London Is the Best City in America by Laura Dave

Author:Laura Dave
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2010-09-06T04:00:00+00:00

It was 7:30 on the dot when we pulled onto Drake Road in June’s red Volvo station wagon, thirty seconds after that when we pulled into our parents’ driveway. We couldn’t actually get deep enough into the driveway—the wagon part of the wagon was still sticking into the street—because there were already so many automobiles crowded in there: two Volkswagen buggies with “Lydia’s Florists” written on the side, an oversized silver van, a two-story catering truck. The valet guy was already in place, wearing a white tuxedo jacket. A couple in a gray Cadillac was making their way slowly toward him.

“Are you kidding me with this?” Josh said, attempting to back us out.

He was struggling, as he had been the whole way home, to see over all the junk in the backseat, the very large Papa Smurf doll covering up most of the back window. I had tried to move it when we hit the Connecticut border, but I only made it worse.

“What are we going to do now?” he asked.

I started to answer him, but stopped myself when I realized it was more a rhetorical question. Josh was already making his way down the block and around the corner to the Wademans, whose backyard ran straight into ours. In our younger days, Josh had showed me this shortcut into and out of our property, for emergency use only: early-morning sneak-ins, late-night sneak-outs. You just shimmied past their old oak tree—tire swing intact, even though the children had been gone for over a decade—past Mrs. Mason’s tomato garden, through the first row of bushes, and then the second row, which separated their home from ours.

This was the first time we’d ever done it together. When we made it through the last set, we were standing at the top of our backyard, looking down over the hill at the rest of it.

Tonight, it was full of people milling around, trays already clattering, and right at the center, a rectangular white tent, which, from where I stood, appeared all airy and light—almost like a cloud against the night sky.

Everything was all set up inside the tent: white tea rose centerpieces, thin white tablecloths, floating candles glowing everywhere. The waitstaff was standing by all the tables pouring water into glasses, rearranging everything that was already perfectly arranged.

I bent lower so I could see this.

Josh bent lower too. “I see the Wademans in there already,” I said. “Do you see them? At the corner table, talking to Dad?”

There they were, huddled over in the corner, Mrs. Wademan, looking a little like a floating candle herself in her large hooped dress. Dad was standing right beside her, bending forward toward where Mr. Wademan was seated.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” I said.

“What do I think they’re talking about? Who cares what they’re talking about? Who gets to a rehearsal dinner early? Really. I want to know.”

He was losing it a little.

“At least we know they’re not going to bust us for blocking their driveway,” I said.

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