The Last September: A Novel

“Of course,” Paul said, pretending my request made sense. The three of us went outside to wait for Ladd’s mother by the car.

I HAD BEEN TO one of Daniel Williams’s Fourth of July parties before, last year, when Ladd brought me home to meet his family. This time I knew what to expect and wasn’t taken aback by the valet parking, the full wait staff, the parquet dance floor installed on the lawn that overlooked the ocean. When we arrived, things were just getting underway. The band hadn’t started playing, and Ladd’s father went ahead and parked his own car, right beside the catering truck. Later on, there’d be professional fireworks, impressive enough to rival the town display down by the harbor. Ladd’s parents stopped to talk to some other early arrivals, and I walked out toward the deck while Ladd went to get us drinks. Daniel emerged and waved at me in a kind of half salute, then reached out to take my hand and examine the ring. “That was my mother’s,” he said.

I waited for him to congratulate me, then realized he was too polite—too old-world—to ever congratulate the bride. Instead he said, “I hope you’ll be very happy.”

“Thank you,” I said. Daniel didn’t drop my hand. He lowered it carefully, back down to my side. Then he let go.

“May I ask you a question?” I said.

“Of course.”

“Did your wife, Sylvia. Did she sign a prenuptial agreement?”

Daniel looked down at me. He had just cut his hair and it looked unexpectedly boyish. “No,” he said. “No, she didn’t.”

“Did you ask her to sign one?”

“No,” Daniel told me. He made his voice very careful. “No, Brett. I did not.”

Ladd walked onto the deck holding two glasses of wine. He handed me my glass and Daniel shook his hand vigorously. “Congratulations,” he said. His voice sounded very deep and very definite. “You have something good here, Ladd, and I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks,” Ladd said. The three of us turned to look out at the party. The guests all seemed to be arriving at once, and a swirl of navy blue and seersucker jackets blended with the wider, more colorful array of summer dresses.

“It’s a beautiful night,” I said. Daniel placed his hand on my bare shoulder, not squeezing but letting it rest heavily. If anyone else had done this—any of the other older men—it would have felt like a drunken gesture. But from Daniel it felt measured, even protective. When he excused himself to greet his guests, I sat down on the built-in bench, while Ladd stayed standing, his hand resting on the rail behind me.

“How come you didn’t want to announce it?” he said.

I shrugged. “I don’t know.” And then, remembering my previous explanation, I said, “I want to tell my mother first. And anyway, it feels weird. All that attention.”

Ladd nodded and sipped his wine, squinting out at the increasingly crowded lawn. “Look,” he said. “Eli Moss is here. There’s his mother, too.”

I sat up for a better view. All I had to do to find Eli was let my eyes follow Daniel through the crowd. He shook Eli’s hand and touched his shoulder, and then hugged the tall, blonde woman standing next to him—the curly-haired woman who’d picked Eli up from the ferry. Eli wore the same summer uniform as the other men. I guessed his mother had picked out his red tie and probably knotted it for him. Words he’d said years ago popped into my head: We had this girl who used to take care of us during the summer, Sylvia, she was so great with animals. Daniel’s late wife had loved Eli, and Charlie, too. It made them and Ladd sort of cousins.

I looked back at Ladd. He said, “Daniel always invites them. I don’t know why they weren’t here last year. Funny, we would have found out then. That we both knew them.”