Gail Bowen - The Glass Coffin

“No,” she said. “It can’t.”

“The keys are over there in my bag,” I said. “Do you want to tell me what this is all about?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t. It probably won’t amount to anything, and there’s no need for both of us to lose sleep.”

I watched at the window till Jill pulled out of the driveway. Angus’s magnificent torches had been reduced to scorched stumps. Their pagan protection was gone, and as the Volvo disappeared down the deserted street, I felt a stab of anxiety that was as intense as it was irrational. Jill was an adult. If she needed me, all she had to do was pick up the cellphone. I went back upstairs, checked on the kids, reassured Willie that all was well, plumped my pillows, and crawled back between the sheets. After half an hour, I knew it was hopeless. The sandman wasn’t coming back to my house. I rearranged the pillows and picked up the remote control.

On “All in the Family,” Gloria and Mike were getting married. Weddings all around. I had seen the episode at least five times, and the familiarity lulled me. I woke to a staticky screen and the heart-pounding sense of disorientation that comes in the small hours. Remembering the immediate cause of my insomnia, I walked down the hall to the guest room. Jill was sitting on the edge of the bed. She was wearing a pair of panties and Angus’s Mr. Bill sweatshirt.

“Is that part of your trousseau?” I asked.

“No, but at the moment, it’s the perfect choice,” Jill grimaced. “Like Mr. Bill, I am Dismembered, Squashed, and Melted Down.”

“I take it this has something to do with your quixotic midnight ride.”

Jill ran her fingers through her hair. “Quixotic is good,” she said. “Moronic would be even better. After you went to bed, Gabe called and said he’d just found out something I should know before the wedding. He didn’t want to talk about it on the phone, so I went charging off into the night. The roads were a mess and on the way downtown I hit a patch of ice and ended up in a snowbank. Of course, at that hour, Good Samaritans were in even shorter supply than usual, so I had to dig myself out. The Volvo is fine, incidentally, but by the time I got to the hotel I must have looked like something Willie dragged in. The prim little gent behind the reception desk was so horrified, I almost had to body slam him before he’d even ring Gabe’s room for me. Big surprise – there was no answer. Gabe had obviously given up on me and gone to bed.”

“And you have no idea what he wanted to talk about?”

“No, and you know what, Jo? I should have realized it was a fool’s errand. There’s nothing about Evan’s life that I don’t already know. That particular Pandora’s box has been open for a long time. By now, everything has flown out but Hope, and that’s what I’m hanging on to.”

I put my arms around her. “You deserve better than this.”

“Maybe so, but I’m forty-five years old, and I’m tired of waiting.” Jill’s smile was weary. “Is there a fairy tale about a girl who has to sleep with every loser on the planet before she finally gets her happily ever after?”

“Maybe an X-rated one,” I said, smoothing her hair.

“Not much fun being stuck in an X-rated fairy tale when everybody else is falling into these great love stories,” she said. “This is as close as I’m going to come, Jo, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to make it work.”

It was still dark the next morning when Taylor crawled in beside me, and Willie lumbered up after her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” my daughter said. “I’m too excited.”

“What time is it?”

“Time to get up. Besides Willie wants out.”

“Willie always wants out.” I drew Taylor close, loving the gust of girl warmth as she snuggled in. “But he’s a reasonable dog. He’ll give us a break this morning.” Ever obliging, Willie inched up the bed, closer to the centre of power. “So what’s on our agenda?” I said.

Taylor propped herself up on her elbow. “First we eat breakfast and have a bath so Rapti can do our hair before she goes to work, then we go to the mall to get that garter.”

My daughter scratched Willie’s head absently. “Why does Jill need a blue garter?”

“To bring her luck,” I said. “Brides are always supposed to have something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.”

“Does Jill know she’s supposed to have all that stuff?”

“I’m sure she’s heard rumours,” I said.

“Good,” Taylor said. “Anyway, after we come back from the mall, we eat lunch and put on our dresses so the photographer can take our pictures.” She stretched luxuriously. “My hair is going to be soooo good.”

“Still committed to the ringlets?” I asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be? The flower girl in that bride’s magazine looked so neat.” She cocked her head. “Didn’t you think she looked pretty?”

“Sure,” I ran my hair through Taylor’s straight, dark hair. “I guess I just think you’re beautiful the way you are.”

“Wait till you see me with ringlets,” Taylor said.

On our way down to breakfast, I stuck my head in the guest room, and was relieved to see Jill sleeping. Angus took Willie for his run while I made oatmeal and toast. After we’d eaten, I poured a mug of coffee and took it up to Jill. “Rise and shine,” I said.

“Just ten more minutes,” she mumbled.

“Not for the bride,” I said.

Jill sat up and took the mug gratefully. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said.

“Proud to be your java-enabler,” I said. “Rapti’s coming by in twenty minutes to work her magic.”

Jill got out of bed, walked over to the mirror, and squinted at herself. “I hope she’s bringing some industrial-strength MAC concealer. She’s got serious work ahead.”

Rapti Lustig didn’t reach for the MAC III, but she did make judicious use of the skills she’d acquired during her ten years as a makeup person at NationTV. She gave Jill and me facials that left us dewy-skinned, and smoothed our deep-conditioned hair into styles that were as elegant as they were understated.

There was nothing subtle about my daughter’s ’do. Using the photo clipped from the magazine as her guide, Rapti spray-gelled and dry-rolled Taylor’s hair into a medusa explosion of ringlets that was nothing short of spectacular. Taylor usually displayed a healthy lack of interest in her appearance, but that morning, she couldn’t take her eyes off herself. As soon as the last spritz of hairspray kissed her curls, she leapt out of the chair. “Okay,” she said, grabbing my hand, “let’s hit the mall.”

Despite my concern about Jill’s marriage, Taylor’s buoyancy was infectious, and I had my own private source of pleasure. A permanent relationship with Gabe Leventhal was out of the question. He and I lived in parallel universes, but, at fifty-five, I was old enough to know that carpe diem wasn’t just a phrase from Latin class. A walk in the snow with a man who could make me laugh was nothing to sneeze at, so I left the house carrying the tool prized by those who know the value of seizing the moment: a cellphone.

Taylor loves malls, and that day I did too. The holiday decorations, the lights, the contact buzz that came from jostling shoppers giddy with impossible last-minute quests, and – a bonus – the chance to scope out the trees that were being raffled off for the symphony’s year-end fundraiser. I was a fan of the symphony, and Taylor was a fan of glitz, so we had bought a dozen tickets. The Scotch pine in our living room was, in my daughter’s opinion, okay but boring, and for two weeks she had fantasized about winning a second more spectacular tree. She had savoured some seductive possibilities before she settled on a feathery confection titled Snowfall at Swan Lake. The draw was that afternoon, so between stops in front of mirrors to verify that her curls were still sizzling, Taylor scrutinized her favourite, while I reminded her that the symphony had sold hundreds of tickets and that winners were promised a tree but not necessarily the tree of their choice. She listened politely, then pointed out that if we moved the parson’s bench and the grandmother clock out of the front hall, there would be a ton of room for Snowfall at Swan Lake. As I checked our home voice mail again to see if there was a message from Gabe, I knew Taylor wasn’t the only one betting against the spread.