Bygones by LaVyrle Spencer
“Don't watch me,” she said, tipping her head to catch the light properly.
“Why?”
“It makes me nervous.”
“Why?”
“It's personal.”
“I've watched you do other things that were a lot more personal.”
Her hand paused as she glanced at him in the mirror. He was exactly half a head taller than she. His bow tie and white winged collar showed above her shoulder, setting off his dark features and black hair to best advantage.
She went back to work, dotting green kohl beneath her eyes, smudging it with a fingertip, while he stood with his hands strung into his trouser pockets, defying her order and studying each move she made as though he enjoyed every minute of it. She tipped her head back and put mascara on her upper lashes, tipped it down to do the lower.
“I don't remember you going to all this fuss before.”
“I took a class.”
“In what?”
“Not a class, exactly. I had a beauty make-over.”
“When?”
“Right after our divorce. Soon as I started earning money.”
“You know what?” He let his lips hint at a grin and said quietly, “It worked, Bess.” Their eyes met in the mirror while she made a grand effort to appear unruffled. When the effort failed, she dropped her mascara wand into her purse and snapped it shut.
“Michael, are you flirting with me?” She lifted her chin and fluffed at the hair behind her left ear.
He let the grin grow and took her elbow. “Come on, Bess, let's go celebrate our daughter's wedding.”
* * *
The reception and dance were held at the Riverwood Club overlooking the St. Croix, out in the country on the Wisconsin side of the river. They rode there in the leather-wrapped privacy of the limousine, each on his own half of the seat, with not so much as their hems touching. Dark had fallen but as they descended the hill toward downtown Stillwater streetlights glanced into the car and swept across their shoulders, sometimes the sides of their faces. Occasionally they would let their eyes drift over one another, waiting for the sweep of lights to illuminate the other's face, and after it did, would turn their gazes out the windows with studied nonchalance.
They crossed the bridge to a whining note of tires on textured metal and left Minnesota behind as the car climbed the steep grade toward Houlton.
Finally Michael turned, letting his knee cross the halfway point on the seat.
“Bess?” he said.
She searched out his face on the other side of the seat. They had left the streetlights behind now and traveled through upland farm country.
“What, Michael,” she said at last.
He drew a breath and hesitated, as if what he was about to say had taken great mulling.
“Nothing,” he said at last, and she released her disappointment in a careful breath.
The Riverwood Club sprawled high above the banks of the river in a stand of knotty oaks. On the landward side it was approached by a horseshoe-shaped drive leading to an open-arms style entry reminiscent of a seventeenth-century Charlestonian mansion. The two arcs of its sweeping front stairs embraced a heart-shaped shrubbery garden filled with evergreens, trimmed at an angle to follow the descending steps. Above, six white fluted columns rose two floors, setting off the club's grand front veranda.
Michael helped Bess alight from the limo, took her elbow as they mounted the left stairway, opened the heavy front door, took her coat, checked it with his own and pocketed the number.
The entry held a chandelier the size of Maryland and a magnificent, free-flying staircase that led to the ballroom above.
“So this is what we're paying for,” Michael remarked as they mounted the stairs, his knees lifting in perfect rhythm with Bess's. “Well, I don't know about you, but I intend to get my money's worth.”
He started with the champagne. A fountain of it flowed just inside the entry to the ballroom, and beside it a cloth-covered table held a pyramid of stem glasses that a juggler would think twice about disturbing. Michael plucked one from the top and asked Bess, “How about you? Champagne?”
“Since we're paying for it, why not?”
With their glasses in hand they headed into the crowd to mingle. Bess found herself trailing Michael, stopping when he stopped, visiting with whom he visited, as if they were still married. When she realized what she was doing she drifted off in another direction, only to find herself searching him out across the room. Round tables with apricot-colored cloths circled a parquet dance floor. Above it, the mate to the entry chandelier hung in splendor, shedding whiskey-hued light over the gathering. Every table held a candle, their dozens of flames reflected in one entire wall of glass that looked out over the river, where the lights of Stillwater lit the sky to the northwest. It was a huge room, yet she could pick Michael out among the crowd within seconds of trying, his pale tuxedo and dark hair beckoning from wherever he stood.
She was studying him from clear across the room when Stella came up behind her shoulder and said, “He's easily the best-looking man in the place. Gil thinks so, too.”
“Mother, you're incorrigible.”
“Were you two holding hands during those vows?”
“Don't be absurd.”
Heather came along with her husband in tow and said, “I loved the ceremony, and I love this room! I'm so glad you invited us.”
They moved on and Hildy Padgett was there, saying, “Thank heavens I don't have to go through that every day.”
Jake, beside her, said, “She cried all through the ceremony.”
“So did I,” Bess admitted.
Randy and Maryann showed up and began visiting with the group. Lisa and Mark appeared, holding hands, being hugged and kissed by everyone. Bess hadn't realized Michael had drifted up behind her until Lisa hugged him and said, “Wow, Daddy, you look good enough to be dessert. Speaking of which, I think they're ready to start serving dinner now. Mom and Dad, you're at the head table with us.”
Once again Bess and Michael found themselves seated together while their food was served and Father Moore stood to say grace.
They dined on beef tips in wine sauce, wild rice and broccoli, relaxing even more with each other. The servers came around to refill their champagne glasses for the official toast.
Randy, as best man, stood to make it.
“Attention! Attention, everyone!” he said, buttoning his tuxedo jacket and waiting for the rustle of conversation to die. Several people clinked their glasses with spoons and the room quieted.
“Well, today I watched my big sister get married.” Randy paused and scratched his head. “Boy, am I glad. She always used up the last of the hot water and left me with . . .” Laughter drowned out the rest of his recollection. He picked up again when he could be heard. “No, really, Lisa, I couldn't be happier for you. And you, too, Mark. Now you get to share the bathroom with her and fight for mirror time.” Laughter again before Randy got sentimental. “Seriously, Lisa . . . Mark . . . I think you're both pretty great.” He saluted them with his glass. “So here's to love and happiness, on your wedding day and for the rest of your lives. We hope you have plenty of both.”
Everyone sipped and applauded, and Randy resumed his place beside Maryann.
She smiled at him and said, “That seems to come naturally to you.”
He shrugged and said, “I suppose so.”
“So you'll love it on stage when you get there.”
He drank some champagne and grinned. “What, you don't think I'll get there?”
“How can I know? I've never even heard you play.”
They ate awhile, then he said, “So tell me about these sports you're in. I suppose you've lettered.”
“All three years.”
“And you get straight A's.”
“Of course.”
“And you edit your yearbook.”
“School paper.”
“Oh . . . school paper, sorry.” He studied he
“What do you mean? All that is fun. I love school.”
“Besides school.”
“I do a lot with my church group. I'm thinking of going to Mexico this summer to help the hurricane victims there. It's all being arranged by the church. Fifty of us can go but we all have to raise our own money to pay our way.”
“Doing what?”
“We raise pledges.”
The concept boggled him. Church group? Hurricane victims? Pledges?
“So what'll you do there?”
“A lot of very hard work. Mix concrete, put roofs back on, sleep in hammocks and go without baths for a week.”
“Pardon me, but if you go without baths those Mexicans are going to want you out of there long before a week is up.”
She laughed, covering her mouth with a napkin.
“You smell good tonight, though,” he said in his flirtiest fashion, and her laughter died. She lowered the napkin, blushed and transfered her attention to her plate.
“Is that the line you use on all the girls?”
“All what girls?”
“I figure there must be plenty of them. After all, you aren't exactly Elephant Man.”
He told her the truth. “The last girl I dated seriously was Carla Utley and we were in the tenth grade.”
“Oh, come on. You don't expect me to believe that.”
“It's true.”
“The tenth grade?”
“I've taken girls out since then, but none of them were serious.”
“So what else? You do a lot of one-night stands?”
He leveled his dark, long-lashed eyes on hers and said, “For a beautiful girl you sure are vicious.”
She blushed again, which pleased him.
She was the prettiest, freshest, most inviolable creature he'd ever had the pleasure of spending an evening with, and he thought with some astonishment that it was going to be the first time in years he kissed a girl without thumping her into bed.
Someone started tapping a champagne glass with a spoon, and the entire phalanx of wedding guests caught the cue and filled the ballroom with chiming.
Mark and Lisa rose to their feet and performed the ritual with gusto. They gave their guests a good one—a lusty French kiss that lasted five seconds.
While Maryann watched the proceedings, Randy watched her. She appeared transported while she took in the kiss with her own lips slightly parted.
When the bride and groom sat down the crowd burst into applause. All but Maryann. She dropped her eyes self-consciously, then, sensing Randy's unbroken regard, flashed a quick, embarrassed glance his way. It lasted only long enough for Maryann to grow more flustered but as her glance fled away, for the merest fraction of a second her eyes detoured to his lips.
* * *
The meal ended. Milling began and a band started setting up. Michael pushed back his chair and said to Bess, “Let's go mingle.”
They did so together, catching up with relatives they'd each lost through divorce, with old friends, new friends, neighbors whose children had played with Lisa and Randy in their elementary-school days—a hall full of familiar people who politely refrained from asking their status as a couple.
They came at last to Barb and Don Maholic, who saw them approaching and rose from their chairs. The men clasped hands. The women hugged.
“Oh, Barb, it's good to see you,” Bess said emotionally.
“It's been too darn long.”
“It must be five years.”
“At least. We were so happy to get the wedding invitation, and what a beautiful bride Lisa is. Congratulations.”
“She is, isn't she? It's hard not to get teary-eyed when you watch one of your kids get married. So tell me about yours.”
“Come on. Sit down and let's catch up.”
The men brought drinks and the four of them sipped and talked. About their kids. About their businesses. About trips and mutual acquaintances and their parents. The band started up and they talked a little louder, leaning closer to be heard.
In the background, the bandleader called the bridal couple onto the floor as the group struck into “Could I Have This Dance.” Lisa and Mark walked out beneath the chandelier and as they danced, captured the attention of everyone in the room, including Bess and Michael.
The bandleader called, “Let's have the other members of the wedding party join them.”
Across the hall, Randy turned to Maryann and said, “I guess that means us.”
Jake Padgett stood and said to his wife, “Mother?”
Over Mark's shoulder, Lisa pointed and gestured to Michael: ask Mother!
He glanced at Bess. She had her forearms crossed on the table and was watching Lisa with a wistful smile on her lips. At the turn of Michael's head, she turned her own.
“Dance, Bess?” he asked.
“I think we should,” she answered.
He pulled out her chair and followed her onto the dance floor, conscious of Lisa's wide smile as she watched. He winked at the bride and turned to open his arms to Bess.
She stepped into them wearing a smile, wholly glad to be with him again. They had danced together for sixteen years, in a fashion that attracted the admiring gazes of onlookers, which happened once again as they struck the waltz position, waited out the measure and stepped into the three-quarter rhythm with flawless grace. There might have been no lapse, so at ease were they together. They danced awhile, smiling, making wide sweeping turns, before Bess said, “We always did this well, didn't we, Michael?”
“And we haven't lost it.”
“Isn't it great to do this with somebody who knows how?”
“Boy, you said it. I swear, nobody knows how to waltz anymore.”
“Keith surely doesn't.”
“Neither does Darla.”
They did it properly, with the accent on the first beat. If there'd been sawdust on the floor they'd have scraped a wreath of neat little triangles through it.
“Feels good, huh?”
“Mmm . . . comfortable.”
When they'd danced for some time, Michael asked, “Who's Keith?”
“This man I've been seeing.”
“Is it serious?”
“No. As a matter of fact, it's over.” They went on waltzing, separated by a goodly space, happy and smiling at each other without any undercurrents. What each of them said, the other took at face value.
Bess inquired, “How are things between you and Darla?”
“Uncontested divorces go through the courts quite fast.”
“Are the two of you talking?”
“Absolutely. We never stopped. We never cared enough to end it with a war.”
“Like we did?”
“Mm.”
“We were so bitter because we still cared, is that what you're saying?”
“I've thought about it. It's possible.”
“Funny, my mother said essentially the same thing.”
“Your mother looks great. What a pistol she is.”
They chuckled and danced in silence until the song ended, then remained on the floor for another song, then another and another. Finally walking her off the floor after four numbers, Michael said at her ear, “Don't go far. I want to dance some more.”
The music got louder and faster as the night wore on. There was a predominance of young people present, and more drifted in as the night got older. The band catered to their wishes. The slower ballads—“Wind Beneath My Wings,” “Lady in Red”—gave way to the kind of songs that lured even doubtful middle-agers out onto the floor: “La Bamba” and “Johnny B. Goode.” When the crowd had caught the fire and were heating up, the band threw in “The Twist,” followed by “I Knew the Bride,” which filled the dance floor and got everybody sweaty, including Michael and Bess, who'd been partners the entire night.
Moods were high. Michael said, “You mind if I dance one with Stella?”
“Heavens no,” Bess replied. “S
To Stella he said, “Come here, you painted hussy. I want to dance one with you.”
Gil Harwood snared Bess, and at the end of the song the foursome switched partners.
“You having fun?” Michael asked as he reclaimed Bess.
“I'm having a ball!” she exclaimed.
They danced another fast, hot one and when it ended, Michael had curled Bess up against his side, puffing. “Come on, I gotta get rid of this jacket.” He hauled her by the hand to the table where they'd left their drinks and draped his jacket over the back of a chair. They were taking quick gulps of their cocktails when the band struck up “Old Time Rock and Roll.” Michael slammed his glass down on the table, said, “Come on!” and towed her back toward the dance floor. Behind him, she snapped his suspenders against his damp shirt and shouted above the music, “Hey, Curran!”
He turned and dipped his ear to catch what she was shouting in the din. “What?”
“You look pretty sexy in that tuxedo.”
He laughed and said, “Yeah, well, try and control yourself, honey!” They elbowed their way into the crowd and launched themselves into the joie de vivre of the music once again.
It was easy to forget they were divorced, to join in the merriment, raising their hands above their heads and clapping while beside them old friends and family did the same thing and sang along with the familiar words. . . .
I like that old time rock and roll . . .
When the song ended they were flushed and exuberant. Michael stuck two fingers between his teeth and whistled. Bess clapped and thrust a fist in the air, shouting, “More! More!” But the set was over and they returned to Barb and Don's table, where all four of them collapsed into their chairs at the same time.
Sapped, exhilarated, wiping their brows, reaching for their glasses, they slipped back into the familiarity of their long-standing friendship.
“What a band.”
“Aren't they great?”
“I haven't danced like this in years.”