London Is the Best City in America

Everyone was walking around in their soft dresses and blue neckties, patting each other on the back, drawing kisses in the air. Eventually, we all found our way to our respective tables, and dinner was served, family-style. All of it was just like Meryl had asked for. We passed around large platters of barbecue chicken, spicy cashews, shrimp, and mixed salad. There were heaping silver teacups full of dark scotch and Russian vodka. And, in the middle of each table, circling the tea roses, were chocolate-covered strawberries.

After dinner, my mother walked to the front of the tent and announced that there were wet-naps in a bowl on each table. She held up hers as demonstration: more stewardess than hostess.

She pointed out the make-your-own chocolate chip cookie sundae bar catty-cornered in the back, as if anyone could miss it. You have never seen so many sweets: licorice and gummy bears and candy raspberries and brownie bites and peppermint chews and soft fudge. Baskets of jellybeans, and frosted cinnamon sticks. Six different kinds of ice cream.

“Help yourselves,” she said.

I took my wet-nap out of the bowl first. It was wrapped in a small blue Tiffany bow.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, but I tied the bow around my wrist anyway. Meryl’s mom Bess, who was sitting across from me, winked at me when she saw me do it.

Then she did the same thing.

It had been just the two of us for most of dinner—her husband having made friends with the bartender, my parents and Meryl playing hosts, Josh on the other side of the tent offering constant help to the help, staying as far away as possible from anyone who might actually want to talk to him. And the Moynihan-Richardses’ seats had never even been sat in.

“It’s like you and I are starting a trend here,” she said, pointing proudly to her wrist.

“Kind of,” I said.

There was talk that the M-R’s were around here, somewhere, hiding out at a corner table, and other talk that Mrs. Moynihan-Richards hadn’t been feeling well and so they were back in the basement now. No one seemed to know for sure, and Bess—at least—didn’t seem to care too much.

“So, are you getting excited for tomorrow?” Bess said.

This wasn’t the first time she had asked me this question. We were starting to struggle with each other. It wasn’t making any of it easier that I had long ago lost sight of any joy in tonight, my mind periodically shifting through different images from today, over and over, as if part of a broken-down slide show. In one, Elizabeth was sitting on the couch, in the other Meryl standing in my bedroom. It didn’t seem possible that they existed in the same world. They weren’t supposed to, which I was sure made it that much easier for Josh to separate them, to let each count in her own space. The fact that I could understand, now, how that could be done was making me feel worst of all.

“Tomorrow’s supposed to be a scorcher, you know,” Bess said. “Even hotter than today. Meryl’s father heard a hundred and four! I’m lucky I moved the ceremony inside, is all I have to say. Who wants to be in heat like that?”

“No one,” I said.

“No one,” she repeated, fiddling with her bow. “So what part of tomorrow are you looking forward to the most?”

That was it. I stood up. “Bess,” I said. “Would you excuse me for just a second? I’m going to help myself to a sundae. Can I get you one?”

“Sugar is the devil, dear,” she said. “But enjoy yourself.”

I started to walk toward the sundae bar, a specific plan for the rest of the evening in sight. First, I was going to get two scoops of vanilla and a scoop of chocolate and two homemade cookies. I was going to find a corner to sit in, and eat the whole sundae as slowly as was humanly possible. Then, as soon as a departure wouldn’t be worthy of any attention, I was going to go inside, take off this uncomfortable dress, and go to sleep.

Only my well-thought-out plan had a way of falling apart mid-stride when I saw him standing there—right by the sundae bar—older, yes, but looking pretty much the same: same curly red hair, soft chin, still a good two inches shorter than me. Justin Silverman. Recent Northwestern Law School graduate. Junior high boyfriend. Future husband.

I didn’t know what to do. The thought of small talk now—the thought of any talk at all—was just too much to handle. Especially with him. Especially with my mother, out there in the distance, pretending not to watch us, and being so terrible at the pretending. I turned back around, way too quickly, and ran headfirst into Berringer’s chest.

“Easy,” he said, catching me by the elbow, trying to steady me. “Running away from someone?”

I looked up at him, the strange angle of his chin. He was wearing a blue tie and dark sports jacket, jeans.

In his right hand, he was holding a large plastic cup.

“You look so nice,” I said.

He smiled. “You look so nice.”

I followed his eyes down to my own dress: a long red halter, tied tight in the back, right at the top of my neck. My mom had picked it out while I’d been gone. Even on sale, which I knew it was, it had undoubtedly cost more than I had made at the tackle shop all last month.

Berringer held the cup out in my direction. “Cookie Crisps?”

I peeked inside, and there they were: a cupful of them brimming up to the top, a plastic spoon stuffed into the cup also.