Another Marvelous Thing by Laurie Colwin Page B

Francis. “I must say, I’ve never suspected you of being quite so sentimental. After all, we’ve been to bed together countless times and suddenly you get proprietary about a dress because you’re going to wear it on some sacred occasion.”
    Billy opened the dress box and pulled out the dress. She shook it out and held it up in front of her.
    Francis surveyed her without expression.
    â€œQuite a departure from your usual garb,” Francis said.
    â€œYou’ll have to help me fold it back up,” said Billy. “If I do it myself, I’ll crease it.”
    â€œIf you don’t mind my saying,” Francis said, “I think you’ll want to hang it up. And you might think of putting it in a dress bag so your other garments don’t smudge it.”
    â€œVery funny,” said Billy. She draped the dress carefully over the box and put it on the dining room table. Then she came back and sat down on the sofa. Francis sat down next to her.
    â€œThis has to stop,” Billy said. “My life is being ruined.”
    â€œI knew it,” Francis said. “A nuptial rears its ugly head and suddenly you want to break up.”
    â€œI always want to break up.”
    â€œIs that really true?” Francis said.
    â€œYes,” said Billy. “Isn’t it true for you?”
    Francis was silent. It was not, in fact, true for him. “That’s a terrible thing to say,” he said.
    â€œTruth is not always lovely,” quoted Billy. Francis regarded her.
    â€œSometimes I’d really like to pop you one,” he said. He took her warm hand and they sat on the sofa feeling desolated.
    Francis did not like long periods of silence. To lighten the gloom, he said, in a voice not devoid of cheer: “You’re quite right. I knew this was coming. A little parting is probably in order. It’s always done us good in the past.”
    â€œI think this should not be a little parting,” said Billy, whose command over her voice was far from total. Their previous separations had lasted a month at best.
    â€œIt’s probably for the best,” Francis finally said. “I guess this couldn’t go on indefinitely.” He did not say it with conviction.
    The raw weather had turned to rain. Francis and Billy sat on the sofa side by side in the dim light. Love made strange bedfellows, Billy thought, and then did absolutely nothing to help them out.
    Five miles off the country blacktop was the dirt road called Old Wall Lane. It began in the state forest and ended on the border of old Mrs. Stern’s property. Grey felt there were two ways to take this road: to whip around its corners at rather high speed raising a cloud of dust, or to slide down it in neutral since it was downhill all the way. Grey took the gentle course.
    Halfway down, he stopped the car.
    â€œHead out and up,” he said. “Quick!”
    They unrolled their windows and stuck their heads out. Sailing toward them was a red-tailed hawk. It floated over the car, low enough to see its speckled breast. The sight of a hawk up close always made Billy’s heart pound. She and Grey, each autumn, climbed Mirage Mountain in western Connecticut to watch the annual hawk migration. It was a childhood longing of Grey’s to own and train a kestrel, and for their first wedding anniversary, Billy had gotten him a first edition of The Goshawk .
    At the bottom of the road was Wall Swamp, where Grey had proposed. Since then they had explored the swamp extensively by canoe. Grey stopped the car and got out to stretch his legs. Billy got out, too.
    â€œDon’t crush me,” she said as Grey put his arm around her. They embraced as from a distance so as not to mess up Billy’s dress.
    â€œThis is a pretty fancy business,” Grey said. “Not like our wedding.” Billy and Grey had gotten married in London, with their parents and siblings as witnesses in a registry office, and,