Two of a Kind (2 page)

C
hristina Connell
y sat in the tent, waiting for the wedding ceremony to begin. Her fourteen-year-old daughter sat beside her; Jordan had never attended such a lavish event and was fairly popping with excitement. Her sleeveless dress with its scoop-necked bodice revealed her slender arms and accentuated her long neck; in it, she looked every bit the budding ballerina that she was.

Looking down at her own silk tweed sheath—an interweaving of tiny black and white flecks—and the single silver bangle on her wrist, Christina felt the familiar pinch of insecurity; this Great Neck crowd was a moneyed one, and around her sat thousands of dollars' worth of clothes, shoes, and jewelry. Her work as an interior designer often put her in contact with people like this, and most of the time she was able to tamp down the old feeling of being insufficient, a beggar at the banquet, but sometimes it pushed through to the surface. Still, her own dress was Italian and couture, scored secondhand at one of her favorite charity haunts in the city—she was a brilliant secondhand shopper—and the Elsa Peretti bangle had come from Tiffany, a gift from her late husband, Will. She knew she didn't look opulent, but she liked to think she was elegant in an understated sort of way. She sat up straighter, determined to focus on the service that was about to start.

The rest of the wedding party had already gathered—bridesmaids, immediate family members—and the dark, ruggedly handsome groom stood under the white, flower-covered canopy.
Chuppah,
Christina corrected herself. She had been to enough Jewish weddings to know the term. Then a slight current seemed to circulate among the guests, an energy like the moment the curtain went up at the theater, and yes, here was the bride, Angelica Silverstein, floating down the aisle on her father's arm, her head, neck, and shoulders swathed in a froth of white netting.

“That dress!” breathed Jordan.

That dress
, or at least what was visible of it, was a sumptuous gleam of heavy white satin; to Christina's trained eye, it looked like upholstery fabric. When the pair reached the chuppah, Angelica's father—who was not, she knew, the owner of this god-awful house and its surrounding property—gently moved the veil back to reveal the bride. A collective gasp rose; Christina's small intake of breath was part of it. She had known, of course, that her client was a beauty; the months spent in her company, working on the redecoration of Angelica's Riverside Drive apartment, had made that abundantly clear. But the radiant young woman who stood before the assembled guests still surprised her.

Christina blinked back the tears that gathered—sudden, stinging—in her eyes. It wasn't just that Angelica was beautiful. It was also that she was so clearly, incandescently in love—with the groom, of course, but with everyone else too: her parents and grandmother, whom she looked upon with such sweetness, her nieces, siblings, bridesmaids, friends, the musicians, the guests—everyone seemed to be bathed in the transformative power of that emotion.

Christina had once been in love like that. She and Will had not had a posh affair like this—it had been just the two of them down at City Hall on Centre Street. She was a Catholic girl from Brooklyn and Will a Protestant from North Carolina. Instead of arguing over the ceremony—her father and the aunt who raised her would have campaigned, vigorously, for a wedding at St. Augustine's on Sixth Avenue, where the family had gone for decades—Christina and Will had impulsively decided to just take care of it themselves. He'd worn a slightly rumpled summer suit and straw hat he'd bought on Chambers Street that morning; she wore a thrift shop dress—even then she was doing the secondhand thing—of white eyelet. But when they were pronounced man and wife, she had been every bit as rapturous as the woman now under the chuppah. Christina sniffed, and dabbed at her eyes with the white linen square that she kept tucked in her bag.

“Mom, are you all right?” Jordan asked.

“I'm fine,” said Christina, and when it looked like Jordan did not believe her, she added, “Really I am.” She gave Jordan's shoulder a little squeeze before turning her attention back to the ceremony, which had just started.

First the rabbi spoke and then the bridal couple began reading passages from the Song of Songs, first in English and then in Hebrew. As Christina listened, she discreetly looked around. No expense had been spared at this wedding, from the elaborate tents to the lush garlands of white flowers with which they had been decorated. The wine served at the cocktail hour had been exquisite, the hors d'oeuvres sumptuous. And there was still a three-course dinner to follow. What a luxury it would be to have so much money to burn; Christina's own habit of thrift had been ingrained for so long that she could not even imagine how that would feel.

Her attention settled on Angelica again. Just as the groom was about to place the ring on her finger, Christina heard the small but insistent noise of someone's phone. An irritating little buzz, like a wasp or a bee, but still, it was a
wedding
—how rude! Her own phone had been switched off the minute she arrived. Christina turned, ready to impale the boor with a furious look. But the perpetrator—a man in his forties wearing an expensive, putty-colored suit—had already risen from his seat. As he hurried away, she distinctly heard him say, “
How
many centimeters?” The guests nearby looked annoyed too, though the man seemed oblivious; the phone remained glued to his ear. Christina stared at his receding form, wanting him to feel her wrath, even from a distance.

Fortunately, no one up at the chuppah seemed to have noticed and the exchange of rings, the kiss, the napkin-muffled crunch of glass—Christina was told it was a lightbulb, not a goblet—went smoothly. When the service was over, she steered Jordan toward the receiving line. Jordan had been as taken by the entire spectacle as her mother was. “When I get married, I'm going to have a reception
exactly
like this,” she said, gesturing at the plush green expanse of lawn and, beyond that, the magnificent rose garden where the cocktail reception had been held.

Christina knew that day was still far off in the future. Right now, almost all of Jordan's attention was focused on the classes she took at the School of American Ballet on West Sixty-fifth Street. Boys, other than as possible dance partners, were not on her radar.

When they reached the bride and groom, hugs and kisses were exchanged. Angelica exclaimed over Jordan—
How she's grown! What
gorgeous posture!
—and the two women made noises about getting together. Although Angelica's apartment was technically finished, their relationship had shifted from one that was purely professional to one bordering on friendship.

After the receiving line, it was time for dinner. Jordan went off to sit at the teens' table, along with Angelica's twin nieces and several of the groom's relatives. Christina stood watching; she did have such perfect posture, and such a perfect dancer's body too. Only maybe that body was just a
little
too thin these days; from the back, she seemed positively gaunt. Christina considered this as she made her way to her assigned table. Urging Jordan to eat never worked; the more she pressed, the greater her daughter's resistance. And Christina understood the pressures Jordan faced. The world of classical ballet was ferociously competitive, and maintaining a lean, attenuated line was essential to success. Jordan didn't have an eating disorder; she was just responding to the harsh demands of her chosen field.

As other people were finding their seats, exchanging greetings, hugs, and kisses, Christina reached her table, where she admired the etched glass water pitchers and crystal goblets that sparkled against the heavy white tablecloths. Each bone china place setting was adorned with a place card of heavy white vellum that was encircled by a few smooth white stones. She picked one up and held it in her hand: a nice touch. Although her business dealt strictly in interiors and the antiques with which she often filled them, she could still appreciate and admire the work of another talented professional. The flowers in the centerpiece—a cluster of white roses, freesia, lilies, and gardenias—spilled up and over the sides of the glass vase, giving it a natural, unstudied elegance.

“Too much white; it's like being lost in a snowdrift.”

“Excuse me?” Christina turned.

“The decorations. They could have used a little color
somewhere
in here.” The man who delivered this uninspired assessment was the same man whose phone had buzzed during the service. What bad luck to be stuck at his table.

“Actually, I find the decorations in exquisite taste,” Christina said coldly. No manners and no taste either. She turned to the woman seated next to her in the hope of discouraging any further conversation.

“I'm Andy Stern,” he said, extending his hand.

He had not read what she thought were her very clear signals. “Christina Connelly.” She took his hand reluctantly and let her eyes shift again to the woman sitting on her other side. The woman reached for her glass and Christina pounced. “What a beautiful ring!” she exclaimed. “Is that a fire opal?”

“Yes,” said the woman, clearly flattered.

“The color is exceptional.” Christina and the ring's owner launched into a discussion about opals in general and fire opals in particular. Andy Stern, thankfully, was forced to turn his attention elsewhere. Throughout the elaborate meal that followed, Christina tried to ignore him. But Andy Stern was not easily ignored.

“How's your fish?” he asked.

“Excellent,” she said.

“Really? I think mine's been cooked a little too long, but the wine they paired it with—exceptional.”

Christina did not look up. Unfortunately, Ms. Fire Opal was talking to someone else, so there was no possibility of a rescue from her. Andy Stern kept on as if he believed he were the most fascinating man on earth. Finally, after the lime mousse, petits fours, and sugar cookies had been served, Christina excused herself, saying she wanted to find her daughter.

“Is she at the teen table?” Andy asked, and when Christina admitted that, yes, she was, he added, “That's where my son is sitting too; I'll walk over there with you.” Christina was sorry she had told him; now her escape plan was thwarted. And they could not get through; several silver-tray-carrying waiters had blocked their way. So Christina was forced to endure still more of Andy's self-absorbed patter. He was an ob-gyn with a high-risk Park Avenue practice; it had been one of his high-risk patients who buzzed him during the service, so maybe it was a forgivable offense; he lived in the Trump Palace on East Sixty-ninth Street, the tallest, and ugliest, building in the neighborhood, and
rented a place in the Hamptons—where else?

“It's a great house: four bedrooms, five baths, and a stunning pool.” He contemplated the wineglass he held. “My wife would have flipped for that house.” There was something wistful in that last statement. “There's a view of the water from the second floor that seems to go on forever. She always loved to be near the water.” His tone had changed: no longer boastful, but muted, even sad. She was tempted to ask about his wife—there was no ring on his left hand—but that was not the sort of thing you asked someone you had just met and didn't like besides. “She died,” he added bluntly. “Ovarian cancer, which was kind of ironic given my profession. It'll be two years in July.”

“Oh,” said Christina. She too had lost a spouse, more than a decade ago, and remembered the savage, grief-crazed year following Will's death. “I'm so sorry.” The sky had darkened and against the jewellike blue, the white tablecloth and napkins seemed to glow. “That must have been hard.”

“Was and is,” he said. His close-set eyes, she noted, were an intriguing color, light brown, the pupils ringed with gold. He had the eager, attentive look of an Irish setter or a Lab, she decided. Not so bad after all, but definitely in need of being kept on a leash.

“My husband died too,” she said. “So I know.”

“How?” he asked.

“In a fire.”

“Horrible,” said Andy.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “It was.” She was not going to tell him how Will, a lawyer turned high school history teacher, had been on an overnight class trip when the small inn where they were staying caught fire. He had sacrificed himself to save a girl who had been overlooked in the frenzy. A thousand people had been at the funeral held in his hometown; everyone from his kindergarten teacher to the girls and boys—now women and men—from his high school swim team had come to say good-bye. As she stood there with Andy Stern, it came flooding back, but then just as quickly receded. It would always hurt, but the worst was over. “It gets better,” she said. “You can't believe it now, but it does. Children help. You just have the one?”

“Just the one,” he said, and his mouth turned up in a smile. “Come on; you can meet him.”

The waiters had dispersed and Christina was able to follow him to the teen table, where Andy introduced his son, a blond, curly-haired boy of about sixteen who had been talking to Jordan. Oliver offered a perfunctory hello before turning his attention back to Jordan, who sat with her hands in her lap, dessert untouched in front of her. Christina was not surprised; Jordan would no more have eaten a petit four than she would one of her pink satin point shoes.

“How are you doing over here?” she asked.

“Oh fine, Mom. Just great.” Jordan seemed to eye the petit four with longing.

“They'll be cutting the cake in a little while. Do you want to see?” The cutting of the cake was another of those iconic wedding moments and she thought Jordan would enjoy it. Jordan, however, was not interested. She seemed to want her mother to leave, which Christina found interesting. Did she like this boy who sat pulling on his springy blond curls? Or was she just embarrassed by Christina's presence? Christina turned to go, and when she did, Andy Stern was right there beside her.