Twentieth Anniversary
Lucian and Georgette Farrington, née Lambertson, were joined in holy matrimony on the first of December, on a clear and sunny afternoon yet one that was unseasonably cold for late autumn in New England. The ceremony itself took place in front of family and friends at one of the oldest and largest churches in Boston, and the wedding reception was held in the ballroom of Farrington Manor, which at the time was owned by the groom's father, Gloucester-born industrialist Augustus Joseph Farrington III, one of the wealthiest and most politically influential men in Massachusetts.
Twenty-seven-year-old Lucian, Augustus's only child and the sole heir to the vast Farrington fortune, had graduated Harvard Medical School at the top of his class, yet he turned down several lucrative offers from the country's most prestigious hospitals to open a private practice in a poverty-ridden area in the Berkshire Mountains. His fiancée, the pretty but penniless Georgette Lambertson, who had worked as a nursery school teacher before meeting her future husband, did her best to dissuade him from such a drastic (and to her mind, foolish) career move, but Lucian remained adamant.
"It's not as though we need the money," he reasoned with her. "We'll live quite comfortably on my trust fund, I assure you. If all I cared about was the size of my income, I would have gone into the family business. But I wanted to study medicine to help people less fortunate than I."
"But that little rural community is a far cry from cosmopolitan Boston," Georgette argued. "I don't see many social opportunities there. What am I supposed to do with my time?"
Lucian laughed and tried to cheer up his pouting bride-to-be.
"You're resourceful. I'm sure you'll find something to keep you busy: charitable work, a hobby, maybe even find yourself a job—until we have children, that is. When the babies start arriving, you'll have your hands full."
The social-climbing Georgette, however, was not interested in merely passing the time. She wanted to enjoy herself. She longed for dinner parties with Boston society and evenings spent at the theater, the ballet and the opera—all the expensive pastimes her lower-middle-class upbringing associated with great affluence.
Young Dr. Farrington's stubborn insistence on living in a small, dull New England hamlet nearly forced the young woman to reconsider her decision to marry him, but she could hardly say no to his family's millions. Besides, there was always the possibility that her future husband might eventually change his mind or that she could change it for him. Should Lucian persist in the folly of wanting to play the role of a kindly, altruistic, small-town doctor, however, Georgette could always divorce him. Even a small part of the Farrington fortune was better than no money at all.
Nearly seven years after the day Lucian and Georgette exchanged their marriage vows, Augustus J. Farrington III died from a massive heart attack. Once the will was probated, all the late industrialist's assets and business holdings, which were considerable, passed to his son. But to Georgette's bitter disappointment, the huge increase in capital brought no change in the couple's lifestyle. That frustration, added to the boredom of living in a dreary, bucolic mountain town for the previous seven years, took its toll on the couple's marriage—at least as far as Georgette was concerned. Lucian, on the other hand, had a beautiful wife he loved wholeheartedly and a thriving medical practice. To him, life was full and rewarding.
* * *
Early on the morning of his twentieth wedding anniversary, roughly an hour before the sun came up, Dr. Lucian Farrington left the spacious brick mansion he had purchased to appease Georgette, got into his late model Mercedes and made the long drive east on the Massachusetts turnpike to his family home, Farrington Manor. Although his late father's house had been vacant for close to thirteen years, Lucian could not bring himself to part with it. Perhaps someday he would turn the family home over to the local historical preservation society rather than see strangers living beneath its roof. But he was not prepared to part with it just yet. There were still too many memories connected to it.
Standing on the steps of the late eighteenth-century Marblehead house, the doctor fished his key out of his jacket pocket, placed it in the lock and turned the handle. The door stuck momentarily, but then it yielded to the weight of Lucian's body as he pushed his shoulder against it.
Home, he thought nostalgically as he crossed the threshold.
He could see into the dining and living rooms from the foyer. Although the antique furniture his mother loved so much had been carefully covered with drop cloths, dust and cobwebs managed to invade nearly every corner of the room, from floor to ceiling. Lucian covered his nose and mouth with a surgical mask since the musty odors of age and decay were overpowering.
With little time to spare before the planned festivities, Dr. Farrington headed directly toward the double doors of the grand ballroom. When he opened them, the memories began calling him back to that day twenty years earlier when the beautiful, vivacious twenty-three-year-old Georgette Marie Lambertson—wearing a designer wedding gown and with her long honey-colored blond hair swept up atop her head and curling softly around her white lace veil—danced in his arms.
Lucian closed his eyes, briefly reliving those cherished, tender moments. When he opened them again, the memories faded, and the present came crashing down upon him.
"I'd better get busy," he told himself. "I have a lot to do."
He crossed the foyer again and headed toward the kitchen where, in a small closet next to the butler's pantry, various cleaning supplies were kept. Lucian removed a plastic bucket, sponge mop, roll of paper towels and bottles of ammonia and pine-scented all-purpose cleaner. He then went to the sink, turned on the main water valve and filled the bucket with lukewarm water.
It took Dr. Farrington the better part of the morning to wash down the floors and windows of the ballroom, to polish the great mahogany dining table and matching chairs and to brush away the spider- and cobwebs that hung down from the high ceiling. Once the room was reasonably clean—it would never receive the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, but it would have to do—the doctor put the cleaning supplies away and returned to his car. He removed several large boxes and shopping bags from the trunk and carried them into the house.
"Gardenias," he said with a smile as he removed his mask and breathed in their heavenly fragrance. "Just like the ones that decorated the manor twenty years ago."
Lucian sentimentally hummed a series of romantic melodies as he decorated the ballroom. He went to great pains making sure everything was the same as it had been the day of his wedding reception, from the white silk tablecloth to his mother's fine China, crystal glassware and heirloom silverware. He overlooked no detail, even the most minute. Even the champagne was from the same winery and vintage as that served twenty years earlier. The music, although recorded on a compact disc and not performed by a live band, nevertheless consisted of the same songs, performed in the same order, beginning with an instrumental version of "Love Me Tender" and ending with "Goodnight Sweetheart."
In his efforts to replicate the day, the doctor had gone so far as to order the same wedding favors: porcelain bride and groom figurines around which Jordan Almonds were wrapped in a swatch of white tulle and tied with a blue satin ribbon, the same shade of sky blue as the bridesmaid's dresses.
The stage is almost set, he thought as he looked around the manor's ballroom, double-checking his preparations. Only one thing is missing.
Lucian made one last trip out to the driveway. On the floor of the Mercedes' front passenger seat lay a cardboard bakery box tied with string that held the top layer of the couple's multi-tiered wedding cake. Georgette was given the cake at their reception and told to place it in the freezer for one year. It was to be eaten, according to custom, on the couple's first anniversary.
Regrettably, the newlywed Mrs. Farrington avoided the kitchen like a claustrophobic avoids close places. Thus, the cake layer remained frozen for twenty years. Lucian had taken it out the previous evening and let it thaw on the kitchen counter overnight. Surprisingly, its intricate piping and buttercream flowers looked as exquisite as they had twenty years earlier.
Dr. Farrington carefully removed the cake from its box and placed it on a Waterford Crystal serving dish—the only item that did not have a counterpart in the past since the top layer had originally been part of the larger cake. Finally, he placed the bride and groom decoration back in its original location.
He eyed his handiwork and frowned. Although he had done a remarkable job of duplicating the original setting, the room looked like a mere ghost of the one that had been overflowing with family and friends who twenty years earlier had gathered to wish the young Farringtons a long and happy life together.
"It is what it is," he said and continued with the task at hand.
He gathered up the empty bags and boxes from the ballroom and temporarily stored them in the kitchen. Later that evening, after the anniversary celebration was over, he would take them out to his car and put them in the trunk until he could properly dispose of them. For now, though, there were more important matters to tend to.
"Now, to get out of these dirty clothes," he said and then carried a small overnight bag to the first-floor bathroom, where he stripped off his old jeans and Harvard sweatshirt and took a shower, despite the tepid temperature of the water.
I suppose I'll have to have to call in a plumber to replace the hot water heater.
In honor of the special occasion, he took great care in grooming and dressing. He was delighted that despite the tuxedo being more than twenty years old, it still fit him. (Admittedly, the pants were a little snug around the waist, but he had no trouble buttoning them.) As he dressed in the same shirt, tie, cufflinks and tie clasp he had worn on his wedding day, Lucian wondered if Georgette appreciated his highly romantic nature.
How many husbands, he wondered with a feeling of pride, would go to such great lengths to celebrate their twentieth anniversary? Not many, I'll bet, would go through all the trouble, not to mention the time and expense.
There were husbands, he knew for a fact, who could not even remember the exact date on which they were married. Not him, however. He was more likely to forget the date of his birth than his wedding anniversary.
Lastly, the esteemed physician polished his gold wedding band with his monogrammed handkerchief until it gleamed. Then he glanced at the time on his Rolex and felt a flutter of anticipation in the pit of his stomach.
At last, everything was ready for Georgette.
* * *
"Wait just a moment, my darling," the loving husband whispered solicitously in his wife's diamond-bedecked ear as he crossed the foyer.
Lucian walked into the ballroom and turned on the CD player.
"Happy anniversary, my love," he announced as he waltzed her across the dance floor to the romantic melody of "Love Me Tender."
The song came to an end, and Dr. Farrington led his beloved Georgette to the banquet table.
"Twenty years," he mused. "It seems like only yesterday."
The devoted husband popped the cork on a bottle of Dom Pérignon and poured its sparkling bubbles into a long-stemmed champagne glass, which he then raised in the air.
"A toast, my dearest, to marriage. To the vows we made twenty years ago: to love and honor, till death do us part."
As Lucian sipped his champagne, he looked over the rim of his glass at Georgette. The wedding dress she wore was now yellowed with age. Moths had eaten several tiny holes in the lace, and dozens of seed pearls were hanging from loose threads on the bodice and from the elaborate trim around the high neck and cuffs.
"You really ought to have stored that dress in a proper fashion, sweetheart," he affectionately admonished her. "Simply sticking it in a cardboard box and banishing it to the attic was a crime. That was a one-of-a-kind dress made in Paris, after all—not that the money mattered."
Georgette made no comment. She had never been the sentimental type, had never kept souvenirs of their courtship and wedding or cherished the memories of their happy times together. She left all that mawkish stuff to her husband.
When his favorite song, another Elvis ballad, came to an end, Lucian put down his empty champagne glass and gently took his wife's hand into his. Hers was no longer the soft skin of a twenty-three-year-old woman, but he did not care.
He smiled lovingly at his bride, seeing her as a young woman with his mind's eye.
"Do you know what all this reminds me of, my dearest?" he asked, indicating the festively decorated ballroom with a nod of his head. "The novel Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. You must have read it when you were in high school. Remember the old spinster, Miss Havisham? She had been stood up at the altar, and it broke her heart. Throughout the years, she kept everything in her great room the way it had been on the day she was to be married. That room became a tomb for her broken dreams."
As Lucian looked around Farrington Manor's grand ballroom, he felt the bittersweet pang of melancholy. Thanks to his efforts, there were no cobwebs, no dust and no mice scurrying across the floor; yet the room still bore the ravages of passing time—as did both he and his wife.
If pressed for a truthful answer, Lucian would have to admit that he had aged better than Georgette had. He still had a thick, full head of hair even though it had started to turn gray at the temples seven years earlier. Furthermore, his handsome face was only lately beginning to show fine lines beneath his blue-gray eyes.
The two decades, however, had not been as kind to Georgette. Although three years Lucian's junior, she now looked a good deal older than her husband. The doctor looked distinguished, while she looked—well, let's just say that, except for the blond hair that still softly curled around her veil, Georgette bore little resemblance to Dr. Farrington's once-beautiful young bride.
"Another dance, my dear? I realize this is the song you danced to with your father, but he's not here tonight."
Lucian helped his wife from her chair and led her back to the dance floor. As he slowly whirled her about, he stepped on the long train of her gown. The loud tearing sound meant that the delicate fabric had ripped.
"Look what I've done. I'm so sorry. I hope it can be repaired."
They returned to the table, where Lucian poured himself another drink.
"This is the last one," he cautioned himself. "After all, I wouldn't want to get drunk on such an important night."
The doctor sipped his champagne slowly, savoring its taste.
"Do you know what, my darling? I think I'll take your wedding gown to a seamstress in Boston before heading home. I'm sure someone has the skill to repair it and possibly restore it to its original condition. Would you like that?"
The mention of Boston was like a sour note in the harmony of the evening. There had been so many arguments in the early years of their marriage, most of which centered on Lucian's refusal to move to move back to his former townhouse on Beacon Hill. Georgette, poor dear, had never adapted to being a small-town doctor's wife. She always longed to experience the life of a wealthy socialite.
Whether due to the champagne or the bittersweet nature of the occasion, Lucian became reflective and somewhat maudlin.
"I suppose the title Great Expectations sums up our marriage pretty well. You expected to take full advantage of my family's wealth and social position, and I expected you to be a faithful, loving wife who would provide me with children. Sadly, neither of us got what we wanted."
The painful memories of their more bitter quarrels demanded to be acknowledged, despite Lucian's intentions to the contrary. This was their anniversary, for heaven's sake, not an occasion for the two of them to don their gloves and commence fighting. He did not want to recall the uglier aspects of their union: Georgette's nonstop nagging, never-ending whining and all-too-frequent infidelities. They had just about driven him insane!
"Thank God, all that is behind us now. Our marriage has weathered the storm, and we have survived."
The doctor lapsed into silent reflection. He sipped his Dom Pérignon out of his Waterford crystal champagne glass as he watched the candles melt down into the Gorham silver candlesticks until, finally, the Platters' rendition of "Goodnight Sweetheart" began playing on the CD.
* * *
"To have and to hold, for better or worse, till death do us part," Lucian recited as he helped his wife upstairs to the master bedroom.
With trembling hands, the respectable and well-loved Dr. Farrington took the yellowed tulle veil from Georgette's honey-colored hair, folded it neatly and returned it to the storage box. Then he removed her diamond necklace and placed it in the wall safe behind the mirror.
"Tired, my dear?" he asked attentively. "I'm not surprised. You're not used to all this excitement anymore, are you?"
Lucian wiped his sweaty palms on his monogrammed handkerchief and proceeded to unfasten the line of tiny pearl buttons that ran down his wife's back from neck to waist and slipped the voluminous wedding gown over her head. Then he folded it and placed it on top of the veil.
"Until our next anniversary celebration, Miss Havisham," he murmured and replaced the lid on the box.
A blustery December wind rattled the window panes of the master bedroom, and the doctor shivered in the unheated room.
"Now, Georgette, it's time for you to go to bed and for me to clean up."
Lucian Farrington raised the heavy lid of the chest freezer he had installed on the spot where his parents' large four-poster bed had once stood. Then he picked up Georgette's frail, decaying body and laid it on the frozen pillows where it had rested ever since he murdered her eight years earlier.
"We'll do this again on our twenty-fifth anniversary, my dearest," he promised. "Providing I can still fit into my tux, that is."
With a contented smile, born of madness, the doctor tightly closed and padlocked the lid of the freezer, hoping to preserve his unfaithful wife's remains for another five years.
I'm sorry I forgot our last anniversary, Salem, but missing only one in more than 300 years isn't bad.
