Beautiful Day

ANN

She woke up sprawled across the massive, soft, luxurious hotel bed alone. She lifted her head. Hangover. And her eyes burned. She had fallen asleep crying.

“Jim?” she said. Her voice was as dry as crackers. Jim had pulled on khaki pants and a polo shirt and had left when she asked, clicking the door shut behind him. Ann figured he went down to have a drink at the bar, then slipped back upstairs after she was asleep.

But he wasn’t in the room.

“Jim?” she said. She checked the bathroom-there was enough room in the Jacuzzi for three people to sleep comfortably-but it was empty. She checked the walk-in closet and opened the door to the balcony.

No Jim.

Her head started to throb, and her breathing became shallow. She had lost H.W. once, when he was nine years old, at the North Carolina State Fair in Raleigh. Ann had had all three boys in tow; they were headed to the ag tent to see the biggest pumpkin and the prettiest tomatoes and to taste prize-winning hush puppies and dilled green beans. But Ann had stopped to talk to one of her constituents, and at some point during the conversation, H.W. had wandered off. He was missing for seventy-four minutes before Ann and the state fair security officers found him in the Village of Yesteryear, watching a woman in colonial garb weaving cloth on a loom. Ann had spent those seventy-four minutes in a purple panic; it had felt like someone had flipped her upside down and was shaking her.

She felt similarly now. Maybe Jim had come back up to the room to sleep, and maybe he’d left again. Maybe he was down in the restaurant having coffee and reading the paper. But no, Ann didn’t think he’d been back. There had been no imprint of his body on the bed; she had definitely slept alone.

She brushed her teeth, washed her face, took some aspirin, put on the outfit she had planned especially for today-a cherry red gingham A-line skirt and a scalloped-neck white T-shirt and a pair of red Jack Rogers sandals that pinched between her toes, but which she’d seen nearly half a dozen woman on Nantucket wearing. Her outfit was too cheerful for the amount of anxiety she was experiencing.

Where was he? Where had he gone?

She checked her cell phone, now showing a dangerously low 12 percent battery. Nothing from Jim, only a text from Olivia that said, Party was wonderful. Madame X can go fuck herself.

Typical Olivia.

Where would Jim have gone? Ann racked her brain. She was a problem solver; she would figure it out. The Lewises and the Cohens and the Shelbys were all staying at the Brant Point Inn, which was a bed-and-breakfast. None of them would have had space to accommodate Jim in their rooms.

Had he imposed on the Carmichaels and slept on their sofa? God, Ann hoped not. How would that look, the father of the groom kicked out of his hotel room? Ann couldn’t believe she had ordered him out. But she had been angry last night, angrier than she could ever remember being in all these years. Jim had been right: it was Ann’s fault that Helen was here.

Then a ghastly thought encroached: Had Jim gone to spend the night with Helen? Had more transpired between them at the hospital than he’d admitted? They had looked pretty chummy upon returning to the yacht club.

Ann raced into the bathroom. She was going to be sick. Her body was in rejection mode, just as it had been twenty years earlier. For weeks after the hot air balloon ride, she had been unable to keep her meals down.

She retched into the toilet. Of all the things for the mother of the groom to be doing on the morning of her son’s wedding.

One day, of course, Chance would get married, and Ann would be subjected to the humiliating sight of Helen and Jim as “Chance’s parents” again. She had successfully avoided attending Chance’s graduation from the Baylor School because Ann had a senatorial session she couldn’t miss. But Chance would graduate from Sewanee in a few years. There would be the baptisms of Chance’s future children and then those children’s graduations and weddings.

Ann would never be rid of Helen. They were tethered together forever.

Ann rinsed her mouth and made a cursory attempt at applying makeup, although she had a salon appointment for hair and makeup that afternoon. As she was applying mascara, staring bug eyed and purse lipped at herself in the mirror, she realized that Jim must have gone and stayed with the boys.

She snapped up her purse and, filled with a cool wind of relief, dashed out the door.

Jim had taken their rental car-it was no longer parked in the lot across the street-and so Ann was stuck taking a taxi. This was okay; she didn’t know her way around anyway, and she might have popped a tire bouncing over the cobblestones. She had the address of the house Stuart had rented for himself and his groomsmen. She had all the important wedding information written down. Catholic schoolgirl Ann, organized Ann.

To the taxi driver, she said, “130 Surfside Road, please.”

The taxi negotiated the streets of town, including a bucking and bouncing trip up Main Street, and Ann ogled the impressive homes built by whaling fortunes in the 1800s. She would have loved to be out strolling this morning, peeking in the pocket gardens, admiring transom windows, and reading the plaques that named the original owners of the houses. Barzillai R. Burdett, Boatbuilder, 1846.

Instead of tracking down Jim.

So far the wedding weekend had been distinguished by Ann doing things, regretting them, then attempting to undo them. Looking at her behavior here, no one would believe that she had effectively served the city and county of Durham, representing 1.2 million of the state’s most educated and erudite citizens, for twenty-four years. As the taxi headed out of town, the houses grew farther apart. They passed a cemetery; then the land opened up, and there were pine trees, some low-lying scrub, the insistent smell of the ocean. A bike path bordered the road on one side-families pedaled to the beach, there were joggers and dog walkers and a group of kids sharing a skateboard. Then the taxi signaled and pulled down a sandy driveway. Back among the pine trees was a two-story cottage with front dormer windows and gray shingles. Two cars were parked out front, but neither was their rental car.

“This is it?” Ann said. “You’re sure?” She checked the piece of paper from her purse. “130 Surfside Road.”

The taxi driver was about twenty years old; he wore a blue button-down oxford shirt and Ray-Ban aviators and appeared to be the identical twin of Ford from Colgate, their waiter at the yacht club.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He wrote something on his clipboard. “This is 130.”

Ann climbed out of the cab, paid the kid an astronomical fare of twenty-five dollars (the same-length ride anywhere in the Research Triangle would have been seven dollars), and then felt utterly abandoned as the cab backed out of the driveway.

Ann walked to the front door, the damn Jack Rogers sandals torturing the tender spot between her first two toes, and knocked.

A moment later, H.W. answered.

Henry William, named after Ann’s father. Ann was nearly as happy to see him now as she had been when he turned up at the fairgrounds seventeen years earlier.

“Hi, Mom,” he said.

Of her three boys, H.W. was the least complicated. As a child, Ann and Jim had nicknamed him “Pup,” short for “puppy,” because he was just about that easy to please. Whereas Stuart was the dutiful firstborn and Ryan was the emotionally complex aesthete, all H.W. needed was to be run, fed, and put to bed. The occasional pat on the head.

“Hi, honey,” Ann said. “Is your father here?”

“Dad?” H.W. said. He turned around and peered into the house. “Hey, is Dad here?”

“No,” a voice said. Ryan appeared, smelling of aftershave, his hair damp. “Hi, Mom.”

Ann stepped into the rental house. It reeked of mold and cigarettes and beer. On the coffee table, she spied a dirty ashtray and empty bottles of Stella and plastic cups with quarters lying in the bottom. There was a sad-looking tweedy green sofa and a recliner in mustard yellow vinyl and a clock on the wall meant to look like a ship’s wheel. On the walls hung some truly atrocious nautical paintings. SportsCenter was muted on the big flat-screen TV, which looked as unlikely as a spaceship in the middle of the living room.

“Dad’s not here?” she asked Ryan.

“No,” he said.

“He hasn’t been here at all? Last night? This morning?”

“No,” Ryan said. He cocked his head. “Mom?”

Ann deflected his concern. She nodded at the walls. “Nice place,” she said.

“It’s like we’ve been beamed back thirty years to a time-share decorated by Carol Brady after the divorce and meth addiction,” Ryan said. “Jethro wants to burn it down solely in the name of good taste.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Ann said. On the far wall was a Thomas Kinkade print.

“But we drank and smoked like naughty schoolchildren,” Ryan said. “Went to bed so blotto that the plastic venetian blinds in the windows seemed whimsical.”

At that moment, Chance came down the stairs, wearing only boxer shorts. He was so long and lean and pale that seeing him in only underwear seemed indecent. Ann averted her eyes.

“Hey, Senator,” Chance said.

“Hi,” Ann said. “How are you feeling, sweetie?”

He shrugged. “Okay, I guess,” he said. “I can breathe.”

“Good,” Ann said. She had thought Jim would be here, he wasn’t here, that was bad, that was awful, and now she had to explain, or make up a story. Helen, she thought. Where was Helen staying? Did she dare ask Chance?

Suddenly she felt hands on her shoulders.

“Hey, beautiful lady,” Jethro said. He kissed the top of her head.

“Hey,” Ann bleated. She felt like a little lost lamb. To avoid further questioning, she gave herself a tour of the house. She stumbled through a doorway into the kitchen. A young woman was sitting at the rectangular Formica table, smoking a cigarette. She was wearing an oversized N.C. State T-shirt, and not much else. It was H.W. ’s T-shirt. And then Ann got it.

“Oh,” she said. “Hello. I’m Ann Graham.”

The woman stood immediately, setting her cigarette in a half clamshell that served as an ashtray, and held out her hand. “Autumn Donahue,” she said. She had hair the color of shiny pennies, and lovely long legs. “I’m one of the bridesmaids. I was Jenna’s roommate at William and Mary.”

Ann reverted to state senator mode and shook the woman’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Autumn.”

Ryan entered the kitchen. “I don’t understand why you’re looking for Dad at eight thirty in the morning.”

“He got up early and went out,” Ann said. “I thought he might have come here.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Ryan said. He eyed Jethro. “Isn’t she a terrible liar?”

“Terrible,” Jethro said.

“Plus, I wanted to make you all breakfast,” Ann said. She opened the refrigerator, hoping her bluff hadn’t just been called, and exhaled when she saw eggs and milk and butter and a hunk of aged cheddar (Ryan and Jethro must have done the shopping) and a container of blueberries and a half gallon of orange juice.

“I’m hungry!” Autumn said.

Ann took out a mixing bowl and cracked all the eggs; she added milk, salt and pepper, a handful of grated cheddar. She melted butter in a frying pan. She thought, Where the hell is Jim? It’s the morning of Stuart’s wedding, for God’s sake. Ann felt her temper smoking and sizzling like the hot pan. And yet how could she be angry when she had asked him to leave? She had told him to get out.

A Quaalude would be nice right now, she thought.

She poured the egg mixture into the pan, popped a couple of pieces of seeded whole-grain bread into the rusty toaster, and got to work on the coffee. Starbucks, in the freezer. Thank God for small blessings.

Ryan said, “Mom, you do not have to do this. I’m sure you’d rather be having breakfast at your hotel.”

“I’m fine!” Ann sang out. “It’s the last morning I’ll ever be able to do this for Stuart. Tomorrow, he’ll belong to Jenna.”

“Whoa!” Ryan said. “Sappy alert.”

“Where is Stuart, anyway?” Ann asked.

Ryan said, “The door to his room is closed. I knocked earlier, fearing he had been asphyxiated by the synthetic bed linens, and he told me to go away.” Ryan lowered his voice. “I guess he and Jenna had a spat last night concerning She Who Shall Not Be Named.”

“A spat?” Ann said. A spat the night before the wedding wasn’t good. A spat about She Who Shall Not Be Named wasn’t good at all. Why must love be so agonizing? Ann wondered. She moved the eggs around the pan, slowly, over low heat, so they would be nice and creamy. “This reminds me of when we used to visit Stuart at the Sig Ep house. Remember when we used to do that?”

“The Sig Ep house was nicer,” Ryan said.

“The Sig Ep house was nicer,” Ann agreed, and they both laughed.

A few minutes later, Ann had managed to plate, on mismatched Fiesta ware, scrambled eggs, toast, juice, coffee, and blueberries with a little sugar. They crowded around the sad Formica table: H.W., Ryan, Jethro, Chance, and Autumn.

“We need Stuart,” Ann said. “This is supposed to be for him.”

“I just knocked on his door,” Chance said. “He told me he’d be down in a minute.”

“It’ll all be gone in a minute,” H.W. said, helping himself to a second piece of toast. “No grits?”

“Grits?” Ryan said. “Please don’t tell me you still eat grits.”

“Every day,” H.W. said.

“Oh, my God,” Ryan said. “My twin brother is Jeff Foxworthy.”

“Well, your boyfriend is André Leon Talley,” H.W. said. He grinned at Jethro. “No disrespect, man.”

“None taken,” Jethro said. “Love ALT.”

Autumn pointed her fork at H.W. “I’m impressed you know who André Leon Talley is.”

“What?” H.W. said. “I have been known to read the occasional issue of Vogue.”

“Oh, come on,” Ryan said.

“Hot women half dressed,” H.W. said. He hooted and gave Chance a high five.

Ryan said, “Mom, aren’t you eating?”

“Oh, no,” Ann said. “I couldn’t possibly.”

She left the kitchen to retrieve her purse from the scratchy green sofa and to check her phone. No new messages, 3 percent battery. She stepped outside to use the last bit of juice to call Jim’s cell phone. She should have called him from the taxi, but she had been sure he would be here, with the kids.

The phone rang and rang and rang. She got Jim’s voice mail, but before Ann could leave a message, her battery died.

Where are you? Ann thought. Where the hell did you go?

Ann and Jim had joined the wine-tasting group in 1992. The invitation had come from a woman named Shell Phillips, who had recently moved to Durham from Philadelphia when her husband took a job in the physics department at Duke. Shell Phillips was a northerner, which-although the Civil War was 125 years in the past-still marked her as a potential enemy. She was from the Main Line, she said, Haverford, she said, and Ann bobbed her head, pretending to know what this meant. Shell Phillips had introduced herself to Ann at the Kroger. Hello, Senator Graham, I’ve been so wanting to meet you, someone pointed you out to me the other night at the Washington Duke.

Shell Phillips had shiny, dark hair that she wore in a bob tucked behind her ears, and a strand of pearls and pearl earrings. Clearly she was trying to fit in; Ann had heard that most northern women went to the grocery store in their yoga clothes.

Shell Phillips asked if Ann and Jim might want to join a wine-tasting group that Shell was putting together. Just a fun thing, they’d done it in Haverford, five or six couples, once a month. A different couple would be responsible for hosting each month, choosing a varietal and getting a case of different labels so that they could compare and contrast. Hors d’oeuvres to complement the wine.

Just a little social thing, Shell Phillips said. Like a cocktail party, really. We had such fun with it back home. It would be wonderful if you and your husband would join us.

Of course, Ann said. We’d love to be part of it.

She had committed without asking Jim because despite her natural skepticism toward northerners, she thought a wine-tasting group might add some flair to their social life. She and Jim could stand to learn a little about wine; when Ann was at the Washington Duke or somewhere else for dinner, she normally defaulted and ordered a glass of white Zinfandel or the house Chablis. Shell Phillips might have assumed all southerners made their own wine. Any which way, Ann felt flattered that someone had sought her out for a reason that had nothing to do with local politics.

Yes, yes, yes, count them in.

There had been six couples. In addition to Ann and Jim, and Shell and her husband, Clayton Phillips, there were the Lewises, Olivia and Robert, whom Ann and Jim were already friends with, as well as three couples unfamiliar to them: the Greenes, the Fairlees, and Nathaniel and Helen Oppenheimer.

The wine-tasting group was a success from the start. They began with chardonnays at the Phillips’s house, a beautiful old stone home on West Club Boulevard. It had been one of the best parties Ann had ever attended. She had drunk no fewer than eight glasses of chardonnay, and she nibbled on wonderful cheeses, and smoked salmon dip, and pâtés. (Where had Shell Phillips gotten her hands on such provisions? Charlotte, she said.) The night had ended with everyone dancing to Patsy Cline in the Phillipses’ ballroom. Who knew such sophisticated fun could be had in their little town? Ann had babbled on and on in the car on the way home. It was nice to expand their circle; their social life had needed a boost. Ann had noticed the other women’s outfits: both Shell Phillips and Helen Oppenheimer had looked more glamorous than Ann, who had worn a linen skirt that nearly reached her ankles. She would go shopping in Charlotte before next month’s wine group.

Merlots at the Lewises’.

Sauvignon blancs at the Greenes’.

Ann was desperate to host, and she wanted to do champagnes. Expensive choice, Jim said. Yes, it was expensive, but that was part of the appeal. Ann bought two cases of champagne; most of it she had to special order from the bottle shop: Veuve Clicquot, Taittinger, Moët et Chandon, Perrier-Jouët, Schramsberg, Mumm, Pol Roger. Ann killed herself over the hors d’oeuvres. She toasted and seasoned macadamia nuts; she prepared phyllo triangles with three fillings. She bought five pounds of shrimp cocktail.

A thousand dollars spent, when all was said and done, though she’d never admitted that to Jim.

The night should have been a great success, but from the get-go, things were off-kilter. Helen Oppenheimer showed up alone; Nathaniel was sick, she said. Then Helen proceeded to get very drunk. But really, Ann thought, they all got very drunk. It was something about the nature of champagne, or about the tiny, delicate (insubstantial) hors d’oeuvres Ann had prepared. The evening reached a point where Helen collapsed onto Ann and Jim’s sofa and said, “I’ve been lying to all of you. I’m sorry. Nathaniel isn’t sick. We’ve separated.”

There were expressions of shock followed by sympathy, followed by a lot of confessional talk, all of it too intimate for the nature of their group. However, Ann had willingly participated in it. She found the news of Helen’s separation titillating. It turned out that Helen, who worked in the development office at Fuqua, was desperate for children. And Nathaniel, who was a curator at the North Carolina Museum of Art, refused to have any. Their sex life was a joke, Helen said. In fact, Helen suspected that Nathaniel was gay.

“It’s an irreconcilable difference,” Helen said. “It is THE irreconcilable difference. So I left.”

Ann and the other women agreed that Helen should have left. Helen was young, and so beautiful. She would find somebody else. She would have children.

When the night drew to a close, Helen was… well, if it hadn’t been for her tragic revelation, Ann might have called her a sloppy drunk. She couldn’t drive herself home. Ann volunteered Jim to drive her.

Ann remembered Olivia giving her googly eyes. As in What the hell is wrong with you? But Ann was too drunk herself to pick up on it.

She remembered that Jim had come home whistling.

But at the time, Ann thought nothing of it. She was happy that Helen had felt close enough to the group to reveal the truth. It meant the evening had been a success. And the next day everyone called to thank Ann and tell her it was the best wine tasting yet.

Cabernets at the Fairlees’.

Finally, it was Helen’s turn to host. She had moved out of the house that she had shared with Nathaniel and into one of the brand-new lofts built at Brightleaf Square. She invited everyone over for a port tasting. She would serve only desserts, she said, and cigars for the men.

Ann had been excited to go. She was dying to see what those lofts looked like, and she wanted to support Helen in her new life. It must have been difficult to stay in the wine-tasting group as the only single person among couples. But then Ryan got the chicken pox. On the Saturday of the port tasting, he had a temperature of 103 degrees and was covered in red spots. Jim had offered to stay home and let Ann go. But Ann wouldn’t hear of it. She didn’t really like port anyway, and Helen had made a big deal about the Cuban cigars she had gotten from a friend of hers living in Stockholm. Jim should go. Furthermore, Ryan was a mama’s boy, a trait that became even more pronounced when he was sick. Ann couldn’t imagine Jim staying home to deal with him.

“You go,” Ann said.

“You’re sure?” Jim said. “We could both stay home.”

“No, no, no!” Ann said. “That would make it seem like we’re rejecting Helen.”

“It will not seem like we’re rejecting Helen,” Jim said. “It will seem like our child has the chicken pox.”

“You go,” Ann said. “I insist.”

At the groomsmen’s house, breakfast was devoured, and everyone complimented Ann’s efforts in the kitchen-especially Autumn, who seemed surprisingly at ease with Ann, considering that Autumn was wearing no pants and had spent the night with Ann’s son after knowing him all of six hours. Ann cleared the dishes and began washing them at the sink, until Ryan and Jethro nudged her out of the way and told her to go relax.

Relax? she thought.

She headed upstairs to find Stuart.

Ann often wondered: If Jim had stayed home to take care of Ryan with the chicken pox and Ann had gone to the port tasting at Helen’s new apartment, would any of this have happened?

As it was, Jim went to Helen’s party and returned home at 3:20 in the morning. Ann had fallen asleep a little after ten after giving Ryan a baking soda bath, but she opened one eye to Jim, and the clock, when he climbed into bed. He smelled unfamiliar-like cigar smoke, and something else.

In the morning, Ann asked, “How was the party?”

Jim nodded. “Yep. It was good.”

In the afternoon, Olivia called. She said, “Helen Oppenheimer is trouble. She was all over every man at that party.” She paused. “What time did Jim get home?”

“Oh,” Ann said. “Not late.”

The affair had started that night, or at least that was what Jim confessed later. Ann had her suspicions that something had actually happened when Jim drove Helen home after the champagne party. But Ann had continued on, blissfully unaware, throughout the spring, into the summer.

It was in July that Shell Phillips had called with the idea of hot air ballooning. It could be done near Asheville, in the western part of the state, a four-hour drive away. They would lift off at five in the evening and land just before sunset in a meadow where there would be a gourmet picnic dinner with wines to match. There was a bed-and-breakfast nearby where couples could spend the night.

“Perfect for our group,” Shell said.

Ann had been thrilled by the prospect of ballooning, and she accepted right away. She wasn’t sure how Jim would react. He had been moody around the house, sometimes snapping at Ann and the kids. He bought a ten-speed bicycle and started going on long rides on the weekends; sometimes he was gone for three hours. Ann thought the bike riding was probably a good thing. She said to Olivia, “He must have seen Breaking Away one night on TV. He’s obsessed with the biking.”

Ann started calling him “Cutter.”

She worried that Jim might not want to go on an all-day ballooning adventure with the wine-tasting group. But when she asked him, he said yes right away. It was almost as if he already knew about it, Ann thought.

It had been so many years earlier that certain details were now lost. What did Ann remember about the hot air ballooning trip? She remembered that Jim had been quiet in the car on the way to Asheville. Normally on a ride that long, he popped in a cassette of Waylon Jennings or the Marshall Tucker Band, and he and Ann sang along, happily out of key. But on that ride, Jim had been silent. Ann asked him what the matter was, and he said tersely, “Nothing is the matter.”

Jim liked to stop on the highway at Bob’s Big Boy for lunch. He positively adored Bob’s Big Boy; he always ordered the catfish sandwich and the strawberry pie. But this time, when Ann suggested stopping, he said, “Not hungry.”

Ann said, “Well, what if I’m hungry?”

Jim shook his head and kept on driving.

Ann remembered gathering with the group in the expansive green field; she remembered her heightened sense of anticipation. Along with Ann, Helen Oppenheimer seemed the most excited. She had been positively glowing.

Ann remembered the gas fire, the heat, the billowing balloon, the stomach-twisting elation of lifting up off the ground. She recalled the incredible beauty of the patchwork fields below them. The farmland, the woods, the creeks, streams, and ponds below them. She filled with pride. North Carolina was the most picturesque state in the nation-and she represented it.

The basket was eight feet square. Their group was packed in snugly. Ann, at one point, found herself hip to hip with Steve Fairlee and Robert Lewis as they leaned over the edge and waved to children playing a game of Wiffle ball below. It was only bad luck that caused Ann to turn around to see how Jim was faring. She happened to catch the smallest of gestures-Jim grabbing Helen’s hand and giving it a surreptitious squeeze. Ann blinked. She thought, What? She hoped she’d imagined it, but she knew that she hadn’t. She hoped it was innocent, but she knew Jim Graham. Jim wasn’t a hand grabber-or he hadn’t been-with anyone except for Ann. He used to grab Ann’s hand all the time: when they were dating, when they were engaged, the first few years of marriage. It was his gesture of affection; it was his love thing.

And at that moment, it all crashed down on Ann. The champagne party, the port party, Jim coming home at three in the morning, the absurdly long bike rides. He rode to Helen’s loft, Ann knew it, and they fucked away the afternoon.

Ann came very close to jumping out of the basket. She would die colliding with North Carolina; her body would leave an Ann-sized-and-shaped divot, like in a Wile E. Coyote cartoon.

Instead she turned. The fire was hot enough to scorch her. She called out, “Hey, Cutter!”

Jim and Helen both looked over at her. Guilty, she thought. They were guilty.

Once back on the ground, Ann drank the exceptional wine Shell had selected, but ate nothing. She tried to keep up with the conversation swirling around her, but she kept drifting away. Jim-and Helen Oppenheimer. Of course, it was so obvious. Ann had been so stupid.

She shanghaied Olivia, pulling her away from the picnic blankets to the edge of the woods. She said, “I think my husband is having an affair with Helen.”

Olivia gave her a look of sympathy. Olivia knew. Possibly everyone knew.

After the picnic was eaten and every bottle of wine consumed, they all piled into a van that drove them back to where their cars were parked. When they arrived, it was ten o’clock. The other couples were all making the short drive to the bed-and-breakfast for the night. Ann and Jim had booked a room at the B &B as well, but there was no way Ann was going to spend the night under the same roof as Helen Oppenheimer. She was certain Jim and Helen had made plans to meet in Helen’s room in the middle of the night to fuck.

When Jim and Ann got into the car, Ann said, “Jim.” His name sounded unfamiliar on her tongue; she had been calling him “Cutter” for weeks.

“Yes, darling?” Jim said. The wine had significantly lightened his mood, or seeing Helen had. Ann wanted to slap him.

Ann said, “You’re sleeping with Helen Oppenheimer.”

Jim froze with his hand on the key in the ignition. The other couples were pulling away. Helen, in the lipstick-red Miata she had bought herself upon leaving Nathaniel, was pulling away.

Jim said, “Annie…”

“Confirm or deny,” Ann said. “And tell me the truth, please.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Are you in love with her?” Ann asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I think I am.”

Ann nearly swallowed her tongue. Her head swam with wine and the fumes from the balloon.

“Drive home,” Ann said.

“Annie…”

“Home!” Ann said.

“She’s pregnant,” Jim said. “She’s pregnant with my child.”

Ann had started to weep, although the news didn’t come as a surprise. Ann had known just from looking at Helen that she was pregnant. The glow.

Jim drove the four hours home; they arrived in Durham at two in the morning. Ann took the babysitter home, and by the time she returned, Jim had a bag packed. The very next day he moved into Brightleaf Square with Helen, and when Chance was born, he bought a house in Cary. Ann was certain he did this so that he and Helen would no longer be Ann’s constituents.

It had not been Ann’s intention to relive all of this on the weekend of her son’s wedding. But since she’d made the ill-advised decision to invite Helen, it now seemed inevitable that this would be exactly what she was thinking about.

Ann knocked on the last door on the left, which was the room where Stuart was staying. “Sweetie?” she said. “It’s Mom.”

No response. She pressed her ear against the door, then tried the knob. It was unlocked, but she couldn’t bring herself to open the door. One of the things she had learned when the boys were teenagers was that she should never enter their rooms uninvited.

“Stuart, honey?” she said. “I made breakfast. There’s still some left, but you’d better hurry or H.W. will finish it.”

No response.

“Stuart?” Ann said.

The door opened, and there stood Stuart in wrinkled madras shorts and a white undershirt. His hair was sticking up; his eyes were puffy. It had been years since Ann had seen Stuart look anything but pressed and professional. Right now, he seemed far younger than he was. Ann was again reminded of visiting Stuart at the Sig Ep house at Vanderbilt.

“Darling,” she said. “Are you okay?”

He shrugged. “Jenna’s upset.”

Ann nodded. “I heard something about that.”

“She found out about Crissy,” he said.

“What about Crissy?” Ann said. Had Stuart seen She Who Shall Not Be Named? Had he suffered a Crissy relapse? Oh, God. Ann had prayed nightly that infidelity wasn’t a behavior Jim had passed on to the boys. “What about Crissy, Stuart?”

“Just that we were… you know… engaged…” He swallowed. “And, um, that she has Grand-mère’s ring.”

“Oh, dear,” Ann said. “You never told her that?”

Stuart shook his head. “I didn’t see the point. I can’t stand talking about it.”

Well, yes, Ann thought; the entire family shared this sentiment.

“So she knew nothing about it?” Ann said. “Nothing at all?”

“She knew Crissy was my girlfriend. She didn’t know about the engaged part. Or the ring part.”

As a state senator, Ann had had plenty of lessons in damage control. She tried to assess how bad this was. Why oh why hadn’t Stuart just told Jenna about Crissy on their first few dates, during the information-gathering period? The engagement had been brief, a matter of weeks. Ill conceived from the start! Ann had never uttered an “I told you so,” but she had been very reluctant to hand over her grandmother’s ring, even though she had always planned on giving it to the first son ready to propose. She hadn’t thought Crissy Pine worthy of the ring; Ann had been certain the marriage wouldn’t last. Crissy was a complainer (she sent back food in restaurants, she criticized Stuart’s taste in clothing, and she mimicked his accent), and she was a spendthrift (she had a weakness for anything French-champagne, soap, perfume, antiques). Ann vividly remembered the day that Stuart broke off the engagement. He came home smiling for the first time in months, and the eczema that had been plaguing him for just as long stopped itching, he said, the instant Crissy drove away. The only problem was the ring. Stuart felt too guilty for breaking off the engagement to ask for it back.

Ann had said, Well, it’s a family heirloom, a two-and-a-half-carat diamond in a platinum Tiffany setting. It’s valuable, Stuart. We sure as hell better get it back.

But the ring had never been returned. Jim had made a gentleman’s phone call to Thaddeus Pine, Crissy’s father. Thaddeus had listened considerately and then called Stuart an “Indian giver.” Next, Ann and Jim had contacted an attorney. They had spent nearly a third of the ring’s value trying to force Crissy to return the ring, but their legal recourse was limited, and Ann’s high-profile career made her hesitant to pursue the lawsuit.

Now, Ann shuddered every time she thought of Crissy Pine. Who would want to keep a diamond ring after the engagement had been broken? No one! For a while, Ann checked on eBay, hoping the ring would turn up, but it never did, leaving Ann with the disturbing vision of her grandmother’s ring on Crissy’s finger.

“Oh, dear,” Ann said. “How upset is she?”

“Really upset,” Stuart said. “Like, really.”

“As in…” Ann said. Suddenly she imagined the wedding weekend going up in flames as dramatic as the ones that had swallowed Atlanta in 1864. Jenna would call the wedding off; Ann would watch her marriage to Jim fail again, she would lose him to Helen again. It was too hideous to contemplate; Ann felt light-headed. Quaalude! she thought. Please!

The spot between her toes throbbed with pain. She hated these shoes.

“Is Dad here?” Stuart asked hopefully. “I think I need to talk to him.”

“Not here,” Ann said. “I don’t know where he is. I threw him out of the room last night.”

“You did?” Stuart said.

Ann nodded slowly and whispered, “I did.”

She and Stuart were quiet for a moment. Ryan would have demanded every detail, but Stuart wouldn’t ask a thing.

“You don’t really need Dad,” Ann said. “Maybe I could talk to Jenna.” Ann was certain this was the solution. She would convince Jenna that Stuart’s not disclosing the full story about a very brief engagement was a minor infraction. Minor! Ann would say, And believe me, sweetie, I know what I’m talking about.

“No,” Stuart said. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

At that moment, Ann heard new voices in the living room. Helen’s voice. Most definitely Helen’s voice. Ann said to Stuart, “Helen’s here. I’m going downstairs.”

Stuart said, “I can’t deal with Helen right now. I don’t care if H.W. eats my breakfast.” He shut the door, then opened it a crack. “Thanks, though, Mom.”

“Oh, honey,” she said. “I love you so.”

Ann descended to the living room. Helen had just walked in the door with a man who towered over her, which was no small feat. The man was a giant; he must have been six-nine or six-ten. He was good looking, early fifties, graying hair, wearing a pair of white Bermuda shorts embroidered with navy whales, which would have gotten him egged on any street corner south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Helen said, “Hey, y’all! Is Chancey here? I’ve come to take him out for breakfast.”

Chance emerged from the kitchen, still wearing only his boxers. He said, “Mama?”

“Honey, your clothes.”

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I just got up a little while ago.”

“Chance,” Helen said. “This is Skip Lafferty, a friend of mine from Roanoke, way back in the day. Skip has a house here on Nantucket. He’s going to come with us to breakfast, then show us around the island.”

Skip Lafferty offered his hand. “Nice to meet you, Chance.” Then he waved at the rest of the room. “Nice to meet y’all.”

Ann was so relieved, she nearly levitated. She stepped forward and offered her hand. “I’m Ann Graham,” she said. “Lovely to meet you.”

Chance said, “I kind of just ate breakfast. Eggs and everything.”

“But sweetie,” Helen said, “I told you I’d be here at nine to pick you up.”

“I know,” Chance said. “But I think I just want to hang here with everyone else.”

Helen opened her mouth to speak just as Autumn stepped out of the kitchen. H.W. ’s shirt, Ann saw now, barely covered the girl’s tiny behind, and whereas ten minutes ago this might have bothered Ann, now that Autumn was displaying herself to Helen’s old friend Skip Lafferty, whose eyes were popping out of his head, Ann wanted to break out in peals of delighted laughter.

Jim wasn’t with Helen. Of course he wasn’t! Ann felt happily like an idiot.

Autumn said, “Oops, excuse me.” She winked at Skip Lafferty before scurrying up the stairs.

Chance said, “I’m not hungry. I want to stay here.”

“Honeybun,” Helen said. “Skip is eager to show us around. He has a restaurant picked out that serves the best corned beef hash.”

“But I already ate,” Chance said.

Ryan piped up. “Mom came over a little while ago, Helen, and made us all breakfast.”

Jethro appeared from the kitchen with a dish towel slung over his shoulder. He said, “Those were the best eggs I’ve ever eaten.”

Ann said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Chance already had breakfast plans.”

Helen wrinkled her nose, maybe because her senses were assaulted by the beer-and-cigarette miasma of the house, or maybe because the circumstances were so distasteful to her. Ann, of all people, had made Chance breakfast. “Well, he did and he does, and he’s going to honor them. Chance, go put clothes on, please.”

“Sorry, Mama,” Chance said. “I’m not going.”

There was an awkward silence in the room that was so refreshing, Ann could have swum around in it for hours.

Skip Lafferty said, “It’s okay, Helen. We can just go into town together, you and me.”

Helen put her hands on her hips. “Chancey,” she said.

“I’m nineteen, Mama,” he said. “Not nine.”

Helen kept her stance for another couple of seconds. H.W. burped. Ann watched Helen debate whether or not to persist with the tough-guy approach, or beg, or give up. Helen had always worn her emotions right on her face. There had been a time, after Jim had left Helen to come back to Ann, when Helen had shown up out of the blue at Ann’s office at the statehouse. She had Chance with her; he was three years old, a towhead with skin so pale it looked nearly albino. That was the first time Ann had ever seen Chance in person.

Helen had been a mess-crying, trying not to cry, screeching, beseeching. “Please,” she’d said. “My child is younger. I need Jim more than y’all do.”

Ann had seen and recognized the particular brand of pain Helen was feeling; she knew only too well what it felt like to be left by Jim Graham for another woman.

“I don’t need him, Helen,” Ann had said. “I just love him.”

Now, Helen capitulated. She said, “Fine, then, stay.” Her voice sounded like that of a jilted lover, or maybe that was just Ann projecting. “I’ll see y’all later, at the ceremony.”

If there is a ceremony, Ann thought.

Helen took Skip Lafferty’s arm and turned to go, without a good-bye to anyone.

Just then, the front door opened. Margot Carmichael stepped into the living room. Her cheeks were pink, and her forehead was shiny with perspiration.

“Hey,” she said. “Has anyone seen Jenna?”