The Sixth Wedding Read online

  Coop is passed out on the sofa and Jake is nowhere to be found, so Fray jots a note saying he and Leland are taking the Jeep to breakfast. He drives to the big mid-island grocery store and leaves Leland in the car as he runs in to get the newspaper. Page Six? Is he on Page Six? Talk about a HYPOCRITE. What does that mean?

  Leland had asked about Anna the night before, but Fray dodged the question; his divorce was the last thing he wanted to talk about. He imagined that getting divorced as a regular person—an accountant in Cheyenne or a florist in Shreveport—would be painful and difficult enough, but as a very wealthy, semi-famous person, it was a whole other circle of hell. Fray and Anna’s story, although not unique, was a source of endless tabloid fascination. Anna had cheated on Fray with Tyler Toledo, the manager of her former band, Drank. They had been spotted out to dinner at L’Oursin by one of Fray’s vice presidents while Fray was down in South America on business and while Cassie was home with a sitter. When Fray asked Anna about it, she broke down in tears and said that yes, she and Tyler had been seeing each other for nine months and it was all Fray’s fault because he had robbed Anna of any identity except for that of “Frazier Dooley’s wife” and “Cassie Dooley’s mother.” She used to be interesting, she said. She used to be cool. Now, she was just another Botoxed Seattle socialite with a private Pilates instructor and a twelve-thousand-square-foot glass house on Puget Sound.

  Fray had asked Anna if she was in love with Tyler and Anna had said she was, though it was clear from both her facial expression and her tone that she was lying. She didn’t love Tyler Toledo; sleeping with him was an act of rebellion, a cry for attention. Fray did a little investigative work and found out that Tyler’s best days had been when he was managing Drank. Since then, he had couch-surfed his way around Queen Anne and Capitol Hill; he’d even been homeless for a while. Certainly reuniting with Anna, Drank’s former bassist, had been a huge boost to him, especially since she was married to the eighth richest man in Seattle. Fray thought maybe he could pay Tyler off to make him go away but when this was intimated, Tyler doubled down and leaked the scandal of his affair with Anna to Google News, and in a nanosecond, it was everywhere. It was news of the scandal rather than the scandal itself that led to the divorce. Fray could have forgiven the infidelity. What he could not forgive was Anna on TMZ both disparaging him and shamelessly promoting old songs by Drank. (It worked: Their song “Back It Up” had a surge on iTunes.) The tabloids gobbled up the seedy aspects of the story, which was bad for everyone involved, but especially for Cassie. Ten was such a tricky age. Cassie was old enough to understand what was going on but not old enough to understand why, and Anna had broken every single rule in the Evolved Parenting Handbook. She thought nothing of badmouthing Fray in front of Cassie any chance she could get.

  Fray agreed to a 280-million-dollar settlement only because he wanted the whole thing to be over.

  He grabs the last copy of the Post at the Stop and Shop and somehow resists looking at the paper in line. When he gets back to the car, Leland has the radio cranked to the rock station playing the top 500 songs of all time and she’s singing along to “Heaven,” by Bryan Adams.

  “‘You’re all that I want! You’re all that I need!’” She turns down the music and grins at him. “This song has always reminded me of the Calvert Hall junior prom. Remember my lavender dress?”

  Fray shakes his head but he can’t stop his smile. “I need coffee,” he says.

  Frazier Dooley loves nothing more than a good breakfast place and as soon as he sees Island Kitchen, he knows he’s found one. It’s mid-island, right across the street from the Stop and Shop, as it turns out, so it doesn’t have a water view but the place is loaded with character. The post-and-beam construction is charming, there are lush pink impatiens in the window boxes, it feels rustic and homey—like the island’s kitchen.

  Fray and Leland are seated at a two-top inside where Fray immediately detects the scent of Frayed Edge Classic Black. This comes as no surprise because it was his New England sales manager who gave him the name of this place.

  A server with a dark ponytail and freckles—her name tag says SARAH—comes over, holding the signature Frayed Edge silver pot, and says, “Coffee?”

  “Please,” Fray says, nudging the chunky ceramic mug forward.

  “I’ll have tea,” Leland says. “Herbal, if you have it.”

  “Right away,” Sarah says. She pours Fray’s coffee and, despite the steam, Fray can’t get it to his mouth fast enough. He looks at Leland. “You’re on a date with me and you’re ordering tea? Herbal tea?”

  Leland laughs. “I did it just for that reaction.”

  “Excuse me!” Fray calls out. “My beautiful friend here will have coffee as well. This is Frayed Edge, right?”

  “That’s all we serve,” Sarah says. She takes a second look at Fray and he watches recognition cross her face. “Oh my God, you’re…”

  Leland hoots. “Do you get recognized everywhere you go?”

  Sarah pours Leland’s coffee and lowers her voice. “Someone called us yesterday to say you might be coming in. They wanted to make sure we had the signature pots and all the signage.”

  “It looks great,” Fray says.

  Sarah turns her attention to Leland. “Oh!” she says. “You’re the woman from the New York Post!”

  “I don’t work at the Post,” Leland says. “I’m Leland Gladstone of Leland’s Letter?”

  Fray gets a sinking feeling. The Post is folded in half on the bench next to him. “We’ll be ready to order in just a minute,” he says.

  Fray finishes his first cup of coffee and decides to distract Leland with another topic they’ve been avoiding—their parents. Twenty-five years earlier, Steve Gladstone and Fray’s mother, Sloane, had an affair. Steve ended up leaving Geri Gladstone and marrying Sloane. Fray speaks to his mother sporadically but he hasn’t seen her and Steve in a few years. He gathers that Leland keeps contact to a minimum as well; she aligned herself staunchly with Geri.

  He reaches for Leland’s hand. “How funny would it be if we called Steve and Sloane on the way home and told them we’re back together?”

  “I’m trying to forget the unfortunate fact that we’re actually step-siblings,” Leland says. At that instant, Leland’s phone pings and she checks the text. “It’s my mother. She…I kid you not, just look at this…she says, ‘Are you with Frazier Dooley?’” Leland holds up the screen of her phone. “Tell me that’s not spooky.”

  Sarah shows up with the silver pot and refills both their cups. Fray is starting to sweat.

  “We’re ready to order,” he says. “I’ll have the panko eggs Benedict.”

  “And I’ll have the bananas Foster French toast,” Leland says.

  Sarah leaves and Fray feels his phone buzz again. DEAD TO ME. He declines the call and sighs. “I got the Post for a reason. I think there might be something about me on Page Six.”

  “Eeeeeeee!” Leland says. “Let’s look together, come on.” She slides around to his side of the table, picks up the Post, and slaps it down in front of him. “You do the honors.”

  Fray stares at the paper. What is he going to find? He tries to remember if he heard any drones during the night.

  “Or I can?” Leland says.

  “No, I’ll do it.” He opens the paper to Page Six—and there is a photograph of Fray and Leland kissing outside the Nantucket airport. The headline reads: “Frazier Dooley’s Tony Island Getaway with Feminist Icon Leland Gladstone.”

  To her credit, Leland doesn’t shriek or scream, but when she pulls her reading glasses out of her purse, he notices her hands are shaking.

  “‘Coffee mogul Frazier Dooley greets paramour Leland Gladstone outside Nantucket Memorial Airport. The couple were then whisked away by a private vehicle.’”

  Leland turns to Fray and all he can think is how sexy she looks in her glasses, like a naughty librarian. “That’s why our server said I was from the Post,” she whispers. “And that
’s why my mother texted. They’ve already seen this.”

  Everyone reads the Post, he thinks. But only the brave admit it. He can’t gage where Leland is going to land on this. He’s pretty sure her brand depends on her sexual identity, which is…well, whatever it is, it’s probably not compatible with a weekend rendezvous on the arm of a white male billionaire.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I attract all kinds of attention because of the business. And the whole thing with Anna has made things exponentially worse.”

  “Has Anna seen this?” Leland asks. “Was that her calling this morning?”

  Fray nods.

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” Leland says. “I know who took this picture. There were two women on my plane who asked for a selfie, and then when we were walking out of the terminal they were behind me and I overheard them recognizing you.”

  “So they took our picture and sold it to the Post,” Fray says.

  “I’m sure they think they won the internet jackpot,” Leland says. She picks up the paper. “Does ‘feminist icon’ make me sound old?”

  “Icon is better than mogul,” Fray says. “Mogul is such an ugly, hobbity word.”

  “I can’t believe this,” Leland whispers. “I mean, it wouldn’t be funny except it’s true. I am your weekend paramour.”

  “Will you get…canceled?” Fray says. “Will you be hounded by trolls? Do your readers think you sleep with women?”

  “My sexuality is considered fluid,” Leland says. “It’s 2023. Everyone’s sexuality is considered fluid, Fray.”

  “Oh,” Fray says. His sexuality doesn’t feel fluid; it feel very Leland-specific. “So this isn’t necessarily bad for you, then?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care,” Leland says. “I’ve been happier the past twenty-four hours than I’ve been…maybe ever.”

  This statement nearly brings Fray to tears. He hasn’t been this happy maybe ever, either. He thinks back to his much younger self, glaring at the pay phone in his freshman dorm after just having hung up on Leland, who was back in her bedroom on Deepdene Road in Baltimore. What had they been arguing about? Who knows—maybe Fray told her he was pledging a fraternity, maybe she told him she and Mallory were going to a party with boys from Gilman. He then pictures himself in the back of Mallory’s Blazer, calling Leland every swear word he knew under his breath after she strolled off to 21 Federal with Kip Sudbury.

  He had no idea then that all he needed for things to finally be perfect between him and Leland was patience. A lot of patience.

  Bess

  Everything about her Friday evening improves all at once. Not only has she traded up in the date department—she bumped into Link Dooley, a boy she has thought about ever since she met him on Nantucket three years earlier—but she is also leaving behind the Drake-and-buffalo-wings scene at Roofers Union for Lapis, her favorite restaurant in the District.

  Lapis is quiet and elegant; it gives off strong bistro vibes, only with sitar music. The owner, Shamin, gives Bess a smile when she sees her enter with Link. Shamin leads them to one of the tables in the window. Bess thanks her profusely even though, because of the conversation she’s about to have, she would prefer a table tucked behind one of the latticed wooden screens.

  “Wow,” Link says. “You get star treatment.”

  “I come here a lot,” Bess says. She doesn’t mention that this was the one place in DC where Ursula would eat in public while she was campaigning. Shamin made every accommodation to ensure that Ursula, Jake, and Bess were comfortable.

  “I love bolani,” Link says. “And qabuli palau.”

  “The palau here is off the chain,” Bess says. “It’s made with cinnamon rice.”

  “We have to get the halwa for dessert,” Link says.

  Bess beams. Link really does like Afghan food. All she can imagine is the lobbyist looking at the menu and ordering a chicken kebab and French fries.

  “Let’s get the pakoras to start,” she says. She wants to pinch herself. How did she get so lucky?

  Once they’re settled with a glass of Albariño for Bess and a beer for Link, Bess realizes this happiness comes with a price: She has promised to tell Link what was going on between her father and his mother.

  Link tears a piece off his flat oval of bolani and dips it in yogurt sauce, then raises his eyes to Bess. He’s better-looking than any lobbyist, she decides. She loves his shaggy blond hair and his bluish-green eyes that remind her of the ocean the day she first met him.

  “So your dad told you what was going on?” Link says.

  “He told me on the way back to St. Louis after we saw you,” Bess says. She busies herself with her own bolani. Her father made her solemnly swear never to tell a soul, and she had promised. She understood the gravity of the situation at the time: Her mother was running for president and there could be no scandalous family secrets floating to the surface. If Bess told her best friend, Pageant, or Kasie, the campaign manager, in a moment of weakness, it would be all over. Her father was entrusting her with a secret he’d kept longer than she’d been alive. She realized that he was telling her because she was the one who had made the trip to Nantucket with him, because she’d asked him what the whole thing meant, because he loved her, because he was sodden with emotions when he left Mallory’s bedside holding the rented guitar, because Mallory was a day or two from death and by telling Bess what had happened between them, he was keeping Mallory alive.

  Their circumstances were different now, of course. Ursula had lost the election and she was no longer in public life. No one cared about Ursula de Gournsey and Jake McCloud anymore; their divorce hadn’t even been noted by the press. It wouldn’t matter who Bess told about this secret now, but she still felt guilty because it was her father’s story to tell and not hers. What would he think about Bess sharing it with Lincoln Dooley?

  Well, he would either be appalled or he would think that Link deserved the truth, just as Bess did.

  She’ll go with the second choice since she can’t very well back out now. Link is looking at her expectantly.

  “They had an affair,” Bess says. “One weekend a year. Labor Day weekend, actually.”

  Link’s brow creases. “Does that have anything to do with why everyone is up on Nantucket this weekend?”

  “They’re reliving the summer of 1993—that’s when your mom and my dad met. Your uncle and your dad were there too.”

  “Ahhhh,” Link says. “Thirty years ago.”

  “Yup.”

  “So did they see each other only on Labor Day weekend?”

  “Yes. Always on Nantucket. From 1993 until, well, 2020.”

  “Where was I when this was happening?” Link asks. He looks at Bess as though she might have the answer. “You know what? I always, always spent Labor Day weekend out in Seattle with my dad. All through growing up, I did that. Except for one year I went to DC to see my uncle. And another year, I went with an old girlfriend to New York City.”

  Bess feels herself bristling at the mention of an old girlfriend. “My dad said they met every single Labor Day weekend no matter what. Always at your cottage. They never missed a year.”

  “And nobody found out?” Link says. “Your mom never found out?”

  A server sets their order of pakoras on the table; they’re golden brown, fragrant, and still too hot to touch, never mind eat. Bess thanks him and points to her wineglass. She’s definitely going to need another.

  “My mom found out, or suspected, anyway. She went to Nantucket in 2019 to confront Mallory.”

  Link’s eyes widen. “She…”

  “She was running for president. She didn’t think she could have it coming to light.”

  “Why did she go to Nantucket? Why didn’t she just talk to your dad?”

  “She was afraid my dad would leave her,” Bess says. “She believed the only person who could put an end to the affair was your mom.”

  Link leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his beer. Bess nudges t
he plate of pakoras toward him. He takes one and blows on it.

  “I’ll ask the obvious question. Why didn’t your dad just leave your mom earlier? Why didn’t he leave her in year five or ten or fifteen? My mother—” Link sets the fritter down without tasting it and stares out the window. “She never got married. She had boyfriends when she was young and she hooked up with my dad, obviously, and there was a guy she was serious about when I was little, but that didn’t work out. She was alone. I could never understand it, my friends didn’t get it—so many of them thought she was super hot. My grandma used to get on her case all the time about meeting someone.” He sets his elbows on the table and drops his head in his hands. “Now, all I can think is that she wasted her life, year after year, waiting for Labor Day weekend to roll around. How do you live like that? Only seeing the person you love three or four days a year?”

  “My dad said it was…well, excruciating was his exact word.”

  Link gives a short, bitter laugh. “Excruciating for him? No offense, Bess, but he was married. He went right home to your mother.” Link pushes away the pakora on his share plate and Bess thinks, Oh no, no, no! She only wanted to tell Link what she knew. She didn’t mean to hurt him or make him angry. “You can see how this little arrangement…”

  “Same time next year,” Bess says. “It was a movie they used to watch.”

  “Yeah, well, the same time next year was profoundly unfair to my mother.”

  “That’s what I told my dad,” Bess says. “The arrangement was lopsided. And sexist.” Bess remembers how Jake had patiently endured her tirade about white male privilege. “He assured me that the arrangement was Mallory’s choice. I guess there were a couple of junctures when my dad said he wanted to be with her on a permanent basis and she turned him down. She didn’t want to leave Nantucket.”

  “She never would have left the island.”

  “He said she was happy. He told me she had a full life.” Bess’s second glass of wine is dropped off by none other than Shamin herself.