That Old Cape Magic

you mind if I ask if this is self-pity?”
    “Almost certainly,” Griffin admitted, a little taken aback by Sunny’s forthrightness, though it was impossible to take offense when you were so well understood. “I’m prone to it. Not to mention nostalgia and some other bogus emotions.”
    “Allow me to say that things will work out for the best.”
    This made Griffin chuckle. “We’ve known each other a long time, Sunny,” he said, rising from his bar stool, “and that’s the first dumb thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
    Hauling his and Marguerite’s bags out to their rental car and getting soaked in the process, Griffin discovered that yesterday’s inertia, which Sunny had correctly diagnosed as self-pity, had returned, along with a terrible understanding. Part of the reason he’d been sopassive at his daughter’s wedding was his profound sense that something was
supposed
to happen there; all he had to do was be patient and recognize the moment when it arrived. Today, though, he knew better. The only things that were supposed to happen were things you
made
happen. The intimate, bittersweet moment he’d shared with Joy at the hospital had seemed to promise more, but he saw now that it was all he was going to get, probably because it was all he deserved. The events that had culminated in his daughter’s wedding and the eventual dissolution of his own marriage were on parallel tracks, both set in motion this time last year, and over the long months they’d gained sufficient momentum to be virtually unstoppable. Even the fiasco of the rehearsal dinner hadn’t derailed the wedding, and he was grateful for that, but apparently the sundering of marriage was subject to the same immutable law of motion. It was like the third act—the final twenty minutes—of a well-constructed screenplay, during which there was no more choosing, no more deciding, just the juggernaut of action and consequence.
    Was Joy, too, feeling the same dispiriting sense of inevitability? Was that why she’d kept her distance at the reception? He wished he could ask her. Sliding in behind the wheel, Griffin again noticed the “Summer of the Brownings” magazine on the dashboard. He’d wanted her to see the story because he was proud of it, but also, he now realized, because it constituted evidence of—what? That he’d been trying for a long time to understand and resolve his almost pathological resentment toward his deceased parents? That perhaps he’d made some progress? The facts on the ground suggested rather the opposite. This time last year he was driving around with one parent in the trunk of his car, whereas now he had both. Far from resolving anything, the Browning story probably just explained how he’d come to be the husband and father he was instead of the one he meant to be. It was also possible he wanted to show Joy the story for even more selfish reasons. Tommy, puzzledby the story in its earlier incarnation, had been both surprised and impressed by the new version. “Jesus, Griff,” he said. “This is really … there’s fucking
truth
in here.” Maybe all he wanted from Joy was more praise.
    He studied the cover, where his name was listed along with eight or ten other writers, none of them household names, and felt the smallness of his accomplishment. Sure, he could use the story as an excuse to drive back down to the Hedges. Once there, if he screwed up his courage, he could ask Joy if this really was the end, if that’s what she truly wanted, but he already knew the answer, didn’t he? She’d told him at the hospital that Brian Fynch didn’t make her
un
happy, and for her, given the last few years of their marriage, this was probably a step in the right direction. Besides which, he thought, tossing the magazine onto the backseat, he’d have to explain to Marguerite why driving back down the peninsula made more sense than just mailing the issue once they got back to L.A.
    But what the hell was taking her so long to check out, he wondered. He supposed he might go find out, but decided instead to stay where it was dry. After all, there wasn’t any hurry. No doubt the vague sense of urgency he was feeling was just residue from the wedding, which was now over. Laura and Andy were already in a limo headed for Boston, where they’d catch their flight to Paris. Had they agreed on that destination for their honeymoon? he wondered. Laura had spent her junior year in France and talked about returning ever