Chapter 2 The Call
Chapter2 The Call
The Mother of the Groom
“Mom. Mom? Are you there?”
“Hello? Hello? Chase, is that you? Wait, what button did I hit? Did you call me? Or did I call you?” Abigail Blakeman asked,
then pulled her phone away from her ear to stare at it. It was new. Not the latest version, of course, because those were
expensive and complicated and really more computer than phone. She bought the reasonably priced older version, which would
soon be obsolete. It seemed smaller than her last phone. Or her eyes were rapidly deteriorating. Or her joints were swelling.
Either way, she was constantly dialing people she didn’t want to speak to and hanging up on people she did want to talk to.
She missed landlines.
“I called you, Mom.”
“Well, that’s nice.” And surprising on a Sunday morning. Her eldest child, Chase checked in every few weeks, usually when
he was in the back of a car stuck in Manhattan traffic en route to a meeting. The tactic ensured that the call was no more
than seven minutes, half of which was Chase giving instructions to the driver. The other half was Chase apologizing for being
so busy that he hadn’t had time to call.
Chase was the chief of staff for the Mayor of the City of New York, Timothy “Timmo” Lynch. It was an impressive title and an impressive accomplishment for a B student who’d just turned thirty. Abigail couldn’t stand the mayor even though he was a well-respected Independent who was fiscally conservative and socially progressive. An Irish immigrant, the son of a construction worker and a schoolteacher, young Mayor Lynch had used his University of Galway education, street smarts, and charm to make his way to Harvard for an MBA, then to New York City to build a financial empire. When Timmo decided to trade in his career in finance for a career in politics, the voters fell for this naturalized US citizen with his Irish accent and Gabriel Byrne looks.
Abigail thought the mayor was smug, too charismatic for his own good. And Chase had picked up the same skills, the easy conversation
with everyone from world leaders to old ladies, the ability to break down complex ideas into simple, digestible chunks of
information. Her son had even started dressing like his boss, in handmade suits when Brooks Brothers’ ready-made suits were
perfectly fine. She loved Chase, but she wished he’d find another line of work, maybe even one where no one knew his name.
Politics could be so tawdry. You could get dragged through the mud through no fault of your own. Or just a tiny little fault
of your own. Why couldn’t he have a high-powered career and make gobs of money, but in something not so objectionable? Like
law.
“Are you and Dad around today?”
“I am. Puttering in the garden,” Abigail lied. In truth, she was drinking coffee and staring out the window at the sailboats
bobbing on their moorings, using the first weekend of the summer season as an excuse to skip church. It was a blue-sky Connecticut
day in Fair Harbor. She might rally and do a little weeding later, but for now, she was content to do nothing. “Your father’s
golfing.”
“Penny and I thought we might come out for the afternoon. To stop by. There’s something I want to tell you.”
Immediately, Abigail had two thoughts. The first: I wish I had spent the money on that gazpacho at Nutmeg, the specialty market. The second: He’s finally getting out of politics and going to law school. “We’d love to see you. For lunch?” she asked cautiously.
“No, we’ll arrive around two. Penny and I will take the train out and then walk to the house.”
Abigail was relieved about the lunch. She really didn’t keep company food in the house anymore. “Wonderful. Your father should
be home from the club around then and do his usual, fall asleep on the couch while watching more golf. Sarah might even be
home. She’s teaching some sort of clinic or something this morning.” That was it, the totality of the Blakeman family: Abigail
Ellsworth Blakeman, sixty-five, mother of two, former private school development person, now working the front desk for minimum
wage at the senior center; George Blakeman, late sixties, former stockbroker forced out under suspicious circumstances and
for overall underperformance, now a competitive bridge player; and Sarah Ellsworth Blakeman, twenty-seven, living at home,
the health teacher and head coach of the junior varsity field hockey team at Fair Harbor High School, unattached and uninterested
in men or women. All co-residing in the circa-1834 center-hall Colonial on the water in a small, picturesque village on the
Gold Coast. Travel sites called it the Nantucket of Connecticut.
Only Chase had escaped to Manhattan, forty miles down I-95 and a world away. “We’ll see you then, Mom. Thanks.”
“Love you.” She did.
“You too, Mama,” Chase said in return, like he always did.
***
Four hours later, after Abigail had done a quick cleanup, made fresh iced tea, and defrosted some brownies from the Mother’s Day gift basket her son had sent after missing brunch, changed into a linen shift dress, applied sunscreen, and arranged some of the early blooms of her showstopping blue hydrangeas in a pewter pitcher, Chase burst through the back door with Penny in tow. He added energy everywhere he went, and this bolt lit up Chez Blakeman. “Hey, we’re here.”
“Wake up,” Abigail hissed at George as she made her way through the house from the patio. He was sound asleep and still in
his golf clothes.
“I’m awake,” he insisted, as if a second ago he hadn’t been snoring.
Abigail shook her head and made her way to the kitchen—the new kitchen, is how she thought of it, even though the remodel
had been during the first term of the second Bush administration. “You came in through the back door!”
“Since when are we allowed to come in through the front door?”
“Guests are allowed in through the front door,” Abigail said, nodding at Penny, who was even more striking than she remembered
with her dark hair, olive complexion, and bright eyes. Abigail expected all California girls to be blond and bikini’d. But
Penny was wrapped in layers of sophistication, with her floral maxi dress, espadrilles with ankle ties, and the silk scarf
in her hair. She didn’t look like the preppy girls from Fair Harbor whom Chase had dated in high school. Nothing like them
at all, which Abigail took personally.
“Good to see you again, Penny,” Abigail said, extending a hand. She’d only met the girl a few times; it didn’t seem like a
hug-and-kiss situation.
Penny swapped a bag of bagels into her other hand to shake properly. “Thank you for having us.”
Thank you for having us? This is Chase’s house. He’s not the guest, you are, Abigail thought. “You brought my favorite bagels. I look forward to breakfast tomorrow. Though I limit myself to only half
a bagel at a time.”
Chase came in for a proper hug and said to his mother, “One day you should really go for it, Mom. Cut loose and have a whole bagel.”
“Your mother looks amazing, Chase. She should keep doing what she’s doing. No carb shaming! Right, Mrs.Blakeman?” You can
take the girl out of California, but you can’t take the California out of the girl.
“Thank you,” Abigail said, thinking about whether now was a good time to invite Penny to call her by her first name and then
deciding against it. She wanted to remain Mrs.Blakeman until she knew exactly where this relationship was going. “Why don’t
we go out on the porch? There are drinks and brownies out there.”
“We just finished lunch,” Chase said. “We grabbed some food at Nutmeg’s and then ate it at the park. I don’t think we’re hungry,
are we?”
“We can take a brownie for the train ride back,” Penny suggested.
Abigail tried hard not show her disappointment. They ate in the public park instead of accepting her lunch invitation, albeit
a tepid one? And now they were going to take her Mother’s Day brownies to eat on Metro North? Who ate on Metro North? Again,
Abigail dug deep. “Wonderful plan.”
***
The patio off the back of the house, overlooking the harbor, was a point of pride for Abigail. The blue-gray slate. The white vintage Brown Jordan furniture that she maintained herself because the professional refinishers were a fortune. The multitude of Gertrude Jekyll pink rosebushes surrounding the enclosure. And the view! The view led the eye down the rocky slope to the water and out across the harbor to the vibrant marsh on the other side. When visitors exclaimed that it was “a million-dollar view,” George always responded, “Let’s hope it’s a three-million-dollar view.” And there was knowing laughter all around.
Not only did Abigail hope, but she also prayed it was a three-million-dollar view. Every night.
“Do you want something stronger than iced tea?” George asked, alert and awake now, even though he was still in his pink golf
shirt and lime-green shorts.
“Not right now,” Chase said, giving his sister, Sarah, a hug. She had arrived on the scene, fresh from the field hockey pitch.
It didn’t matter what time of year it was; for Sarah, it was always field hockey season. “You reek,” Chase teased.
She put up her hands in an inviting gesture. “You want to see if you can do more burpees than me? Let’s go. In the grass.
I am the champion of my league team, which is coed.” Nothing got Sarah more fired up than a squat thrust competition. Abigail
hoped that someday, somewhere, someone would appreciate those thigh muscles.
“Sit, sit!” George instructed, and the entire group did as they were told. It was a lovely view. “What brings you out on a
Sunday afternoon?”
“We have something to tell you,” Chase announced, then reached for Penny’s hand. “Last night I asked Penny to marry me and
she said yes.” Chase could not have looked more pleased and Penny could not have looked more radiant. The announcement was
more of a proclamation than an announcement. The mutual adoration seeped out of their pores. If love was a scent, these two
would reek.
“Congratulations!” Sarah shouted, jumping up and moving to embrace the happy couple. “I’ll finally have a sister!”
George followed suit with some generic words of encouragement and went off to get a bottle of champagne.
Chase and Penny turned to look at Abigail at the same time, all anticipation. She knew that this response would set the tone for the rest of her relationship with her future daughter-in-law. And still, she couldn’t help herself. “So, you’re not going to law school?”
***
Two hours later, all the champagne was gone and the happy couple had recounted for the second time that day what would become
the mythology of them : the Buying the Aquamarine not Diamond Ring Story (the mayor knew a guy in the jewelry business ); the Proposal Story (the
mayor knew a guy who could keep the Empire State Building open late for the occasion); and the Cozy Late Night Supper Afterward
at Bemelmans Bar Story. (Again, the mayor and a guy he knew meant no waiting in line.) Finally, the story of the After-Party,
which Chase had arranged with their friends at Dorian’s Red Hand. It had all been perfect.
Then, there was the discussion of everything they didn’t want to discuss yet, like the date, the location, and, as Sarah put
it, “the hideous bridesmaids’ dresses.” Penny declared that no decisions about any of that had been made in the nineteen hours
they’d been engaged. And Chase added that they wanted a breath to enjoy their new, affianced status before choosing napkin
colors or cutting the number of guests in half. Abigail pretended to buy all the denials, but one look at Penelope Diamandis
told you that she locked things down as soon as she could.
After the nonstop talking and the laughter that Chase always brought into the house, the couple seemed spent, so Abigail went
into the kitchen to pack up the brownies to go before the five sixteen train back to Grand Central. Chase followed her in.
“What was that about law school?” Chase asked, grabbing a seltzer out of the fridge.
Apparently, he wasn’t going to forget her faux pas. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from. I mean, I do. You said it once and you know I hate all the politics of... politics. Law would be a nice quiet career for you, that’s all.” And lucrative , thought Abigail, but she would never say that out loud to her son. Most nights, she lay awake worried that there wouldn’t
be much left to leave her children if she and George lived as long as their relatives had, well into their eighties. There
would be no house on the Connecticut shoreline to split; they’d get a condo in Hilton Head if they were lucky. A law career
with a steady, solid income would be Chase’s hedge against a diminished inheritance. And Sarah? She would have to marry well.
“I think I said I wanted to go to law school once when I was sixteen. Mom, I love my job. I work for the mayor of the greatest
city in the world. And now I have a gorgeous, smart fiancée who is accomplished on every level. Please let her know that you
think she’s great, too.”
“I do!” Abigail said defensively while adding some cheese and crackers to the to-go bag, along with hand-sanitizing wipes
and napkins. She hoped to God they snacked at the station and not on the train itself. “It seems so sudden, that’s all.”
“We’ve been dating since last September. Weren’t you and Dad engaged in less than a year?”
Busted. “Yes, but we were a little older and had been in the same circle. Penny is someone out of the blue.”
Chase cocked his head. “What does that mean?”
Abigail wasn’t going to back down or be ashamed. She wanted to stand up for her people. “There are so many nice girls here
in Fair Harbor. I assumed you’d settle down with someone we knew. Get married at the club.”
“Mom, I haven’t dated someone you knew since sophomore year in high school when you forced me to take Molly Yang to Cotillion.”
“She’s a lovely girl. She’s a nurse at my dermatologist office. Gorgeous complexion,” Abigail added in case there was a slight
chance Chase would change his mind in exchange for free skin care products. “Penny is lovely. I just worry, you know.”
“About what?”
Abigail dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “About the no-father thing.”
Chase barked a laugh. “First of all, you know that’s medically impossible, right? And second, she doesn’t worry about it.
Her mother is very proud of the fact that she is a single mother by choice. So is Penny. I wouldn’t mention it when you meet
her mom in a few weeks. We’re going to arrange a dinner in the city. Try not to be a snob. It’s that DAR thing with you, isn’t
it?”
“I’m very proud to be a Daughter of the American Revolution. As proud as Penny’s mom is of her status.” Indeed, Abigail Ellsworth
Blakeman was prouder, there could be no doubt. She had a direct relative on her father’s side, Oliver Ellsworth, a founding
father of Connecticut and a signer of the Constitution. She had the family Bible and reams of verified genealogy to prove
it. On her mother’s side, she was related to an eighteenth-century Hartford seamstress and a shop owner, a couple she wished
had had the good sense to acquire real estate or master the printing press when they’d had the chance so there would be some
serious generational wealth, instead of only the appearance of generational wealth.
The point was that her lifelong membership in DAR came with deep roots and satisfaction. Some women could play tennis. Other
women had great fashion sense. For Abigail, she had her connection to the Revolutionary War and that was enough. “I worry
that you don’t know what you’re getting into genetically, that’s all.”
“Like the Alzheimer’s and baldness on your side of the family? And the heart disease and high blood pressure on Dad’s? I’m
not sure I feel better knowing what lies ahead.”
“Don’t be fresh.” She loved her son’s quick wit but not when it was aimed at her.
“Penny has all the father figures she needs. She spent every summer in Greece with her uncles. Her grandfather on Patmos is
still alive.”
Her grandfather on Patmos? Sudden realization dawned on Abigail. What if the wedding was on some Greek island in the middle of nowhere? It would be
bad enough to have to go to California. The inconvenience of it all. The expense! But Greece? Nothing was worse than a destination
wedding on an island. Nothing. Before she got carried away with the misery of travel by ferry, she refocused on her son.
“And she has a godfather who is like a father to her. She is very close to him. Fittingly, he’s a member of the House of Lords.
Is that good enough for you?”
Abigail was laser focused. “He’s a British lord? How is that possible?”
“Remember at Christmas when Penny mentioned that her mother went to college in London? Simon Fox is her college mate, as they
say. That’s Lord Simon Fox to you and me. His title is something like Baron Plumley. Or Plumfield. Penny sees him all the
time. He comes to New York for work, and she’s spent holidays at his estate in the country. Somewhere with lots of apples
because he makes hard cider when he’s not in Parliament. I’m sure he’ll walk her down the aisle.”
Abigail’s brain started to explode. Her disappointment at Sarah not being the first to get married at St.Mark’s down the
street with a tented reception in the backyard and the remote possibility of an announcement in some decent publication was
being replaced by a rush of exhilaration. A British baron! Walking Penny down the aisle! Along with her family’s own founding
father credentials and Chase’s ties to the mayor, the event was a shoo-in for a prime wedding announcement placement. And
Penny being half Greek must count as diversity, Abigail thought. This whole event could be NYT “Vows”-worthy and who knew
where that could lead?
Abigail made a mental note to get in touch with her prep school roommate Bernadette Caruso, formerly of the New York Times but now known as wedding etiquette doyenne Aunt B. Bernadette might even be open to covering the wedding herself for her matrimonial digital empire, Dearly Beloveds and Betrotheds. Maybe this unknown girl from California would be an asset.
If only they could have the wedding here, in this historic house in this historic village, maybe, just maybe, Abigail could
work this wedding to their family advantage. It would be untraditional to have it in the groom’s backyard and not the bride’s,
but it would be so lovely. She’d have to talk with Bernadette, who would give her the straight scoop on whether a historic
house in Connecticut or a godforsaken island in the Aegean was a more desirable location in terms of attention. Her media-savvy
son would thank her, no doubt. And wouldn’t a gorgeous wedding photo spread on a well-respected site increase the real estate
value of the house? George would have thoughts on that.
In the meantime, she tried to smooth things over with Chase. “I guess a little diversity in the gene pool is a good thing.”
“I know it’s good for politics.”
“What does that mean?”
“Penny’s background and her ties to California will play well with national voters and donors.”
Now it was Abigail’s turn to cock her head. Whose voters? The mayor was foreign-born and terming out; he couldn’t run for
president. And he said that being mayor was the only political job he wanted. What was Chase talking about? She handed him
the snack pack. “What voters?”
“Mine. But we’ve gotta get going if we’re going to make the train. I’ll explain next time,” he said as he gave her a one-armed
hug. “Please tell Penny something nice before we leave. Like, welcome to the family.”
***
The Blakemans walked the beautiful couple to the door en masse. Abigail realized it was now or never for her gesture, so she
pulled Penny into a genuine hug and announced, “We’re delighted about your news.” She released her hostage and added, “Please,
call us Abigail and George. You’re family now.” That was a phrase that Abigail had never uttered, nor a sentiment she’d ever
felt about anyone but her actual family, and it sounded like a line from a cheesy TV movie. But she supposed that was what
people said in situations like this.
“Thank you, Abigail. And you too, George, for the champagne,” her son’s fiancée said. “I can’t wait to be family. Or as we
say in Greek, oikogéneia.”
“And a beautiful okeefenokie you’ll be,” George joked, causing the rest of the occupants in the front hall to cringe. Sincerity
was really his strong suit, not humor, Abigail thought.
Almost as an afterthought, Sarah asked if she could get a picture for her socials. Abigail echoed the sentiment. Finally,
she would have something to post besides pictures of hydrangeas and sunrises and banana bread, her specialty. She could imagine
the caption, like she’d seen all her mom friends post: “She said YES!” Of course Penny had said yes to her son, and Abigail
wanted the world to know.
“Let’s go out on the front lawn. The dappled light is beautiful there,” Penny directed, as if she had scouted the location
on her way in. “Oh, and please don’t post anything until we get our photos back from the Empire State Building later this
week. Chase thought of everything, even a photographer. Remember, when it comes to weddings, the bride posts first!” Penny
cooed, though it came out as a warning.
“I think the bride goes first from now on in everything,” George said, trying to recover from his previous comment, but only
generating more cringe. Abigail thought he looked like he needed another nap.
Penny nodded. “That’s sweet, George. So sweet... and true.”
Sarah and Abigail snapped their shots and there wasn’t an unflattering one in the bunch. After Penny and Chase approved the
photos, the three remaining Blakemans stood on the front porch, waving as Chase and his future bride, hand in hand, hurried
to catch the train back to the city to start their new, fully upgraded lives together.
Bride first, bride first , Abigail repeated in her head. As the mother of the groom, she would have to remember those words.
From the Desktop of Dearly Beloveds and Betrotheds
Dear B & Bs...
As promised, my short and not-too-sweet list of wishes for the Mothers of the Bride:
Be supportive, but not overbearing.
Offer opinions only when asked. Never offer criticism.
Just because you’ve written the check doesn’t mean you get to write the guest list. Be grateful for one table.
Channel your need for attention into something productive like learning calligraphy to address the envelopes.
Be the mother you wanted at your wedding.
Stay hydrated, but not with vodka martinis.
Enjoy the accomplishment that is your adult daughter.
You won’t regret looking your best on the big day. But your daughter will be the most beautiful one at the wedding.
Never, ever wear white.
Repeat as needed: not my wedding, not my wedding .
Big Kiss & Wedding Bliss,
Your Aunt B