Magnolia Wednesdays (35 page)

“I don’t really care what your reasons were, Vivi. I thought we had learned something about each other. That we would really be there for each other. But I don’t know you at all. And you sure as hell don’t know me.” Melanie’s voice was quiet now, resigned.

“Melanie, please. I did this out of love. I didn’t . . .”

“You don’t know what love is,” Melanie said. “Maybe having this baby will teach you something about putting others first. I hope so. But I’ll never trust you again. It’s always about the story for you, Viv. Using somebody else’s pain or problems, what you like to call the truth, to get ahead.”

“Come on, Melanie, that’s not it. You know that’s not right.”

“No? Well, you wanna know the truth?” Melanie asked. “I was happier before I let myself care so much about you. It was better when we lived completely different lives and just waved hello at the holidays.” She started to leave the room but turned back.

“You’re welcome to stay here until the baby is born and for as long as you need to get on your feet after that. Because you’re my sister. And your baby will be my flesh and blood. But after that, you’re on your own. I’m ashamed of you and your behavior. And the only other person I’ve ever felt that way about is our mother. You’re a lot more like her than you think, Vivi. And as you know, that is
not
a compliment.”

Melanie went up to her room and closed the door firmly behind her. Vivien just stood there for a few long, painful moments trying to process what had just taken place. There was a sharp twinge in her stomach and for a brief moment she thought maybe her time had come, sincerely hoped that it had so that she’d have something to distract her from this nightmare.

But once again, nothing happened. And so Vivien took a bottled water out of the refrigerator, climbed the stairs up to her bedroom, and closed the door behind her. She stayed there the rest of the evening and all of the night and only came out in the morning when she could tell that everyone had left.

For the next week, Vivien waited to give birth. It was by far the worst and longest week of her life and not just because she was so tired of being pregnant she thought she might have to rip the baby out herself. But because Melanie and the kids simply stopped speaking to her. There were no more recriminations, no ugly scenes, there was always extra food in the fridge for her, but she didn’t join them at meals or join in on any of their conversations because they’d made it quite clear that although she was present, she was no longer welcome in their lives.

Equally bad was that all of them were taking flack for her columns as Scarlett Leigh. Trip got detention for fighting with another student who’d made fun of him for being related to “that pregnant bitch Scarlett Leigh.” Catherine had called to say she had
not
turned in any of their neighbors or watered inappropriately and hung up rather loudly. And one morning they woke up to the smell of what turned out to be burning poopy diapers, which had been spread out in a giant SL on the front lawn and then set ablaze.

The stack of hate mail left in the mailbox and on the front step continued to grow, and someone, she assumed Melanie, had taken to leaving it in teetering heaps in front of her bedroom door. After reading the first few scathing messages, Vivi had begun stashing them in the bedroom closet, where they would be out of sight but unfortunately not out of mind.

On the bright side, which Vivien tried desperately every morning to dredge up, Shelby seemed to have settled down after her brush with motherhood and was studying both for her SATs and her regular classes, and the too-wild Ty Womack had not been replaced. Trip seemed a bit more talkative, though not to her, and it seemed that the relationship with the Wesleys had begun to bring him out of his shell. Both of the kids and Melanie were looking forward to Angela and James’s wedding, which was now only a few days away. She knew this from the conversations she was now blatantly eavesdropping on, but none of them asked if she planned to attend. Nor did Melanie offer her a ride to the last Magnolia Wednesday.

The night before the wedding to which she suspected she was no longer welcome, Vivien wrote what she intended to be Scarlett Leigh’s last column. In it she said all of the things Melanie and the kids refused to hear and bid her readers a final farewell. After she’d sent it off to John Harcourt along with her resignation, Vivien washed her face, brushed her teeth, sent an artificially upbeat email to Stone, and climbed heavily into bed.

35

A
NGELA RICHMAN’S WEDDING day dawned bright and sunny, the most perfect of spring days. Angela sleep-walked through most of the morning; when she was forced to confront her image in the mirror, she saw the uncertainty and conflicted emotions tucked away inside just as she had always seen Fangie.

In the bridal dressing room at the Alpharetta Country Club, strategically located between the small ballroom where the wedding would take place and the large ballroom where the elaborate luncheon and dancing would follow, Angela’s attendants sipped complimentary champagne and helped each other dress.

Angela did her best to join in. She smiled and nodded and even raised her champagne glass in acknowledgment whenever someone proposed a toast, but she was careful not to drink. She had the strangest feeling that she needed to keep her wits about her. And, of course, she didn’t want to forget to breathe.

When the time came to put on her gown, she allowed the others to dress her and through it all she remembered to smile and look happy. But the entire time she felt as if she might be dragged under by the great waves of panic that threatened to swamp her; she concentrated on drawing plenty of air into her lungs just in case.

Her mother, Emily, zipped the back of the gown with shaking fingers, and Angela knew the trembling was the result of her mother’s excitement and happiness. James’s mother, Cassie, affixed her veil and smoothed the netting behind her head. Her smile was heartfelt and unclouded by reservation of any kind. Angela fervently wished she could feel the same. Both mothers told her how beautiful she looked and how lucky she and James were to have found each other. They pressed gentle kisses to her cheeks, careful not to disturb her makeup. She felt like a liar and a cheat. Their certainty made her want to cry.

Brian arrived for a long round of picture taking during which Angela moved and smiled and tilted her head, her chin, and her body as directed. She stood between Emily and Cassie and then with her matron of honor, Susan, and each of her four other bridesmaids. She did her best to look reflective and happy and whatever else Brian suggested, but her mind was off in a place of its own, feinting and dodging. Unable to work up the nerve to do what she should have already done.

“So then I’ll go make sure the groom’s not off looking to make a run for it, luv,” Brian teased before he left, trying to get another smile out of her. But Angela knew James was not planning an escape. Nor was he in his dressing room second-guessing his decision. James Wesley was not a flight risk; she wasn’t so sure the same could be said for her.

“Here,” Susan said, placing a freshly poured flute of champagne in her hand. “You look like you need this.” Angela tried to hand it back, but Susan refused to take it. The alcohol slid down her throat, unlike the air that seemed to have such difficulty getting where it needed to go. Halfway through the glass her insides began to warm and her pulse began to slow.

There was a knock on the door, and one of her bridesmaids ushered Ruth and Melanie inside. “You look so beautiful,” Melanie said. “That dress is fabulous on you!”

Melanie and the mothers hugged, and Ruth was introduced. “You two look pretty snazzy yourselves,” Angela said, eager to talk about something besides herself and her failure to tell James the truth. “And you look . . . incredibly happy,” she said to Ruth, hoping no one heard the envy in her voice.

“I am,” the older woman said, her smile lighting up her face. “Ira’s agreed to sell the business. Or at least to entertain a serious offer. And he’s promised that we’ll cruise the Greek Islands this summer.” She looked more closely at Angela. “Are you all right?”

Emily brought them both flutes of champagne and replaced Angela’s now-empty glass with a full one so that they could toast Ruth’s news. Angela thought that maybe if she drank enough she’d be able to convince herself that the numb, removed feeling was the result of the alcohol. Fangie had been oddly silent today. For a moment Angela pictured her on her fictional cruise and imagined her ticket had been one-way. She drained her glass and asked for another, ignoring Ruth and Melanie’s looks of concern.

As they talked and drank, Angela’s breathing became a little easier—not quite automatic and unnoticeable, but not so ragged, either. Making conversation became less of an effort. She even managed to stop imagining what would happen if she told her mother that she wasn’t sure she could go through with the wedding. Confessed that although she loved James, she couldn’t marry him until she showed him who she used to be.

She looked up to see Melanie and Ruth staring at her, clearly waiting for a response. “I’m sorry,” Angela said. “What did you say?”

“We were just saying how excited the class is to be here. We can’t wait to see you and James have your first dance as husband and wife,” Ruth said.

The word “wife” hit her then fully and completely. In thirty minutes she and James were going to stand in front of the minister and say their vows. Life as she knew it would be over and her life as Mrs. James Wesley would begin. Her throat closed, trapping the champagne and cutting off the air she so desperately needed. If she didn’t tell him about who she’d been now, when would she? On their first anniversary? Their tenth? Or after she gave birth to their first child and couldn’t get rid of the extra pounds?

“Are you okay?” Melanie asked, concerned.

Angela nodded and pointed to her throat, trying to act like it was just a mis-swallow and not abject fear that was making her cough and sputter.

“Your face is awfully white,” Ruth observed.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Angela said with a final cough. “I just couldn’t breathe there for a second.”

There was another knock on the door, and then Vivien Gray stepped inside. She wore a bright lime-colored linen dress that stretched to the bursting point over the huge mound of her stomach and a matching bolero-style jacket with oversized square buttons. Her dark hair was tucked haphazardly behind her ears. As she waddled into the room, she looked as out of breath as Angela felt.

“What’s she doing here?” Ruth hissed in the silence that fell.

Melanie’s lips tightened into a grim unhappy line, but she didn’t comment on her sister’s appearance.

“I can’t believe she has the nerve to show her face after those horrible articles,” Emily Richman said. “Especially that one about the excesses of today’s weddings. And how marriage is nothing more than an expensive ticket to suburbia.”

Cassie didn’t look too pleased, either. “She looks like she could pop at any minute,” she said. “I sure hope she waits until the ceremony’s over to have that baby.”

Leading with her stomach, Vivien continued straight toward Angela. One by one the others excused themselves, passing Vivien as they exited. Angela stayed where she was, her gaze fixed on Vivien. The column that had so incensed her mother and future mother-in-law had struck a chord with Angela. It had been rudely put and intentionally combative, but much of Scarlett Leigh’s rant had struck Angela as nothing short of the truth. And, of course, telling the truth had been its central theme.

“I didn’t come to disturb your big day,” Vivien said as she drew near. “And I promise I won’t stay.” She took Angela’s hand between both of hers and held it tightly. “I just wanted to apologize to you in person. I took things that were meant to be serious and special and I poked fun at them. I made vows of love and commitment and the importance of choosing the right person to spend your life with appear secondary to finding the right dress and going with the most current color scheme. I took all those small choices and blew them way out of proportion like I did with all the columns.” She gave Angela’s hand a squeeze. “And I mean look at me. I have absolutely no right to write the things I did. What do I know about love and commitment? Building a life with someone? Telling the truth?

“I haven’t even told the father of my child, whom I love, that we’re going to have a baby. And I can’t tell you how much I regret it. I’d do it all so differently now if I had the chance.” She looked down at her stomach and back up at Angela. “Anyway, I’m sorry. And I just wanted to say so.” She let go of Angela’s hand and began to turn away.

“No,” Angela said, and for the first time that day, maybe in months, her thoughts didn’t skitter away from the truth. “You said a lot of things that deserved to be said. Sometimes it takes an outsider to point out that the emperor forgot his clothes. I think a lot of your observations were dead-on. Like how women still change themselves for men, become things they aren’t.” Or in her case, hide not only who she’d been, but how that had shaped her into who she was now, because she was afraid that James wouldn’t love her.

“Oh, no,” Vivi said. “I was not dead-on.” She shook her head, adamant. “When I started writing Postcards from Suburbia, I was completely ignorant, and making fun was easy. But later, when I saw people’s reasons for their actions and knew nothing was as simple as I was trying to paint it, I just ignored the truth so that I could find an angle that would allow me to write what I needed to. I have twisted the truth to serve my own ends. And I’ve kept it from people I owed it to.”

“So you think I should show James the picture and tell him I’ll understand if he doesn’t want to marry me?” Angela asked as she drew what felt like her first clear unrestricted breath in weeks.

Vivien’s face reflected her surprise. “Well, no, not exactly. I mean I didn’t say . . .”

Angela considered the woman in front of her, about to give birth without the father of her child by her side. Maybe if Vivien had told Stone the truth, he’d be here right now. “I’m doing the wrong thing, aren’t I?”

“What?” Vivien was beginning to look a little worried, but Angela was feeling infinitely better as the fog of uncertainty began to clear.

“I can’t believe I’ve spent so much time agonizing over this.” She was nodding her head now, finally grasping what had to be done. “Thank God you came in to talk to me before I did something both James and I might regret for the rest of our lives.”

Her thoughts moved nimbly now and she stopped thinking about her breathing and began to think instead about exactly what she wanted to say to James. She’d been an imbecile to think she could marry him without sharing herself completely. And that included Fangie and the fact that she’d spent most of her life fat and unhappy about it. That even now she feared losing control again. Of sliding back down the slope it had taken so much effort to climb.

Angela reached down to grab hold of the train of her dress, folding it over one arm as she’d been shown, then picked up her purse with the other, the dog-eared photo stuffed in its depths. She drew in a deep breath and let it out, and there wasn’t an ounce of difficulty in it now that she’d made her decision.

“Where are you going?” Vivien asked as Angela excused herself.

“I’m going to go find James and explain why I can’t marry him today; there’s so much we need to talk about. And then I guess I’ll need to go find my parents.” She threw her arms around Vivi as the relief coursed through her. “Thank you so much for helping me figure this out. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.”

Vivi’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and she felt decidedly ill as Angela rushed out of the room. She’d only come here to apologize and somehow she’d inspired Angela to call off her wedding? Melanie was never going to forgive her.

Ignoring the bridesmaids’ startled looks, Vivi took off after Angela, but by the time she’d waddled out of the dressing room, Angela had already covered the lobby and was disappearing around a far corner.

Trying to catch her breath and still the jumble in her stomach, Vivi slowed to a stop. Angela was long gone, but she spotted Shelby up ahead. By the time she reached Shelby in the doorway of the club’s cocktail lounge, Vivien was again short of breath.

Shelby was so focused on whatever was taking place in the empty lounge that she didn’t seem to notice her aunt’s arrival.

Vivi heard male voices. Looking over Shelby’s shoulder, she saw Clay Alexander, his back to them, a drink in his hand. Another man, someone Vivi didn’t know, stood in front of him. The two were standing close together, talking quietly, almost intimately.

She was still trying to decipher what felt wrong about the scene when Shelby stepped into the room as if to get a closer look.

“Oh, my God!” Shelby’s voice rang out as she moved toward Clay. “You’re gay, too! I knew my father was gay, and I knew he had a boyfriend.” Her voice quivered.

“After he died I found a whole box of cards and letters he had wrapped up with a stupid ribbon. And all of them were signed, ‘Love, C.’ ”

Shelby pointed an accusing finger at him. “It was you, wasn’t it?” she said, her voice incredulous. “You’re C!”

Vivien became aware of someone standing beside her just before she heard Melanie’s sharp intake of breath. As they watched, Clay’s face crumpled in on itself, the strong, even features blurring and becoming misshapen in grief.

The other man bent toward Clay, resting his hand protectively on Clay’s shoulder. Clay shook his head, his gaze never leaving Shelby. The man left.

“You were like my second dad. You always had all those girlfriends.” Shelby began to cry. “I never ever thought it could be you.”

“This can’t be right,” Melanie whispered beside her. “This is a mistake.”

But of course it wasn’t.

“Your dad loved you,” Clay said to Shelby. “He loved all of you.”