The Wedding (The Notebook 2)

Jane was raised on the outskirts of town in a former plantation house built nearly two hundred years earlier. Noah had restored it in the years following World War II; he was meticulous in the work he did, and like many of the other hist

oric homes in town, it retains a look of grandeur that has only grown with the passage of time.

Sometimes I visit the old home. I'll drop by after finishing at work or on my way to the store; other times I make a special trip. This is one of my secrets, for Jane doesn't know I do this. While I'm certain she wouldn't mind, there's a hidden pleasure in keeping these visits to myself. Coming here makes me feel both mysterious and fraternal, for I know that everyone has secrets, including my wife. As I gaze out over the property, I frequently wonder what hers might be.

Only one person knows about my visits. His name is Harvey Wellington, and he's a black man about my age who lives in a small clapboard house on the adjacent property. One or more members of his family have lived in the home since before the turn of the century, and I know he's a reverend at the local Baptist church. He'd always been close to everyone in Jane's family, especially Jane, but since Allie and Noah moved to Creekside, most of our communication has taken the form of the Christmas cards we exchange annually. I've seen him standing on the sagging porch of his house when I visit, but because of the distance, it's impossible to know what he's thinking when he sees me.

I seldom go inside Noah's house. It's been boarded up since Noah and Allie moved to Creekside, and the furniture is covered, like sheeted ghosts on Halloween. Instead, I prefer to walk the grounds. I shuffle along the gravel drive; I walk the fence line, touching posts; I head around to the rear of the house, where the river passes by. The river is narrower at the house than it is downtown, and there are moments when the water is absolutely still, a mirror reflecting the sky. Sometimes I stand at the edge of the dock, watching the sky in the water's reflection, and listen to the breeze as it gently moves the leaves overhead.

Occasionally I find myself standing beneath the trellis that Noah built after his marriage. Allie had always loved flowers, and Noah planted a rose garden in the shape of concentric hearts that was visible from the bedroom window and surrounded a formal, three-tiered fountain. He'd also installed a series of floodlights that made it possible to see the blooms even in the darkness, and the effect was dazzling. The hand-carved trellis led to the garden, and because Allie was an artist, both had appeared in a number of her paintings--paintings that for some reason always seemed to convey a hint of sadness despite their beauty. Now, the rose garden is untended and wild, the trellis is aged and cracking, but I'm still moved when I stand before them. As with his work on the house, Noah put great effort into making both the garden and the trellis unique; I often reach out to trace the carvings or simply stare at the roses, hoping perhaps to absorb the talents that have always eluded me.

I come here because this place is special to me. It was here, after all, that I first realized I was in love with Jane, and while I know my life was bettered because of it, I must admit that even now I'm mystified by how it happened.

I certainly had no intention of falling for Jane when I walked her to her car on that rainy day in 1971. I barely knew her, but as I stood beneath the umbrella and watched her drive away, I was suddenly certain that I wanted to see her again. Hours later, while studying that evening, her words continued to echo through my mind.

It's okay, Wilson, she had said. I happen to like shy.

Unable to concentrate, I set my book aside and rose from the desk. I had neither the time nor the desire for a relationship, I told myself, and after pacing around the room and reflecting on my hectic schedule--as well as my desire to be financially independent--I made the decision not to go back to the diner. This wasn't an easy decision, but it was the right one, I thought, and resolved to think no more on the subject.

The following week, I studied in the library, but I would be lying if I said I didn't see Jane. Each and every night, I found myself reliving our brief encounter: her cascading hair, the lilt of her voice, her patient gaze as we stood in the rain. Yet the more I forced myself not to think of her, the more powerful the images became. I knew then that my resolve wouldn't last a second week, and on Saturday morning, I found myself reaching for my keys.

I didn't go to the diner to ask her out. Rather, I went to prove to myself that it had been nothing more than a momentary infatuation. She was just an ordinary girl, I told myself, and when I saw her, I would see that she was nothing special. I'd almost convinced myself of that by the time I parked the car.

As always, the diner was crowded, and I wove through a departing group of men as I made my way to my regular booth. The table had been recently wiped, and after taking a seat, I used a paper napkin to dry it before opening my textbook.

With my head bowed, I was turning to the appropriate chapter when I realized she was approaching. I pretended not to notice until she stopped at the table, but when I looked up, it wasn't Jane. Instead, it was a woman in her forties. An order pad was in her apron, and a pen was tucked behind her ear.

"Would you like some coffee this morning?" she asked. She had a briskly efficient demeanor that suggested she'd probably worked here for years, and I wondered why I hadn't noticed her before.

"Yes, please."

"Back in a minute," she chirped, dropping off a menu. As soon as she turned away, I glanced around the diner and spotted Jane carrying plates from the kitchen to a group of tables near the far end of the diner. I watched her for a moment, wondering if she'd noticed that I'd come in, but she was focused on her work and didn't look my way. From a distance, there was nothing magical in the way she stood and moved, and I found myself breathing a sigh of relief, convinced that I'd shaken off the strange fascination that had plagued me so much of late.

My coffee arrived and I placed my order. Absorbed in my textbook again, I had read through half a page when I heard her voice beside me.

"Hi, Wilson."

Jane smiled when I looked up. "I didn't see you last weekend," she went on easily. "I thought I must have scared you away."

I swallowed, unable to speak, thinking that she was even prettier than I remembered. I don't know how long I stared without saying anything, but it was long enough for her face to take on a concerned expression.

"Wilson?" she asked. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," I said, but strangely, I couldn't think of anything more to add.

After a moment she nodded, looking puzzled. "Well . . . good. I'm sorry I didn't see you come in. I would have had you sit in my section. You're just about the closest thing I have to a regular customer."

"Yes," I said again. I knew even then that my response made no sense, but this was the only word I seemed able to formulate in her presence.

She waited for me to add something more. When I didn't, I glimpsed a flash of disappointment in her expression. "I can see you're busy," she finally said, nodding to my book. "I just wanted to come over and say hello, and to thank you again for walking me to my car. Enjoy your breakfast."

She was about to turn before I was able to break the spell I seemed to be under.

"Jane?" I blurted out.

"Yes?"

I cleared my throat. "Maybe I could walk you to your car again sometime. Even if it's not raining."

She studied me for a moment before answering. "That would be nice, Wilson."

"Maybe later today?"

She smiled. "Sure."

When she turned, I spoke again.

"And Jane?"

This time she glanced over her shoulder. "Yes?"

Finally understanding the real reason I had come, I put both hands on my textbook, trying to draw strength from a world that I understood. "Would you like to have dinner with me this weekend?"

She seemed amused that it had taken me so long to ask.

"Yes, Wilson," she said. "I'd like that very much."

It was hard to believe that here we were, more than three decades later, sitting with our daughter discussing her upcoming wedding.

Anna's surprise request for a simple, quick wedding was met with utter silence. At first Jane seemed thunderstruck, but then, regaining her senses, she began to shake her head, whispering

with mounting urgency, "No, no, no . . ."

In retrospect, her reaction was hardly unexpected. I suppose that one of the moments a mother looks most forward to in life is when a daughter gets married. An entire industry has been built up around weddings, and it's only natural that most mothers have expectations about the way it's supposed to be. Anna's ideas presented a sharp contrast to what Jane had always wanted for her daughters, and though it was Anna's wedding, Jane could no more escape her beliefs than she could her own past.

Jane didn't have a problem with Anna and Keith marrying on our anniversary--she of all people knew the state of Noah's health, and Anna and Keith were, in fact, moving in a couple of weeks--but she didn't like the idea of them getting married by a justice of the peace. Nor was she pleased that there were only eight days to make the arrangements and that Anna intended to keep the celebration small.

I sat in silence as the negotiations began in earnest. Jane would say, "What about the Sloans? They would be heartbroken if you didn't invite them. Or John Peterson? He taught you piano for years, and I know how much you liked him."

"But it's no big deal," Anna would repeat. "Keith and I already live together. Most people act like we're already married anyway."

"But what about a photographer? Surely you want some pictures."

"I'm sure lots of people will bring cameras," Anna would counter. "Or you could do it. You've taken thousands of pictures over the years."

At that, Jane would shake her head and launch into an impassioned speech about how it was going to be the most important day in her life, to which Anna would respond that it would still be a marriage even without all the trimmings. It wasn't hostile, but it was clear they had reached an impasse.

I am in the habit of deferring to Jane in most matters of this sort, especially when they involve the girls, but I realized that I had something to add in this instance, and I sat up straighter on the couch.