only aristocratic faith in America—and so she was badly disappointed when a chilly rector told her on the phone that there couldn’t be an Episcopalian wedding because of Evan’s previous marriage. During the next few days, using the phone book as a source of reference, she drew up a short list of Presbyterian and Methodist churches that seemed worth looking into, but she couldn’t take much interest in what she was doing. She’d grown fretful and bored with the whole problem when it was happily solved in an unexpected phone call from Charles Shepard.
There was, he said, a nondenominational chapel in Cold Spring Harbor that might provide a pleasant ceremony; then afterwards they could have a sort of small reception at the Shepards’ house. Did that sound suitable?
“Oh, wonderful,” she said. “Oh, that’s perfect, Charles.”
On the morning of her wedding, Rachel Drake was so tired and nervous she could barely pack her suitcase. She would have given anything to crawl back into bed and sleep for a few more hours, but that was out of the question.
“Mother?” she called through the open door to the living room. “Do you have the timetable out there?”
“The what?”
“You know; the train schedule. Because I can’t remember whether it leaves at nine twenty-five or nine fifty-five, and I—”
“Well, dear, there’s all the time in the world,” Gloria called back. “We don’t even have to be at Penn Station until almost eleven; then we can have a leisurely cup of—”
“No, no,” Rachel said impatiently, “I’m taking the earlier train—didn’t I tell you this?—I’ll be going out with Daddy.”
“Oh,” Gloria said after a significant pause. “No, you didn’t tell me that.”
And Rachel chewed her lip in fear. Her mother’s un-governed displays of emotion were frightful, and this could easily develop into a bad one. “Well, I certainly thought I’d told you,” she said. “I could’ve sworn I’d told you days and days ago. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, does it? We’ll all be together for the whaddyacallit, the wedding, and for the reception and everything.”
Then her mother appeared in the doorway with the sad, ironic little smile of a tragic actress, wearing a splendid newdress that had cost almost a third of this month’s check from Curtis Drake.
Gloria wasn’t accustomed to keeping her temper when all other elements of an unfair situation cried out for her to lose it. Only a few times before in her life had she held everything back this way, managing to control herself, and she had soon forgotten, each time, how lofty and noble it could make her feel.
“Well, of course, Rachel,” she said quietly. “I’ll do whatever you wish.”
There wasn’t much sense of loftiness or nobility left by the time she rode alone on the later train that morning. She was preoccupied now with how awful her cheap old winter coat looked; she could only hope there would be some inconspicuous place to hang it, or dump it, before walking into the hush of the nondenominational chapel. (“Oh, there’s her mother,” people would whisper in their pews. “That’s Rachel’s mother. Doesn’t she look nice?”)
She knew Rachel would probably take care of introducing Curtis Drake to the Shepards, and to the Shepards’ guests—surely that was how these things were done when the bride’s parents were divorced—but she knew she wouldn’t draw an easy breath until that part of the day was over and Curtis had gone home. And the very thought of him shaking hands with Charles Shepard made her wince—even made her squirm a little in her train seat—because Charles was a tall man and Curtis was five foot four.
“Well, of
course
we’re the same height, Curtis,” she’d told him crossly once, standing barefoot at the mirror of some forgotten bedroom, long ago. “Come and see. Come and look at us.”
But when he complied, stepping up beside her in his socks with a bashful, self-conscious
There was, he said, a nondenominational chapel in Cold Spring Harbor that might provide a pleasant ceremony; then afterwards they could have a sort of small reception at the Shepards’ house. Did that sound suitable?
“Oh, wonderful,” she said. “Oh, that’s perfect, Charles.”
On the morning of her wedding, Rachel Drake was so tired and nervous she could barely pack her suitcase. She would have given anything to crawl back into bed and sleep for a few more hours, but that was out of the question.
“Mother?” she called through the open door to the living room. “Do you have the timetable out there?”
“The what?”
“You know; the train schedule. Because I can’t remember whether it leaves at nine twenty-five or nine fifty-five, and I—”
“Well, dear, there’s all the time in the world,” Gloria called back. “We don’t even have to be at Penn Station until almost eleven; then we can have a leisurely cup of—”
“No, no,” Rachel said impatiently, “I’m taking the earlier train—didn’t I tell you this?—I’ll be going out with Daddy.”
“Oh,” Gloria said after a significant pause. “No, you didn’t tell me that.”
And Rachel chewed her lip in fear. Her mother’s un-governed displays of emotion were frightful, and this could easily develop into a bad one. “Well, I certainly thought I’d told you,” she said. “I could’ve sworn I’d told you days and days ago. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, does it? We’ll all be together for the whaddyacallit, the wedding, and for the reception and everything.”
Then her mother appeared in the doorway with the sad, ironic little smile of a tragic actress, wearing a splendid newdress that had cost almost a third of this month’s check from Curtis Drake.
Gloria wasn’t accustomed to keeping her temper when all other elements of an unfair situation cried out for her to lose it. Only a few times before in her life had she held everything back this way, managing to control herself, and she had soon forgotten, each time, how lofty and noble it could make her feel.
“Well, of course, Rachel,” she said quietly. “I’ll do whatever you wish.”
There wasn’t much sense of loftiness or nobility left by the time she rode alone on the later train that morning. She was preoccupied now with how awful her cheap old winter coat looked; she could only hope there would be some inconspicuous place to hang it, or dump it, before walking into the hush of the nondenominational chapel. (“Oh, there’s her mother,” people would whisper in their pews. “That’s Rachel’s mother. Doesn’t she look nice?”)
She knew Rachel would probably take care of introducing Curtis Drake to the Shepards, and to the Shepards’ guests—surely that was how these things were done when the bride’s parents were divorced—but she knew she wouldn’t draw an easy breath until that part of the day was over and Curtis had gone home. And the very thought of him shaking hands with Charles Shepard made her wince—even made her squirm a little in her train seat—because Charles was a tall man and Curtis was five foot four.
“Well, of
course
we’re the same height, Curtis,” she’d told him crossly once, standing barefoot at the mirror of some forgotten bedroom, long ago. “Come and see. Come and look at us.”
But when he complied, stepping up beside her in his socks with a bashful, self-conscious
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