19

Pity Dance

BROOKE smiled wanly at Dr. Alter as he held open the back door to the rental car and waved his arm gallantly. “After you, my dear,” he said. Thankfully, he seemed to have gotten past his previous day’s Hertz-directed rage and the ride was relatively rant-free.

Brooke was proud of herself for not commenting on Elizabeth’s derby hat du jour, which today consisted of at least a pound of pinched taffeta and an entire bouquet of fake peonies. Paired with a sleek YSL evening gown, the most elegant Chanel bag, and gorgeous beaded Manolos. The woman was a lunatic.

“Have you heard from Julian?” her mother-in-law asked as they turned into the private drive.

“Not today. He left some messages last night, but I got in too late to call him back. My god, those med students know how to party, and they sure don’t care if you’re married or not.”

Through the visor mirror that Elizabeth was peering into, Brooke could see the woman’s eyebrows shoot up, and she felt a jolt of glee at her small victory. They rode in silence the rest of the way. When they came upon the imposing Gothic gate that surrounded Fern’s home, Brooke could see her mother-in-law nod almost imperceptibly with approval, as if to say, “Why yes, if you must live outside Manhattan, this is precisely the correct way to do it.” The drive from the gate to the house wove by mature cherry blossom trees and towering oaks and was long enough to warrant calling the property an estate rather than a home. Although it was February and chilly, everything looked lush and green—healthy somehow. A tuxedoed valet took their car and a lovely young woman escorted them inside; Brooke saw the girl sneak a glimpse at her mother-in-law’s hat, but she was too polite to stare.

Brooke prayed the Alters would leave her alone, and the moment they spotted the bow-tied bartenders behind a massive mahogany bar, they didn’t disappoint. Brooke flashed back to her single days. It was strange how quickly you forgot the way it felt to be solo at a wedding or a party where everyone else was paired up. Was this the new normal?

She felt her phone vibrate in her purse and, grabbing a glass of champagne off a passing tray as reinforcement, ducked into a nearby powder room.

It was Nola. “How’s it going?” Her friend’s voice felt like a warm, cozy blanket in this icy, intimidating mansion.

“I’m not going to lie, it’s pretty rough.”

“Well, I could’ve told you that. I still don’t understand why you’d subject yourself to that. . . .”

“I don’t know what I was thinking. My god, I haven’t been single at a wedding in six, seven years. This just sucks.”

Nola snorted. “Thanks, friend. Yes, indeed it does. You didn’t have to go there to discover that on your own—I definitely could have told you.”

“Nola? What am I doing? Not just down here, but in general?” Brooke could hear her voice high-pitched and a little panicky, and she noticed the phone beginning to slip in her sweaty hand.

“What do you mean, sweetie? What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? What isn’t wrong? We’re in this weird nowhere land of not knowing what to do next, not being able to just forgive and forget, not having any idea if we can move forward. I love him, but I don’t trust him, and I feel really distant from him. And it’s not just the girl, although that drives me crazy, it’s everything.”

“Shh, calm down, calm down. You’ll be home tomorrow. I’m going to meet you at your front door—I don’t love anyone enough to meet them at the airport—and we’ll talk about everything. If it’s at all possible for you and Julian to figure this out, to make it work, you’re going to do that. And if you decide it’s not possible, I’ll be there for you every step of the way. So will lots of other people.”

“Ohmigod, Nola . . .” She moaned with the misery of it. Having someone acknowledge that she and Julian might not make it was terrifying.

“One step at a time, Brooke. Tonight the only thing you have to do is grit your teeth and smile through the ceremony, the cocktail hour, and the entree. The moment they clear the plates from dinner, call a cab and get the hell back to your hotel room. Do you hear me?”

Brooke nodded.

“Brooke? Yes or no?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Listen, get out of the bathroom and follow my instructions, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow. Everything will be fine, I promise.”

“Thanks, Nol. Just tell me quickly. How is everything with you? Andrew still good?”

“Yeah, I’m with him right now, actually.”

“You’re with him right now? Then why are you calling me?”

“It’s intermission, and he’s in the bathroom. . . .”

Something about Nola’s tone sounded suspicious. “What show are you seeing?”

There was a pause. “The Lion King.”

“You’re at The Lion King? Really? Oh wait, this is a stepmother-in-training activity, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, so we have the kid with us. So what? He’s cute.”

Despite herself, Brooke smiled. “I love you, Nola. Thank you.”

“I love you, too. And if you ever tell anyone about this . . .”

Brooke was still grinning when she stepped out and slammed directly into Isaac—and his blogger girlfriend.

“Oh, hi!” Isaac said with the sexless enthusiasm of a guy who had spent the entire previous night flirting with someone for purely selfish purposes. “Brooke, I’d like for you to meet Susannah. I think I was telling you before how much she’d love to—”

“Interview you,” Susannah said, extending a hand. The girl was young and smiley and reasonably pretty, and Brooke couldn’t stomach one more minute of it.

Brooke summoned some long-forgotten reserve of confidence and composure, looked Susannah squarely in the eye, and said, “It’s such a pleasure meeting you, and I do very much hope you’ll forgive me for being rude, but I simply must get a message to my mother-in-law.”

Susannah nodded.

Clutching her champagne flute like a lifeline, Brooke was almost relieved to find the Alters in the ceremony tent, with a seat saved for her.

“Don’t you just love weddings?” Brooke asked as cheerfully as she could. It was nonsense, but what else was there to say?