doors at that pool. Ladd was their only son, and as Daniel had no children, there were no cousins. It would be up to me, then, to give the pool the life it needed. I tried to rearrange the placid scene before me, fill it with splashing children, the diving board always quivering.
From the staircase, I heard footsteps: definite, male, not Ladd’s. I didn’t turn, though I knew it was rude. Ladd’s father stood there quietly and I imagined I could feel joy emanating from him. Ladd had delivered the news, how easy it had been. Not the barest whimper of objection. When I did turn around, he wouldn’t say a word about that, but just say my name, and tell me I looked pretty. What else does a man say to a woman dressed up for a party? What else does a man hand to a woman who’s agreed to marry him but a gold pen to sign a legal document?
Would John Keats have signed a prenup? Would Emily Dickinson?
My constitution could only handle ignoring him for so long. I turned around. The red dress I wore had been purchased for the party, on sale at Filenes. It had spaghetti straps. The hem grazed my ankles.
“Brett!” His eyes looked ever so slightly glossy with sympathy. He likes me, I reminded myself. He is prepared to love me. He wants me to marry his son. “Don’t you look pretty,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Ladd came down the hall to stand next to his father. The two were dressed almost identically, in blue blazers and khakis. “Well,” Paul said. “Should we announce the engagement tonight? At the party?”
“No,” I said quickly. Ladd raised his eyebrows, surprised, and I said, “I want to tell my mother first.” As if anyone at the party knew of my mother’s existence, or she theirs.
“Of course,” Paul said, pretending my request made sense. The three of us went outside to wait for Ladd’s mother by the car.
I HAD BEEN TO one of Daniel Williams’s Fourth of July parties before, last year, when Ladd brought me home to meet his family. This time I knew what to expect and wasn’t taken aback by the valet parking, the full wait staff, the parquet dance floor installed on the lawn that overlooked the ocean. When we arrived, things were just getting underway. The band hadn’t started playing, and Ladd’s father went ahead and parked his own car, right beside the catering truck. Later on, there’d be professional fireworks, impressive enough to rival the town display down by the harbor. Ladd’s parents stopped to talk to some other early arrivals, and I walked out toward the deck while Ladd went to get us drinks. Daniel emerged and waved at me in a kind of half salute, then reached out to take my hand and examine the ring. “That was my mother’s,” he said.
I waited for him to congratulate me, then realized he was too polite—too old-world—to ever congratulate the bride. Instead he said, “I hope you’ll be very happy.”
“Thank you,” I said. Daniel didn’t drop my hand. He lowered it carefully, back down to my side. Then he let go.
“May I ask you a question?” I said.
“Of course.”
“Did your wife, Sylvia. Did she sign a prenuptial agreement?”
Daniel looked down at me. He had just cut his hair and it looked unexpectedly boyish. “No,” he said. “No, she didn’t.”
“Did you ask her to sign one?”
“No,” Daniel told me. He made his voice very careful. “No, Brett. I did not.”
Ladd walked onto the deck holding two glasses of wine. He handed me my glass and Daniel shook his hand vigorously. “Congratulations,” he said. His voice sounded very deep and very definite. “You have something good here, Ladd, and I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks,” Ladd said. The three of us turned to look out at the party. The guests all seemed to be arriving at once, and a swirl of navy blue and seersucker jackets blended with the wider, more colorful array of summer dresses.
“It’s a beautiful night,” I said. Daniel placed his hand on my bare shoulder, not squeezing but
From the staircase, I heard footsteps: definite, male, not Ladd’s. I didn’t turn, though I knew it was rude. Ladd’s father stood there quietly and I imagined I could feel joy emanating from him. Ladd had delivered the news, how easy it had been. Not the barest whimper of objection. When I did turn around, he wouldn’t say a word about that, but just say my name, and tell me I looked pretty. What else does a man say to a woman dressed up for a party? What else does a man hand to a woman who’s agreed to marry him but a gold pen to sign a legal document?
Would John Keats have signed a prenup? Would Emily Dickinson?
My constitution could only handle ignoring him for so long. I turned around. The red dress I wore had been purchased for the party, on sale at Filenes. It had spaghetti straps. The hem grazed my ankles.
“Brett!” His eyes looked ever so slightly glossy with sympathy. He likes me, I reminded myself. He is prepared to love me. He wants me to marry his son. “Don’t you look pretty,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Ladd came down the hall to stand next to his father. The two were dressed almost identically, in blue blazers and khakis. “Well,” Paul said. “Should we announce the engagement tonight? At the party?”
“No,” I said quickly. Ladd raised his eyebrows, surprised, and I said, “I want to tell my mother first.” As if anyone at the party knew of my mother’s existence, or she theirs.
“Of course,” Paul said, pretending my request made sense. The three of us went outside to wait for Ladd’s mother by the car.
I HAD BEEN TO one of Daniel Williams’s Fourth of July parties before, last year, when Ladd brought me home to meet his family. This time I knew what to expect and wasn’t taken aback by the valet parking, the full wait staff, the parquet dance floor installed on the lawn that overlooked the ocean. When we arrived, things were just getting underway. The band hadn’t started playing, and Ladd’s father went ahead and parked his own car, right beside the catering truck. Later on, there’d be professional fireworks, impressive enough to rival the town display down by the harbor. Ladd’s parents stopped to talk to some other early arrivals, and I walked out toward the deck while Ladd went to get us drinks. Daniel emerged and waved at me in a kind of half salute, then reached out to take my hand and examine the ring. “That was my mother’s,” he said.
I waited for him to congratulate me, then realized he was too polite—too old-world—to ever congratulate the bride. Instead he said, “I hope you’ll be very happy.”
“Thank you,” I said. Daniel didn’t drop my hand. He lowered it carefully, back down to my side. Then he let go.
“May I ask you a question?” I said.
“Of course.”
“Did your wife, Sylvia. Did she sign a prenuptial agreement?”
Daniel looked down at me. He had just cut his hair and it looked unexpectedly boyish. “No,” he said. “No, she didn’t.”
“Did you ask her to sign one?”
“No,” Daniel told me. He made his voice very careful. “No, Brett. I did not.”
Ladd walked onto the deck holding two glasses of wine. He handed me my glass and Daniel shook his hand vigorously. “Congratulations,” he said. His voice sounded very deep and very definite. “You have something good here, Ladd, and I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks,” Ladd said. The three of us turned to look out at the party. The guests all seemed to be arriving at once, and a swirl of navy blue and seersucker jackets blended with the wider, more colorful array of summer dresses.
“It’s a beautiful night,” I said. Daniel placed his hand on my bare shoulder, not squeezing but
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