Although she didn’t hear the actual words, she found herself saying yes, ignoring that strange feeling of doubt. Hadn’t Rose agreed that Peter was quite a catch? He had just taken a new job at the Pentagon. His future—their future—could only be wonderful. Peter slid the ring onto her finger and pressed her close to him. The other diners broke into applause, and Claire, blushing, smiled out at them.
The next morning they drove to Providence. The entire way there, Peter laid out his plans for them. Claire found herself looking out the window as Connecticut passed by, half listening. As he talked about mutual funds, public schools versus private schools, the benefits of trading in a car every three years, Claire realized that in her life with Peter she wouldn’t have to make any decisions.
He patted her knee. “You can choose the names for the girls, and I’ll name the boys,” he said, grinning.
“Wonderful,” she said, her throat suddenly dry.
By the time they got out of the car, the front door of the house had opened and Peter’s mother had come onto the porch. She was an older woman—Peter had told Claire that she’d married late in life and thought she was too old to have babies—but beautiful with her high cheekbones and her silver hair pulled back in a French twist, held in place with an antique comb.
Her face lit up when she saw Peter, and she readily opened her arms to him. Claire watched as she closed her eyes in the hug. Peter pulled free first, motioning for Claire to come. As soon as she reached his side, Peter held her hand up for his mother to see.
“Engaged,” his mother said. “My, my.”
That visit, and all the ones that followed, had a certain rhythm. His mother offered them tea and after she made it in an elaborate ritual of boiling water and choosing tea leaves and then letting it seep for just the right amount of time, she knit as they sat together in the living room. Peter did most of the talking, laying out his plans to her just as he had for Claire. Birdy—right away she had told Claire to call her that, everyone did; and right away Claire had thought it was the worst nickname for the woman in front of her—nodded periodically, or said My, my. Sometimes she quoted a poem, as if to make a point.
“Love one another but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls,” she said after Peter described why Claire would be such a good wife.
“The Prophet,” Peter explained to Claire, rolling his eyes. “One of her favorites.”
“Published in 1923,” his mother said without looking up from her knitting, “and it has never gone out of print. That tells you something, doesn’t it?”
Later, there would be dinner at the dining room table. Birdy used good china and silverware, crystal goblets and linen napkins. Dinner was lobster salad with Russian dressing on a bed of shredded lettuce. “It’s impossible to get crab here,” she’d explained.
“So when is this wedding?” she’d asked that first night.
“I always wanted to be a June bride,” Claire said.
Birdy’s green eyes settled on her at last. “Why is that?” she asked.
“I . . . I don’t know,” Claire stammered. “It’s lucky, I think.”
“June is too far off,” Peter said. “I was thinking February. My job starts March 1, and of course you’ll come with me.”
Claire felt more disappointed than his words warranted. She’d always imagined getting married on a warm sunny day, her bridesmaids in pale yellow, clutching bouquets of daisies.
“February is nice,” Claire said, trying to sound convinced. June or February, what did it really matter? What mattered was that they start their life together.
Peter’s mother looked at her hard.
“When did you get married?” Claire asked Birdy, eager to deflect the attention.
“November.”
“One of the girls I fly with had a winter wedding,” Claire said. “Her bridesmaids wore green velvet and they carried chrysanthemums. It was lovely.”
“Peter’s father and I got married in California,” Birdy said. “The weather that day was actually quite warm.”
Claire nodded. “How nice,” she said, picking at her dinner. “You must give me your recipe for this lobster salad.”
His mother turned to Peter. “I can see why you want to marry this young woman,” she said.
It sounded like a compliment, but Claire always wondered if it was actually an insult.
Birdy lay in the hospital bed with her long silver hair spread out around her like a fan. Claire had never seen her hair unpinned, and it made her seem vulnerable somehow, spilling across the white pillowcase. She did not have the grayish pallor Claire had seen on some sick people. Her cheeks still had a slight pinkish color and her chest rose and fell in the even breaths of someone asleep. That must be a good sign, Claire thought. She’d expected to see a shell, something emptied of the life it had once had. She’d expected machines beeping and solemn faces. But the room was bright, almost cheerful. A calendar on the wall said January 20 in big black letters, as if it were shouting.
“It’s inauguration day,” Claire said softly as she perched on the edge of the bed. She wondered if her mother-in-law could hear her. “Jack Kennedy is going to be our next president,” she continued.