The Body in the Gazebo

Chapter 11





No matter what form the wedding ceremony takes—in a church, a temple, or a field of daisies—the receptions all follow the same patterns. The toasts to the new couple, the first dance, breaking bread, more toasts, more dancing, neckties loosened, high heels slipped off, and late in the day or night, a feeling of great ease. Two families have become one—for the moment or forever. Degrees of separation disappear. Discoveries are made—“My sister Sally must have been in your class!” and “I was born in Orange Memorial Hospital, too!” The dancing becomes freer—and closer during the slow numbers. Time is suspended. Lights are lowered.

The reception had arrived at this point and Faith was sitting with Tom at the Millers’ table. She was breathless from the hora that one of Rebecca’s aunts had initiated, sweeping the women in the room into the circle, including Ursula, who knew all the words to “Hava Nagila,” most others chiming in only at the chorus, but with gusto. Earlier the bride and groom had been hoisted on chairs for that hora, the dancers snaking about in a joyous procession as the song continued on and on. Joy. So much joy.

Tom, sans collar, had acquitted himself so well in Hebrew during his part of the ceremony at Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim that the Cohens’ relatives and friends were asking who the new rabbi was. The chuppah—the canopy under which the couple stood, which symbolized the home they would make together, a home open on all sides for anyone to enter—was composed of a blanket of flowers. Faith had never seen one quite like it, nor the flowers that were everywhere at the reception—roses, orchids, and other varieties in ivory, the palest of greens, and as many kinds of pink as Chanel’s lipsticks. The bridesmaids wore midcalf pastel strapless sheaths and carried calla lilies. They looked like lilies themselves.

Their parents escorted the wedding couple to the chuppah. Cissy and Pix wore deceptively simple, flattering cocktail dresses, cut exquisitely in two slightly different shades of lavender; Sam and Stephen sported elegant pale gray vests under their tuxedos. Grandchildren escorted grandparents to their seats and Ursula in her garnet satin looked like royalty.

“Happy, darling?” Tom placed his hand over his wife’s.

“Very,” she said. “And we have two more days here all to ourselves. Well, there’s the brunch tomorrow, which will be fun—but after that, it’s just you and me, kid.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Faith moved her chair closer to Tom’s and leaned back against his shoulder. She was content to sit and watch the dancers whirl by for now.

When Rebecca and Mark had stamped on the wineglass wrapped in the napkin at the close of the ceremony, Faith was reminded of the act’s additional meaning, apart from being a historic reminder of the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem. That the breaking of the glass symbolized our imperfect world, and the act carried a message for all present—to work hard each day to mend it.

There had been much mending of various sorts since April’s dramatic beginning. After countless vestry meetings preceded by consultations with Sam, Tom—and First Parish—had decided not to prosecute Albert and Lily. In fact, Tom decided to keep Albert on for a number of reasons: he’d been doing an excellent job; was clearly not cut out for the ministry, yet very much wanted to be a church administrator; and perhaps most pressing—Tom wanted to keep an eye on him. At first Faith had been vehemently opposed to this “turning of the other cheek,” but Tom had explained that although he didn’t feel that he had brought the whole thing on himself as Lily had described, he cared deeply about the young man and setting him adrift just didn’t make sense.

Lily was a different story, and while they were still struggling to sort out what to do, Lily herself came up with the solution, asking to meet with Tom and then the vestry accompanied by her mother. Her father was refusing to have anything to do with her at the moment.

She had confessed everything, describing the deep depression she’d fallen into at divinity school that had taken a manic turn during the internship. She was seeing a therapist and was feeling clear about what she really wanted to be doing—nursing. To start, she hoped to be able to work in Haiti with a view to returning to the Boston area in a year to enter an RN program, gaining the skills she needed to go back or go to another part of the world.

If Faith thought it was all a little too pat and the ends a little too neatly tied up, she kept her mouth shut. Sherman Munroe and others in the church were falling all over themselves trying to atone for their suspicions and she was unabashedly enjoying it. The Minister’s Discretionary Fund, and everything else requiring passwords, PINs, and so forth, had been protected as only Zach could. He boasted that First Parish was now on a level with the Pentagon, although he had added that neither place should be complacent. Hackers weren’t.

And there was further mending. Pix had arrived at Logan Airport late that Friday morning to find not only her own husband waiting for her, but Tom, in great agitation, waiting for his wife. “I seem to have missed something,” Pix had said, never dreaming how much. Over the next few days she’d found out—mostly from her mother.

In the weeks that followed they learned that the Winthrop women were indeed destitute. When Charles Winthrop died, the family told Violet that she could expect nothing from them save a spot next to him in the family plot at Mount Auburn Cemetery and they did not wish to see her until she was ready to use it. Violet was thin, but she wasn’t too rich since she refused to sell the town house. Faith strongly suspected the cat food tins had not been enjoyed solely by the Winthrop pets.

They also learned that Marguerite was adapting well to life in prison—three squares, clean clothes, and fresh bed linens. She had changed her name to Daisy and was entertaining the other women in the upstate prison with medleys of show tunes on an old upright whenever she got the chance. Her mother was in a secure psychiatric facility.

“They’re playing your song. Shall we dance?” Tom said. The music had stopped, and was starting up again.

Faith stood up and began to sing along, “Start spreading the news . . .” as Tom led her onto the floor.

She’d been very careful about champagne, but Pix was still feeling very rosy. Aside from her own wedding, it was the happiest one she had ever attended. She only wished her father could have lived to see his beloved grandson as an adult, a fine young man with a lovely bride.

After Ursula had told Pix the whole story, Arnie flew in and Pix heard it again. When she and her brother talked later, they admitted that they had always suspected that there was something major their parents hadn’t shared with them, but thought it might be that their father, older than their mother, had been married before.

Pix drained the glass she’d been nursing. It was hard to believe all that had happened while she had been enjoying the Cohens’ hospitality, blissfully unaware, in South Carolina. Cissy and Steve were coming to Maine in August for a week of sailing, kayaking, and, in Cissy’s case, painting. She was a talented artist and confessed she’d always wanted to do watercolors of rockier shores.

“Don’t tell me it’s Pix!” The man standing in front of her looked very familiar and it took only a few seconds for Pix to gasp, “Brian?”

Brian had been Stephen Cohen’s Dartmouth roommate and Pix’s Brown roommate’s boyfriend. She knew Mindy hadn’t married him, but obviously he had stayed in touch with Steve. He was laughing.

“Mind if I sit down?”

“Please do.” Now what? Pix wondered. Would it all come out? Was he the type to grab the mic and make a joke about Green Key Weekend for the amusement of all?

“Just about missed the whole darn wedding. Car trouble and finally we just ditched it and rented one.”

“You were from Savannah, as I recall.” Pix tried to sound nonchalant. It wasn’t working.

“Talk about coincidences! The mother of the groom and the father of the bride—”

“Please,” Pix interrupted, and then was interrupted herself by Dr. Stephen Cohen, who had suddenly appeared at their side.

“Brian! You made it!”

“I wouldn’t miss Becca’s wedding for the world, old buddy. And the first person I run into is Pix . . . wait a minute, I’ve got it—Rowe. Mindy’s roommate. She’s still in Savannah, too. Hotshot lawyer and there’s talk of a run for the statehouse. Married a cousin of my wife’s and we’re all family.”

Pix was feeling dizzy and wondered whether it would be rude to excuse herself.

“Speaking of family. You two are family now!” His grin couldn’t possibly get any broader, Pix thought dismally. Any minute now, he’d start spreading the news. No, wait, that was the song. Oh, she couldn’t think straight at all.

“Yes, it’s great,” Steve said. “Pix and I have had fun talking over old times and the only fly in the ointment is that her husband can beat me at golf. I think Mark can, too, but he’s smart enough to let me have a few strokes. Maybe now that they’re married, it will change.”

Pix knew they were talking about golf scores, but she’d stop paying attention after the part about catching up on old times.

“Well, I need to congratulate the bride and groom and dance with my wife. She had us taking lessons last winter, said we were getting stodgy. Y’all take care now.”

“It was good to see you again,” Pix managed.

Stephen gave his friend a hug and said, “Now, about that weekend. You understand it’s Pix and my little secret.”

“Not to worry.” Brian zipped his lips and walked off.

“You knew it was me! All the time?” Pix didn’t know whether to be indignant or jubilant. “I thought you’d forgotten.”

“Wait a minute. I’d thought you’d forgotten. And yes, this is starting to sound like a bad sitcom,” he said, laughing.

Pix was speechless. It was the one thing that hadn’t occurred to her—or Faith. That Stephen would think Pix didn’t remember him. It really was very funny and she started to laugh, too.

Sam and Cissy came dancing over, finishing with a flourish, both singing “New York, New York.” It was that kind of song.

“Hey, you two, what’s so funny?” Sam asked.

“Nothing,” Stephen said, taking Pix’s hand for the next number.

“Absolutely nothing,” she said, stepping into his arms and matching her steps to his.

Ursula sat listening to a long story Rebecca’s aunt was telling about someone. It wasn’t clear whether this person was in the present or past, but it didn’t seem to matter. Ursula had discovered that people in Charleston tended to regard the living and the dead much the same when it came to storytelling, even as to tense.

She watched the couples on the dance floor, her eyes picking out her own children and grandchildren with pride.

The living and the dead. Oh Arnold, I wish you were by my side—or whirling me about the way you used to when we would go dancing at the ballroom in Newton at Norumbega Park. So elegant—and you were, too, my darling.

The living and the dead. She saw Theo’s face in Dan, her youngest grandchild, who was the same age Theo had been when he died. Arnold was buried on Sanpere, but Theo was nearby in Cambridge at Mount Auburn. Faith had taken her the week after her return from New York and the two of them had laid a spray of white lilacs on the grave. Ursula knew Faith was keeping the details of her trip from her and Ursula didn’t mind. Being shielded was a blessing at this point in life. She suspected Violet may have told Faith that she alone was responsible for the murder. It didn’t matter. Her brother was gone.

“It’s a slow song, Granny. Would you like to dance?”

Dan had shed his jacket and tie. Like his mother, he had a habit of running his hand through his thick brown curly hair and it was no longer slicked down as it had been during the ceremony.

“I’d love to. Will you excuse me?” Ursula addressed the table and, taking her grandson’s hand, walked onto the dance floor. They were playing Cole Porter. “Easy to Love.” She hummed along as they danced and through half-closed eyes saw their faces.

Good night, Theo.

Good night, Arnold.