Beautiful Day by Elin Hilderbrand Page B

weary concern, was becoming a hoarder. This was probably
     a result of the divorce, another thing for Margot to feel guilty about. She sat on
     the bed, letting the broken crayons sift through her fingers. Was it too early for
     wine?
    In the way of clothes, Ellie had packed two mismatched socks, a white T-shirt with
     a grape juice stain down the front, a pair of turquoise denim overalls, her black-and-silver
     Christmas dress that she’d worn to
The Nutcracker
last year and had complained about the whole time, her favorite purple shorts with
     the green belt, and a seersucker sundress embroidered with lobsters that was two sizes
     too small. And hallelujah—a bathing suit. Margot should have checked Ellie’s packing
     job—really, who trusted a six-year-old to pack for herself?—but she’d been too busy.
     At least Margot had packed Ellie’s flower girl dress and her good white sandals in
     her own suitcase.
    Margot hung up the white eyelet flower girl dress and then herown grasshopper green bridesmaid dress, thinking,
God, I do not want to wear that.
    But she would, of course, for Jenna. And for her mother.
    Grocery store, liquor store. She was racing the clock, there was no time to think
     about Edge, or Drum Sr. getting married, or about Griff with his kaleidoscope eyes
     and the two days of growth on his face. But the three of them were in her brain. How
     to exorcise them?
    She took an outdoor shower under the spray of pale pink climbing roses that her mother
     had cultivated and that still thrived. The roses alive, her mother dead. Was the fact
     that Margot didn’t like gardening a character flaw? Did it mean she wasn’t nurturing
     enough?
    In the worst days of their divorce, Drum Sr. had accused Margot of being a coldhearted
     bitch. Was this true? If it
was
true, then why did Margot feel everything so keenly? Why did life constantly feel
     like being pierced by ten thousand tiny arrows?
    She had been a coldhearted bitch to Griffin Wheatley, Homecoming King. He didn’t realize
     it, but it was true.
    Guilt.
    But no, there wasn’t time.
    Margot fed her children a frozen pizza and grapes, serving them in her bathrobe, her
     hair still dripping wet.
    Carson said, “Are you going out tonight?”
    “Yes,” Margot said.
    The three of them started to squeak, squeal, and whine in chorus. They hated it when
     Margot went out, they hated Kitty, their afternoon babysitter, they hated their afternoon
     activities regardless of what they were—because they sensed that these activities
     were also babysitters, substitutes for Margot’s time and attention. Margot had hoped
     that as they got older, they would come to seeher career as one of the wonderful things about her. She was a partner at Miller-Sawtooth,
     where she did valuable work, matching up top executives with the right companies.
     She had a certain amount of power, and she made a lot of money.
    But power and money meant little to her twelve-year-old and even less to the ten and
     the six. They wanted her warm body snuggled in the bed between them, reading
Caps for Sale
.
    “It’s your auntie’s wedding,” Margot said. “A sitter named Emma is coming tonight
     and tomorrow night. Saturday is the wedding, and it will be held here in the backyard,
     and Sunday we’re going home.”
    “Tonight
and
tomorrow night!” Drum Jr. said. Of the three of them, he was the one who needed Margot
     the most. Why this was, she couldn’t quite explain.
    “Who’s Emma? I don’t know Emma!” Ellie said.
    “She’s nice,” Margot said. “Nicer than me.”
    It was nearly seven, and the light outside was still strong. The smaller tent had
     been raised, and now the guys were laying the dance floor. The grass would be matted,
     but Roger had assured them it wouldn’t die. The smaller tent looked good, Margot thought.
     It was bigger than she’d expected, but it wasn’t big enough to shelter 150 people.
     Maybe between the tent and the house. Maybe.
    Forty