I'm So Happy for You (20 page)

And every emotion was magnified by half.

After the cantor delivered an ingratiating homage to the intelligence and compassion of both the bride and the groom, as well
as their respective love of literature and the law, he handed Jonathan and Daphne matching goblets filled with red wine and
instructed them to drink. Which they did. Finally, it was time for the vows. “Do you, Jonathan, of your own free will and
consent, take Daphne to be your wife, and do you promise to love, honor, and cherish her throughout life?” he asked.

“I do,” Jonathan answered commandingly.

“And do you, Daphne, of your own free will and consent, take Jonathan to be your husband, and do you promise to love, honor,
and cherish him throughout life?”

“I do,” said Daphne, her voice even wispier than she was.

Then Jonathan reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and produced a thick platinum band, which he promptly slid
onto Daphne’s already iridescent left hand.

“O God, supremely blessed, supreme in might and glory,” the cantor continued, “guide and bless this groom and bride standing
here in the presence of God, the Guardian of the home, ready to enter into the bond of wedlock, answer in the fear of God,
and in the hearing of those assembled.” He placed the now-empty goblets on the floor wrapped in a colorful scarf. Daphne and
Jonathan promptly shattered them beneath their feet. Then the crowd erupted in cheers, and Jonathan and Daphne came together,
their lips and bodies joined as if two lifetimes weren’t enough to contain the vastness of their ardor.
Daphne and Jonathan must be madly in love with each other
. The thought came to Wendy in the form of a revelation. All winter, she’d assumed there were ulterior motives at work in
Daphne’s heart. Now Daphne and Jonathan’s love seemed as pure to her as any fig trees forming early fruit.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Sonnenberg. I’m Daphne’s friend Wendy.”

“Thank you.”

“And this is my husband, Adam.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you.”

A nontraditional receiving line had been established just inside the doors to the boathouse.…

“Jonathan! Congratulations.” (Wendy.)

“Glad you could make it.” (Jonathan.)

“Congratulations.” (Adam.)

“Thank you. Oh, and for the record, everything’s free tonight. Free bar. Free dinner. Free entertainment. It’s a socialists’
utopia.” (Jonathan, turning to Adam.)

“Give me a fucking break,” Adam swore under his breath as Wendy elbowed him in the side and muttered, “Keep moving.” (He kept
moving.)

“Always a delight to see you, my dear.” It was Daphne’s father.

“Richard,” said Wendy, air-kissing him on one cheek, then the other. He smelled like bourbon and Old Spice. “What a wonderful
occasion. We’re all so happy for Daphne. Also, thanks again for contributing to our special issue. Your defense of Hezbollah’s
charitable works definitely provoked debate!”

“Any time, my dear Cindy,” he said, his eyes already focused over Wendy’s shoulder.

When it came time to greet Daphne’s mother, Wendy didn’t know if she should shake her hand or lean over and attempt to hug
her—not only because Claire Uberoff was confined to a wheelchair, but because the woman had never been particularly friendly
to her. Insofar as Wendy was capable of
not
taking things personally, she’d learned not to be offended. Before her illness, Daphne’s mother had been a well-respected
hematologist at the university hospital. In the intervening years, far from turning adversity into challenge or finding that
multiple sclerosis allowed her to see what was really important in life—as characters always seemed to do in TV movies—Claire
Uberoff had grown angry and self-pitying. In the end, Wendy settled on a compromise lunge that involved shaking Claire’s hand
as she laid a tentative hand on her shrunken back. (All Wendy could feel was bone.) “Congratulations, Dr. Uberoff,” she said,
smiling as sincerely as she could. “This is such a happy day.”

“Yes, it is,” the woman answered stolidly.

Finally, there was the bride to greet. Daphne quickly swallowed Wendy into a bear hug.

“You look so beautiful,” said Wendy.

“Thank you—and thank you for coming,” said Daphne. “I’m just so happy you’re here. My oldest friend! Or practically. And Adam!”
Daphne abruptly released Wendy and took Wendy’s husband in her arms.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Sonnenberg,” he said, one side of his smile rising higher than the other.

“This is crazy, isn’t it?” Wendy could have sworn she heard Daphne mumble in Adam’s ear.

“It’s not crazy at all,” he mumbled back. “It’s great.”

Wendy had no idea what to make of their exchange. It seemed to reference some earlier conversation in which she’d had no part.
It also seemed intimate in a way that surpassed the casual friendship she understood the two of them currently to have. What’s
more, Daphne and Adam’s embrace seemed to last seconds longer than it needed to, and to be tighter, too. Or had Wendy imagined
the whole tableau? Confused and agitated and suddenly craving a cigarette—and the illusion that she didn’t need anyone or
anything, nicotine excepted—Wendy walked back out onto the balcony.

There, she found a small group of teenage girls and older women lighting up. None of their faces were familiar to her. “I’m
sorry,” Wendy began. A pack of Parliaments soon appeared in her face, courtesy of a sullen-faced wraith in combat boots with
eight-inch platform soles. Wendy thanked her. The girl grunted in reply.

Wendy was busy taking her first heady inhale, when Paige Ryan appeared in her purview. “Well, I guess you’re still not pregnant!”
she announced, loud enough for the entire wedding party to hear.

And I guess you’re still a psychotic bitch,
Wendy thought.

Adam appeared moments later. “Hey! I was wondering what happened to you,” he began in a judgmental voice. At least it sounded
judgmental to Wendy. (Adam was the kind of pot smoker who considered smoking marijuana a wholesome and possibly even salubrious
experience, whereas mass-produced cigarettes were clearly the devil’s own calling cards.)

“What was that about with Daphne in the receiving line?” asked Wendy, in no mood to apologize.

“What was what about?” he said.

“I heard you whispering about how crazy
it
was. What’s
it?
”

“Oh, that was nothing.” Adam flung back his head. “It was just that Daphne really didn’t want a big formal wedding. And Jonathan
did. So she was just bugging a little about all the pomp and circumstance, so to speak.”

“I thought you guys talked about having sick parents.”

“We do.”

“Among other topics, I guess.”

“Oh, come on,” said Adam. “You should be happy your husband gets along so well with your friends!”

“I’m thrilled,” Wendy told him. “Ecstatic, even.” She’d never heard herself sound so jealous. Then again, she’d never before
had a reason to feel that way.

Sixteen circular tables covered with crisp white tablecloths had been set up in the hall. At the center of each table was
a cylindrical glass vase crammed full of white tulips. Champagne in hand, Wendy found her place card at table three and sat
down. To her relief, Adam’s card was opposite hers. Somewhat less pleasingly, Paige’s scripted name appeared two places from
her own, while Pamela, Sara, and Gretchen, and their respective spouses (and spouse-equivalents) had all apparently been seated
at another table. “Yo, Shakespeare Lady,” began a short bald guy with popping eyes. “I’m Steve.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Wendy. “I’m Wendy.”

“And this is my leading lady, Deb.” He motioned at a scowling woman seated to his right.

“Nice to meet you, too,” said Wendy.

The woman lifted the corners of her mouth in distant imitation of a smile, but said nothing.

“And I’m Wendy’s husband, Adam,” Adam called from across the table.

“Pleasure,” said Steve, motioning with his chin while lifting a highball glass to his lips. “So check this out. Ever heard
the story of how Jonathan dressed up as Aunt Jemima for Spring Fling? Fucker nearly got himself kicked off campus.”

“You’re kidding,” said Wendy, thankful for any information that put the groom in a bad light.

“I’m guessing you two were in the same fraternity?” said Adam.

“You assume correctly,” said Steve. “Delta Chi. Cornell University. Class of ninety-one. But the Sonnenbitch studied harder
than me. Which is probably why I’m in wine distribution and he’s a federal prosecutor. Now, who has more fun is another matter.
Right, Deb?” He nudged his wife, who continued to stare peevishly at the wall.

“Aw—lawyers are a dime a dozen in New York,” offered Adam.

“Nice of you to say,” said Steve. “And your trade, if I may ask?”

“At the moment, I’m writing a comic screenplay about sperm and living off my wife.”

At least he’s honest in that regard,
Wendy thought.

“Nice work. I toast you, my friend!” Steve raised his glass.

Next to appear was a forty-something guy with a pink complexion, graying temples, and deep creases around his slate blue eyes.
He wasn’t terrible looking, Wendy thought, but there was something puffy and almost misshapen about him. His shoulders seemed
too narrow for his frame. Or maybe it was that his belly seemed to belong to a much larger man. He was wearing a sports jersey
of some kind with a high V-neck and a numeral 9 emblazoned on the front of it, and an ill-fitting blazer over that. “Name’s
Jeremy,” he offered in a grumbly English accent, his right hand darting into the air as he sat down in the empty seat next
to Wendy’s. (He had a Guinness in the left.)

“Name’s Wendy,” said Wendy. “Nice to meet you.”

Paige’s matching orange evening bag appeared before Paige did. She chucked it onto her bread plate. Then she yanked out her
chair. “So, what’s for dinner?” she said.

“Wait—let me guess,” she answered her own question before anyone else had the chance to do so. “A choice of grilled Angus
hanger steak or braised salmon in a tarragon-leek sauce, both served with julienned vegetables and potato au gratin.” Her
eyes combed the figure to her right. “And you must be Daphne and Jonathan’s live-in carpenter.”

“I do a bit of carpentry every now and then.” Jeremy shrugged.

“But don’t you live in Daphne’s house?”

“I let the flat downstairs.” He shrugged again.

“Paige Ryan,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m sorry to have to report that the bride has set us up.”

“Lucky you,” he said grimly, his own hand not quite extended.

“So can you hear them up there having sex?” It occurred suddenly to Wendy that Paige was wasted—and also that, for reasons
of her own (her recent divorce, perhaps?), she, too, might be suffering through Daphne’s wedding.

“Never heard anything,” replied Jeremy, apparently unflappable. “Thick walls, I guess.”

Paige finished off her single malt in a single sip, before looking away and declaring, “Anyway, you should know that I have
certain unresolved hostility issues with regard to the opposite sex.”

“I never would have guessed,” Jeremy murmured into his beer.

It was dinnertime. Nearly true to Paige’s prediction, the menu choice was filet mignon or halibut vertically piled with julienned
zucchini and rosemary potatoes. (Wendy ordered the halibut, Adam the steak.) Table three was the table situated closest to
the four-piece jazz band, which played standards throughout the meal. Which meant that it was hard to make conversation. Which
was fine by Wendy, since she’d already run out of things to say to both Steve and Jeremy; Deb didn’t talk, and Wendy had no
particular inclination at that moment to speak to her husband or Paige.

While Wendy ate, she watched Daphne flitting between tables, throwing her arms around her guests or grasping their forearms
conspiratorially and whispering in their ears, as if each were her nearest and dearest. And as if Wendy were one of a hundred-odd
intimates, and yet the only one among them who had somehow failed to grasp this essential fact—that Wendy was no more important
to Daphne than anyone else in the room.

The evidence was suddenly piling up: when Daphne finally made it over to Wendy’s table, she addressed them as a group and
stood between Jeremy and Paige. “Are you guys having fun? Is the food okay? I’m such a nervous hostess. I swear it’s why I
never throw parties!”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Steve assured her. “We’re having a frigging blast.”

“Juicy steak,” added Adam.

“Only the best for you,” said Daphne, winking.

Wendy smiled, but said nothing.

Richard Uberoff had never been accused of disliking the sound of his own voice. His wedding toast, the first to be delivered
that night, failed to provide fodder for a counterargument. Beginning with a detailed disquisition on Voltaire’s view of marriage,
it perambulated its way through the centuries, stopping off at Hegel, Macaulay, and Tocqueville. By the time he reached Wittgenstein,
Steve the Wine Distributor had taken off. “If you’ll all excuse me,” he’d announced in a stage whisper. “A line awaits me
in the men’s room—so to speak.”

When he returned, Richard had only just reached 1970—and Daphne’s arrival in the world. From there, he quickly segued to his
feelings on fatherhood. It was another ten minutes before he returned to the subject of the bride. “Let no man say that Daphne
Uberoff, when in possession of a need or want, has ever taken the opportunity to practice forbearance. My dear son-in-law,
I do hope you’re listening!” In twenty-eight minutes, there was no other mention of Jonathan Sonnenberg than that. Her feelings
about the groom notwithstanding, Wendy found it shocking and amazing that Daphne’s father hadn’t taken more time to acknowledge
the man who’d rescued his daughter from a life of pill popping and mistress-hood. Then again, in Professor Uberoff ’s defense,
he’d only met his son-in-law on one previous occasion—namely, Thanksgiving. He also lived in Michigan, was obsessed with his
own reputation, and was quite possibly unaware of Daphne’s.