A light went off behind his eyes. “You’re one of the wedding planners.”
Savannah froze; sprung.
He huffed out an annoyed, if genuine, chuckle. “You almost had me.”
“Honestly, sir? I meant every word.” Savannah dropped the syrupy charm, replacing it with her best attempt at New York candor. “Look, my dad and I don’t always see eye to eye. But he’s my father. And I’d rather have an imperfect father than no father at all.” She felt an unexpected surge of power as she leveled her eye contact with his. “You’ve got one chance to get Vanessa back. Do not fuck it up.” Savannah picked up her whiskey and left, daring to hope she’d made an impact.
48
At 7:30 p.m., Liv ushered the guests into dinner in the Great Hall. Vanessa and Lenny took their seats at the head table. But the general’s chair, several seats down from Vanessa’s, was empty. Liv glanced over the other tables, wondering if he’d missed his name card.
“Excuse me?”
General Fitzpatrick was standing on the stage, a microphone in one hand. Zach, who was supposed to be MC’ing, shrugged helplessly at Liv, mouthing, He just took it!
“Quiet,” ordered the general, and the room obeyed.
Liv ran through her options. Should she take the mic? Cut the power? Scream, “Look at me, I’m a pumpkin!” and hustle the old man back to the 1950s? Catching Savannah’s eye, Liv pointed at Zach and made a warning face. Savannah nodded. She understood that if the old man went rogue, Zach should drown him out.
“My name is General Tucker Fitzpatrick and I’m…”
Liv tensed, a sprinter ready for the starter gun. If he said “Adam’s father,” she’d take him out herself.
The bride was sitting stock-still. Her face was the color of her dress.
Savannah was by Zach’s side. The DJ had one finger hovering over his computer keyboard, ready.
“I’m,” said the general, “I’m Vanessa’s father.”
Liv let out a breath. It hadn’t been easy to say it. But at least he had.
The general rubbed between his eyes. “Although I probably haven’t been a very good father the past few years.”
Liv swapped a look of disbelief with Savannah. That was the last thing she expected him to admit.
“When I look around this room,” the general continued, “I don’t see a lot of familiar faces. I don’t really know my daughter’s life here.” Again, too much emphasis on daughter. But he was trying. “I don’t really know my daughter. At all. And that’s… well, that’s my fault.”
No one moved. All fidgeting and whispers and wine guzzling had ceased. The room was utterly, eerily silent.
“I was scared, I guess. Of something that I didn’t know anything about. Something that seemed very… strange to me.”
Liv tensed. Pull it back, old man.
“But I’d like to get to know you, Vanessa. I’d like to meet you. The real you. If it’s… if it’s not too late.” The general’s eyes watered. His voice thickened, on the verge of breaking. “Because I’ll always be your father. Your daddy.” And now his voice did crack. “You look so beautiful, sweetheart. I wish you and Lenny nothing but the best.” The general offered a shaking hand. “Would you do me the great honor of joining me for the father-daughter dance?”
Vanessa let out a sob, and rose to her feet.
Liv’s eyes welled. It’d been so long since she’d borne witness to this. A moment in which this cruel and terrible world seemed almost good. Almost wonderful. Across the room, Sam was standing at the entrance to the kitchen, wiping away a tear. Liv caught his eye and held his gaze. For a long moment, they were the only two people in the room.
A tiny latch, no bigger than a thimble, sprung open inside Liv’s chest.
Vanessa crossed the floor to her father. Zach put on “You’ve Got A Friend” by James Taylor. The sweet and simple melody filled the hall—“Winter, spring, summer or fall, all you have to do is call…”—and General Tucker Adam Fitzpatrick danced with his only daughter, the two of them holding each other with a careful, new tenderness.
49
It was well after midnight before Darlene and Zach were able to load out their gear. Ordinarily, Darlene wouldn’t need to wait for the end of a wedding before leaving, but she made a lame excuse, and Zach didn’t protest.
Having a fake boyfriend was suiting Darlene Mitchell very, very nicely. When she needed help installing some new blinds: Fake Boyfriend. When she wanted someone to go with her to the Cindy Sherman retrospective at the Met, Fake Boyfriend was on hand. When Fake Boyfriend invited her to go see the Yankees—his version of an art gallery—she accepted. Seeing a professional sports game in New York had been on her bucket list for years, and she was surprised by how much she liked it. Or maybe, how much fun seeing it with a fake boyfriend made it. Zach was getting better at being on time for gigs, and he never skipped out on loading out at the end. And it did not go unnoticed that the usual string of frothy blondes he kept in his orbit had either disappeared or were being kept discreetly out of sight. She hoped the former. Of course they hadn’t had the exclusivity conversation, because they weren’t really dating, but deep down Darlene hoped she was the only person Zach was kissing.
For social media, she reminded herself. For the money.
Photographing themselves for Zach’s Instagram—and the rather disturbing likes Zach’s mother gave their couple photos—had actually helped maintain a boundary between them. Kissing Zach made her think about Zach—a lot—so Darlene had decided no more spontaneous smooches; only staged ones. She made their affection feel like acting in an advertisement, and that was good. That made it manageable, even as she could tell Zach wanted to throw her against a wall and, well…
She’d confessed the scheme to her book club, framing it as a clever plan to make a ton of cash but underlining that obviously, Zach wasn’t a serious contender for a boyfriend. They weren’t as judgmental as she’d expected. “Do you” was the general mantra; “And if that means doing him, more power to you, girl.”
Darlene’s boundaries were getting squiggly. The Harvard Club guests had loved her set and Zach had looked so cute and confident behind the decks and, hey, weddings really did put you in the mood for love…
They piled the equipment into the rental car and came back up for one last sweep of the Great Hall. Incredible how a space could be transformed by a flash mob of love and fun and dancing. Darlene drifted onto the empty dance floor, tipping her head to take in the chandeliers. Zach took her hand, twirling her in a circle. She giggled, tired and punch-drunk. “What are you doing?”
He hooked his arm around her waist, taking her right hand in a waltz position. “Dancing.”
She laughed as he spun her around the floor, awkwardly, out of step, two silly rag dolls. Then he tugged her into a dark corner. His hand lingered close to her ass.
“Zach!” She glanced around. “We’re still at work.” But it was only a half-hearted protest.
He pressed her against the wooden wall. “Damn, Dee. You looked sexy tonight.”