gushed.
“How’s the driving?” Mr. Berry asked Kris.
“Fine. No worse than this morning.”
“Have you seen the bridegroom yet?” his father asked me cheerfully.
I had, from the corner of my eye. It was most assuredly Nelson on his knees in front of the stone fireplace, feeding what looked like wedding trash—silver-belled wrapping paper and flattened gift boxes—into the flames. I watched him stand, replace the screen, survey the room. Spot me. We both smiled.
He was, once and still, adorable, much the same as the teenage Nelson on the dock, which meant not only a diver’s stride in my direction but the mixture of wholesomeness and sex appeal that few boys of my acquaintance had ever possessed. He kissed me lightly, releasing an acute pang that had no business surviving for a decade. “Robin’s talked about nothing else since you RSVP’d,” he said.
I murmured, “
Nothing
else? You poor guy.”
“It’s true! She called me from the store that day you turned up and had me paged, which she never does.”
“And you knew who she was talking about?”
“Immediately.”
I took a sip of eggnog, which had a fleck of carton wax floating on its surface. “You have a good memory for stray guests,” I said.
Nelson raised his punch glass and said, “I’m glad you could come.”
I smiled, the wistful kind of smile that dismisses an untenable subject. I asked if any of the Fifes were here yet.
Nelson raised his voice, “Are there any Fifes here yet?”—a cue for the broadly smiling, portly, and mostly bald man standing a few feet away to open his arms.
“Mr. Fife?” I asked, pretending to be astonished.
He alternately hugged me and inspected me like a long-lost favorite graduate who had returned to student-teach. Throughout the extended greeting, I marveled at the depth of his unearned affection for me—the friend of Robin who’d spent one week a decade ago feeling persecuted while under his supervision. I joked between hugs, “Boy, I’d like to see you with someone you spent
two
weeks’ vacation with.”
“Why, Natty,” said Mr. Fife. “We may not have seen you as much as we might have liked, but we’ve always felt very close to you, and your parents, too.”
It gave me the second pang since my arrival—Mr. Fife’s asking so little in the way of friendship, and my feeling even less in return. I wanted to say, “But we’re not close. We hardly know each other. Spending a week together a decade ago does not exactly make you Uncle Donald.”
I said instead, “Congratulations. You must feel as if Robin’s marrying into the family of your oldest friends in the world.”
“You’re right about that,” chortled Mr. Fife. “We were already one big happy family.”
Kris called my name from the punch bowl. He held out a refill in one hand and coughed into his other fist with a guttural explosion that only I would hear as “
mekhutonim
.” I laughed.
Mr. Fife volunteered that Mrs. Fife was upstairs attending to some mother-of-the-bride business, and Robin was driving up first thing in the A.M. with the boys, who, believe it or not, had become doting big brothers.
Ingrid interrupted with, “Maybe Natalie would like to change before she officially joins the party.” I was wearing jeans and a purple parka. I said, “I
would
like to change, thank you,” picturing the clash of my short orange part-angora sweaterdress among the embroidered jumpers of Santa red.
“We’re getting up a group to go to vespers for anyone who’s interested,” she added.
I didn’t know what vespers were and didn’t ask. Mr. Fife confided that it was a late afternoon/early evening service, more singing than scriptures today.
“Show Natalie to her room,” Ingrid ordered any male Berry within hearing range.
When Kris and I both reached for the suitcase handle, he offered dryly, “Um, I believe this is my job, miss.”
“We should leave no later than three-forty,” said Ingrid.
Kris said to me,
“How’s the driving?” Mr. Berry asked Kris.
“Fine. No worse than this morning.”
“Have you seen the bridegroom yet?” his father asked me cheerfully.
I had, from the corner of my eye. It was most assuredly Nelson on his knees in front of the stone fireplace, feeding what looked like wedding trash—silver-belled wrapping paper and flattened gift boxes—into the flames. I watched him stand, replace the screen, survey the room. Spot me. We both smiled.
He was, once and still, adorable, much the same as the teenage Nelson on the dock, which meant not only a diver’s stride in my direction but the mixture of wholesomeness and sex appeal that few boys of my acquaintance had ever possessed. He kissed me lightly, releasing an acute pang that had no business surviving for a decade. “Robin’s talked about nothing else since you RSVP’d,” he said.
I murmured, “
Nothing
else? You poor guy.”
“It’s true! She called me from the store that day you turned up and had me paged, which she never does.”
“And you knew who she was talking about?”
“Immediately.”
I took a sip of eggnog, which had a fleck of carton wax floating on its surface. “You have a good memory for stray guests,” I said.
Nelson raised his punch glass and said, “I’m glad you could come.”
I smiled, the wistful kind of smile that dismisses an untenable subject. I asked if any of the Fifes were here yet.
Nelson raised his voice, “Are there any Fifes here yet?”—a cue for the broadly smiling, portly, and mostly bald man standing a few feet away to open his arms.
“Mr. Fife?” I asked, pretending to be astonished.
He alternately hugged me and inspected me like a long-lost favorite graduate who had returned to student-teach. Throughout the extended greeting, I marveled at the depth of his unearned affection for me—the friend of Robin who’d spent one week a decade ago feeling persecuted while under his supervision. I joked between hugs, “Boy, I’d like to see you with someone you spent
two
weeks’ vacation with.”
“Why, Natty,” said Mr. Fife. “We may not have seen you as much as we might have liked, but we’ve always felt very close to you, and your parents, too.”
It gave me the second pang since my arrival—Mr. Fife’s asking so little in the way of friendship, and my feeling even less in return. I wanted to say, “But we’re not close. We hardly know each other. Spending a week together a decade ago does not exactly make you Uncle Donald.”
I said instead, “Congratulations. You must feel as if Robin’s marrying into the family of your oldest friends in the world.”
“You’re right about that,” chortled Mr. Fife. “We were already one big happy family.”
Kris called my name from the punch bowl. He held out a refill in one hand and coughed into his other fist with a guttural explosion that only I would hear as “
mekhutonim
.” I laughed.
Mr. Fife volunteered that Mrs. Fife was upstairs attending to some mother-of-the-bride business, and Robin was driving up first thing in the A.M. with the boys, who, believe it or not, had become doting big brothers.
Ingrid interrupted with, “Maybe Natalie would like to change before she officially joins the party.” I was wearing jeans and a purple parka. I said, “I
would
like to change, thank you,” picturing the clash of my short orange part-angora sweaterdress among the embroidered jumpers of Santa red.
“We’re getting up a group to go to vespers for anyone who’s interested,” she added.
I didn’t know what vespers were and didn’t ask. Mr. Fife confided that it was a late afternoon/early evening service, more singing than scriptures today.
“Show Natalie to her room,” Ingrid ordered any male Berry within hearing range.
When Kris and I both reached for the suitcase handle, he offered dryly, “Um, I believe this is my job, miss.”
“We should leave no later than three-forty,” said Ingrid.
Kris said to me,
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