The Wedding

The rest of the day was spent on the phone in my den. I spoke to the cleaning company that worked in our home, and we finalized arrangements to have Noah’s house cleaned on Thursday; I spoke to the man who pressure-washed our deck, and he would be there around noon to brighten the grand home. An electrician was coming to make sure that the generator, the outlets inside the house, and the floodlights in the rose garden were still in working order. I called the company that had repainted our law offices last year, and they promised to send a crew to begin freshening the walls inside, as well as the fence that surrounded the rose garden. A rental company would provide tents and tables, chairs for the ceremony, linens, glasses, and silverware, and all would be delivered on Thursday morning. A few employees of the restaurant would be there later to set things up, well in advance of the event on Saturday. Nathan Little was looking forward to starting his project, and when I called he informed me that the plants I’d ordered earlier that week from the nursery were already loaded on his truck. He also agreed to have his employees cart the excess furniture from the home. Finally, I made the necessary music arrangements for both the wedding and the reception; the piano would be tuned on Thursday.

The arrangements to have everything accomplished quickly weren’t as difficult as one might imagine. Not only was I acquainted with most of the people I called, but it was something I had done once before. In many ways, this burst of frenzied activity was like the work we’d done on the first home Jane and I had purchased after we got married. An old row house that had fallen on hard times, it needed a thorough remodeling job… which was why we’d been able to afford it. We did much of the initial gutting ourselves but soon reached the point where the skills of carpenters, plumbers, and electricians were needed.

Meanwhile, we had wasted no time trying to start a family.

We were both virgins when we said our vows; I was twenty-six, Jane was twenty-three. We taught each other how to make love in a way that was both innocent and filled with passion, gradually learning how to please each other. It seemed that no matter how tired we were, most evenings were spent entwined in each other’s arms.

We never took precautions to prevent a pregnancy. I remember believing that Jane would become pregnant right away, and I even started adding to my savings account in anticipation of the event. She didn’t, however, get pregnant in the first month of our marriage, nor did she in the second or third months.

Sometime around the sixth month, she consulted with Allie, and later that night, when I got home from work, she informed me that we had to talk. Again, I sat beside her on the couch as she told me there was something that she wanted me to do. This time, instead of asking me to go to church, she asked me to pray with her, and I did. Somehow I knew that it was the right thing to do. We began praying together as a couple regularly after that night, and the more we did, the more I came to look forward to it. Yet more months passed, and Jane still didn’t become pregnant. I don’t know if she was ever truly worried about her ability to conceive, but I do know it was always on her mind, and even I’d started to wonder about it. By then, we were a month away from our first anniversary.

Though I’d originally planned to have contractors submit bids and conduct a series of interviews to finish the work on our home, I knew that the process had begun to wear on Jane. Our tiny apartment was cramped, and the excitement of remodeling had lost its luster. I made a secret goal to move Jane into our home before our first anniversary.

With that in mind, I did the same thing that, ironically, I would do again some three decades later: I worked the phones, called in favors, and did whatever was necessary to guarantee the work would be completed in time. I hired crews, dropped by the house at lunch and after work to monitor its progress, and ended up paying far more than I originally budgeted. Nonetheless, I found myself marveling at the speed with which the house began to take form. Workers came and went; floors were laid, cabinets, sinks, and appliances were installed. Light fixtures were replaced and wallpaper hung, as day by day I watched the calendar inch closer to our anniversary.

In the final week before our anniversary, I invented excuses to keep Jane from the house, for it is in the last week of a renovation that a house ceases to be a shell and becomes a home. I wanted it to be a surprise that she would remember forever.

“No reason to go to the house tonight,” I’d say. “When I went by earlier, the contractor wasn’t even there.” Or, “I’ve got a lot of work to do later, and I’d rather relax with you around here.”

I don’t know whether she believed my excuses—and looking back, I’m sure she must have suspected something—but she didn’t press me to bring her there. And on our anniversary, after we’d shared a romantic dinner downtown, I drove her to the house instead of our apartment.

It was late. The moon was full and cratered; cicadas had begun their evening song, their trill notes filling the air. From the outside, the house looked unchanged. Piles of scrap still lay heaped in the yard, paint cans were stacked near the door, and the porch looked gray with dust. Jane gazed toward the house, then glanced at me quizzically.

“I just want to check on what they’ve been doing,” I explained.

“Tonight?” she asked.

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, it’s dark inside. We won’t be able to see anything.”

“C’mon,” I said, reaching for a flashlight I’d stashed under my seat. “We don’t have to stay long if you don’t want to.”

I got out of the car and opened her door for her. After guiding her gingerly through the debris and up onto the porch, I unlocked the door.

In the darkness, it was impossible not to notice the smell of new carpet, and a moment later, when I turned on the flashlight and swept it through the living room and the kitchen, I saw Jane’s eyes widen. It wasn’t completely finished, of course, but even from where we stood in the doorway, it was plain that it was close enough for us to move in.

Jane stood frozen in place. I reached for her hand.

“Welcome home,” I said.

“Oh, Wilson,” she breathed.

“Happy anniversary,” I whispered.

When she turned toward me, her expression was a mixture of hope and confusion.

“But how… I mean, last week, it wasn’t even close…”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. But come—there’s one more thing I have to show you.”

I led her up the stairs, turning toward the master bedroom. As I pushed open the door, I aimed the flashlight and then stepped aside so Jane could see.

In the room was the only piece of furniture that I’ve ever bought on my own: an antique canopy bed. It resembled the one at the inn in Beaufort where we’d made love on our honeymoon.

Jane was silent, and I was suddenly struck by the thought that I’d somehow done something wrong.

“I can’t believe you did this,” she finally said. “Was this your idea?”

“Don’t you like it?”

She smiled. “I love it,” she said softly. “But I can’t believe that you thought of this. This is almost… romantic.”

To be honest, I hadn’t thought of it in that way. The simple fact was that we needed a decent bed, and this was the one style I was certain that she liked. Knowing she meant it as a compliment, however, I raised an eyebrow, as if asking, What else would you expect?

She approached the bed and ran a finger along the canopy. A moment later, she sat on the edge and patted the mattress beside her in invitation. “We have to talk,” she said.

As I moved to join her, I couldn’t help but remember the previous times she’d made this announcement. I expected that she was about to ask me to do something else for her, but when I sat down, she leaned in to kiss me.

“I have a surprise, too,” she said. “And I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you.”

“What is it?” I asked.

She hesitated for the barest second. “I’m pregnant.”

At first, her words didn’t register, but when they did, I knew with certainty that I’d been given a surprise even better than my own.

In early evening, when the sun was getting low and the brunt of the heat was breaking, Jane called. After asking about Noah, she informed me that Anna still couldn’t make up her mind about the dress and that she wouldn’t make it home that night. Though I assured her that I had expected as much, I could hear a trace of frustration in her voice. She wasn’t as angry as she was exasperated, and I smiled, wondering how on earth Jane could still be surprised by our daughter’s behavior.

After hanging up, I drove to Creekside to feed the swan three pieces of Wonder Bread, then swung by the office on the way back home.

Parking in my usual spot out front, I could see the Chelsea Restaurant just up the street; opposite was a small grass park, where Santa’s village was set up every winter. Despite the thirty years I’ve worked in this building, it still amazed me to realize that the early history of North Carolina could be found in any direction I looked. The past has always held special meaning for me, and I loved the fact that within blocks, I could walk through the first Catholic church built in the state, or tour the first public school and learn how the settlers were educated, or stroll the grounds of Tryon Palace, the former home of the colonial governor that now boasts one of the finest formal gardens in the South. I’m not alone in this pride in my town; the New Bern Historical Society is one of the most active in the country, and on nearly every corner, signs document the important role New Bern played in the early years of our country.

My partners and I own the building where we keep our law offices, and though I wish there was an interesting anecdote concerning its past, there really isn’t one. Erected in the late 1950s, when functionality was the single criterion architects valued in design, it’s really quite drab. In this single-story, rectangular brick structure, there are offices for the four partners and four associates, three conference rooms, a file room, and a reception area for clients.

I unlocked the front door, heard the warning that the alarm would sound in less than a minute, then punched in the code to shut it off. Switching on the lamp in the reception area, I headed toward my office.

Like my partners’ offices, my office has a certain air of formality that clients seem to expect: dark cherry desk topped with a brass lamp, law books shelved along the wall, a set of comfortable leather chairs facing the desk.

As an estate lawyer, I sometimes feel as if I’ve seen every type of couple in the world. Though most strike me as perfectly normal, I’ve watched some couples begin to brawl like street fighters, and I once witnessed a woman pour hot coffee onto her husband’s lap. More often than I would ever have believed possible, I’ve been pulled aside by a husband asking whether he was legally obligated to leave something to his wife or whether he could omit her entirely in favor of his mistress. These couples, I should add, often dress well and look perfectly ordinary as they sit before me, but when at last they leave my office, I find myself wondering what goes on behind the closed doors of their homes.

Standing behind my desk, I found the appropriate key on my chain and unlocked the drawer. I put Jane’s gift on my desk and gazed at it, wondering how she would respond when I gave it to her. I thought she would like it, but more than that, I wanted her to recognize it as a heartfelt—if belated—attempt to apologize for the man I’d been for most of our marriage.

Yet because I’ve failed her in ways too frequent to count, I couldn’t help but wonder about her expression as we’d stood in the driveway this morning. Hadn’t it been almost… well, dreamy? Or had I simply been imagining it?

As I glanced toward the window, it was a moment before the answer came, and all at once, I knew I hadn’t been imagining it. No, somehow, even accidentally, I’d stumbled onto the key to my success in courting her so long ago. Though I’d been the same man I’d been for the past year—a man deeply in love with his wife and trying his best to keep her—I’d made one small but significant adjustment.

This week, I hadn’t been focusing on my problems and doing my best to correct them. This week, I’d been thinking of her; I’d committed myself to helping her with family responsibilities, I’d listened with interest whenever she spoke, and everything we discussed seemed new. I’d laughed at her jokes and held her as she’d cried, apologized for my faults, and showed her the affection she both needed and deserved. In other words, I’d been the man she’d always wanted, the man I once had been, and—like an old habit rediscovered—I now understood that it was all I ever needed to do for us to begin enjoying each other’s company again.