Love In The Air

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“Oh, Dan!”

Peter laughed appropriately. “Great to see you, Mr. Matthews. Thanks for coming.” They were friends of his parents. The wife was short and thin; the husband was short and stout, with a red face. He had gripped Peter’s hand so hard as to cause him pain. They had a son whom Peter used to smoke pot with; he now ran a landscaping business.

Everything had gone well. They had heard a reading from Colossians. Reverend Micklethwaite had given a brief sermon (“I always tell the bride and groom not even to bother listening, because they’ll never remember a word of it anyway”). They had said their vows. Charlotte had had a catch in her voice. Jonathan had proffered the ring at the right moment and Peter had slipped it on Charlotte’s finger. They had kissed. They had gone down the aisle while the organ blared out an anthem. Flushed with excitement, they had been driven to the reception. Some long kisses in the back of the limousine. “I love you, Peter.” “Oh, Charlotte, I love you.” The photographer, a dark little man of foreign aspect, had behaved like a vicious dancing master and the picture taking was over quickly. And now they were in the receiving line.

He did love Charlotte. She looked very pretty today. He did love her. She was laughing, giggling! She had given him a passionate kiss in the car, and her thin lips seemed engorged. He could not think of a single reason not to have married her. They had some fun talks. She was bright. She was a good person, without excessive neuroses (sure, her family, but everybody had a family). He liked her friends, and they had some in common. He did love her.

Everything had gone well. The family members and friends from both sides were meshing easily. Charlotte’s and Peter’s parents were behaving as well-socialized grown-ups do. Peter’s were interchangeable with all the other members in their set, a set that entirely lacked the éclat of the guests from Charlotte’s side, but the Russells could hold their own, and these distinctions didn’t bother anyone very much. So it was all going well. As for protocol, the only slight lapse was that Isabella, the one truly stunning bridesmaid, had practically joined the receiving line. The maid of honor and the best man were supposed to be there, but not any of the other attendants. But Jonathan had been talking to the girl and they kept talking as he took his post, so that guests would try to shake her hand too. She was Chilean and very tall, with black hair but fair skin. When she laughed at something Jonathan said, she lowered her head and looked up at him through her long lashes. Her forearm was a slender shoot. In time, she wandered off, with a glance back at Jonathan, who attended more faithfully to his duties.

Later, Peter heard Jonathan saying to Charlotte’s jolly, round great-aunt, “Now, you know, Mrs. LeMenthe, it’s really not fair of you to upstage the bride this way, looking so beautiful!” Then Jonathan looked over again at the Chilean, who was talking to someone. She noticed this and slid her eyes toward him. Peter sighed. Who knew where this would lead? Jonathan worked fast. Then Peter supposed that they had book festivals in Santiago, in February, when it was summer down there. First-class ticket. The girl was drinking champagne, and Peter was thinking about how the tall, slender, delicate flute resembled her. These considerations abstracted him so much that he did not notice the guest who was now before him, having already chatted with Charlotte.

“Oh! Holly! Hello!”

“Hi!”

“I saw you in the church.”

“I saw you there, too.”

“Everything okay? Have you gotten a glass of champagne? Some hors d’oeuvres? They have these little puffy ham things—”

“Yes, I have everything I could want, and it’s all perfect.”

“Good, good. So—I was okay?”

“You were perfect.”

“And how about Jonathan? The way he handled the ring? Outstanding.”

“Not bad. I like to see a sharper attack on the pocket. But not bad.”

Peter and Holly stood there looking at each other, and all of his urges flooded back. This was the moment to seize her and run off.

Holly pressed his hand with both of hers. “I hope so much that you will be happy, Peter,” she said. “I know you will. To see you happy makes me very happy.” She began to cry. “Oh, how silly!” she said. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, then crumpled it up. “I get to kiss the groom, don’t I?”

“Of course.”

They kissed on the cheek.

“Have a great trip,” Holly said. “Send a postcard and call us as soon as you get back.”

Us.

So it was all over. Peter had to put aside his hope or dream or fantasy, or whatever it was. He had married Charlotte, putting the final barrier between them. Holly could not be his and now he could not be hers. He had watched and waited to see if her bond to Jonathan would crack. Three years. Three years of dinners with the two of them, of watching her cook while they waited for Jonathan. (“Of course you can help! Let’s see—how about making some lemon zest?”) Three years of abashed answers to her discreet inquiries about his romantic life. Three years of going with them to the beach, and seeing her remove, to take one example, the short white denim skirt she had worn over her bathing suit, so coarse against her smooth thigh; and the flecks of blond hair against her tan forearm, slivered, golden glints. Three years of hearing her say things like “I was reading that new book the other day, you know, Europe in the High Middle Ages? And you know what’s really funny?” Three years of hearing her tell the truth when it would have been easier to lie, of seeing her help out friends, of watching her save a pupil from some ghastly situation or other, in addition to teaching her the ablative absolute. Even now, at this moment, while one of Charlotte’s cousins was telling him how much she loved their China pattern, Peter could feel the pressure of Holly’s hands. And he thought about the three years of seeing her overtip.

Well, forget it. After three years, it seemed clear that Holly was not going to break Jonathan’s heart and throw herself at Peter. How many millions of times Peter had considered taking some action of his own. He could have declared his true feelings. After all, she had once had a crush on him, if only for two minutes! And how many millions of times had he imagined her response, assuring him with utmost kindness that they were friends and that that was how she wished them to remain. Peter, such a nice guy. He could have told her the truth about Jonathan. You just didn’t do that to one of your mates, though. And he just couldn’t do it to her. In any event, the effect would have been so destructive to her that the messenger would hardly have been a candidate for Jonathan’s successor. In fact, Jonathan would probably have found a way to turn it all to his advantage (“I’m afraid of how much I love you”), and then the whole tearful drama of the second chance would have brought them even closer, as would their mutual disgust for the weasely busybody who had interfered. So Peter had simply lurked and waited, to no purpose. Holly would never be free. Never. So it was time for Peter to give up. To put her away from him. He felt a little like someone who had joined the French Foreign Legion to get away from a married woman with whom he had fallen in love. Farewell, dear friend (chère amie