Pictures of Us Page 13

  I took it and three others into the dressing room twenty minutes later while Nell browsed a few more racks. I’d promised to show her any of the dresses that really worked; Liza was a perfect size six, the bitch, and she’d agreed to let us choose whichever dress we liked.

  I closed the door behind me and kicked off my sandals, peeled off my jeans and blouse and lifted the celadon dress over my head. After twisting around to zip it, I smoothed it over my hips and settled the skirt.

  It was lovely, a good color against my skin. But I wasn’t really focusing on it—instead, the image in the mirror was me in my wedding gown on a wet, cool April day. Hair bundled into a chignon under a simple tulle veil, Mom’s pearl earrings and necklace my only jewelry aside from my engagement ring, I had stared at myself in the mirror in the small parlor beside the chapel at the First Presbyterian Church while I waited for the service to begin.

  My mother had fussed with my veil while Nell leaned in to dust my cheekbones with blush one last time. I waved her away. “I’m blushing already,” I said, and ducked. “Is it hot in here?”

  “You’re nervous.” My mother straightened up and smiled at me in the mirror. She looked beautiful—her dress was the same slate-blue as her eyes, but it was the flicker of wistful sadness in them that struck me.

  “Where’s Michael?” I asked. The gray drizzle hadn’t let up all day, and the glass was pearled with fat raindrops. The newly budded trees were silver with rain.

  “You can’t see him now,” Nell chided me. Her shock was sweetly superstitious. “Just wait twenty minutes until the ceremony.”

  But I couldn’t. Certainty burned inside me like the first star. I had to see him now, had to tell him how much I loved him before we parroted the words the minister would supply. I wanted to make my own vow to him, privately, and steal a little of his usual calm with a kiss before the ceremony began.

  I was out of the room before Nell could dash after me, and found Michael in the choir room with my father and brothers. For a minute, I couldn’t say a word—he was all elegance, long and dark and polished in his tuxedo. My husband, I thought, and felt the first prick of hot, happy tears.

  “Tess, what are you doing?” my father protested, but Michael was already walking toward me, that slow, sure smile lighting his face. He followed me into the hall and closed the door behind him.

  “This is supposed to be bad luck,” he murmured, and leaned in to brush his lips against my cheek. “But I don’t care. You are absolutely beautiful.”

  His hands were warm and strong over mine. If love could be felt that way, through the skin, in a touch, everything in his heart was there in his hands, an offering. I lifted my face to his. There was no stopping the tears now, makeup be damned. “I just had to tell you, now, while we’re alone, how happy I am. That I love you. That I can’t imagine anything I’ve ever wanted more than spending my life with you.”

  He searched my face so intently, those dark, dark eyes seeming to swallow me, my heart thudded. Did he see the truth of my words there? Did he believe me? But before I could say anything else, he lowered his mouth to mine and kissed me hard and long. I wound my arms around him as he whispered against my lips, “I love you more than anything, Tess. Always have, always will.”

  Our parents separated us like naughty children a moment later, shepherding us off to our separate rooms to wait for the signal that the ceremony was beginning. It did, just minutes later, and it went off exactly as we’d rehearsed, although I don’t recall many of the details. I found myself staring at Michael through most of it, holding his hand as if I would float away should I let go. I do remember the moment we kissed, and my mother’s face, blurred with tears, as Michael and I walked back down the aisle together, but the rest was a vague sense memory of roses, candlelight and a trill of adrenaline in my blood—

  Nell knocked on the door of the dressing room, startling me out of memory, and I opened it to show her the single dress I’d tried on.

  “Oh, that’s really pretty on you,” she breathed as she squeezed inside. “God, I would kill for your figure. What about the others?”

  “I, um, haven’t tried them on yet.” Cue a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I was back at my wedding.”

  She rolled her eyes and sat down on the bench seat. “Focus, please. It’s my turn! And I don’t want it jinxed with all the rain you got.”

  “It didn’t matter,” I said, and let her unzip me. After stepping out of the dress, I hung it up and reached for the icy-blue one.

  In the mirror, Nell smiled at me. “No, it didn’t. It was a good day, wasn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dad dance like that.”

  I laughed, remembering my father on the dance floor of the bed-and-breakfast where we’d held the reception, his bow tie loosened, a gin and tonic clutched in one hand. “He definitely had a good time, didn’t he?”

  “Everyone did.” Nell shrugged, but her tone was fond when she added, “It’s not hard to enjoy celebrating for two people who are pretty clearly meant for each other.”

  Meant for each other. It sounded good. That was the point of fairy tales, wasn’t it? Destiny, soul mates, a future written in the stars. But on paper, Michael and I were very different. Reading and writing were his passions; my first love had been completely physical, an art form without words. Michael was pensive and compassionate and gentle; I was quick-tempered and impatient and scattered. He was content to be at home, surrounded by his books, settled in with me and Emma; I was usually eager to get out, see things, do things.

  It was easy to believe that we were destined for each other when we fell in love so hard, so fast, when everyone who knew us was charmed by the pair that we became. But as I regarded myself in the mirror, the slim column of pale blue satin falling against my skin like water, I couldn’t help wondering if Michael still felt the same way.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE NEXT THREE DAYS WERE HELL, simply put. Emma slouched around the house either pouting or stonily silent. Every word out of her mouth was knife-edged, sharp with resentment or self-pity. I snapped at her, Michael snapped at me, and the moments we’d spent reconnecting on Saturday morning felt like something out of a naive fantasy. Even the weather was determined to be uncooperative—it was unreasonably warm for early June, and the heat made all of us sticky and ripe for arguments.

  When the phone rang early Tuesday morning, I was unloading the dishwasher and cursing under my breath. Emma had left her French book on the kitchen table, and Michael had had another bad night’s sleep, which meant I had, too. I was grouchy and fighting the beginning of a headache, neither of which made talking on the phone appealing.

  I was surprised to hear Alicia Priest on the other end—she had passed me a couple of photojournalism assignments over the years. She had worked for the New York Times before moving on to a big new lifestyle magazine, and the pieces I’d done for her had given me a few much appreciated artistic credentials.

  “It’s been ages,” she said now, and I grabbed my mug of tea before sitting down. “How are you?”

  “Busy,” I said with a laugh. It wasn’t a complete answer, but it would do. “Are you still at HomeLife?”

  “Yes and no.” I could hear her tapping on a keyboard in the background. “I’ve got something else going on, and while I know this is incredibly last minute, I wanted to ask if you were up for coming into the city today for lunch. My treat.”

  Without thinking, I glanced down at the disreputable pair of shorts and old T-shirt I’d pulled on that morning. I hadn’t even showered yet. Lunch in Manhattan? Today?

  But I hesitated for only a second. I hadn’t been into the city in months, and at the moment the idea of a grownup lunch with someone who had no interest in my personal life sounded like a tonic. “I could make the 11:45 train,” I said, and began to grin. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “A GALLERY?” I NEARLY choked on the ice water I’d swallowed. “You’re opening a gallery?”

  Alicia had snagged a w
indow table at a trendy little Tuscan place uptown in the East Fifties, and she was waiting when I arrived. Sophisticated as ever in a creamy linen blouse and gray pants, her sleek dark hair bundled into a French twist, she looked as though she should have been the subject of a photo spread, not its editor. She lifted her shoulders with a sheepish, excited smile. “Not exactly. I mean, I’m not doing it alone. I have a partner. And a silent partner. And a money guy, and a lawyer…” She trailed off, laughing. “But what it comes down to is, yes, there’s going to be a new gallery with my name on it.”

  “Alicia, that’s incredible.” I reached across the table and squeezed her hand before holding my glass up in a kind of toast. “Congratulations.”

  “Hold on there, miss,” she warned me, and wagged her finger. “There’s more.”

  I laughed. “Did you forget to tell me you won the lottery? Wait—you’re marrying George Clooney.”

  “Sadly, no to both.” She leaned closer, hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. “I want you to be part of our first exhibit.”

  Thank God I hadn’t been drinking that time. The poor woman, not to mention the snowy tablecloth and chichi red dishes, would have been covered in ice water.

  “Me, exhibit?” I breathed, my mind flipping through my catalog of photographs. Half of them were wedding proofs and family portraits. “Exhibit…what?”

  “That’s the thing.” She beamed across the table at me, proud of herself. “I have a theme in mind, but it would be all new stuff. You could shoot to your heart’s content all summer, and we could choose a set of twelve to eighteen shots when you’re done.”

  The waiter appeared at the table then, young and stiffly formal in his white shirt and black tie, and we took a moment to order. I asked for the pollo alla diavola after Alicia ordered pasta with a name too complicated for me to remember, much less pronounce.

  She was considering me with an expectant smile when the waiter walked away. “What do you think?”

  “I think I’m speechless,” I admitted. The tingle of excitement hadn’t faded yet, and my mind was racing with possibilities. “I’ve never shown in a gallery. Well, not a Manhattan gallery. This is huge for me, Alicia, and I’m so grateful I can’t think of what to say.”

  “Say you’ll do it.” She nodded when the waiter appeared again, a bottle of wine in hand, and waited while he poured two glasses. “Your eye is fantastic, Tess, and I’ve been telling you for years you’re wasting yourself on weddings and babies.”

  “Weddings and babies help pay the mortgage,” I reminded her gently, but I couldn’t help feeling a thrill of pride at her praise.

  “I know.” She sipped her wine carefully. “Ironically enough, I don’t want you to stray too far from those subjects for the showing, either. HomeLife is sponsoring the opening, so we’re creating a kind of tie-in theme. Homes and life, which is obviously pretty broad and might be covered by a few different artists. I’d like to see you do family.”

  Family. Of course. Was this some kind of karmic retribution? Was I being punished? A few weeks ago, I could have shot photos of a million different kinds of families with no sense of the surreal. The gay couple who’d bought the bookstore downtown and adopted a childless widow as their surrogate mother. Our neighbors, who had each been married before and whose children included a teenage son and daughter from their first unions, an energetic five-year-old boy they’d had together and a baby girl adopted from China. The family of women across town—grandmother, mother and two daughters—all living under the same roof. A few of Michael’s college friends, each the victim of rough childhoods, who had become as close as siblings, a family by choice rather than blood.

  I loved the fact that those kinds of families existed. That the notion of family was both flexible and durable, that it could expand to include people of all ages and colors and backgrounds but was, at its heart, what it had always been: a group of people who cared about and for one another.

  And then my family had changed. We were four now instead of three, and five if I counted Sophia, which seemed only fair, even it was strange to contemplate. I didn’t know if I was ready for us to be the sort of family I had always applauded.

  “You don’t like the idea.” Alicia was crestfallen, and I realized how long I must have been musing about coincidence and karma.

  “No, I do!” I picked up my wineglass and took a healthy swallow. “I think I’m still stunned, that’s all.”

  “So you’ll do it?” She was back to beaming, and lifted her glass in anticipation.

  I clinked mine against hers with a delicate ping. There was no question, not really. A gallery exhibit in New York? The chance to shoot photos that didn’t have to include a groom peeling off his bride’s garter or hide a toddler’s teary cheeks? This was photography on a whole new level, one I’d been trying to climb to for years. “You better believe I’ll do it.”

  DURING MY JUNIOR YEAR in college, Michael took the train to New York on the Tuesday evening before Thanksgiving. We were going to spend the day together before heading home late Wednesday afternoon.

  “Spend the night together, you mean,” Jane teased. She was packing to go home herself, randomly tossing clothes into a duffel bag. Carter had agreed to bunk in with Marissa that night, since Sydney had already left for Ohio.

  “Day, night, whatever,” I said with an airy wave, but I was grinning. We would spend nearly every minute of the weekend together at home, but “nearly” wasn’t quite enough when we couldn’t sleep together. Last year had involved CIA-level planning in order for us to make love once. Stealing an hour away from the assembled families and then staking out a private space seemed to get more difficult every year.

  “Well, enjoy it.” Jane flopped on her bed and propped her chin in her hands. “Think of me once in a while, will you? Up in Connecticut with my horrible cousins and my grandmother’s disgusting candied yams and no luscious boyfriend to distract me.”

  I rolled my eyes and sat cross-legged on the floor beside her bed. She had broken up with her latest boyfriend, an economics major from Florida, just a week earlier. Even though she and Carter and I had decided he was a shit with no sense of humor and had a really weird affection for country music, Jane claimed he was good in bed.

  “You’ll survive,” I told her, then picked up a hank of her thick auburn hair and flicked her cheek with it. “I hear curvy redheaded history majors are all the rage this year.”

  She snorted, but she smiled just the same. Jane was never without a boyfriend for long. Keeping a particular guy around was a different story, but I had to give the girl credit for her perseverance.

  Two hours later she stretched up on tiptoe to kiss Michael’s cheek when he arrived, and then slung her bag over her shoulder and took off for Grand Central. Then I was enveloped in Michael’s arms, and it was hours before we came up for air and decided to dress and go out to find something to eat.

  We held hands as we walked across the park in the chilly night air. It was a cold November, raw and wet, and the stars were faint, gritty smudges of light in the dark sky. I unwound my scarf as we walked into a pizza place on Bleecker Street, and let Michael order slices and sodas for both of us.

  “Next year visiting won’t be so complicated,” I said when we had settled in one of the tiny booths. “With Marissa and Sydney gone, Carter and Jane and I are going to look for an apartment. I already told Mom and Dad, and they agreed to give me money for rent. God, I can’t wait. I’m so sick of the dorm I can’t even tell you.”

  He didn’t say anything for a minute, but his eyes were busy searching my face. “I was going to ask you about that,” he said finally, and put down the slice of pizza he’d already half devoured. “I was thinking about applying to graduate school…”

  I nodded, confused, my mouth full. That had always been his plan.

  “Here, in New York,” he went on. In the crowded bustle of the pizza parlor, his voice was so soft I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right, but there was no mistaking
the hope in his eyes. “I want to apply to NYU and Columbia. I thought we could get an apartment together. Live together.”

  I knew what I should have felt, what Michael no doubt expected me to feel: elation, excitement, joy. Instead, my heart squeezed in panic.

  Senior year would be tough—Carter and Jane and I all had decisions to make, courses to pass, résumés to write. An apartment with my dorm mates was supposed to be the saving grace, an exercise in adulthood, a taste of freedom, with shared clothes, shared bills and one another’s company as a safety net.

  I was taking too long to answer—already Michael’s brow had furrowed in concern. “We’re going to do it eventually,” he said, and I ignored the faint note of betrayal in his voice. “This way we wouldn’t have to wait. We could find something really cheap if it was just the two of us, and then we could be together all the time.” I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, and then he aimed his next shot. “Like tonight, Tess. Just like tonight, but every day.”

  The little shop was overheated, and I had to fight the urge to run outside, where I could drink in the cold, damp air. “Michael…”

  “You don’t look happy about this.” He raked a hand through his hair and shoved his paper plate away. “I thought you would be. Happy, I mean. I thought this was the plan.”

  “It is the plan.” The words escaped in an angry hiss, and I sat back and took a deep breath, waiting for my heart to stop its furious thumping. “It is. But I thought you were going to do your master’s at Harvard. I thought I was going to come up to Boston after I graduate…” Miserable, I let the idea trail off unfinished. Michael looked as if I’d slapped him.

  Love wasn’t supposed to be this hard, was it? And I did love Michael. But he was always one step ahead of me, his gaze fixed somewhere in a future I hadn’t even imagined yet, and pulling me along behind him like a hesitant child.

  I had never questioned that we would stay together, get married, but I had never taken the time to puzzle out the details, and now Michael had settled us in a little apartment together. He probably knew which subway he would take if he was accepted to Columbia instead of NYU, had decided whether he liked Gristedes better than D’Agostino’s, and just how much money we would have for groceries every week.