Bride & Groom

were customers of The Wordsmythe. With typical warmth and friendliness, Mac approached Ceci and introduced himself. He’d obviously heard her speak Nina Kerkel’s name, but missed what she’d said about that Nina. He said, “You knew Nina? I’m still reeling. We worked together at Meadowbrook. Meadowbrook Veterinary Hospital. This must’ve been twenty-five years ago. Nina was the receptionist.”
    I heard a whisper near my ear. "Thirty. Thirty years ago. And Nina certainly was receptive. It’s always interesting to note correspondences between vocation and character, isn’t it.” Turning my head, I saw that the speaker was Judith. I had no idea why she’d chosen me as her confidante. Maybe I was just the nearest person who’d read her new book.
    Although he couldn’t possibly have overheard his wife, Mac echoed a word she’d used. His tone was nostalgic. “Nina was an interesting person. Always there, always smiling.”
    “Nina Kerkel,” Judith muttered, “was a little slut.”
    “What did she die of?” asked Ceci. “I wonder if Greta knows she’s dead. That’s Greta Kerkel,” she informed Mac. “Her son Hal was married to this Nina at the time.” In Ceci’s lexicon, this was slightly less damning than that, but only slightly.
    “I remember Hal,” Mac said. “He was married to Nina when I knew her. They rode dirt bikes together.”
    “Dirt,” Judith commented sotto voce. “How reliably these little messages await the discerning eye and ear.” Oblivious to his wife’s commentary, Mac went on, but his voice became somber and low. “What I just heard was that Nina died of an overdose. It’s a shame. A loss. Her life must’ve gone badly downhill.”
    “Well,” said Ceci, “I’ll have to tell Greta. She and Nina did not get along. Even so, Greta may want to do something appropriate.”
    “Such as what?” whispered Judith. “Dance on her grave?”
     

CHAPTER 3
     
    Steve and I hung around The Wordsmythe for a while talking to people, browsing the shelves, and letting Rowdy and Kimi ingratiate themselves with everyone. The events manager had me sign some copies of my book. When I’d finished, he affixed labels that read, rather grandly, autographed. In reality, it’s celebrities who give autographs; people like me just write our names. Still, it was the first time I’d ever signed stock for a bookstore. I knew that I was no literary star, but I began to feel like a real author.
    The glow was lingering when we got back to what was about to become our place and not just mine, the three-story barn-red house at 256 Concord Avenue in Cambridge. The back entrance, the one I usually used, was on Appleton Street, around the corner from Concord Avenue. Together with Rowdy and Kimi, and Tracker, my cat, I occupied the first floor, and Rita, my therapist friend, rented my second-floor apartment. My third-floor tenants had bought a condo and moved out. At the moment, Steve and his dogs had the third floor. When he’d first bought his veterinary practice from my old vet, Dr. Draper, he’d moved into the apartment above the clinic. Later, he’d rented a house for a while, but ended up back in his over-the-clinic quarters. Neither his place nor mine was big enough for two people, five dogs, and a cat. Like most other residents of Cambridge, Steve and I felt convinced that moving to any non-Cantabrigian community within commuting distance of his work would instantly age us twenty years and render us stupid and uncool. Against our will, we’d find ourselves watching television instead of reading. Our Birkenstock sandals would start to grow uppers, and before long, they’d transform themselves into grown-up shoes. Looking in the mirror, I’d discover that I was wearing blue eye shadow. Steve would come to care deeply about eradicating crabgrass from our lawn. Even our animals would be hideously changed. With no Cambridge turf to mark, Kimi would abandon her radical malamute feminism and quit lifting her leg.
    To avert such grotesque transformations in ourselves and our companions, we were determined to remain in the identity-defining vicinity of Harvard Square. Also, we liked my house, which was in an interesting, diverse neighborhood and had a fenced yard, although a small one. Our long-range plan was to turn the first and second floors into one big apartment for ourselves. Rita could move to the third . floor. Or, if she married the man in her life, Artie Spicer, she’d presumably