The Wedding

She looked at me skeptically.

“Mom hated Wonder Bread, you know. She would never have eaten it. She liked to make her own.”

Luckily, the approach of our waiter saved me from further discussion of this topic. When he asked how we were enjoying our entrées, Jane suddenly asked if these dishes were on the catering menu.

At her question, a look of recognition crossed his features.

“Are you the folks throwing the wedding?” he asked. “At the old Calhoun place this weekend?”

“Yes, we are,” Jane said, beaming.

“I thought so. I think half the crew is working that event.” The waiter grinned. “Well, it’s great to meet you. Let me refill your drinks, and I’ll bring the full catering menu when I come back.”

As soon as he’d left, Jane leaned across the table.

“I guess that answers one of my questions. About the service, I mean.”

“I told you not to worry.”

She drained the last of her wine. “So are they going to set up a tent? Since we’re eating outside?”

“Why don’t we use the house?” I volunteered. “I’m going to be out there anyway when the landscapers come, so why don’t I try to get a cleaning crew out there to get it ready? We’ve got a few days—I’m sure I can find someone.”

“We’ll give it a try, I guess,” she said slowly, and I knew she was thinking of the last time she’d been inside. “You know it’ll be pretty dusty, though. I don’t think anyone’s cleaned it in years.”

“True, but it’s only cleaning. I’ll make some calls. Let me see what I can do,” I urged.

“You keep saying that.”

“I keep having to do things,” I countered, and she laughed good-naturedly. Through the window over her shoulder, I could see my office and noticed that the light in Saxon’s window was on. No doubt he was there on urgent business, for Saxon seldom stayed late. Jane caught me staring.

“Missing work already?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “It’s nice to be away from it for a while.”

She eyed me carefully. “Do you really mean that?”

“Of course.” I tugged at my polo shirt. “It’s nice not to always have to put on a suit during the week.”

“I’ll bet you’ve forgotten what that’s like, haven’t you. You haven’t taken a long vacation in . . . what? Eight years?”

“It hasn’t been that long.”

After a moment, she nodded. “You’ve taken a few days here and there, but the last time you actually took a week off was in 1995. Don’t you remember? When we took all the kids to Florida? It was right after Joseph graduated from high school.”

She was right, I realized, but what I once regarded as a virtue, I now considered a fault.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?”

“For not taking more vacations. That wasn’t fair to you or the family. I should have tried to do more with you and the kids than I did.”

“It’s fine,” she said with a wave of her fork, “no big deal.”

“Yes, it is,” I said. Though she had long since grown used to my dedication at the office and now accepted it as part of my character, I knew it had always been a sore spot with her. Knowing that I had her attention, I went on.

“It’s always been a big deal,” I continued. “But I’m not sorry only about that. I’m sorry about all of it. I’m sorry for letting work interfere with all the other events I missed when the kids were growing up. Like some of their birthday parties. I can’t even remember how many I missed because I had late meetings that I refused to reschedule. And everything else I missed—the volleyball games and track meets, piano concerts, school plays . . . It’s a wonder that the kids have forgiven me, let alone seem to like me.”

She nodded in acknowledgment but said nothing. Then again, there was nothing she could say. I took a deep breath and plunged on.

“I know I haven’t always been the best husband, either,” I said quietly. “Sometimes I wonder why you’ve put up with me for as long as you have.”

At that, her eyebrows rose.

“I know you spent too many evenings and weekends alone, and I put all the responsibility for child rearing on you. That wasn’t fair to you. And even when you told me that what you wanted more than anything was to spend time with me, I didn’t listen. Like for your thirtieth birthday.” I paused, letting my words sink in. Across the table, I watched Jane’s eyes flash with the memory. It was one of the many mistakes I’d made in the past that I’d tried to forget.

What she’d asked for back then had been quite simple: Overwhelmed with the new burdens of motherhood, she’d wanted to feel like a woman again, at least for an evening, and had dropped various hints in advance about what such a romantic evening might entail—clothes laid out on the bed for her, flowers, a limousine to whisk us to a quiet restaurant, a table with a lovely view, quiet conversation without worrying that she had to rush home. Even back then, I knew it was important to her, and I remember making a note to do everything she wanted. However, I got so embroiled in some messy proceedings relating to a large estate that her birthday arrived before I could make the arrangements. Instead, at the last minute I had my secretary pick out a stylish tennis bracelet, and on the way home, I convinced myself that because it had been expensive, she would regard it as equally special. When she unwrapped it, I promised that I’d make the necessary plans for a wonderful evening together, an evening even better than the one she’d described. In the end, it was another in a long line of promises that I ended up breaking, and in hindsight, I think Jane realized it as soon as I said it.

Feeling the weight of lost opportunity, I didn’t continue. I rubbed my forehead in the silence. I pushed my plate aside, and as the past sped by in a series of disheartening memories, I felt Jane’s eyes on me. Surprising me, however, she reached across the table and touched my hand.

“Wilson? Are you okay?” There was a note of tender concern in her voice that I didn’t quite recognize.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Why all the regrets tonight? Was it something that Daddy said?”