The Romantics (30 page)

Laura kept her eyes on the guests, anxious for their interpretation. Their beatific smiles confirmed her worst fear; they agreed with the minister. All at once, her hope disappeared. She had been foolish, delusional. She was the single body in a crowd of two hundred fifty who had yet to acknowledge reality.

“Love,” the Reverend Hipp continued, “is like the ocean. Vast, seemingly endless.” He paused to allow the guests a token chuckle. “Rocky, at times. Peaceful, at others. Daunting for all its unexplored depths. But a constant source of wonder and amazement.”

It was settled, Laura decided. Tom would live and die surrounded by—sated by—clichés.

“Marriage,” the minister went on, “is like a raft. Imperfect but sound so long as the builders fortify the structure and, once afloat, pledge to strive for balance.”

The guests rewarded the Reverend Hipp’s awkward simile with a saccharine sigh.

Finally, Laura looked away, accepting defeat. She fought the urge to scream, to run, to dive into the bay. She had known it for years but ignored it even still. She had outgrown these people—this world.

“Now,” said the Reverend Hipp, “if you’ll turn with me to page three hundred and fifty-seven, I would like to read from First Corinthians, chapter thirteen, verse four.”

A rustle of pages was followed by a collective exhalation. The ceremony was nearing its close.

“Love is patient; love is kind and envies no one,” said the minister. “Love is never boastful, nor conceited, nor rude; never selfish, not quick to take offense. There is nothing love cannot face; there is no limit to its faith, its hope, and endurance. In a word, there are three things that last forever: faith, hope, and love; but the greatest of them all is love.” He paused with decorous formality. “Tom and Lila have written their own vows as an expression of their love and creativity.”

Finally, Laura forced herself to watch the proceedings. The reverend closed his Bible and turned to the couple, gazing with import.

Lila closed her eyes, a decelerated blink used to stave off tears.

Tom inhaled as though he were preparing to rappel down the side of a building.

“Tom,” said Lila, “the day we met was the happiest day of my life. Ever since I’ve known you, I knew you were the one. Even when you didn’t know it. Every day you amaze me in some new incredible and amazing way. I promise to love and honor you each and every day of our life.”

Laura stomached despair as Lila concluded her vow. This was what Tom had chosen over her, this mediocrity, this utter lack of inspiration.

“Lila,” said Tom, “I look at you. And I’m speechless. I literally have nothing to say.”

Tom paused for a second—two, three—staring at the ground, as though he was attempting to count the blades of grass in a particular clump.

Laura focused. She recognized the dull stare. It was the same
blinded feeling she had experienced while delivering Lila’s toast the night before.

“Words fail the depth and complexity of my feelings for you,” he went on. “I need canons of literature, unwritten poetry, an entirely new language.”

Laura’s heart sank. He had saved himself.

“But the thing is.” Here, he paused again. “Without words, I have nothing to offer. Words are my only riches,” he said. “Words,” he said, then he trailed off again. He looked back at the ground but, finding the grass a hopeless ally, turned to survey the bewildered guests, his eyes wide and mouth parted like a runner at the end of a race.

Without further warning, rain tumbled from the darkened sky, the drops accelerating rapidly into a rush that sounded like a shouted whisper. A ghastly yellow lightning bolt bisected the bay, sending horrified guests dashing from their chairs, running toward the wedding tent.

Lila thought only of her dress. She grabbed what she could of its endless train and sprinted across the lawn.

Weesie and Annie hustled behind, doing their best to hoist the train from the ground.

Tripler followed at a more leisurely pace. She hated her dress and so felt no compulsion to protect it. And the rain felt warm and sweet on her skin, a welcome refreshment.

Oscar, Pete, and Jake moved as a single contingent. Before long, they forgot the problem at hand and gave in to the temptation of a three-man race, thrilled to have found a new forum for competition.

Augusta surveyed the scene from her chair during the first desperate moments. As she watched, she felt she knew what it was to
be the captain of a sinking ship. First, there was the acknowledgment of disaster, then the assessment of its scope, followed by the realization—and finally, the acceptance—of helplessness. As her guests dispersed, she remained very still, standing in front of her chair. On instinct, she opened her palms to the sky as though to discern whether it was truly raining. Then, accepting that a calm response could not intimidate the rain into submission, she clutched her dress and followed her guests’ migration. The ship was sinking, but who would be served by her going down with it?

Within thirty seconds, all but a few of the guests had evacuated the lawn, leaving the grass, flowers, and chairs defenseless to the rain but for the wasted, if steadfast, protection of two remaining bodies.

Laura stood, her face streaked with rain, oblivious to the downpour.

Tom faced Laura, shaking his head, his clothes as soaked as his soul.

“I can’t do this,” he said.

“Then don’t,” she said.

“I feel like I’m drowning,” he said.

The rattle of raindrops on nearby chairs created a drumroll of sorts. Laura thought of the china on the tables under the tent, the champagne flutes huddled on servers’ trays. Two hundred fifty glasses filled to their brims even before hors d’oeuvres had been passed.

“Love is like an ocean,” Laura said. Her smile conveyed all her disdain and disappointment, all of her sadness and hope.

Tom returned her smile, but his was full and bright.

And Laura felt, in that moment, as breathless and elated as a swimmer gasping for the shore.