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Jenna had gone with
     this wording:
Jennifer Bailey Carmichael and Stuart James Graham, along with their families, invite
     you to share in the celebration of their wedding
(per the Notebook).
    Doug had gently advised Pauline to back off where the wedding was concerned. Pauline
     had a daughter of her own. When it was Rhonda’s turn to get married, Pauline could
     interfere all she wanted.
    “When Rhonda gets married?” Pauline had exclaimed.
    “Yes,” Doug said.
    “She’ll never get married!” Pauline said. “She’s never had a relationship last more
     than six weeks.”
    This was true. Rhonda had pretty, dark hair like her mother, and she was very thin.
     Too thin, if you asked Doug. She spent something like five hours a day at the gym.
     Going to the gym was Rhonda’s
job,
and freelance graphic design was a hobby from which she received the occasional paycheck.
     She was thirty-eight years old, and Arthur Tonelli still paid her rent and gave her
     an allowance. At thirty-eight! The reason Rhonda’s relationships didn’t last was because
     she was impossible to please. She was negative, dour, and unpleasant. She never smiled.
     The reason Rhonda worked freelance was because she’d lost her last three office jobsdue to “problems cooperating with coworkers” and “insufficient interpersonal skills
     with clients.” Which meant: no one liked her. Except, of course, for Pauline. Mother
     and daughter were best friends. They told each other everything; there was
absolutely no filter.
This fact alone made Doug uncomfortable around Rhonda. He was sure that Rhonda knew
     how frequently he and Pauline made love (lately about once a month), as well as the
     results of his prostate exam and the cost of his bridgework.
    Pauline was right: Rhonda would never get married. Pauline would never become a grandmother.
     And so could Doug really blame her for clinging to his family with such desperation?
    Pauline burst into the bedroom, and Doug sat straight up in bed. He had fallen asleep;
     his mouth was cottony and still tasted faintly of peanut butter.
    “Hi,” he said.
    “Were you
sleeping?
” she asked. She was wearing her tennis clothes but had removed her shoes and socks,
     and so Doug smelled, or imagined he could smell, her feet.
    “I took a nap,” he said. “I was tired, and I thought it would be a good idea, considering
     the drive.” Doug studied his wife. She was an ample woman with large breasts and wide
     hips; she was the despondent possessor of what she called a “muffin top,” which kept
     her constantly dieting. Food wasn’t just food with Pauline; it was a daily challenge.
     She always started off well—power walking along the Silvermine River with two other
     women from the neighborhood and coming home to eat a bowl of yogurt with berries.
     But then there was a thick sandwich with fries at the country club, followed by the
     two pieces of pound cake she ate at book group, and not only would Doug have to hear
     about it when he got home from work, but he would have to share inPauline’s punishment: a dinner that consisted of grilled green beans and eggplant
     or a bowl of Special K.
    Beth had been such a good cook. Doug would kill to taste her creamy mac and cheese
     or her pan-fried pork chops smothered with mushroom sauce. But he didn’t like to compare.
    He was glad to see Pauline had actually gone to play tennis. Her dark hair was in
     a ponytail, and her forehead had a sheen of sweat that gave her a certain glow. The
     short, pleated skirt showed off her legs, which were her best feature. Sometimes Pauline
     went to the club to “play tennis,” but the courts would be booked, so instead she
     would sit at the bar with Christine Potter and Alice Quincy and drink chardonnay for
     two hours, and Pauline would come home feeling combative.
    Pauline was a prodigious drinker of chardonnay. Doug remembered that during the divorce
     proceedings, Arthur had referred to her as “the wino.”