Saturday morning, I get ready for the wedding while the campers are swimming. I go for subtle makeup—sheer foundation, plus a soft, peony pink on my cheeks and lips.
Henry is waiting outside the cabin, wearing his usual button-down and shorts. We don’t have formal clothes here, of course, so I’m changing at my parents’ cabin. Henry and Keely will have to change when we get to their hometown.
“You ready?” I ask Keely.
She sticks her head out of the bathroom. “You think I’m crashing Jones meeting your parents? Yeah, right. Pick me up on the way back. I’ll wait at the end of the drive.”
Rhea’s letting us borrow her car, and I fidget nervously as Henry drives us down the short stretch of road to Holyoke.
“They’re really nice,” I tell him for the thousandth time. “And my mom does look pretty sick. I just . . . don’t want you to be surprised.”
“Luce.” He gives me an encouraging smile. “I know.”
It’s a good thing Henry sounds sure, because my dad is waiting on the porch like a sentry. Lord, help me.
“Good morning, sir. Henry Jones.” Henry sticks out a hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Henry Jones.” His voice is a little lower than usual. I don’t think he’s trying to intimidate Henry. But he’s not trying to make him feel too at ease, either.
My dad leans in to peck my cheek. “Hi, Bird. We brought you a few dresses from home. They’re in your room.”
“Please tell me you remembered shoes.”
“Oh no! I didn’t.” He looks horror-stricken, then breaks into a grin. “But your mother did.”
I swat his arm as we walk into the living room. My mom’s camped out on the couch, looking exhausted.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, baby.” She looks my date up and down, smiling. “You must be Henry.”
“Very nice to meet you, ma’am. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Likewise. Lucy, you’d better go change.”
I let go of Henry’s hand, moving toward my room. I give my dad a pointed look: Don’t let Mom grill him! But my dad just waves me on.
When I return, they’re talking about Henry’s musical roots. My dad has relaxed enough to sit down, a good sign.
“Lovely choice,” my mom says, eyeing my floaty dress.
“Very pretty,” Henry agrees. He barely glances at me, though. Pastor Dad is a powerful force.
“So, Henry,” my mom says. “You’re playing today, right? At the wedding?”
“Yeah! ‘Trumpet Voluntary’ and then a part of the first dance.”
“How wonderful. So you have your trumpet with you?”
“In the car.”
“Can you play something for me? Do you have time? If not, I—”
“Mom.”
“What?” she asks, all feigned innocence.
Henry smiles. “Of course we do.”
He runs out to the car for his trumpet, and my mom smooths my hair. “You look beautiful, honey.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you nervous to meet his family?” She doesn’t even let me answer; she knows I am. “They’ll love you, Bird. Just be yourself.”
“Okay.” Henry opens the instrument case on his lap. “Any requests?”
“Oh, anything. Anything you like to play.”
He puts the mouthpiece to his lips. The mute keeps the sound from piercing too loudly as the first notes play out. I know the words. Did I tell him about this song? Or did he just know?
When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrow like sea billows roll . . .
Henry takes his time with the rhythm, letting each tone resonate. His high notes soar upward; they raise goose bumps on my arms.
Whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say, it is well, it is well with my soul.
The hymn is not difficult musically. But meaning the words and playing like you mean them—that’s the trick. Henry plays with the true, slow emotion of someone who has known pain. He plays this psalm—a hallelujah cry from the depths of despair—to my mother, and I will never be able to articulate what it means to me. I wipe a stray tear from my face.
It is well, with my soul. It is well, it is well with my soul.
“That was perfect, Henry,” my mom says. Her voice cracks twice, but she holds it together. “Just perfect.”
One set of parents down, one to go. I have the whole drive to fret about what the Jones family will think of me. Will it bother them that I’m white? I didn’t even think about it until now—should I have thought about it?
We drop Keely off at a nice little house with dark green shutters. Her stepmom is waiting on the porch, waving excitedly as we pull up. She looks like a cereal commercial mom, in capri pants and a pressed shirt, and she opens the door to call to Keely’s dad.
“See you at the church,” Keely says, bailing out.
Before we drive away, I see her stepmom throw her arms open, waiting to embrace my friend.
The church we pull up to is small and lovely, and my palms start sweating when I see how many people are pooled outside, exchanging hugs and greetings.
“Ready?” Henry flashes the grin—no trace of nervousness. In fact, he looks proud to have me with him. And for the millionth time, I wish I had inherited my dad’s social ease.
“There he is!” a booming voice yells. Henry’s family envelops him, all back claps and cheek kisses. For just a flash, I imagine them in funeral black, mourning his sister. What a thing, to be a family—together from the solemn suits to the wedding day florals. Once you survive the former, days like this must be all the sweeter.
I hang back shyly, glancing down at my pumps and second-guessing my dress. Too plain, maybe? No—I’m a plus-one. Simple and subtle is good.
“You,” a clear voice says, “must be Lucy.”
The speaker is a woman in an iridescent dress—violet, with a matching jacket. Her smile is deeply genuine and entirely familiar. “I’m Michelle Jones. Henry’s mother.”
“So nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand, which she shakes—failing to hide her amusement at my formality. Maybe I should have hugged her?
“It’s very nice to meet you too. My son’s manners have gotten lost in that wild bunch.” We both glance back to where Henry’s grandmother is talking to him, her hands placed adoringly on his cheeks. “I trust his manners held up for meeting your parents this morning?”
“More than held up,” I report. “They were charmed. Very impressed.”
“Ah, yes. He’ll do that. Partially his nature, partially coping mechanism. I am impressed that he has dropped the charm for you so quickly.”
The images play in my mind: Henry angry at the punching bag, Henry expressing his frustration at me, Henry nodding off as I play étude after étude.
“My son is very easy to love,” she adds. “But quite difficult to truly know.”
“Well,” I say, carefully, “I like what I know.”
Over her shoulder, I spot Keely, tugging at the straps of her dress.
“Hi, honey bun.” Keely lets Mrs. Jones squeeze her into a hug. “Don’t you look like a dream.”
“Hi, Miss Michelle.”
Henry’s mom pulls back, examining Keely’s face. “Can’t wait to have you all home soon. Everything been good?”
“Yeah. Real good.”