The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight(41)
Author: Jennifer E. Smith

An older man who turns out to be the head of her dad’s department at Oxford asks about her flight over.

“I missed it, actually,” she tells him. “By four minutes. But I caught the next one.”

“What bad luck,” he says, running a hand over his whitened beard. “Must have been quite an ordeal.”

Hadley smiles. “It wasn’t so bad.”

When it’s almost time to sit down for dinner, she searches the name cards to find out where she’s been placed.

“Don’t worry,” Violet says, stepping up beside her. “You’re not at the children’s table or anything.”

“What a relief,” says Hadley. “So where am I?”

Violet gives the table a scan, then hands over her card. “At the cool kids’ table,” she says, grinning. “With me. And the bride and groom, of course.”

“Lucky me.”

“So, are you feeling better about everything?”

Hadley raises her eyebrows.

“Andrew and Charlotte, the wedding…”

“Ah,” she says. “I am, actually.”

“Good,” Violet says. “Because I’ll expect you to come back over when Monty and I get married.”

“Monty?” Hadley asks, staring at her. She tries unsuccessfully to recall if she’s even seen them speak to each other. “You guys are engaged?”

“Not yet,” Violet says as she starts walking toward the dining room. “But don’t look so gobsmacked. I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

Hadley falls into step beside her. “That’s it? A good feeling?”

“That’s it,” she says. “I think it’s meant to be.”

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way,” Hadley says with a frown, but Violet only smiles.

“What if it does?”

Inside the ballroom, the guests have started to take their seats, tucking purses under chairs and admiring the floral arrangements. As they slip into their places, Hadley notices Violet smiling at Monty across the table, and he gazes back at her for a beat too long before ducking his head again. The band is keying up, the occasional stray note escaping from the trumpet, and the waiters are circulating with bottles of wine. When the motion of the room has slowed, the band leader adjusts the mike and clears his throat.

“Ladies and gentleman,” he says, and already the rest of the people at her table—Charlotte’s parents and her aunt Marilyn, plus Monty and Violet—are turning toward the entrance to the room. “I’m pleased to be the first to present Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Sullivan!”

A great cheer goes up and there are a series of bright flashes as everyone attempts to capture the moment on camera. Hadley swivels in her seat and rests her chin on the back of the chair as Dad and Charlotte appear in the doorway, their hands clasped together, both of them smiling like movie stars, like royalty, like the little couple on top of the cake.

Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Sullivan, Hadley thinks, her eyes bright as she watches Dad raise his arm so that Charlotte can do a little twirl, her dress fluttering at the bottom. The song is unfamiliar, something just lively enough for them to attempt a little footwork once they’ve made it to the wooden dance floor in the center of the room, but nothing too fancy. Hadley wonders what significance it might have for them. Was it playing the day they met? The first time they kissed? The day Dad told Charlotte he’d decided to stay in England for good?

The whole place is transfixed by the couple on the floor—the way they lean into each other, laughing each time they pull apart again—yet they might as well be dancing in an empty room. It’s as if nobody is watching at all; there’s something utterly unselfconscious about the way they’re looking at each other. Charlotte smiles into Dad’s shoulder, pressing her face close, and he readjusts his hand on hers, twining their fingers together. Everything about them simply seems to fit, and they’re practically incandescent beneath the gold-tinged lighting, whirling and gliding beneath the gaze of an entire room.

When the song comes to an end, everyone claps and the bandleader calls for the rest of the wedding party to join them on the dance floor. Charlotte’s parents rise from their seats, her aunt is joined by a man from the next table, and Hadley’s surprised to see Monty offer a hand to Violet, who grins back at her as they walk off together.

One by one they make their way to the center of the room, until the dance floor is dotted by lavender dresses and the bride and groom are lost in the middle of it. Hadley sits alone at the table, mostly relieved not to be out there but unable to ignore the small stab of loneliness that comes over her. She twists her napkin in her hands as the waiter drops a roll on her bread plate. When she looks up again, Dad is standing beside her, a hand outstretched.

“Where’s your wife?” she asks.

“I pawned her off.”

“Already?”

He grins and grabs Hadley’s hand. “Ready to cut a rug?”

“I’m not sure,” she says as he half drags her toward the middle of the room, where Charlotte—who is now dancing with her father—flashes them a smile. Nearby, Monty is doing some sort of jig with Violet, whose head is thrown back in laughter.

“My dear,” Dad says, offering a hand, which Hadley takes.

He spins them in a few jokey circles before slowing down again, and they move in awkward rotations, their steps boxy and ill-timed.

“Sorry,” he says when he steps on Hadley’s toe for the second time. “Dancing has never really been my forte.”

“You looked pretty good with Charlotte.”

“It’s all her,” he says with a smile. “She makes me look better than I am.”

They’re both quiet for a few beats, and Hadley’s eyes rove around the room. “This is nice,” she says. “Everything looks beautiful.”

“ ‘Cheerfulness and contentment are great beautifiers.’ ”

“Dickens?”

He nods.

“You know, I finally started Our Mutual Friend.”

His face brightens. “And?”

“Not bad.”

“Good enough to finish?” he asks, and Hadley pictures the book where she left it, on the hood of the black car in front of Oliver’s church.

“Maybe,” she tells him.

“You know, Charlotte was thrilled when you said you might come visit,” Dad says quietly, his head bent low. “I hope you’ll actually consider it. I was thinking maybe at the end of the summer, before school starts up again. We’ve got this spare bedroom that we could make yours. Maybe you could even bring some of your things and leave them here, so that it would seem more like a real room, and—”