’t serve it all himself.”
“What else? Is it a buffet?”
“I thought that was the best way to do it, considering the size of the kitchen at Noah’s.”
“Me too,” she agreed. “How about tables and linens? Will he bring all that?”
“I assume so. To be honest, I didn’t ask, but I don’t think it’s that big of a deal even if he doesn’t. We can probably rent what we need if we have to.”
She nodded quickly. Making plans, updating her list. “Okay,” she said, but before she could speak again, I held up my hands.
“Don’t worry. I’ll call him first thing in the morning to make sure everything is just the way it should be.” Then, with a wink, I added, “Trust me.”
She recognized my words from the day before at Noah’s house, and she smiled up at me almost coyly. I expected the moment to pass quickly, but it didn’t. Instead, we gazed at each other until—almost hesitantly—she leaned toward me and kissed me on the cheek.
“Thank you for finding the caterer,” she said.
I swallowed with difficulty.
“You’re welcome.”
Four weeks after my proposal to Jane, we were married; five days after we were married, when I came in from work, Jane was waiting for me in the living room of the small apartment we’d rented.
“We have to talk,” she said, patting the couch.
I set my briefcase aside and sat beside her. She reached for my hand.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Everything’s fine.”
“Then what is it?”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course I love you.”
“Then will you do something for me?”
“If I can. You know I’d do anything for you.”
“Even if it’s hard? Even if you don’t want to?”
“Of course,” I repeated. I paused. “Jane—what’s going on?”
She took a long breath before answering. “I want you to come to church with me this Sunday.”
Her words caught me off guard, and before I could speak, she went on. “I know you’ve told me that you have no desire to go and that you were raised an atheist, but I want you to do this for me. It’s very important to me, even if you feel like you don’t belong there.”
“Jane . . . I—” I started.
“I need you there,” she said.
“We’ve talked about this,” I protested, but again Jane cut me off, this time with a shake of her head.
“I know we have. And I understand that you weren’t brought up the way I was. But there’s nothing you could ever do that would mean more to me than this simple thing.”
“Even if I don’t believe?”
“Even if you don’t believe,” she said.
“But—”
“There are no buts,” she said. “Not about this. Not with me. I love you, Wilson, and I know that you love me. And if we’re going to make it work between us, we’re both going to have to give a little. I’m not asking you to believe. I’m asking you to come with me to church. Marriage is about compromise; it’s about doing something for the other person, even when you don’t want to. Like I did with the wedding.”
I brought my lips together, knowing already how she’d felt about our wedding at the courthouse.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.” And at my words, Jane kissed me, a kiss as ethereal as heaven itself.
When Jane kissed me in the kitchen, the memories of that early kiss came flooding back. I suppose it was because it reminded me of the tender rapprochements that had worked so well to heal our differences in the past: if not burning passion, then at least a truce with a commitment to working things out.
In my mind, this commitment to each other is the reason we’ve been married as long as we have. It was this element of our marriage, I suddenly realized, that had worried me so during the past year. Not only had I begun to wonder whether Jane still loved me, I wondered whether she wanted to love me.
There must have been so many disappointments, after all—the years when I returned home long after the kids were in bed; the evenings in which I could speak of nothing but work; the missed games, parties, family vacations; the weekends spent with partners and clients on the golf course. Upon reflection, I think I must have been something of an absent spouse, a shadow of the eager young man she had married. Yet she seemed to be saying with her kiss, I’m still willing to try if you are.
“Wilson? Are you okay?”
I forced a smile. “I’m fine.” I took a deep breath, anxious to change the subject. “So how did your day go? Did you and Anna find a dress?”
“No. We went to a couple of stores, but Anna didn’t see anything in her size that she liked. I didn’t realize how long it takes—I mean, Anna’s so thin they have to pin everything just so we can get an idea of what she’ll look like. But we’re going to try a few different places tomorrow and we’ll see how it goes. On the plus side, she said that Keith would handle everything with his side of the family, so that we don’t have to. Which reminds me—did you remember to book Joseph’s flight?”
“Yes,” I said. “He’ll be in Friday evening.”
“New Bern or Raleigh?”
“New Bern. He’s supposed to arrive at eight thirty. Was Leslie able to join you today?”
“No, not today. She called while we were driving. She had to do some additional research for her lab project, but she’ll be able to make it tomorrow. She said there were some shops in Greensboro, too, if we wanted to go there.”
“Are you going to?”
“It’s three and a half hours away,” she groaned. “I really don’t want to be in the car for seven hours.”
“Why don’t you just stay overnight?” I suggested. “That way, you’ll be able to visit both places.”
She sighed. “That’s what Anna suggested. She said we should go to Raleigh again, then Greensboro on Wednesday. But I don’t want to leave you stranded. There’s still a lot to do here.”
“Go ahead,” I urged. “Now that we have the caterer, everything’s coming together. I can handle whatever else needs to be done on this end. But we can’t have a wedding unless she gets a dress.”
She eyed me skeptically. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. In fact, I was thinking that I might even have time to squeeze in a couple of rounds of golf.”
She snorted. “You wish.”
“But what about my handicap?” I said in feigned protest.
“After thirty years, my feeling is that if you haven’t improved yet, it’s probably not in the cards.”
“Is that an insult?”
“No. Just a fact. I’ve seen you play, remember?”
I nodded, conceding her point. Despite the years I’ve spent working on my swing, I’m far from a scratch golfer. I glanced at the clock.
“Do you want to head out to get a bite to eat?”
“What? No cooking tonight?”
“Not unless you want leftovers. I didn’t have a chance to run to the store.”
“I was kidding,” she said with a wave. “I don’t expect you to do all the cooking now, though I have to admit, it’s been nice.” She smiled. “Sure, I’d love to go. I’m getting kind of hungry. Just give me a minute to get ready.”
“You look fine,” I protested.
“It’ll only take a minute,” she called out as she headed for the stairs.
It would not take a minute. I knew Jane, and over the years, I’d come to understand that these “minutes” it took to get ready actually averaged closer to twenty. I’d learned to occupy my time while waiting with activities that I enjoyed but required little thought. For instance, I might head to my office and straighten the items on my desk or adjust the amplifier on the stereo after the children had used it.
I discovered that these innocuous things made time slip by unnoticed. Often, I would finish whatever it was I was doing, only to find my wife standing behind me with her hands on her hips.
“Are you ready?” I might ask.
“I’ve been ready,” she would say in a huff. “I’ve been waiting ten minutes for you to finish whatever it is you’re doing.”
“Oh,” I’d reply, “sorry. Let me make sure I have the keys and we can go.”
“Don’t tell me you lost them.”
“No, of course not,” I’d say, patting my pockets, puzzled that I couldn’t find them. Then, looking around, I’d quickly add: “I’m sure they’re close. I just had them a minute ago.”
At that, my wife would roll her eyes.
Tonight, however, I grabbed Time magazine and headed for the couch. I finished a few articles as I heard Jane padding around upstairs and set the magazine aside. I was wondering what she was in the mood to eat when the phone rang.
Listening to the shaky voice on the other end of the receiver, I felt my sense of anticipation evaporate, replaced by a deep sense of dread. Jane came downstairs as I was hanging up.
Seeing my expression, she froze.
“What happened?” she asked. “Who was it?”
“That was Kate,” I said quietly. “She’s going to the hospital now.”
Jane’s hand flew to her mouth.
“It’s Noah,” I said.
Chapter Nine
Tears brimmed in Jane’s eyes as we drove to the hospital. Though I’m usually a cautious driver, I changed lanes frequently and bore down on the accelerator when the lights turned yellow, feeling the weight of every passing minute.