Toward the end of the evening Abigail spotted her parents sitting together at a table on the edge of the dance floor. Each had been dancing, and they now looked sweaty and tired. Abigail joined them.
“The original Baskins,” Lawrence said. “Together again.”
“You guys have fun?” she said.
“God, yes,” Amelia said. “Did you see your aunt Mary on the dance floor?”
“How could I miss her?”
“Bruce was very sweet,” Lawrence said. “He introduced himself to everyone in our family and acted as though we are all normal.”
“And he invited us down to see a show in New York after you two get back from your honeymoon,” her mom said.
Abigail, slightly tipsy, suddenly said, “He’s going to want to talk with you about the theater. He wants to bring it back.”
“What theater?” Amelia said. “Our theater?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, God. Please derail him. I don’t think I have it in me.”
“What about you, Dad?”
“He wants to invest in the theater and bring it back?”
“He does. Very badly.”
He took a deep breath. “Two years ago, I would have given my right arm for an investor. But what’s done is done.”
“Well, look, at least hear him out. He’s so excited to talk with you.”
After the conversation, when Abigail was returning to the dance floor as the band was breaking into a swing-style version of “Friday I’m in Love,” she caught a glimpse of her parents leaning into each other, half smiles on their lips. She had a moment of clarity, not that they were going to get back together, but that they weren’t. They were too comfortable with each other post-separation. They were friends, and nothing more.
The last dance of the night was to “Every Breath You Take,” the Police song, done in a bossa nova style. She and Bruce danced close to each other, and she could feel his breath against the hollow of her throat as he mouthed along with the lyrics. Not for the first time, she thought how creepy the words of the song actually were.
“What did you think of your wedding day?” Bruce asked Abigail as she rested her head against his shoulder. She thought she could probably fall asleep before the end of the song.
“Oh, it was okay.” She smiled at him and for a moment he looked concerned, then he smiled back, realizing she was joking.
“Yeah, just okay.”
“I requested ‘（Don’t Fear） the Reaper,’ and the band didn’t play it.”
“Assholes.”
“And I didn’t eat one oyster.”
“Neither did I,” Bruce said.
“But I did get married.”
“Ditto for me,” he said, and she tilted her head back to meet his eyes. He looked tired, too, but in a good way. Happy-tired.
“I couldn’t be happier, Bruce.”
“Are you ready for the honeymoon?” he asked.
“Yes, but I’ve barely thought about it because all I’ve been thinking about is today.”
“And it’s not over yet.”
“Technically, it is. We’re into our second day of marriage already.”
After the dance, and after they’d said good night to the few remaining guests, they walked down the flagstone pathway to the carriage house that they were staying in. There was a lone guest standing in a nearby cluster of trees, smoking a cigarette, the smell of it wafting toward them. Abigail, breathing it in, had a sudden vivid sense memory, the smoke bringing her back to that night in California. But it wasn’t just the smell of a cigarette that was bringing her back; it was more than that. Whoever was smoking in the trees had to be smoking the same cigarette that Scottie had that night at the vineyard. They’d been Gauloises, those unfiltered French cigarettes that had made Abigail feel as if she’d spun around in place about ten times. She stared toward the man smoking, but he was completely in shadow, only the orange tip of the cigarette showing where he was.
“You okay?” Bruce said.
“Yeah, sorry. Do you know who that is, smoking?” As soon as she said it, panic grabbed at her. What if it was actually Scottie, and what if Bruce made his way over there?
“My friend Mike, probably. Why, you want one?”
“Ha, no.” They kept walking. The night had turned cold, and she shivered. She leaned against Bruce as he opened the door to their room, then he lifted her over the threshold, Abigail screaming in genuine shock. The four-poster bed was turned down, and there were fresh flowers throughout the room. Abigail’s bags had been brought over, and she got her toiletries and her overnight bag and went into the bathroom. There were flowers in there, too, and several lit candles. The stone floor was heated.