Give Us Another Chance

“And, so with this one act, Lincoln changed the course of American history. He was one of the most despised figures in politics in his day, yet he preserved the Union and is considered the greatest president out country ever had. And possibly will ever have.”

My face flushed…we’d just begun our unit on the Civil War, and it was my favorite class to teach. Alas, my seniors were in the throes of a Friday afternoon coma. Scotty Egan, my best student on most days, stared longingly at Kristine Gray, who was stretching so as to simultaneously torment Scotty with what he couldn’t have and invite Brady Wharf to take it. At the same time, Julie Chandler, a pretty, kindhearted girl who had the curse of being a day student and was thus excluded from the cool kids, who all boarded, looked at her desk. She had a crush on Scotty and was all too aware of his obsession with Kristine, poor kid. “So who can sum up the opposing viewpoints? Anyone?”

From outside came the sound of laughter. We all looked. Sandra Owens, an English teacher, was holding class outside, as the day was mild and lovely. Her kids didn’t look dazed and battered. Dang. I should’ve brought my kids outside, too.

“I’ll give you a hint,” I continued, looking at their blank faces. “States’ rights vs. Federal control. Union vs. succession. Freedom to govern independently vs. freedom for all people. Slaves or no slaves. Ring a bell?”

At that moment, the chimes that marked the end of the period sounded, and my lethargic students sprang into life as they bolted for the door. I tried not to rake it personally. My seniors were usually more engaged, but it was Friday. The kids had been hammered with exams earlier in the week, and there was a dance tonight. I understood.

Stover Academy was the type of prep school that litters New England. Stately brick buildings with the requisite ivy, magnolia and dogwood trees, emerald soccer and lacrosse fields, and a promise that for the cost of a small house, we’d get your kids into the colleges of their choice—Princeton, Harvard, Stanford, Georgetown. The school, which was founded in the 1880s, was a little world unto itself. Many of the teachers lived on campus, but those of us who didn’t, myself included, were usually as bad as the kids, eager for the last class to end each Friday afternoon so we could head for home.

Except this Friday. I’d have been more than happy to stay at school this Friday, chaperoning dances or coaching lacrosse. Or heck, cleaning the toilets for that matter. Anything other than my actual plans.

“Hi, Emily!” Sandra said, popping into my classroom.

“Hi, Sandy. Sounded like fun out there.”

“We’re reading Lord of the Flies,” she informed me.

“Of course! No wonder you were laughing. Nothing like a little pig killing to brighten the day.”

She grinned proudly. “So, Emily, did you find a date?”

I grimaced. “No. I didn’t. It won’t be pretty.”

“Oh, shit,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Well, its not the end of the world,” I murmured bravely.

“You sure about that?” Like me, Sandra was single. An no one knew better than a single woman in her thirties that hell is going to a wedding stag. In a few hours, my cousin Maggie, who once cut my bangs down to the roots when I was sleeping over at her house, was getting married. For the third time. In a Princess Diana-style dress.

“Look, its Chris!” Sandra blurted, pointing to my eastern window. “Oh, thank you, God!”

Chris was the guy who washed Stover Academy’s windows each spring and fall. Though it was only early April, the afternoon was warm and balmy, and Chris was shirtless. He grinned at us, well aware of his beauty, sprayed and squeegeed.

“Ask him!” Sandra suggested as we stared with great appreciation.

“He’s married,” I said, not taking my eyes off him. Ogling Chris was about as intimate as I’d been with a man in some time.

“Happily married?” Sandra asked, not above wrecking a home or two to get a man.

“Yup. Adores his wife.”

“I hate that,” she muttered.

“I know. So unfair.”

The male perfection that was Chris winked at us, blew a kiss and dragged the squeegee back and forth over the window, shoulder muscles bunching beautifully, washboard abs rippling, sunlight glinting on his hair.

“I should really get going,” I said, not moving an inch. “I have to change and stuff.” The thought made my stomach cramp. “Sandy, you sure you don’t know anyone I can take? Anyone? I really, really don’t want to go alone.”

“I don’t, Emily,” she sighed. “Maybe you should’ve hired someone, like in that Debra Messing movie.”

“It’s a small town. A gigolo would probably stand out. Also, probably not that good for my reputation. ‘Stover Teacher Hires Prostitute. Parent Concerned.’ That kind of thing.”

“What about James?” she asked, naming my oldest friend, who often came out with Sandra and me on our girls’ nights.

“Well, my family knows him. He wouldn’t pass.”

“As a boyfriend, or as a straight guy?”

“Both, I guess,” I said.

“Too bad. He’s a great dancer, at least.”

“That he is.” I glanced at the clock, and the trickle of dread that had been spurting intermittently all week turned into a river. I wasn’t just going stag to mean old Maggie’s wedding. I’d be seeing Andrew for only the third time since we broke up, and having a date would’ve definitely helped.

Well. As much as I wished I could just stay home and read Gone With the Wind or watch a movie, I had to go. Besides, I’d been staying in a lot lately. My father, my gay best friend and my dog, though great company, probably shouldn’t be the only men in my life. And there was always the microscopic chance that I’d meet someone at this very wedding.

“Maybe Chris will go,” Sandra said, hustling over to the window and yanking it open. “No one has to know he’s married.”

“Sandy, no,” I protested.

She didn’t listen. “Chris, Emily has to go to a wedding tonight, and her ex-fiancé is going to be there, and she doesn’t have a date. Can you go with her? Pretend to adore her and stuff?”

“Thanks anyway, but, no,” I called, my face prickling with heat.

“Your ex, huh?” Chris said, wiping a pane clear.

“Yeah. May as well slit my wrists now.” I smiled to show I didn’t mean it.

“You sure you can’t go with her?” Sandra asked.

“My wife would probably have a problem with that,” Chris answered. “Sorry, Emily. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It sounds worse than it is.”

“Isn’t she brave?” Sandra asked. Chris agreed that I was and moved on to the next window, Sandra nearly falling out of the window to watch him leave. She hauled herself back in and sighed. “So you’re going stag,” he said in the same tone a doctor might use when saying, I’m sorry, it’s terminal.

“Well, I did try, Sandy,” I reminded her. “Johnny who delivers my pizza is dating Garlic-and-Anchovies, if you can believe it. Brandon at the nursing home said he’d hang himself before being a wedding date. And I just found out that the cute guy at the pharmacy is only seventeen years old, and though he said he’d be happy to go, Betsy the pharmacist is his mom and mentioned something about Mann Act and predators, so I’ll be going to the Rite Aid in Farmington from now on.”

“Oopsy,” Sandra said.

“No big deal. I came up empty. So I’ll just go alone, be noble and brave, scan the room for legs to hump and leave with a waiter. If I’m lucky.” I grinned. Bravely.

Sandra laughed. “Being single sucks,” she announced. “And God, being single at a wedding…” She shuddered.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I answered.

***

Four hours later, I was in hell.

The all too familiar and slightly nauseating combination of hope and despair churned in my stomach. Honestly, I thought I was doing pretty well these days. Yes, my fiancé had dumped me fifteen months ago, but I wasn’t lying on the floor in fetal position, sucking my thumb. I went to work and taught my classes…very well, in my opinion. I went out socially. Granted, most of my excursions were either dancing with senior citizens or reenacting Civil War battles, but I did get out. And, yes, I would (theoretically) love to find a man—sort of an Atticus-Finch-meets-Tim-Gunn-and-look-like-George-Clooney type.

So, here I was at another wedding—the fourth family wedding since The Dumping, the fourth family wedding where I’d been dateless—gamely trying to radiate happiness so my relatives would stop pitying me and trying to fix me up with odd-looking distant cousins. At the same time, I was trying to perfect The Look—wry amusement, inner contentment and absolute comfort. Sort of a Hello! I am perfectly fine being single at yet another wedding and am not at all desperate for a man, but if you happen to be straight, under forty-five, attractive, financially secure and morally upright, come on down! Once I mastered The Look, I planned on splitting an atom, since they required the same level of skill.

But who knew? Maybe today, my eyes would lock on someone, someone who was also single and hopeful without being pathetic—let’s say a pediatric surgeon, just for the sake of argument—and kablammy! We’d just know.

Unfortunately, my hair was making me look, at best, gypsy beautiful and reckless, but more probably like I was channeling Gilda Radner. Must remember to call an exorcist to see if I could have the evil demons cast out of my hair, which had been known to snap combs in half and eat hairbrushes.

Hmm. There was a cute guy. Geeky, skinny, glasses, definitely my type. Then he saw me looking and immediately groped behind him for a hand, which was attached to an arm, which was attached to a woman. He beamed at her, planted a kiss on her lips and shot a nervous look my way. Okay, okay, no need to panic, mister, I thought. Message received.

Indeed, all the men under forty seemed to be spoken for. There were several octogenarians present, one of whom was grinning at me. Hmm. Was eighty too old? Maybe I should go for an older man. Maybe I was wasting my time on men who still had functioning prostates and their original knees. Maybe the was something to be said for a sugar daddy. The old guy raised his bushy white eyebrows, but his pursuit of me being his sweet young thing ended abruptly as his wife elbowed him sharply and shot me a disapproving glare.

“Don’t worry, Emily. It will be your turn soon,” an aunt boomed in her foghorn of a voice.

“You never know, Aunt Pearl,” I answered with a sweet smile. It was the eighth time tonight I’d heard such a sentiment, and I was considering having it tattooed on my forehead. I’m not worried. I will be my time soon.

“Is it hard, seeing them together?” Pearl barked.

“No. Not at all,” I lied, still smiling. “I’m very happy they’re dating.” Granted, happy may have been a stretch, but still. What else could I say? It was complicated.

“You’re brave,” Pearl pronounced. “You are one brave woman, Emily Riley.” Then she tromped off in search of someone else to torment.

“Okay, so spill,” my sister Amber demanded, plopping herself down at my table. “Are you looking for a good sharp instrument so you can hack away at your wrists? Thinking about sucking a little carbon monoxide?”

“Aw, listen to you, you big softy. Your sisterly concern brings tears to my eyes.”

She grinned. “Well? Tell your big sis.”

I took a long pull from my gin and tonic. “I’m getting a little tired of people saying how brave I am, like I’m some marine who jumped on a grenade. Being single isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

“I wish I was single all the time,” Amber answered as her husband approached.

“Hey, Stuart!” I said fondly. “I didn’t see you at school today.” Stuart was the school psychologist at Stover and had in fact alerted me to the history department opening six years ago. He sort of lived the stereotype…oxford shirts covered by argyle vests, tasseled loafers, the required beard. A gentle, quiet man, Stuart had met Amber in graduate school and been her devoted servant ever since.

“How are you holding up, Emily?” he asked, handing me a fresh version of my signature drink, a gin and tonic with lemon.

“I’m great, Stuart,” I answered.

“Hello, Amber, hello, Stuart!” called my aunt Cecile from the dance floor. Then she saw me and froze. “Oh, hello, Emily, don’t you look pretty. And chin up, dear. You’ll be dancing at your own wedding one day soon.”

“Gosh, thanks, Aunt Cecile,” I answered, giving my sister a significant look. Cecile gave me a sad smile and drifted away to gossip.

“I still think it’s freakish,” Amber said. “How Andrew and Isobel could ever… Gentle Jesus and His crown of thorns! I just cannot wrap my brain around that one. Where are they anyway?”

“Emily, how are you? Are you just putting up a good front, honey, or are you really okay?” This from Mom who approached our table. Dad, pushing his ancient mother in her wheelchair, trailed behind.

“She’s fine, Nancy!” he barked. “Look at her! Doesn’t she seem fine to you? Leave her alone! Don’t talk about it.”

“Shut it, Jim. I know my children, and this one’s hurting. A good parent can tell.” She gave him a meaningful and frosty look.

“Good parent? I’m a great parent,” Dad sniped right back.

“I’m fine, Mom. Dad is right. I’m peachy. Hey, doesn’t Maggie look great?”

“Almost as pretty as at her first wedding,” Amber said.

“Have you seen Andrew?” Mom asked. “Is it hard honey?”

“I’m fine,” I repeated. “Really. I’m great.”

Gran, my ninety-five-year-old grandmother, rattled the ice in her cocktail glass. “If Emily can’t keep a man, all’s fair in love and war.”

“It’s alive!” Amber said.

Gran ignored her, gazing at me with disparaging, rheumy eyes. “I never had trouble finding a man. Men loved me. I was quite a beauty in my day, you know.”

“And you still are,” I said. “Look at you! How do you do it, Gran? You don’t look a day over a hundred and ten.”

“Please, Emily,” my father muttered wearily. “It’s gas on a fire.”

“Laugh if you want, Emily. At least my fiancé never threw my over.” Gran knocked back the rest of her Manhattan and held out her glass to Dad, who took it obediently.

“You don’t need a man,” Mom said firmly. “No woman does.” She leveled a significant look at my father.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dad snapped.

“It means what it means,” Mom said, her voice loaded.

Dad rolled his eyes. “Stuart, let’s get another round, son. Emily, stopped by your house today and you really need new windows. Amber, nice job on the Stoner case, honey.” It was Dad’s way to jam in as much into a conversation as possible, sort of get things over with so he could ignore my mother (and his). “And, Emily, don’t forget about Bull Run next weekend. We’re Confederates.”

Dad and I belonged to Brother Against Brother, the largest group of Civil War reenactors in three states. You’ve seen us…we’re the weirdoes who dress up for parades and stage battles in fields and at parks, shooting each other with blanks and falling in delicious agony to the ground. Despite the fact that Connecticut didn’t see a whole lot of Civil War action (alas), we fanatics in Brother Against Brother ignored that inconvenient fact. Our schedule started in the early spring, when we’d stage few local battles, then move on to the actual sites throughout the South, joining up with other reenactment groups to indulge in our passion. You’d be amazed at how many of us there were.

“Your father and those idiot battles,” Mom muttered, adjusting Gran’s collar. Gran had apparently fallen deeply asleep or died…but no, her bony chest was rising and falling. “Well, I’m not going, of course. I need to focus on my art. You’re coming to the show this week, aren’t you?”

Amber and I exchanged a weary look and made noncommittal sounds. Mom’s art was a subject best left untouched.

“Emily!” Gran barked, suddenly springing back to life. “Get out there! Maggie’s about to throw the bouquet! Go! Go!” She turned her wheelchair and began ramming it into my shins, as ruthless as Ramses bearing down on the fleeing Hebrew slaves.

“Gran! Please! You’re hurting me!” I yanked my legs out of the way, which didn’t stop her.

“Go! You need all the help you can get!”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Leave her alone, Eleanor. Can’t you see she’s suffering enough? Emily, honey, you don’t have to go if it makes you sad. Everyone will understand.”

“I’m fine,” I said loudly, running a hand over my uncontrollable hair, which had burst the bonds of bobby pins. “I’ll go.” Because, damn it, if I didn’t, it would be worse. Poor Emily, look at her, she’s just sitting there like a dead possum in the road, can’t even get out of her chair. Besides, Gran’s chair was staring to leave marks on my dress.

Out onto the dance floor I went, as excited as Anne Boleyn on her way to the gallows. I tried to blend in with the other sheep, standing in the back where I wouldn’t really have a chance of catching the bouquet. “Cat Scratch Fever” came booming over the stereo—so classy—and I couldn’t suppress a snicker.

Then I saw Andrew. Looking right at me, guilty as sin. His date was nowhere in sight. My heart lurched.

I knew he was here, of course. Him coming was my idea. But seeing him, knowing he was with another woman today in their first appearance as a couple, made my hands sweat, my stomach turn to ice. Andrew Webber was, after all, the man I thought I’d marry. The man I came within three weeks of marrying. The man who left me because he fell in love with someone else.

A couple of years ago, at Cousin Maggie’s second wedding, Andrew had come as my date. We’d been together for a while, and when it was bouquet toss time then, I’d gone up more or less happily, pretending to be embarrassed but with the smug contentment of a steady boyfriend. I didn’t catch the bouquet, and when I left the dance floor, Andrew had his arm slung around my shoulder. “I thought you could’ve worked a little harder out there,” he’d said, and I remembered the thrilling rush those words had caused.

Now, he was here with his new girlfriend. Isobel of the long, straight, blond hair. Isobel of the legs that went on forever. Isobel the architect.

Isobel, my much adored younger sister, who was understandably lying low at this wedding.

Maggie tossed the bouquet. Her sister, my cousin Mary, caught it as planned and rehearsed, no doubt. Torture time over. But, no. Maggie spied me, picked up her skirts and hustled over. “It will be your turn soon, Emily,” she announced loudly. “You holding up okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s déjà vu all over again, Maggie! Another spring, another one of your weddings.”

“You poor thing.” She gave my arm a firm squeeze, smug sympathy dripping out of her, glanced at my bangs (yes, they’d grown out in the fifteen years that had passed since she’d cut them) and went back to her groom and the three kids from her first two marriages.

***

Thirty-three minutes later, I decided I’d been brave long enough. Maggie’s reception was in full swing, and while music was lively and my feet were itching to get out there and show the crowd what a rumba was supposed to look like, I decided to head for home. If there was a single, good-looking, financially secure, emotionally stable man here, he was hiding under a table. One quick pit stop and I’d be on my way.

I pushed open the door, took a quick and horrifying look in the mirror—even I didn’t know it was possible for my hair to frizz that much, holy guacamole, it was nearly horizontal—and started to push open a stall door when I heard a small noise. A sad noise. I peeked under the door. Nice shoes. Strappy, high heels, blue patent leather.

“Um…is everything okay?” I asked, frowning. Those shoes looked familiar.

“Emily?” came a small voice. No wonder the shoes looked familiar. My younger sister and I had bought them together, last winter.

“Izzy? Honey, are you okay?”

There was a rustle of material; then my sister pushed open the door. She tried to smile, but her clear blue eyes were wet with silvery tears. I noted her mascara didn’t deign to run. She looked tragic and gorgeous, Ilsa saying goodbye to Rick at the Casablanca airport.

“What’s wrong, Iz?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing…” Her mouth wobbled. “It’s fine.”

I paused. “Is it something to do with Andrew?”

“Isobel’s good front faltered. “Um…well…I don’t think it’s going to work between us,” she said, her voice cracking a little, giving her away. She bit her lip and looked down.

“Why?” I asked. Relief and concern battled in my heart. Granted, it sure wouldn’t kill me if Izzy and Andrew didn’t work out, but it wasn’t like Isobel to be melodramatic. In fact, the last time I’d seen her cry was when I’d left for college twelve years ago.

“Um…it’s just a bad idea,” she whispered. “But it’s fine.”

“What happened?” I asked. The urge to strangle Andrew flared in my gut. “What did he do?”

“Nothing,” she assured me hastily. “It’s just…um…”

“What?” I asked again, more forcefully this time. She wouldn’t look at me. Ah, dang it all. “Is it because of me Iz?”

She didn’t answer.

I sighed. “Izzy. Please answer me.”

Her eyes darted at me, then dropped to the floor again. “You’re not over him, are you?” she whispered. “Even though you said you were…I saw your face out there, at the bouquet toss, and oh, Emmy, I’m so sorry. I should never have tried—”

“Isobel,” I interrupted. “I’m over him. I am. I promise.”

She gave me a look loaded with such guilt and misery and genuine anguish that the nest words came out of my mouth without my being fully aware of them. “The truth is, Izzy, I’m seeing someone.”

Oops. Hadn’t really planned on saying that, but it worked like a charm. Isobel blinked up at me, two more tears slipping down her petal-pink cheeks, hope on her face, her eyes widening. “You are?” she said.

“Yes,” I lied, snatching a tissue to dab her face. For a few weeks now.”

Isobel’s tragic expression was fading. “Why didn’t you bring him tonight?” she asked.

“Oh, you know. Weddings. Everyone gets all excited if you come with someone.”

“You didn’t tell me,” she said, a slight frown creasing her forehead.

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it would be worth mentioning.” I smiled again, warming to the idea—just like old times—and this time, Isobel smiled back.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

I paused for the briefest second. “Wyatt,” I answered, remembering my tire-changing fantasy. “He’s a doctor.”