Chapter Thirty-Seven Lily
The wedding is, predictably, filled with flowers.
Flowers cover the aisle, the garden of the church, the hair of the bride, and the laps of the guests. There is little decoration beyond flowers. It is simple, elegant, understated: exactly like the bride herself.
I walk down the aisle, the edge of my long dress dragging into the petals on the ground. In my hand is a bouquet hand-picked from Lottie’s garden. It’s almost like she’s here with us.
Guests smile as I walk past, but I keep my eyes trained on the altar in front.
Much has changed in the last year or so.
Rose has opened up her own private practice and called it “Growing Season.” Tommy etched the name into the quarterboard. It hangs above her office downtown.
I helped develop the logo and branding. The office is in the upstairs space above a gallery downtown.
It already has a months-long waiting list. My mom, so eager to help everyone, is debating whether to take on new clinicians to help with the load.
I’ve also started seeing a new therapist of my own in New York to help with the panic attacks. I moved back a few months ago.
There’s a term in art called underpainting, which refers to the first base layer of paint you apply to the canvas. You can use it to play with dimensionality. I’ve started to think of my life like an underpainting: one layer built atop another, a work in progress.
A month ago, I hosted my first art gallery.
I took Theo’s advice, stopped waiting for some external approval or permission to start.
I created social media profiles of my work and sold a few prints directly to the small audience I garnered.
Slowly, it gained traction. I went around New York City and posted flyers of my favorite pieces with a QR code attached that linked to my website.
I put clickbait taglines on them like “Scan to find out who Banksy really is” or “Help me make my rent.”
In the meantime, I’ve worked two part-time jobs, like Theo had before: bartending and teaching painting lessons at a community center in Brooklyn.
The gallery was my first real show and I held it downtown on the island, directly below Rose’s office.
The paintings were all of Lottie, Rose, Jade, even one of Elizabeth, and other women in my life, some strangers: large, elaborate oil paintings celebrating them doing simple activities.
I sold every painting, except one I kept for myself, the image of Lottie bending in the garden. I donated the proceeds to the fundraiser we ruined, supporting mental health initiatives on the island.
Now, in front of me, in the left pews, is Emily with her girlfriend, Maya. The three of us have become close friends. I told her what I once thought about Theo and her having something last summer.
“Are you crazy?” she laughed. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
I felt stupid then for how utterly out of control I let my imagination go, creating a whole narrative out of nothing.
Maya fixes a stray hair on Emily’s head now, tucking it into place behind her ears.
They had been long-distance that entire summer, and I was too blinded by my own insecurity to see it.
Two rows ahead of them are my grandfather and aunt.
Elizabeth looks stiff and a little lost. She wears a powder-blue dress with a matching blazer.
Her hair is impeccably coiffed in an elaborate updo.
We’ve also been reconnecting this last year, and I’ve found it a pleasant shock how well we get along.
She’s different from Rose, uptight in all the areas where Rose is relaxed, but she is strong in her own way.
When she sees me, her lips spread into a thin pink smile.
Two people down is Theo. He looks tanner, older after his travels.
His hair is cropped and his suit is a blue that matches his eyes, the color of the Hudson.
For once, his suit isn’t too big on him, but his smile still is.
He grins that large, toothy smile I love with the two front teeth slightly longer than the rest. I return it, almost dropping my bouquet.
My dad, James, is on the other side. His hair gelled and his expression curiously polite.
We’ve been slowly reconnecting, too. It’s slow going but it’s better than nothing.
Josie is beside him; Tommy’s sister, Rachel, next; and to her left, my friend Jade, her hair now streaked purple instead of pink.
After we made up, she and Mark stayed a few days with us the last week of summer, once Thomas had left for his new house.
When we told her about the saga with Lottie, she agreed to take a look at the manuscript.
She loved it so much that she ended up sharing it with her boss.
Now we’re discussing publication options.
At the altar, I take my spot and watch as my mom comes next. A hush falls over the room.
She looks beautiful in a white linen wedding gown.
Her veil has colored flowers stitched into the gossamer.
Tommy, beside me, is beaming. His daughters stand in a row, lined up expectantly.
They were protective of their father at first, but over time, they have grown steadily more welcoming. I hope someday we’ll be good friends.
I know when my mom gets to the front, when she marries Tommy, it will be an end to something—a shift in our dynamic—and a beginning of something else. But I’m also starting to realize that not all change is bad. Some of it can be great, actually.
The reception is held just a few streets away at the Siasconset Casino.
String lights hang from the arched, wood-paneled ceiling.
On the stage is a band, and the tables are covered in white cloths and wildflowers.
What seems like the entire town has shown up.
In Rose’s hair is a blue brooch designed by Josie.
I watch from my seat as Tommy twirls her on the dance floor and everyone claps.
“Hi, stranger,” says Theo. He takes the empty seat next to me. “Long time, no see.”
“It’s been like a month, right? Hardly a long time.”
After last summer, we decided to just stay friends for the time being.
He sent me pictures of his travels, and I sent him updates on my portrait project.
Theo is starting a graduate program in Boston in a few weeks.
It’s easier this way. Besides, all I care about is that I get to keep him in my life in some fashion.
“True, but you’ll be seeing a lot more of me very soon,” he says.
I tear my eyes away from the dance floor to look at him straight on. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I didn’t want to tell you until everything was squared away, but I got accepted into New York University’s teaching program this summer off the wait list.”
“What?” I reach for his arm. “That’s amazing, Theo. Really.”
“So, all I’m saying is that there will be plenty of chances for us to hang out.” He smiles.
I look at his endearing freckles, a face I adore. Is it romantic love or just friendship? I’m still not sure, but I do love him, however ridiculous that may seem. Finally, we will be in the same place for an uninterrupted amount of time, and there will be plenty of opportunities to figure it out.
“Remember that story I told you about how deer came to Nantucket?” I ask him.
“What?” he says, laughing at the turn in conversation. “Yes, why?”
“I think what I like about that story so much is that the town was so fixated on the deer’s loneliness that they made this grand, romantic gesture, which ended up failing spectacularly. But I still appreciate it. I appreciate the effort, and optimism, and hope.”
Maybe romance shouldn’t matter in the face of larger, more systemic societal issues. Maybe art doesn’t either. But, as Lottie said in her letter, nevertheless it does. In the midst of so much despair, love is what we do best. Art is the best part of us.
Theo’s face looks confused, but there’s a hint of his big smile threatening to break through the surface. In his hand is his place card. He twists it around. “You know,” he says. “I forgot to mention that you got my name wrong on the invitation.”
I grab it from his hands and check again. I spent weeks putting the guest list together, handcrafting every place card. The ink is gold, and each one has hand-drawn roses on it.
“What? No, I didn’t.” I check it again: Theo Cohen. It looks perfect.
“Yeah, well, technically I go by Theo, but my real first name is Harold.” He squints at me, teasing. “Harold Cohen: HC. We have a lot to still learn about each other, I guess.”
I think back to the psychic’s prediction a year ago. “You will have two great loves,” she’d said. “One greater than the other, but both have a first name that starts with the letter H.”
When everything with Henry didn’t work out, I assumed she was wrong. Now I wonder if I just wasn’t hearing the full prediction. After all, it’s impossible to realize the moral of the story when you’re smack in the middle of living it.
“Wow,” is all I can say. “I guess you’re right.”
“Lily!” Rose calls, approaching us and grabbing me by the hand. Her left hand feels the same as always: soft, too cold, but now there is a ring around the fourth finger. “It’s Lottie’s favorite song! We have to dance.”
I oblige, following her to the dance floor. The two of us take turns spinning each other again, like we did at the Chicken Box. My heart feels so full it could split open. I’m so happy for her. I’m so, so grateful for her.
“Hey, Mom,” I say as we turn. “Do you remember that psychic at last year’s greenhouse fundraiser?”
“What psychic?”
“The psychic in the corner by the perennials?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” says Rose, and then with concern: “Are you okay, honey?”
“You’re messing with me.”
“I’m really not,” she says, but then she winks, which only confuses me more.
Did I imagine the whole thing, or is Rose joking now? My mom was in and out of the kitchen all night, running around the place, first in a hectic buzz and then later, in fury. It’s likely she could have simply not noticed the psychic.
Last summer, maybe this would have made me anxious. Maybe the room would shake, the vertigo reappearing. But now, it’s at bay. When the song is over, my mom pulls me into a long hug. It’s strange to think that from now on, it will no longer be just the two of us.
“Everything is about to change, huh?” I say.
Rose squeezes my shoulder. “Yes,” she admits.
“What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to loosen up.” Rose smiles. “Hey! I have an idea.”
It’s nearing midnight, and guests have begun to trickle out. Now only a handful of people are dotted around the dining room.
“What’s that?” I ask, but it’s only a formality. I’m already game for whatever she proposes.
“Let’s go to the beach.”
Moments later, we are running, laughing the whole way there, holding our heels in our hands as we sprint down, past the empty Sconset Market, the rotary with its flag rippling in the wind, the clock house, and the white bridge that springs from it like an arm.
When we reach the sand, we ditch our shoes entirely and race each other, hitching our dresses up to our knees.
The men follow, Theo tripping slightly and then regaining his balance by the lifeguard stand.
My lungs burn as I struggle to keep up, and then we are in the ocean, and the shock of the cold feels like waking up after a long sleep. I splash Rose, who ducks and tosses a handful of water back at me.
Everyone is laughing and the moon is a huge pearl in the sky, and the future stretches out before us, long and unknown.