Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Matt
At least there were no worries about being late for this wedding: It was right here in the church, across the street from his office. Matt officiated at so many elaborate destination weddings, the simplicity of this one really appealed to him. A bride, a groom, and two witnesses. A small bouquet and a boutonnière. No choirs of archangels, in fact, no music at all, just the lovely old words of the ceremony. The bride wore a white suit; the groom, a navy blazer. They looked positively euphoric.
There'd been only one brief meeting prior to today. Over tea and shortbread cookies, he'd learned that they had both lost their spouses. Here was a welcome spin on social media: They'd been friends in high school, and when Nora's husband died suddenly last year, David had reached out with condolences; his wife had been gone for a little over a year and he had some idea of what she was going through. Love, deep and sweet and well-deserved, flowed into the void.
This was just the reset he needed. As Matt led them through the ceremony, he felt his tense muscles gradually relax. "I, David," he prompted the groom, "take you, Nora, to be my wedded wife," –David echoed the words, and he finished–"to have and to hold from this day forward, for richer for poorer, for better for worse, in sickness and in health, till death parts us."
After David dutifully repeated his vow, Matt turned to Nora. The two of them were clasping hands, lost in each other's eyes, and hers were glistening.
"I–" he began, then glanced up to be sure she even knew he was there. "I, Nessa, take you, David, to be my wedded husband."
Nora, startled, tore her eyes away from her beloved's for a second. "I, Nora , take you, David–"
"Nora! Of course!" Matt interrupted, mortified. "Sorry!"
"–to be my wedded husband." He gave her the rest of the line, then got through the remainder of the service without incident. There was no need for a dramatic recessional, so when the new Mr. and Mrs. Ransome had kissed tenderly and hugged their witnesses, he congratulated them and added, "I am so sorry about my mistake. I have no idea where that came from."
Fortunately, he could have called her Lady Gaga and they wouldn't have noticed or cared. They thanked him as profusely as if he had introduced them and went off to meet their grown children for dinner, leaving him to make his way slowly back to his office, alone.
It was 6:00 and there were evidently no evening meetings scheduled, because the building was deserted. He hung his robe in the closet and sat down.
Nessa . What in the world had made him say her name? Obviously, she was on his mind, but… during a wedding ceremony? His life was turning into a bad Friends episode.
Abruptly, he got up and went to the window, but the view of the town common did nothing to soothe him. The peace that had filled him earlier had vanished, and he stood there fidgeting, too distracted to work and too edgy to go home to his empty apartment.
Checking the time, he was debating going to the gym when he suddenly realized exactly where he needed to go. His backpack was under the desk; grabbing it, he shoved his laptop into the main compartment, checked to be sure he had his phone and keys, and left quickly, turning out lights and locking doors as he went.
The reverse commute back into the city meant that traffic wasn't terrible. Lots of stoplights, but that was a fact of life. His phone pinged, buzzed, and trilled repeatedly with messages of all types, and while that wasn't totally unusual for him, it was unusual enough to get his attention. He figured he'd be there in ten minutes, give or take, and restrained himself from trying to check. His New Year's resolution–or one of them, anyway–had been no texting while driving, ever.
I'm starving, he thought suddenly.
There was an energy bar in his backpack, which he'd tossed in the back seat, and his mouth watered when he remembered it. Reaching behind him with one arm and steering with the other, he wrestled the heavy, awkward pack into the front passenger seat, causing the Bronco to swerve toward the center line and oncoming cars. A blast of horns, accompanied by muffled yelling, snapped him back into his own lane.
Not good. New resolution: No snacking while driving.
What was he doing? Taking risks like that wasn’t part of who he was. Or, at least, it wasn’t until recently.
Finally, Nessa's building appeared ahead. As he was peering up, trying to see if the lights were on in her apartment, there was a quick movement in his peripheral vision and he inhaled sharply–a pedestrian had had one foot in the street but leaped backward to avoid being hit.
By him.
Come on, Matt.
A pickup was pulling out of a parking space just down the street from her building, but on the opposite side of the street. The temptation to pull a U-ey was strong, but he had poked the gods of the Boston Police Department one too many times already. Driving responsibly to the next stoplight, he pulled his U-turn there instead and grabbed the spot.
Leaving the engine running for the air conditioning, he rummaged for the energy bar and picked up his still-pinging phone. Half the bar went into his mouth at once.
Vince: On the plus side, no one's going to remember the #honeyrun anymore. Good news for both of us. I guess.
Marcus: Hey, buddy, give me a call if you feel like talking. Always here.
Lily: Hi Matt, Marcus told me a little bit, if you need a laywoman's perspective, I can try to help?
Lily's texts to him were generally confined to travel plans and ideas for Marcus's birthday. This alone was alarming.
There was a new email from Barbara Jenkins in his inbox:
Dear Matt,
I seem to be connected to a lot of different Instagram accounts lately. It used to be mostly UU memes and mom jokes. Anyway, that's not your girlfriend, is it? The one who's coming to speak to our teens?
Thanks, Barbara
As he digested this, a happy little sound from his phone signaled another email coming in. Why did the damn thing always sound so proud of itself with each new arrival? The name Marty Draper appeared in bold at the top of the list. Dad. Matt always tried to watch his language carefully–it went with the job–but… shit . He closed the app without reading it.
Finger now hovering over the Insta icon, he remembered every horror movie he'd ever seen, that moment when the hapless victim slowly, agonizingly reaches for the vibrating doorknob of the attic door, and the entire audience screams, "No! Don't open it!"
He opened it.
There was the usual stream of photos documenting his friends' lives, from mundane to relatively fabulous: New babies, puppies, kayaking at sunrise, grandma with a birthday cake, a black tie wedding at the Boston Public Library.
And why was he seeing a post from Chris Allister? He wasn't a movie star follower, to say the least.
Ah. #verynecessary was tagged in it, that's why. He’d told Marcus about his new relationship with Nessa, and he’d clearly told Lily.
As for Barbara, well… that was an odd one. You never really knew how you were connected to another account on social media, and this proved it.
And what was happening in this movie star's video? Pearls, big ones, and lots of them. A woman's shoulders, the base of her neck, a man's hands arranging the gleaming pearls gently, almost caressingly, against her skin. Matt's stomach clenched. The background song was "Die for You", he recognized it as soon as he heard the slow, emotional opening beats, like a pulse.
In Nessa's own posts, every shot was cropped to keep the focus on whatever she was featuring; you might see the curve of her earlobe with a dangling earring, her ankle wrapped with the ribbons of a sandal, things like that, but her identity was always obscured. This video opened with a tight closeup, too, but then the camera traveled up to her face, smiling at whoever was draping the pearls over her–although, it seemed to him, nervously. Was he reading too much into her expression? Obviously, she had cooperated with the video.
Barbara wasn't wrong. This wasn't the kind of thing a minister's girlfriend could be putting out there for the world to see. At least, not this minister's girlfriend. It was unmistakably suggestive, and although he knew next to nothing about jewelry, even he could tell that the necklace was very, very expensive.
The power bar he'd eaten began to revolt. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he let the video replay again and again, hoping unreasonably each time that he would see something different, something that explained everything, made it okay. Just innocent fun.
All he saw was the man's hands, the pearls, her skin, over and over and over.
Then the music changed slightly, adding a faster percussion line that he hadn't heard before.
"Matt? Matt!"
The new beat was Nessa, tapping on his window. The shock of her appearance was so great, he dropped the phone, groping under the seat for it with his right hand while fumbling for the window button with his left. The audio continued to play, and he felt unaccountably guilty, like she'd caught him looking at online porn.
Not that there was anything wrong with that.
Just not in public.
"What are you doing here?" she said, but as the window lowered, she heard the music and her face fell. "Oh."
"That's not why I'm here, I just saw it. I was–I came to try to talk to you. I've been trying to talk to you since last week, but you won't answer." Retrieving the phone, he stopped the video, then turned off the car and pulled the door handle. They stood staring at each other on the sidewalk.
"I was going to answer, but… I've had a few problems."
"Like dates with Chris Allister?" His tone was somewhere between sarcastic and bitter, and he barely recognized his own voice.
"That was not a date. It was work."
"Looks like really hard work. Such a slog. You don't get paid enough, Nessa." Sarcastic and bitter, too.
"It was work! You don't understand! It was a photo shoot and he was hitting on me and Kari was there and she thought I was going too far but I wasn't, it was him, and–"
"You seem to be just fine with him putting a... pearl necklace... all over you and posting it."
"That wasn't him, that was Rob Olivetti!"
He snorted. "Rob Olivetti. The movie star? Another tough day at work?" Sarcasm was a more useful tool than he'd ever realized. "I see what you mean about having problems. I hate it when I have to fight off Scarlett Johansson."
"I never thought you could sound like this. You're not even listening to me!"
"You know what, Nessa? I'm a pretty good listener. I listen to people all day long, in fact. People whose kids have incurable diseases. People who lost their jobs and can't make the rent. People who just can't understand all the hate in the world. But this is the first time I ever had to listen to anyone complain because someone was making them wear a ten-thousand-dollar necklace."
"Two hundred and fifty thousand."
"Excuse me?"
"It costs two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Give or take."
"Good grief, Nessa."
"It's not my necklace, I didn't even pick it out, it was there as a prop! And in case you're interested, which you're obviously not, I messed up so bad on Saturday, I practically ruined my own career that I've been working so hard on, and then I had to go to the office on Sunday and explain to Katie and Kari, who trusted me and have never been anything but kind to me, how I almost put them out of business. And my mother was there! And just so you know? When Chris Allister asked me to go sailing in the Hamptons this weekend I said no, and when he said you were a juiced up TikTok bodybuilder dude preaching bullshit about how your body is a temple, I said you were my boyfriend and I'd rather be with you than him!"
Her hand flew to her mouth as if to push the words back in. They stared at each other for a moment, both breathing raggedly; he bit his lip.
"Chris Allister knows who I am?" One corner of his mouth curled up a millimeter and they both burst out laughing.
"A lot of people know who we are, Matt–or they think they do, anyway. We're the only ones who are having trouble figuring it out."
"Why don't you just tell me, then? Who are you, Nessa?"
"I… " she looked down at the sidewalk. "I'm a girl who likes things to be beautiful, but I understand that doesn't just mean how they look. I understand you have to work hard for what you want, whether that's a good job or saving animals or a new pair of shoes. I understand that life isn't fair and maybe I need to check my privilege sometimes. I… I'm a girl who likes people who are kind and funny and who show up. I like ministers better than movie stars." A tiny smile flickered across her lips. "I like sleeping on the deck of a sailboat. I think vanilla is underrated and my favorite color is Tiffany blue, but not because of the name! I just like the color." Her breath ran out. "There's more, but… who are you , Reverend Draper?"
"Hmm. I'm someone who… well, you already know my calling. I like sailing. My favorite ice cream is pistachio... I–I'm not the mystery here, Nessa! I'm a pretty open book."
"Open book? Really?" Her tone was challenging. "And I'm some big mystery? You know what I think? I think you like me but you're worried that I'm too superficial for you, maybe too materialistic. Too concerned with social media and followers and my image. Right?"
"A person could get that idea," he said defensively.
"A person could get the idea that you take a lot of paid vacations to private islands! That, for a humble minister, you attend a lot of parties with millionaires–and that you're pretty concerned with how your eight-pack looks on TikTok! But I know that's not the whole, true story. I see who you are underneath. But you don't see me. Me ." Tears of frustration welled up. "Do you?"
"I'm trying to–I thought I did. But this…" he held up his phone, "...this isn't who I thought I saw. I don't know who this is."
"That video isn't–" The sadness in his voice seemed to cut through whatever she was about to say, and she stopped. "Do you want to come in? This is a lot. Come in and we can talk."
He came here to talk, didn't he? He'd taken enough classes in counseling and interpersonal communication, and even crisis management, to know that the sidewalk was not the place for this. She was right about that. Why was he hesitating?
Was he… scared? Because if the conditions for this conversation were ideal, both parties sincerely invested, and still he could not facilitate a good outcome, then he would be failing at what he'd been trained to do.
She said something about having a disaster at work, he thought suddenly. Is this what she's feeling?
As shaken as she might be over her work disaster, though, it only affected her professional life. Well, not only –obviously that was a huge deal. But if they went inside and talked this through and he could not navigate the waters, it wouldn't be only his professional life that suffered. It would be his real life.
So…yes. He was hesitating. Because some part of him knew this would work out, and that scared the hell out of him as much as it excited him.
"I have coffee," she offered. “The real stuff.”
"Okay, then. Let's go."
At the entrance to her building, a big brown UPS truck was pulled up to the curb. The driver jumped down, holding a medium-size box.
"Hey, Tanya," Nessa said.
"Hey, Nessa. Package for you. Signature required. Express Courier.” She waggled her eyebrows.
"Really? I'm not expecting anything." Signing with a swoosh, she looked curiously at the label.
“Must be special,” Tanya replied.
"You guys know each other?" Matt asked, getting a smile from Tanya.
"Oh, yeah, we go back. Nessa gets the most deliveries of any residential address in Southie. I got a special award last year for high-volume completion. Her posts are awesome. Do you follow her?"
Nessa looked pained but said graciously, "Tanya's the best. We have to get going, though, T, so I'll see you soon. Thanks!"
Once inside her apartment, he went to the cupboard and took out beans, grinder, filter, and Chemex. It felt both intimate and awkward, already familiar with the contents of her kitchen yet unsure if he'd ever be there again.
Nessa, meanwhile, was standing at the counter, ripping open the carton Tanya had given her. Bubble wrap filled the box, and she unrolled yards of it to reveal another box. Matt had turned his attention to filling the kettle when he heard a gasp.
His first confused thought was that she looked like a mermaid–a horrified mermaid–the box in front of her a sea chest full of pearls. The biggest pearls he had ever seen. They spilled out of the box and pooled on the counter, and as big as they were–the size of cherries–there was no question that they were the real thing.
A thick, rectangular piece of paper had fallen to the floor and, without thinking, he bent and picked it up. It wasn't his intention to read it, but the message was short and the handwriting was big and bold, written in black Sharpie:
God's Gift or my gift, which would you rather? Anyway, you should have these. C.A.
He handed it to her. Then he stepped back, turned off the gas burner, brushed some stray coffee grounds into the sink, and headed straight for the door.
Storming out in a fit of rage was not the best practice when mediating a personal conflict, he was pretty clear on that. On the other hand, the scenarios he had role-played in counseling class had revolved around issues like household responsibilities, political differences, and managing expectations.
Whose turn it was to take out the trash was a far cry from discovering that a major movie star was sending your girlfriend gifts that cost a quarter of a million dollars.
Girlfriend?
Obviously, his expectations were not being properly managed.
For a guy who prided himself on being pretty zen most of the time, his anger surprised him. Accustomed to finding moderation and balance emotionally, and quite proud of his ability to stay in his wiser mind, right now he felt an untethering happening, a jealousy and fury about some movie star trying to claim Nessa, buy her off with luxury, and seeing that necklace and note made it clear she accepted it all.
Maybe even reveled in it.
"Matt? Matt, wait! I–"
A loud buzz interrupted her.
"Who is that? " Nessa came flying around the corner, grabbed the doorframe to steady herself, and pressed the intercom.
"What is it?" Her voice was a controlled screech. Mostly controlled.
"Ness? It's Mom. And Mame. We're here for dinner. Hurry, let us in, we've got the spring rolls and the pho and I think the bag is leaking!"
" Shit! " she hissed through her teeth. "I completely forgot!" She buzzed them in.
"I have to go," Matt said. "I'll call you."
"No! Please! I'll tell them I'm sick! Just go wait in the other room and I'll handle this. Really . I can explain. Matt, there’s more to this than meets the eye.”
“I’m starting to doubt that.”
He wouldn't have thought someone with such a small ribcage could draw in their breath that hard.
“We need to talk about this.”
"No. Not - not right now. I’ve gotta go. Have fun." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You can show them the present your new… whatever… sent you. I’m sure they’ll look great around your neck when he honey-runs you."