Stay - Hardcover

Allie Larkin lives in Rochester, New York, with her husband and their two German Shepherds. Stay is her first novel.

Chapter One

The wedding was more than I ever could have wished for. The church was dark and simple. White candles in glass sconces lined the gray stone walls, and a gigantic candelabra cast a golden glow on the altar. The pews were trimmed with sprigs of bittersweet and branches of Chinese lantern plant tied with brown and orange gauzy ribbons.

The wedding was perfect, except for two things. The satin bridesmaids’ gowns that were ordered in deep, rich cinnamon showed up two days before the wedding and were bright Halloween pumpkin. And instead of standing across from the groom, beaming, I was standing across from his first cousin, Norman, smiling a hollow smile like a jack-o’- lantern.

That, and I probably wouldn’t have gone with brown roses. I tried to talk Janie out of them.

“Brown is the color of dead flowers, Janie.”

“But they don’t look like dead flowers, Van. They’re elegant.”

It was a lost cause. Martha Stewart Weddings had a spread of fall bouquets, and Janie’s mom made a ton of trips out to Connecticut to exactly the same florist to have exactly the same bouquets made for Janie’s wedding.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Janie’s cousin Libby standing next to me, dabbing at her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Not only did she have the teary smile down, but she somehow managed to look fabulous in bright orange. I couldn’t see Bethany, Janie’s college friend, from where I was standing, but I was sure she was crying appropriately as well. She seemed like the type. At least she looked awful in her dress too.

I spent the whole ceremony with my hands wrapped around my bouquet of bittersweet and Janie’s brown roses, digging my nails through my orange satin gloves into the back of my other hand.

I missed the part about anyone having any reasons as to why these two blah blah blah blah blah . . . I missed the “I do’s” and all that crap. I just stood there and concentrated on pressing hard enough to feel pain through two layers of thick satin.

I tried not to look at Peter, in his slate gray tuxedo and shiny shoes, as perfect as the porcelain groom Janie ordered for the top of their wedding cake. And I tried not to look at Janie, glowing in the reflection of candlelight sparkling off of the crystals hand-sewn along the neckline of her dress. I stared at the brown roses and tried to make it look like I was solemnly meditating on the meaning of marriage and the serious commitment being made before my very eyes.

Then they were kissing and the whole deal was done. Janie pressed her hand against Peter’s chest to keep him from kissing her too long or too hard or in a way that might be inappropriate for the photographer to capture. I would have held him as close as I could for as long as I could, but I tried not to let myself think about it. I put the jack-o’- lantern smile back on my face and handed Janie her brown flowers.

Norman and I followed them down the aisle, my hand positioned just above the crook of his elbow the way Vanessa, the wedding planner, showed me. We walked in “step-pause” time. Norman reached across with his other arm and put his hand over mine. I kicked him in his calf during the pause part of our procession walk, and hissed, “Don’t get ideas, Normy,” through my smile. He dropped his hand back to his side.

At the reception at the Kittle House, Norman rambled through a long and painful toast that started with how he and Peter used to think girls had cooties and ended with a diatribe about his divorce and how he couldn’t have gotten through it without Peter. We raised our glasses of champagne before switching over to spiced wine for the traditional Thanksgiving feast, spread out across the tables like a picture of gluttony from the time of kings and knights.

I was thankful that Janie’s father decided it was tacky for the maid of honor to toast the couple. This was a rule he probably made once he realized I was going to be Janie’s maid of honor, no matter what he had to say about it. Charles Driscoll hated me ever since I taught Janie the f-bomb in fourth grade. Janie got sent home from school for saying it in front of her teacher, leaving a permanent mark on her pristine school record.

Charles will always blame me for Janie not getting into Harvard and having to go to Brown instead. He will forever be convinced that the f-bomb blemish on Janie’s permanent grade school record had kept her out. In reality, she stuffed her application in my book bag instead of the mailbox. Every time I see him now, I want to scream, “It’s not because I taught your daughter to say fuck, it’s because she didn’t want to go to Harvard, you dumb ass!” but in honor of the wedding, I resigned myself to, “Mr. Driscoll, you must be so proud.”

After the first course, Peter stood up to say a few words about his lovely bride and the joyous occasion. He described Janie as angelic. He kept calling her Jane. He used the word joyous more than once, and quite frankly, it was overkill.

Just when I thought he was finally done, he said, “I also want to thank Savannah Leone for being such a wonderful friend to me and my wife.” He laughed softly and looked into his champagne flute. “Wow, my wife. It’s so strange and amazing to say that word.” He reached over and kissed Janie on the cheek. The wedding photographer had a field day. “Anyway,” Peter continued, “as I was saying, Van is the real deal. She’s a true friend, and I would have stolen her for my best man, if Jane had let me—no offense, Normy—but I think Van would look far more stunning in that tux, don’t you?” He laughed again and waited for the crowd to laugh too. “The truth is, if it weren’t for Van, Jane and I never would have met. So if we’re going to raise our glasses to toast to this union, let’s also raise our glasses to Van for starting it all.”

The room filled with clinks and the murmur of three hundred of their closest friends saying, “Cheers.” Janie clinked her glass against Peter’s and then turned to tap mine, but hugged me instead. “I love you,” she whispered into my ear. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Her ribs pulsed against mine and her breath quickened.

“I love you too, but nobody likes a weepy bride,” I said, pulling away, trying my best to smile. “Pull yourself together, lady!” I picked up my napkin. “Look up.” Janie looked to the ceiling and I used a corner of the white linen to soak up a tear that was balanced on her lashes before it could make a mess of her makeup. “We can be sappy another day.”

I wished I could vanish, just melt into the floor, leaving behind nothing but a puddle of orange satin and shoes dyed to match.

When Janie and Pete got up to get ready for their first dance, I started seriously contemplating hiding in the coat closet with a bottle of champagne and an armload of Jordan almonds wrapped up in that stupid white netting. I was supposed to be happy for them. I was supposed to be cheering them on. That’s what it means to be a maid of honor—it’s about being eternally excited and supportive for every single little second of the wedding, and I couldn’t even bear to watch them dance.

“Well, Vannie, I haven’t seen you in ages.” Peter’s aunt Agnes sat down next to me. She never had her own children, and as far as she was concerned, the sun rose and set around Peter. Peter worshiped her, but I called her Aunt Agony. She took us out to dinner a few times up at school, but a good meal was never worth listening to her talk. “We have to catch up. Tell me everything about everything, dear.”

“First dance.” I pointed to the dance floor as Peter and Janie walked toward each other and met in the middle. “I’d better go. Maid of honor.” I gave her a big closed-mouth smile and got up to stand at the edge of the dance floor. I wasn’t sure which form of torture was worse.

While I stood with the crowd, watching the happy couple dance to “The Way You Look Tonight,” Diane Driscoll came over and put her arm around my waist. She leaned against me and rested her head on my shoulder.

“We did a good job with our little girl, don’t you think, Vannie?” she said.

I didn’t know if she meant tonight, or in general. And I couldn’t tell if I was included in the “we” or if she just meant her and Charles.

But then she said, “I wish Natalie could see this,” and I knew the “we” meant her and my mom. “You know, you look just like she did the first time I met her,” she said, and lifted her head to kiss my cheek. She put her head back on my shoulder, and I felt her tears run down my arm while we watched Janie and Peter finish their dance with the complicated turn Vanessa taught them.

She wiped at her eyes quickly and turned toward me, grabbing both my arms. “You’re coming back to stay at the house tonight, right?” she said. “I set up the carriage house with junk food and movies. I thought we could celebrate like old times.”

My mom and I used to live in the Driscolls’ carriage house, which was two hundred and eighty-two steps from the front door of the main house ( Janie and I counted the summer before we started fourth grade) on their spra...