Sylvie saw the same wedding industry people again and again—Frankie-the-DJ, who line-danced with the crowd, Hattie-the-florist who drove a big van painted yellow and black like a bumblebee, the same string quartet, made up of three Asian women and a tall, reedy black man who always wore three-piece suits. He waved at her every time he saw her, and finally, at a fire-hall wedding in Elverson, Sylvie waved back. His name was Desmond, and he lived in Villanova. His wife had died fifteen years ago of pancreatic cancer, and he’d been alone ever since. His voice was just what she expected—deep and resonant. Years ago she would’ve shied away from Desmond, wary of his upright self-composure. But that felt like a long time ago. The first time Sylvie danced with Desmond, at the end of one of the weddings when the band was playing their last song, she fully understood how different she’d become.
Sometimes Christian and Warren snuck into her thoughts. By the time Labor Day rolled around, she’d almost let that go, too. She hadn’t expected to work a wedding that long weekend, but Tabitha called her and said that a photographer needed an emergency appendectomy, and a bride who was getting married this evening had just called in a panic. Can you run out and get film for me, Tabitha pleaded—she liked to use both film and digital.
Sylvie threw on some clothes and got into the car. She didn’t go to the camera store she usually frequented, whose owners she’d gotten to know, but to the photo shop next to the new Target that had sprung up near her house.
Inside, the shop smelled like developing chemicals. Sylvie waited in line, gazing blankly out the window at the families going into Target. “Oh,” said the person in front of her in line. “Well, hello.”
It took a moment before she realized the man was talking to her. She turned and then pressed her fingers to her throat. Warren Givens didn’t look nearly as ragged as she remembered. His hair was combed, his face had more color to it, and he was wearing a clean, snazzy green Windbreaker and crisp dark jeans. “H–hi,” she stammered, her chest seized with apprehension. She hadn’t seen him since the MRSA news broke. Since she’d resigned.
“How are you?” Warren asked. His eyes were still that watery blue.
One of his front teeth was gray, maybe dead. The overhead lights beat down on her head. “Listen,” she started, shuffling through the possibilities of how she could broach the subject. I’m so sorry about what happened. Or, I hope the school took care of you. Or, I want you to know I have nothing to do with that place anymore. It’s just terrible that it happened.
But before she could say anything, Warren interrupted. “So you hear about the new management?”
She blinked. New management … where? Here in this little photo shop?
“They’re doing landscaping and everything,” he went on. “Cleaning up that park. Finally, right? Making that playground actually safe for kids.” He gave her a weary smile. “My five-year-old grandson fell off the monkey bars in that playground. I turned my back for one minute and he was flat on the ground. Broke his back, can you imagine? They were worried he’d be paralyzed. Bitch of a thing. But he’s okay now. He dodged a bullet, so to speak … gonna be fine.”
Sylvie frowned, scrambling to understand. Warren had a grandson as well as a son? Did that mean Christian had a much older brother or sister, perhaps? There had been so little information about the Givens family.
The salesman behind the counter reappeared with a thick packet. “Verona?”
Warren Givens raised one finger and stepped to the counter. He was hunched over, signing his name on a receipt. Sylvie crept forward, even more puzzled. She peeked at the name on the packet of film. Sam Verona, it said. The handwriting was clear and round with little margin for mistake.
Sam Verona?
He palmed the packet of photos and smiled at her. “Pictures of my grandson,” he announced. “He’s in rehab. He loves rehab. Best friends with everyone. Helps the clown make balloon animals.” He opened the flap and pulled one out. A chubby-cheeked kid with blond curls sat on a hospital bed, a spongy brace around his neck. He had a gap-toothed smile.
“How long will he have to be in rehab?” Sylvie asked.
“Oh, a couple of months. Pretty soon it’ll be outpatient.”
“He’s beautiful,” Sylvie said with a sigh. “I’m glad he’s okay.”
“You said it.” He put his wallet in his back pocket. “What did you say your name was again?”
“Sylvie,” she said. “Sylvie Bates-McAllister.”