The Key to Happiness
Gwyn Cready
The man was nondescript, Kate thought. Pleasant but entirely nondescript. Grey hair, grey eyes, medium height and as old as her parents, if not older. A face in the crowd, if this were a movie. In fact it dawned on Kate, as he leaned in to speak, that he’d probably been seated next to her for most of Van Morrison’s “Moondance”, though she hadn’t noticed exactly when he’d slipped into the chair next to her.
“I imagine you enjoyed the cake.” He spoke a little louder than necessary, to be heard over the wedding band. He re-angled his seat a degree and smiled.
The statement was unusual. Not quite a come-on – well, certainly not a come-on, not from someone old enough to have danced to “Moondance” on vinyl – but not your usual conversation starter.
“I did, yes.” She took a quick glance at her plate. She’d eaten two-thirds of the slice – half the cake part and all the strawberries between the layers, but almost none of the frosting – not enough to be called out for overindulgence. She struggled with emotional overeating and had an immediate visceral reaction to any reference to her appetite.
But the man’s eyes held no irony or judgment. The tweedy flecks of blue and green in the hazy irises showed only polite curiosity.
“Strawberries are my favourite,” she said. “In fact, that’s how Carly – the bride – and I met.”
“Really?”
“We were in seventh grade, working the annual strawberry-sale fundraiser for our softball team. We ate more than we sold, I think. God, I was so sick. I threw up for three days.”
He smiled. The lines that appeared around his eyes gave him a warmth she hadn’t seen before. She wondered if he smiled a lot.
“That’s a nice dress.” He nodded towards the sateen bridesmaid skirt crinkling as she moved. “I take it the bride likes pink?”
“Oh, my God, it’s a good thing Carly didn’t hear you say that. This,” she said, gathering a handful of fabric, “is watermelon. Not pink. Not red.Watermelon.”
“Clearly, I’m not as familiar with the fruit colour wheel as I should be.”
“Pink is for NASCAR junkies and girls at theirquinceañera,” Kate explained. “And red is for Detroit hockey fans and sluts.”
“Heavens, I see the bride has some strong opinions.”
“And the only possible accent colour,” Kate added, tugging at the dangling stones at her ears, “is a green you could only call, well …”
“Rind?”
“Exactly.”
“You’ve been through bridesmaids’ hell, I can see.”
“And the seventh circle is on the horizon.” She gazed at the knot of pre-teens gathering for the bouquet toss.
“I hope it goes with watermelon.”
“Oh, let me correct myself.” She held up a finger. “Not just ‘watermelon’. Carly considers it ‘frosted watermelon’ because of the shiny watermark-type things swirling around in the fabric.”
“Got it.” He nodded uncertainly.
“Am I scaring you?”
“If I’m honest, yes.”
Kate shook her head and sighed. “My wedding’s going to be on the steps of the City/County Building with, like, six people watching and me wearing my friend Rema’s sari.”
“Your mother will never go for it.”
She looked at him again. It was a comment with broad application, but there was something about the tone that suggested a specific understanding, not a mass market aside. “Do you know my mother?”
“Actually,” he said, “I’m here for them.” He gestured towards two men in their mid-twenties leaning back on their elbows at the bar. One was a groomsman, a broad-shouldered blond in his last year of law school at Columbia named Mark Donovan, and theother a shorter and slightly chunkier Irish-looking guy who had just elbowed his friend in the ribs and made an under-his-breath observation. Kate thought she’d been introduced to him as well, but she couldn’t remember. Mark caught her eye and gave her a lopsided grin. When they were introduced by Carly’s aunt before the ceremony, he’d made a joke about the likelihood of the band playing “Moondance”.
