Chapter 6.

6.

Abigail ate too much and threw up. I saw it coming from a mile away. It must have been her first time eating from a buffet; she seemed to think she was required to try everything. I said, “Hey, Cookie Monster, take it easy!” and my sister got upset with me.

“Don’t say that, Frankie.”

“Why not? Look at her!”

Abigail had actual cookie crumbs all down the front of her shirt, and now she was eating fruit salad faster than she could swallow it. Her cheeks were stuffed with green grapes she hadn’t gotten to yet, and still she kept pushing more in.

“She’s had issues with food insecurity.”

“You’re going to choke, Abigail. Slow down.”

“Don’t regulate her. That’s not what you do.”

“She looks like a hamster. I don’t want her eating like this in front of the Gardners.”

“I’ll take care of it. Just eat your lunch. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Then Abigail bolted for the bathroom and fell in front of the toilet, yakking her guts out. I reached for a handful of cherry tomatoes and popped one into my mouth. “What a shocker,” I said. “Who could have seen that coming?”

Tammy frowned. “You promised you would be cool with this. And instead you’re being a jerk. I don’t know why you’re so irritable, but it needs to stop.”

She went to help Abigail and left me alone to finish my lunch. I knew she was correct: I was being a jerk. And I didn’t know why I felt so irritable. Maybe it was my lack of sleep. Or maybe I just knew from the get-go that something about the camp was wrong.

So yeah, lunch was pretty much a bust, but our moods improved tremendously after we all went upstairs to unpack. Holy mother of God, you would not believe the size of my master suite. I could run laps around the place for exercise. There was a king-size bed. My own private bathroom. Another enormous flat-screen with Netflix, Hulu, Amazon, Apple, the works. And a little balcony just for me, so I could sit outside with a beer and watch the sun go down over Lake Wyndham.

Tammy was next door in a suite identical to mine, and Abigail was at the end of the hall in a tiny room for children with a nautical theme. There were colorful fish swimming all over the wallpaper and miniature bunk beds painted to look like sailboats. Abigail couldn’t believe she had her choice of the upper bunk or the lower bunk; I think she’d been expecting to sleep on the floor.

Unpacking my suitcase only took a minute, and then I changed my clothes so I wouldn’t look like a landscaper anymore. My suite had a small writing desk facing the window and someone had left me a calendar of events:

MARGARET AND AIDAN’S WEDDING WEEKEND

Thursday, July 21

12–5 pm: Unpack, unwind, relax, and explore!

5 pm: Welcome cocktails (main lawn)

6 pm: Dinner (main lawn)

8 pm: Campfire s’mores (beach)

Friday, July 22

11 am: Group hike to Cormorant Point

12 pm: Lunch at Cormorant Point

4 pm: Rehearsal (the Globe)

6 pm: Rehearsal dinner (main lawn)

8 pm: Karaoke contest (beach)

Saturday, July 23

11 am: Outdoor brunch (main lawn)

3 pm: Wedding (the Globe)

4 pm: Postnuptial cocktails (main lawn)

5 pm–???: Dinner, dancing, and more dancing! (main lawn)

The schedule was encouraging me to “unwind, relax, and explore” but I was far too anxious to nap or lounge in a rocking chair, and I didn’t feel comfortable wandering the camp on my own. I was nervous about meeting Errol and Catherine Gardner in person, and I guess I wanted Maggie to be present when that first encounter actually happened.

So instead I sat down at the tiny writing desk and worked on my toast. I’d already cut it down to two pages, and then I’d spent the last few weeks rewriting them over and over. I’d try a line, cross it out, and then repeat the same sentiment with different words: Maggie, I am so proud of the woman you’ve become. And: Maggie, you have always been such a kind and sweet and generous person. And: If Maggie’s mother is watching us from heaven, I know she’s pleased by what she sees.

I was trying to speak from the heart, but anytime I read my words out loud, they just felt cheesy and corny and false. And the more I revised, the worse everything got. I found myself wishing I knew some kind of professional writer who could give me advice, and that’s what made me think of Vicky. She wasn’t a professional writer, but her son was, and she read more books than anyone else I’d ever known.

I dialed the number of her salon and the receptionist got her on the line. “Frank?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry to bother you. I wanted to ask you for a favor.” I explained my problem with the toast and asked if she’d be willing to read it over and give me some pointers. And of course I offered to pay her whatever she felt was fair.

“You don’t have to pay me! It’d be my pleasure.” She suggested that I text her the toast and promised to get back to me in the morning. “I’m sure it’s better than you think. Everybody gets self-conscious about their writing.”

I pleaded with her to be straight with me. I reminded her that in forty-eight hours I needed to stand in front of three hundred people and read the whole thing out loud. “If it sucks, I need you to be honest.”

“If it sucks, I promise we’ll make it better. Just send it over and I’ll call you tomorrow.” She sounded distracted; she explained that she had a toddler waiting in her chair and described the kid as a ticking time bomb. “If I don’t finish her in five minutes, she’s going to explode.”

So I thanked her again and let her get back to work. Then I typed my whole toast into a single text and zapped it off to her. And after that I felt a whole lot better, because I knew I could count on Vicky to make it right. But there wasn’t much time to feel satisfied because all of a sudden Abigail was screaming.