The Last One at the Wedding

“Dad? Are you still there?”

“Tell me about Aidan,” I suggested. “My future son-in-law. Where did you meet him?”

“At a costume party. Back on Halloween. I went as Pam, from The Office? And Aidan came as Jim. So as soon as he showed up, everyone wanted us to stand together. We started doing scenes from the show, and his impression was totally spot-on.”

I had trouble focusing on her story because I was too busy doing the math. “You met last Halloween? Six months ago?”

“But it feels like I’ve known him forever. Sometimes we’re talking and I swear he can read my mind. Like we have a telepathic connection. Did you and Mom ever feel that way?”

“Sure, I guess? When we first met?” But then we got older and wiser and realized these were just signs of youthful infatuation. I didn’t bother pointing this out. I loved hearing the happiness in Maggie’s voice, the sweet music of hope and optimism.

“What’s Aidan do for a living?”

“He’s a painter.”

“In the union?”

“No, not a housepainter. He makes art.”

I was determined to sound supportive, but you have to admit this was a curveball.

“He makes art for a living?”

“Well, he has a couple things in galleries? But right now he’s building up his name. Growing his reputation. That’s how it works. Plus he teaches a class, at MassArt.”

“What does he get for that?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How much does he make?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

I couldn’t understand why not, but I heard her taking a deep breath and getting annoyed so I decided not to push it. Maybe Maggie was right. Maybe her future artist-husband’s salary was none of my business. Besides, I still had plenty of other questions:

“First marriage?”

“Yes.”

“Any kids?”

“Zero kids and zero debt, don’t worry.”

“What about his mother?”

“I love her. She’s got some health issues right now? Lots of migraines. But she’s started a new medicine and it’s really helping.”

“And his dad?”

“Fantastic. Amazing.”

“What’s he do?”

Maggie hesitated. “That part’s a little complicated.”

“How is it complicated?”

“It’s not complicated. It’s just more of a conversation than I want to have right now.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“It’s a straightforward question, Maggie. How does he make a living?”

“The headline is: I’m getting married and I want you to come to the wedding. July twenty-third in New Hampshire.”

“But you can’t tell me what his father does?”

“I could tell you, but you’ll have more questions and I need to go. I have a dress fitting at ten and the seamstress is a total psycho. If I’m a single minute late, she’ll make me reschedule the whole appointment.”

Clearly she just wanted to get off the phone, but I couldn’t resist making one more push: “Is Aidan’s father in jail?”

“No, it’s nothing bad.”

“Is he famous? Is he an actor?”

“He’s not an actor.”

“But he’s famous?”

“I told you: I don’t want to get into it.”

“Just give me his name, Maggie. I’ll google him.”

The line seemed to go dead for a moment. Like the call had been dropped, or perhaps she’d muted the phone to confer with someone. And then she was back.

“I think we should talk about it over dinner. Me and you and Aidan. Could you maybe drive up to Boston?”

And of course I could drive up to Boston. I could drive all the way to the North Pole, if that was what Maggie wanted. She suggested Saturday night at seven o’clock, and she gave me the name of an Irish pub on Fleet Street, near the Old State House. Then she insisted she had to end the conversation and get to her dress fitting. “I’ll see you this weekend. I’m really looking forward to it.”

I said, “Me, too,” but I couldn’t end the call without one more attempt at an apology: “And listen, Maggie, I am so sorry for everything, okay? I’ve felt so awful these past few years. I know I screwed up. I should have handled things better, and I wish—”

And then I was interrupted by a soft click.

She’d already hung up.

The day after her big surprise announcement, Maggie called me back with a change of plans: “We think you should come to our apartment instead. We’ll just eat here.”

She hadn’t mentioned that she and Aidan were already living together, but I wasn’t too surprised. Boston rents were brutally expensive, and Aidan probably saved a fortune by gaining a roommate. Plus, Maggie always hated her old apartment, anyway. It was a tiny, damp studio in the basement of a Victorian brownstone, and the place was overrun with silverfish—long hairy insects that looked like giant eyebrows. They fell into Maggie’s bathtub every time she took a shower, and she’d have to tap-dance around their bloated drowning bodies. My daughter claimed to spend all her weekends in the Capaciti offices just to steer clear of the dank, damp apartment. I’m sure she was thrilled to break her lease and move to Aidan’s place.

But I pushed to meet at a restaurant, anyway. “This is a special occasion. I don’t want you to cook.”

“I’m not cooking.”

“Aidan’s cooking?”

“We worked it out, Dad. You just need to show up.”

I thought I understood what was happening. I figured that with a big wedding on the horizon, the kids were looking at their checkbooks and cutting expenses. I’d already googled “How much do they pay art teachers?” and let me tell you something, it is not good. The median salary was forty grand, and that won’t go far in a city like Boston. Forty grand won’t get you more than a couple of cans of baked beans.

I assured Maggie that I wanted to pay for the entire meal at the restaurant of their choice. “Chinese, Italian, anything you want. Let’s splurge.”

But she insisted I come to their apartment. “It’s right off Route 93. By the Zakim Bridge.”

“You live next to a bridge?”

“Not literally next to it. But you can see it from our window.”

“And it’s safe there? My Jeep will be okay?”

“It’ll be fine, Dad. Aidan’s lived here three years and he’s never had any problems.”

She seemed to think my questions were silly, but let’s be honest: these days, you can’t turn on the radio without hearing about another homicide or carjacking or random bursts of gunfire. And “right off Route 93” didn’t sound like the best of neighborhoods. That highway was choked with traffic all day long and no one with any money would choose to live near it.

Still, I kept these concerns to myself and asked Maggie to text me the address. I was keeping an open mind. I was ready to meet my daughter anywhere.

A little after two o’clock I stopped in Worcester, about an hour west of Boston, to look around for a cheap hotel. There was a Super 8 right off the highway advertising vacancies for sixty-nine dollars and the manager was happy to grant me an early check-in, so I didn’t bother to shop around. The room was on the shabby side, with water stains on the ceiling and cigarette burns on the furniture, but the mattress was firm and the bathroom was clean so I felt like I got a good deal.

On my way into the city, I stopped at a Sam’s Club to pick up some flowers. They always have these nice little bouquets right by the registers. And then once I got in the store I had to buy Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies, because they were always Maggie’s favorite. And two small fire extinguishers because they were on sale for ten dollars and you can always use some extras.

Were all these gifts a little excessive? Maybe. But I still remembered what it was like to be young and starting out, and I thought Maggie and Aidan would appreciate the help.

By six o’clock I’d made it to the Charles River and found myself snarled in Boston gridlock. It was a long, painful crawl over the Zakim Bridge, but traffic got better on the other side. I took the first exit and then followed the river for a mile or so until the road dead-ended at an enormous tower of steel and glass: Beacon Plaza. The GPS said I’d arrived at my destination, but I knew right away there’d been a mistake. It looked like the skyscraper in Die Hard. My headlights pointed at a sign listing all the major tenants: Accenture, Liberty Mutual, Santander Bank, and a bunch of names that sounded like law firms. It was Saturday night, so most of the floors were dark. But I saw a woman through the windows of the lobby, so I left my Jeep in a loading zone and went inside to ask for directions.

I felt like I was entering a cathedral—a vast cavernous space built of glass and polished stone. On a normal day, I imagined that thousands of commuters passed through this lobby on their way to work. But now it was just me and a lone young woman in the center of the room, standing at a high desk that resembled an altar.

“Mr. Szatowski?” she asked.

I couldn’t believe it. “How do you know my name?”

“Margaret told us you were coming. I just need a quick peek at a photo ID, sir. A driver’s license will be fine.”

She was blond and petite and very pretty, dressed in a trim blue suit. I reached for my wallet, a worn leather billfold frayed at the seams, on the verge of falling apart. “This is an apartment building?”

“It’s mixed use. Mostly commercial. But the top floors, where Aidan and Margaret live, they’re all residential.”

I offered my Pennsylvania driver’s license, and Olivia (up close I could see her name tag) handled it with tremendous reverence. Like I’d just shared an original parchment copy of the Declaration of Independence. “Thank you, Mr. Szatowski. Elevator D is to your right, and that’ll take you upstairs.”

“My car’s in the loading zone,” I explained. “Is there—”

A young man materialized on my left, as if conjured out of thin air. “I’ll take care of your vehicle, Mr. Szatowski. There’s a garage beneath the building.”

I didn’t know what was more incredible—that everyone in the lobby already knew my name, or that they were all pronouncing it flawlessly. If you’ve got any Polish blood, you know the s is silent and it’s pronounced Zuh-TOW-skee. But your average person tries to pronounce the s anyway. They call me Mr. Sizza-TOO-skee or worse. You would not believe all the different ways people butcher it.

He held out his hand, requesting the keys—but I still had all my gifts waiting in the Jeep, so I followed him outside to retrieve them. The young man gave me a paper tag with his phone number, and he instructed me to call it when I was ready to leave, so he could have the vehicle waiting for me. I reached into my wallet for a dollar and tried to give it to him, but he backed away like my money was radioactive.

“It’s my pleasure, sir. Enjoy your evening.”

I returned to the lobby and Olivia welcomed me back with another heart-melting smile. I didn’t know what this woman was doing stuck behind a reception desk on a Saturday night. She could have been cheerleading for the NFL or modeling for Victoria’s Secret. “Enjoy your evening, sir.”

“Thank you.”

I stepped aboard elevator D, a narrow black box with sleek metal walls. It was my first time in an elevator without buttons—there was no control panel, so I couldn’t discern how to make it “go.” Then the doors slid closed and the elevator started going anyway, seemingly of its own free will. Above the doors, a small screen flickered to life and tallied the numbers of the passing floors: 2–3–5–10–20–30–PH1–PH2–PH3. Then the elevator slowed to a stop and the door parted and there was Maggie with the setting sun at her back, dressed in a black turtleneck and black pants, holding a long-stemmed glass of white wine and standing on top of the world.

“Dad!”

Was this a mirage? I’d expected to arrive in a hallway of numbered doors and potted plants. Instead I had teleported right into someone’s living room, bright and lavishly furnished with giant glass walls overlooking the city skyline. It felt dizzying and disorienting and also a tiny bit fake, like I’d arrived on the set of a TV show.

“Where’s the apartment?”

She laughed. “This is the apartment.”

“You live here?”

“Since February. After we got engaged, Aidan invited me to move in.” The elevator door started to close and she blocked it with her hand. “Come on, Dad. You need to step off.”

I took a careful step forward, disoriented, not completely sure the floor would support me. I almost didn’t recognize my daughter. As a little girl, Maggie was what people used to call a tomboy. She favored overalls, sports jerseys, and flannel shirts from my closet, knotted at the waist so they didn’t flap around. But then in high school she veered hard in the opposite direction, pivoting to swishy skirts and floral sundresses and crazy thrift-store discoveries. Now she’d adopted another new look, and this one was pure Cambridge Ivy League—smart and chic, urban and sophisticated. She’d grown out her hair—it fell halfway down her back, fuller with more layers, like she’d invested real money in it. And there was a light in her eyes that I hadn’t seen since childhood. She looked like a Disney princess ready to burst into song. Or to put it more simply: my daughter looked head over heels in love.

“Maggie, you look amazing.”

She waved off the compliment. “Aw, come on.”

“I’m serious! What did you do to yourself?”

“It’s just the lighting in the apartment. This building makes everyone look like a supermodel. Let me give you a hug.”

She put her arms around my waist and pressed her face to my chest, and I was so happy I thought I might start to cry. Because this kid used to hug me every day. When she was six years old, we used to play this game called Hug Monster where she’d crawl around on the rug, snarling and growling and biting my ankles, and the only thing that would turn her back into a little girl was a monster hug that swooped her off the floor, arms and legs flailing. I probably hadn’t thought about the game in ten years, but the memory came bubbling up out of nowhere.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, speaking softly into my shoulder. “Thank you for coming.”

And I could feel myself getting choked up again. I worried that if I said anything, my voice would break and I’d start blubbering like a big baby. So I just broke away and gave her my bag of gifts. She seemed confused by the fire extinguishers but clearly loved the flowers.

“They’re beautiful,” she said. “Let’s get them in water.”

I’d never entered an apartment through an elevator so I needed a minute to orient myself and get my bearings. The “living room” was just one part of a sprawling open floor plan that wrapped the corner of the tower. The exterior walls were all glass and offered a panoramic view of the city skyline. And the interior walls were covered with faces—men and women of all different ages, all photographed in black and white and staring at the viewer. None of these people would ever be mistaken for supermodels, because their faces had too many flaws: wrinkles and blotches and drooping eyelids, crooked teeth and thinning hair and pointy chins. In other words, they looked like regular everyday people, the kind you’d see shopping for groceries or riding the bus after work.

“These are Aidan’s,” Maggie said proudly. I looked closer and realized that each photograph was actually a painting, expertly rendered in black and white and shades of silver and gray. “He’s sold a couple but these are his favorites so we’re hanging on to them. What do you think?”

I thought they were a little creepy, if I’m being honest. All these faces staring out with their cold expressions, looking like they’d been photographed against their will. But then again, if a couple of creepy faces paid the rent for a luxury penthouse apartment, I bet I could learn to live with them. “They’re incredible, Maggie. He’s very talented.”

She led me around a corner, through a formal dining area, and into a very modern chef’s kitchen with two sinks, marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, and lots of tiny computer screens. A short, dark-haired woman stood over the range, stirring a saucepan, but she interrupted her work to welcome me. “Hello, Mr. Szatowski. I’m Lucia.”

“Please, call me Frank. It’s great to meet you.”

“Lucia’s an amazing cook,” Maggie said. “I’ve learned so much from watching her.”

Lucia blushed easily—she was still fairly young—and I couldn’t figure out how she was related to the family.

“Are you Aidan’s sister?”

She blushed even more, like I’d paid her a compliment. “Oh, no, I just have the pleasure of cooking for you all tonight.”

Maggie explained that Lucia trained at Cariño, one of the few restaurants in Boston to receive a prestigious Michelin star, and now she’d launched a new career as a private chef, preparing meals for guests in the privacy of their homes. And only then did I understand that Aidan had hired this woman to make our dinner.

“May I bring you something to drink? We have beer, wine, cocktails, sparkling water—”

“Whatever’s easiest,” I told her.

Lucia smiled patiently, not quite sure how to proceed, and I realized I was making her job harder.

“How about a beer?” Maggie suggested.

“Perfect,” I said.

Lucia encouraged us to make ourselves comfortable; she said she would care for the flowers and bring the beer in a minute. Maggie steered me back to the living room and suggested we wait for Aidan outside, on the patio. “He’s stuck in traffic, but he’ll be home soon.”

One of the big windows facing the skyline was actually a door, and with the slightest touch from Maggie’s hand it slid sideways, creating an opening that we stepped through. Like the apartment itself, the patio wrapped around the corner of the building, and it was outfitted with all kinds of lounges, sofas, tables, and firepits. But of course my eyes went right to the view. I’d never seen the city from such spectacular heights. It was a whole new way of looking at Boston, a God’s-eye view of Fenway Park, Faneuil Hall, the three-masted ships docked in the harbor; I could see everything laid out before me like a miniature model.

“Jesus, Maggie,” I said. “You didn’t tell me Aidan was—” I stopped short of using the word rich. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. “What kind of rent are you paying?”

“Aidan thinks rent is a waste of money. He bought the unit as an investment property.”

“How does a twenty-six-year-old art teacher get an investment property?”

“Well, see, this is why I wanted to meet in person. Aidan’s last name is Gardner. His father’s Errol Gardner. Do you know who that is?”

I’d spent the last three years reading everything I could find about Capaciti, so of course I knew all about Errol Gardner. He was the man behind the Miracle Battery, the company’s CEO and “Chief Miracle Worker.” In the past year alone, he’d been profiled in the Wall Street Journal and the Washington Post, and he’d even visited the White House as a guest of President Biden. Maybe he didn’t have the name recognition of a Jeff Bezos or an Elon Musk—but to anyone watching the American auto industry, Errol Gardner was a big deal.

“You’re marrying Errol Gardner’s son?”

“You’re going to love him. He’s really down-to-earth.”

“Errol? Or his son?”

She laughed. “Both! They’re both terrific.”

I gripped the handrail to steady myself. Up until this moment, I’d thought I had a clear understanding of Maggie’s future. I imagined she would face the traditional climb up the corporate ladder while juggling day care, childcare, homework, carpools, dance lessons, sports practice, and endless bills, bills, bills. I figured I’d help Maggie and Aidan as much as I could; I’d mail them an extra hundred bucks now and then, just to pitch in. But now here I was, forty stories above the Charles River, seeing her future from a brand-new perspective. I felt like I was standing on Mars, a hundred million miles from home.

“This is incredible, Maggie. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

She gestured at the skyline, at its hundreds of high-rises and thousands of people and all the tiny blinking lights. “It’s hard to describe this over the phone. You need to see it firsthand.”

I thought back to her previous apartment, the dank clammy basement studio with the bathtub full of silverfish. “It’s a nice change from that dump on Talmadge Street.”

I only meant it as a joke, but something about the remark made her uncomfortable.

“It wasn’t a dump. Just a little small.”

“You hated it,” I reminded her. “You called it a prison cell.”

“I was just being dramatic,” she said with a shrug. “It wasn’t that bad.”

Lucia brought me a frosted pint glass full of beer and then vanished as fast as she’d arrived. Maggie raised her white wine in a toast.

“To new beginnings,” she said.

We clinked glasses and drank, and I couldn’t hold back my apologies any longer. “I’m so glad you called me, Maggie. All those problems we had—I want you to know, I take the blame for everything.”

She cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Dad, I’m going to make this easy on you. Let’s just wipe the slate clean, okay? We both made mistakes. But I don’t want to spend all night relitigating what happened.”

“I’m trying to apologize.”

“And I accept your apology. We don’t need to dwell on it. Everything’s settled.”

It didn’t feel settled to me. I thought it would be good to discuss what happened and put everything on the table, but Maggie wanted to talk about the future. “I’d much rather just tell you about the wedding. Could we have that conversation instead? Would that be all right with you?”

And of course it was all right with me. I was eager to hear all the details. Maggie said the Gardners insisted on paying for everything, because they wanted to host the reception at their “summer camp” in New Hampshire, and the guest list was fast approaching three hundred people. Aidan’s mother had hired a wedding planner to orchestrate the logistics, but she’d left all the creative choices to Maggie: invitations, place settings, table linens, centerpieces—there were a thousand small decisions that required Maggie’s attention, and she felt more overwhelmed than ever.

“Is there something I can do?”

She smiled like the offer was appreciated but utterly impractical. “Not really. You just need to show up.” Then she must have glimpsed her fiancé through the windows of the apartment because she leaned closer to me and lowered her voice. “Here he comes. He’s nervous about meeting you, so be nice, okay?”

“Of course I’ll be nice—”

“And don’t mention the bruises. He just got mugged, but he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“He just got mugged?”

There was no time for her to elaborate because the glass door opened and Aidan Gardner stepped outside to join us. My immediate thought was that he looked too young to be living in such a nice apartment. Aidan had the broad chest and shoulders of an adult, but his face still showed traces of a teenage boy. His hair was a messy brown mop that he probably combed with his fingers. His clothes were casual but looked expensive—a blue sports coat over a white V-neck. The sort of outfit favored by the boy band singers on my daughter’s bedroom wall.