Free Run River by Joan Didion Page B

Dominican graduation picture. There was even one clipping from the Los Angeles Times , headlined “Former Solon’s Daughter Wed in Nevada.”
    Everett seemed bemused not only by the clippings but by the prospect of the reception: he took the list from Lily and studied it, asked about a few of the names on it, seemed to forget, and asked again. “This is quite a large party,” he said finally.
    “You were the one so crazy to get it institutionalized,” Lily whispered absently, touching the back of his neck with her fingers. It had just occurred to her that in all the years she had known the McClellans, they had never, except for Sarah’s wedding, four years before, given a party. Even Sarah’s wedding, or as much of it as Lily could remember, had seemed oddly improvised, an affair which included all the accouterments of other weddings but remained, in some vital way, not entirely a party.
    “I just wanted to marry you,” Everett whispered.
    “Well, you did.” Lily raised her voice. “Where’s Daddy?”
    “It’s such an off season,” Edith Knight fretted. “It can’t be a garden party and it can’t be a holiday party. If you’d waited six weeks we could have used Christmas trees. Something festive.”
    “The bride,” Lily said, “is generally considered attraction enough. I said where’s Daddy.”
    Edith Knight shrugged. “In his office, I suppose. I don’t believe he’s left the house in five days. He’s been no help with the arrangements. No help whatsoever.”
    Lily stood outside her father’s office, then opened the door without knocking. He was sitting behind his desk, looking out the window toward the island bridge. Everett’s Ford was clearly visible in the driveway; her father had known she was home.
    “Well Lily,” he said, turning away from the window. “The child bride.”
    “I see we got a good press.”
    “Lily McClellan.” He gave the dry laugh Lily recognized as forced. “How does that sound?”
    The words seemed to hang unnaturally between them. Lily averted her eyes.
    Laughing again, Walter Knight walked around the desk and put his hand out, tentatively. “Well,” he said.
    Although it did not seem likely that he had intended shaking hands with her, his hand was there, and so Lily shook it. He did not seem to know what to do then, and patted her shoulder gingerly.
    “Good to have you back,” he said finally, as if she had been a long time in a far place, and then, apparently relieved to have hit upon the phrase, he repeated it.
    “It’s nice to be back,” she whispered, able neither to look directly at him nor to speak normally.
    “You’ll be closer to home than you would have been in Berkeley, actually.”
    Encouraged by this view of the situation, Lily nodded.
    Her father smiled and patted her shoulder again. “The McClellans are old friends.”
    She said nothing. In view of a fact she had just remembered—that Everett was a second cousin to Rita Blanchard, whose grandmother had been a McClellan—her father’s remark seemed obscurely pointed. The issue seemed confused beyond repair, and Lily, blushing, took a silver dollar from the pocket of her polo coat and began to throw it up and catch it.
    “It’s snowing on the Pass,” she said rapidly. “We had a nice time in Reno. I won two twenty-five-dollar jackpots and ate a lobster.”
    Her father nodded gravely.
    She dropped the dollar, which Everett had given her one night when he was winning, and watched it roll across the floor.
    “Well, princess, there’s no place like Reno.” Walter Knight picked up the dollar and dropped it into her pocket. “For all the mortal delights. Now let’s see if we can’t get a drink before lunch. You could probably use one. Or two.”
    She tried to smile. Although she had hoped, all week and even this morning, that her father would tell her not to worry and somehow take things in hand, she saw now that it would be more or less up to her.
    Whenever she thought later of