“Well, the wedding was good for something, then,” says Clemence, shattering the awkwardness of themoment, and then she goes with her dad to get everybody a cup of coffee. Returning with her hands full, and her mother has made an acquaintance with Mrs. Yeung. They are trying to get to the bottom of what is wrong with Clemence: her insistence on being so strange.
“Ithought she was a man,” Mrs. Yeung recalls. “The only reason Ilet her have the place. Ihad no idea with a name like that.”
“Well, that part is probably my fault,” admits Bonnie. “With a name like mine, Iwanted my daughters to walk around in the world with a little more heft. My parents named me after Scarlett O’Hara’s daughter who fell off a horse.”
“Iwanted to name my son after Ashley Wilkes,” says Mrs. Yeung, avidly. “But my husband wouldn’t let me. Because it’s a girl’s name.”
“Probably worked out for the best,” says Clemence, as she inserts herself into the fold, fanning her face again; it’s so uncomfortable. “Is Charles coming?” She tries to sound easygoing about him. She tries tofeeleasygoing about him, because she has Toby now. If she saw Charles, it might not be awkward, and perhaps they could be friends.
“He said he’ll definitely try,” says Mrs. Yeung. “Which means no.” She turns to Clemence’s mother. “My son is a very busy person. Very involved in his community.”
“Like you?” Bonnie offers, and Mrs. Yeung concedes that this is true.
“And what about the Italian?” Mrs. Yeung asks. “Where’s he?” Confusing Bonnie, because she thinks Mrs.Yeung is talking about Sandro, and what’s he done now?
But Clemence tells her, “Toby’s actually not Italian. Strictly Northern European peasant stock.” She explains to her mother, “The guy Itold you about. The one I’m seeing. Kind of.”
“But not polyamory.”
“No.” Poor Bonnie Lathbury, trying to find her bearings in this brave new world.
And all this is going over Mrs. Yeung’s head, thankfully. She tells Bonnie, “He’s sort of a strange kind of person. He doesn’t even look Italian.”
“Because heisn’tItalian,” says Clemence, for the thousandth time, still trying to hold it all together. Except for the bond between these two women, which she is desperate to pull apart. Why had she worn this sweater? The temperature in the church basement is boiling. She says, “Anyway, Idon’t think Toby’s coming today. Jumble sales aren’t really his thing.”
“Iwouldn’t have thought they were my thing, either,” says Bonnie, “but look!” She unfurls the chenille bedspread folded over her arm. “My mother had one just like this.” She sticks her face in the bundle and inhales. “It even smells the same.”
Clemence cringes. “Make sure you wash that.”
Min Jee begins to play “Go Tell It on the Mountain,” and Naomi and Jillian rejoin the little circle of people who love—and are intent on torturing—Clemence. The nieces and nephews are happy because they’ve been allowed to pick out any toys they want, and it might as well be Christmas.
When was the last time they’d all gathered in a church? Had they ever? Certainly not at Clemence’s wedding, which took place in a barn at a winery.
And then Toby is there, waiting in the doorway, looking pained as he takes in the crowd.
“It’s Harold and Maude,” whispers Jillian, because indeed Toby is standing there with Crampton, who gives off a Ruth Gordon vibe, and who has somehow decided to set foot in St. Saviour’s after her decades-long grudge. What’s going on here?
Clemence tells Jillian, “No, it’s Toby.”
“That’sToby?” says Naomi. “TheToby? Your unsuitable attachment?”
“He looks like an undertaker,” whispers Grace. “Or a corpse.”
“Well,” says Bonnie Lathbury, with a strange smile upon her face. “Let’s meet him.”
Clemence says, “Now?” Crampton and Toby are already approaching the group. “Are you sure?” But it doesn’t matter, because here they are, Toby is here. Why is he here?
“We have come to support your endeavour,” Crampton announces in an artificial tone, as though she’s reading from a script, or maybe she’s only reading Clemence’s mind. “HungBack in thirty minutessigns up in the windows, and here we are. You’ve got quite the turnout.”
The room is even more crowded now, and maybe they were going to unload all the jumble after all. Clemence introduces Crampton her family, to her friends, Toby hanging back from the group. If Bonnie Lathbury triesto speak to him, the universe could possibly implode. But it doesn’t.
“So, you’re Toby!” Bonnie exclaims. “We’ve heard almost absolutely nothing about you. Beyond church and jumble sales, Clemence is not really forthcoming. You work in the bookshop, but that’s all Iknow. I’m Bonnie, Clemence’s mom.”
And Toby just waits, with everybody’s eyes upon him. Like he’s frozen, until Crampton punches him hard in the arm, and he shouts in pain. “Why did you do that?” he asks, but Crampton shakes her head, gesturing to the people gathered around them, and he comes to his meagre senses: “Um, hi,” he says, waving the hand attached to the arm that he’s clutching.
“These are my people,” Clemence tells them. Her mother, her father, her sisters and their kids, her friends. Jillian is holding an antique mirror, and Naomi is holding nothing, because she’s sensible enough not to be swayed by a sweet deal and doesn’t need anything more in her rich and fulfilling life. “And this is Toby.” What to say about that? “Toby is my people, too.” Does he need a sling?
“Ithink she really hurt him,” Clemence hears Sandro whispering to Prudence behind her.
