Wedding in Great Neck (9781101607701) by Yona Zeldis McDonough
Authors: Yona Zeldis McDonough
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Portia (the girl would sleep all day if allowed), Gretchen faced the inevitable
now what?
The rest of the household would be consumed by wedding preparations; the women who were doing hair and makeup had arrived, along with the florist, and Betsy had disappeared in a flurry of instructions, directives, and imperatives.
Gretchen decided against having her brows done after all; she’d seen the alarming mask—a gleam of purple shadow, false lashes as thick as fur—on the young woman assigned to the job and decided she did not want this person anywhere near her face. She planned to steer clear of the hairstylist too. Her long, wild curls may have been a mess, but they were her mess, and she liked them just the way they were.
Outside, the gorgeous June day had beckoned. Even though the weather report, which had been a constant, feverish topic of conversation since her arrival, was predicting a thunderstorm in the late afternoon, there was no evidence of it yet: the sky was a limpid cerulean blue, and only the gentlest of breezes wafted over the fat pink roses that bloomed along the stone wall outside the kitchen door.
And so here she was, clad in the sensible black maillot, a trusty, tried-and-true staple of the Lands’ End catalog that did not let her down, even with the extra poundage she was carrying. Spread out across a chaise longue was one of her mother’s heavenly white towels, ready to receive her when she finished her swim. Swimming was good: it cleared her mind of Ennis, of Justine, of Angelica, and of just about everything else. She focused instead on the movement of her body as it sped through the water, arm over arm, legs kicking vigorously behind her.
She had swum the pool’s length about six times when her solitude was broken by a buff, tanned guy with a smoothly shaved head who was walking purposefully across the lawn, past the pool. He gave her a friendly wave, and she waved back, though she didn’t know who he was. He looked good though. He wore cutoffs, and he was shirtless; an amazing pair of tattoos—huge blue-black wings whose rippling feathers were filled with slashes of purple, scarlet, blue, and green—covered his shoulders and draped down his back.
Gretchen, who was a secret admirer of such bodily markings and, though she would never have told her daughters, was contemplating having a small tattoo—A flower? No, that was such a cliché; perhaps a bee or a mushroom would be better, more original—inked on her ankle or her hip, was mightily impressed by the whole package. She remained at the deep end, treading water as she watched him disappear into a shed and then emerge again with a red wheelbarrow. Mystery solved. He was clearly someone her mother had hired, part of the grounds crew, no doubt. Not that such a thing would bother her. Not a bit. Hadn’t she just been fantasizing she might meet someone at this wedding? Well, she hadn’t imagined anyone this hot. Gretchen continued treading water and hoping that her sodden ponytail did not make her look too foolish.
“How’s the water?” he called out.
“Fabulous,” she replied.
He nodded as if this were important information worth weighing and considering.
“I’m Gretchen,” she added.
“Jon,” he said. He adjusted the wheelbarrow. “You’re here for the wedding, right?”
“Sister of the bride,” she said. The treading was tiring, but she didn’t want to move down to the shallow end, where the water would no longer cover her. She wasn’t ready for him to see her in her bathing suit. Not yet, anyway.
He nodded again. “Big day for your family.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” she said. She was aware that she sounded too effusive somehow, as if she were drunk. But she hadn’t met anyone who had appealed to her in the longest time, and she was seriously out of practice.
“Well, have fun,” he said, resuming his walk with the wheelbarrow. The sun gleamed on his head; maybe he oiled it.
“See you,” she called back
now what?
The rest of the household would be consumed by wedding preparations; the women who were doing hair and makeup had arrived, along with the florist, and Betsy had disappeared in a flurry of instructions, directives, and imperatives.
Gretchen decided against having her brows done after all; she’d seen the alarming mask—a gleam of purple shadow, false lashes as thick as fur—on the young woman assigned to the job and decided she did not want this person anywhere near her face. She planned to steer clear of the hairstylist too. Her long, wild curls may have been a mess, but they were her mess, and she liked them just the way they were.
Outside, the gorgeous June day had beckoned. Even though the weather report, which had been a constant, feverish topic of conversation since her arrival, was predicting a thunderstorm in the late afternoon, there was no evidence of it yet: the sky was a limpid cerulean blue, and only the gentlest of breezes wafted over the fat pink roses that bloomed along the stone wall outside the kitchen door.
And so here she was, clad in the sensible black maillot, a trusty, tried-and-true staple of the Lands’ End catalog that did not let her down, even with the extra poundage she was carrying. Spread out across a chaise longue was one of her mother’s heavenly white towels, ready to receive her when she finished her swim. Swimming was good: it cleared her mind of Ennis, of Justine, of Angelica, and of just about everything else. She focused instead on the movement of her body as it sped through the water, arm over arm, legs kicking vigorously behind her.
She had swum the pool’s length about six times when her solitude was broken by a buff, tanned guy with a smoothly shaved head who was walking purposefully across the lawn, past the pool. He gave her a friendly wave, and she waved back, though she didn’t know who he was. He looked good though. He wore cutoffs, and he was shirtless; an amazing pair of tattoos—huge blue-black wings whose rippling feathers were filled with slashes of purple, scarlet, blue, and green—covered his shoulders and draped down his back.
Gretchen, who was a secret admirer of such bodily markings and, though she would never have told her daughters, was contemplating having a small tattoo—A flower? No, that was such a cliché; perhaps a bee or a mushroom would be better, more original—inked on her ankle or her hip, was mightily impressed by the whole package. She remained at the deep end, treading water as she watched him disappear into a shed and then emerge again with a red wheelbarrow. Mystery solved. He was clearly someone her mother had hired, part of the grounds crew, no doubt. Not that such a thing would bother her. Not a bit. Hadn’t she just been fantasizing she might meet someone at this wedding? Well, she hadn’t imagined anyone this hot. Gretchen continued treading water and hoping that her sodden ponytail did not make her look too foolish.
“How’s the water?” he called out.
“Fabulous,” she replied.
He nodded as if this were important information worth weighing and considering.
“I’m Gretchen,” she added.
“Jon,” he said. He adjusted the wheelbarrow. “You’re here for the wedding, right?”
“Sister of the bride,” she said. The treading was tiring, but she didn’t want to move down to the shallow end, where the water would no longer cover her. She wasn’t ready for him to see her in her bathing suit. Not yet, anyway.
He nodded again. “Big day for your family.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” she said. She was aware that she sounded too effusive somehow, as if she were drunk. But she hadn’t met anyone who had appealed to her in the longest time, and she was seriously out of practice.
“Well, have fun,” he said, resuming his walk with the wheelbarrow. The sun gleamed on his head; maybe he oiled it.
“See you,” she called back
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