“Then let me do my job,” Alex said. He turned back to Evan. “You were saying that it was midnight when you last saw Mr. Leventhal alive.”
“I can help with the time,” Jill said. She looked stunned, but she knew how to follow a story. “I was staying at Joanne’s, and Gabe phoned me there – it was around one-thirty when he called. He said he needed to see me. I had some problems getting downtown, so by the time I arrived, he’d already gone to bed. The man on the graveyard shift at the front desk called Gabe’s room for me, but he didn’t answer. You can check with the desk clerk about the exact time.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Alex said. He turned back to Evan. “Mr. MacLeish, why didn’t you call your fiancee last night to tell her that your best man was withdrawing.”
For the first time, there was a note of asperity in Evan’s voice. “Because there was no point in disturbing her. It was late. I couldn’t justify waking Jill up the night before our wedding because the best man was having a panic attack and wanted his doctor.”
“It appears Mr. Leventhal suffered something more medically threatening than a panic attack,” Alex said coolly.
“I had no way of knowing that,” Evan said. “All I knew was that Jill and I were getting married the next day, and I wanted our wedding to be a happy occasion.”
“I still want that,” Jill said quietly. “We all do.” She was not a woman who asked favours, but she was asking for one now. “Alex, can’t this wait? I feel sick about Gabe – I really do, but this is supposed to be a celebration. My stepdaughter has looked forward to this day for so long. Give us a chance to start our life together with some good memories.”
“My wife has a point,” Evan said. “No one here has done anything wrong. And once the reception’s over, I’m at your disposal. We can meet back at the hotel. I can change and check my notebook. I’m almost certain Gabe left me a couple of contact numbers in New York when we were making our plans to come out here.”
Alex darted a quick glance at Jill. Something in her face seemed to decide the matter for him. “You have two hours,” he said finally. “Where are you staying?”
“The Hotel Saskatchewan,” Evan said. “The Bridal Suite.”
“Very romantic,” Alex said. “So when’s the honeymoon?”
“We’re flying to New York tomorrow,” Jill said.
Alex glanced at the swirling vortex of snow outside the window. “Hope you make it,” he said.
Jill’s laugh was shaky. “So do I,” she said.
Traditionally, the first toast at a wedding is to the health of the bride and groom and comes from the bride’s father. Since Jill’s last memory of her father was of him drunkenly picking up the tablecloth at her fourth birthday party and throwing everything – presents, plates, glasses, and cake – into the garbage can in the back alley, I’d been rung in as his replacement. Proposing a drink to the health of the bride and groom seemed such a no-brainer that I hadn’t bothered to check out any of the Web sites Angus recommended. That afternoon, as I stood dry- mouthed and blank-brained before the wedding guests, I longed for the wisdom of heartfelt. com that promised words to live by and tips on body language and humour guaranteed to bring down the house.
I didn’t bring down the house, but I did manage to stumble out a few coherent sentences. When Jill stood up to respond, she flashed me an understanding smile and thanked me for being her pilot light of optimism through more dark times than she cared to count.
It was a touching moment, and when Felix pushed back his chair and stood, his eyes were misty. He wasn’t scheduled to speak until later, so I assumed Jill’s words had stirred something in him. It turned out they had.
“I have a message from another woman who has illuminated the lives of those who know her. Caroline MacLeish sent me the following note for her new daughter-in-law.” Felix took out his Palm Pilot and read, “ ‘I woke this morning thinking of you drawing the velvet cape around your shoulders as you went off to begin your new life. When I drew that same cape around my shoulders and left for my wedding, I knew very little. There’s much that I still don’t understand, but here is one true thing: Nietzsche tells us that human beings must accept the fact that pleasure and pain are inextricably linked and that a life without pain would be a life with a limited capacity for joy. Embrace the pain in your life, Jill. It will lead you to unimaginable joy.’ ”
When Felix fell silent, there was a smattering of desultory applause, but he didn’t pick up on the hint that his moment in the spotlight was over and it was time to cede the floor. He seemed mesmerized by his Palm Pilot, staring at it, as if for comfort or advice. The silence became awkward, and Jill went over, whispered something in his ear, and guided him gently down into his seat.
The next speaker was Evan, and when he stood up, the stagy tan of his MAC concealer and his movie-star larger-than-life quality caused even the servers to stop and stare. As he raised his glass, I sensed a consummate actor was about to take us all on a journey, and I wasn’t wrong.
“Thank you, Felix, for bringing Caroline MacLeish to the wedding. Not many women would have sent the gift of Nietzsche to a new bride but, as you say, my mother is exceptional. Apparently, she is also prescient. Caroline’s is the only gift Jill and I can put to immediate use.” Guests leaned forward in their seats, anticipating some drama. Evan didn’t disappoint. “A few minutes ago, we learned that our dear friend, Gabe Leventhal, who came here from New York to be part of our wedding, died of a heart attack early this morning. We’re shaken, in pain, but mindful of Nietzsche’s lesson, I ask that you join me in drinking a toast that encompasses pain at the death of a friend and joy at the birth of a marriage.”
The silence in the room was rooted more in awkwardness than grief. Most of the guests had never met Gabe Leventhal, but as I took in the reactions of those who had, there were a few surprises. Taylor, who was sitting beside me, was stunned into silence. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“I just don’t understand,” she said. “How could he be at our house having fun last night, then be dead today?”
My only answer was to pull her close. Angus was watching Bryn intently, ready to catch the pieces when she shattered, but after a beat, she opened her evening bag, pulled out a mirror, and checked her lip gloss. Tracy had begun to cry, copiously and theatrically. Claudia handed her a glass of champagne, told her to smarten up, then turned her attention to saving the party. “Time for the cake,” she said. “And time to applaud the man who created the cake.”
The name of the man who created the cake was Kevin Hynd, and he had a history. He was by training a corporate lawyer and, like Jill, he was a passionate Deadhead. When Jerry Garcia died, Kevin had been rocked by the revelation that life was transitory. He walked away from his six-figure income and started doing pro bono work that he underwrote with the earnings from his new business: a bakery devoted to creating edible monuments to hip excess. The wedding cake was his gift to Jill, and as the guests gathered around, it was clear that Kevin had surpassed himself. He’d created a four-tiered marvel covered in Swiss meringue butter cream, encircled by a soaring fondant ribbon bearing the legend “Let there be songs to fill the air…” and topped with marzipan renderings of the Rainbow Dancers, those high-stepping, multi-coloured, top-hatted skeletons who were the emblem of one of the Grateful Dead’s greatest tours. The creation was slick enough for a magazine cover, but funky as the cake was, it was the knife Jill and Evan were using that drew my eye.
It was an ulu, the crescent-shaped knife Inuit women use to cut up seal meat and dress skins. The women of Baker Lake had given it to Jill after she spent a summer there doing a story about their lives and their art. At her farewell party, the women told her the knife was a vital survival tool for a woman; then they had covered their mouths to hide their laughter at the idea that Jill would need an ulu to survive in the civilized world of network television.
After Jill and Evan cut the ceremonial first piece of cake, there was the usual applause and clinking of glasses, and for a while, the room hummed with talk of the beauty of the wedding and shared memories of the Grateful Dead. Still, it wasn’t long before people began exchanging holiday wishes and heading for the elevators. Clearly that night the number-one song on everyone’s chart of the Dead’s greatest hits was “Gentlemen, Start Your Engines.”
I was counting the minutes till I could leave too. The reality of Gabe’s death was beginning to sink in, and I was in desperate need of a hot bath, a pair of flannelette pyjamas, and a chance to sit in front of the fire and ponder what might have been.
I found Taylor chatting with Kevin as he cut and boxed the rest of the cake. She was a sheltered eight- year-old, and Kevin was a grizzled survivor, but they were on the same wavelength.
“So if I sleep with this cake under my pillow, I’m supposed to dream about the boy I’ll marry,” Taylor said
