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his heart he was terrified of these people. Contrary to myth there was nothing pretentious or phony about them. They were everything they believed themselves to be. They were rich, shiny, intelligent, and, Jacob guessed, they were moral champions of every perseverance. It was exactly their goodness that chilled Jacob’s heart. For he knew himself to be a flawed, simple man. He wrote breezy, foolish song lyrics for a living and was content to do so. He took long walks in Central Park, not so as to appreciate nature or become fit, but rather for no reason whatever. He’d chosen Rachel as a wife because she’d been an easy catch. She’d walked up to him at Duranigan’s, and, through body language and the English language, madeit known to Jacob that she was available. They dated for a month, and Rachel said things that made Jacob laugh. She had a capable body, as did Jacob—though they didn’t sleep together before their honeymoon—and Rachel neither loved nor disdained the jingles Jacob wrote. Out of what might have been joy but was certainly relief, Jacob asked Rachel to be his wife. She immediately said yes, and that was that.
    Or perhaps not, thought Jacob, looking out at his reception. Perhaps the power and vibrance that shone so exquisitely in these guests lay dormant inside Rachel too. Jacob lived in the Preemption apartment building on West Eighty-second, and he planned for Rachel to move in with him after the honeymoon. But how long would she be content there? Maybe a month into the marriage she would demand magic: a move to the Upper East Side, tickets to Carmen, papaya for breakfast. What if she suddenly decided that California was an important place? Or craved oysters? Or wanted to discuss Churchill?
    Rachel squeezed Jacob’s hand. “You look worried.”
    “I’m not,” said Jacob.
    “You’re lying. Stop worrying.”
    Jacob looked at his new wife. He looked at her sparkling gown, her cleavage, her rather ugly eyebrows.
    Rachel shrugged. “I’m just a girl,” she said. “You’re just a guy.”
    Thank God, thought Jacob.
     
     
    The legend of Jacob’s bath began later that night, in the mountains.
    Jacob and Rachel’s honeymoon lodge was called Blackberry House. It was a compromise between a Vanderbilt retreat and a contemporary bed-and-breakfast. The house itself was vast and wooden and just an hour south of Canada. The ground-floor common room was paneled and studious. It featured bearskin rugs, racks of antlers, and a chessboard with pieces cut from tusk. The bedrooms, however, were warm and dear, with quilts on the beds, lighted candles, and, in the bathrooms, free-standing tubs with brass lion’s feet. In Jacob and Rachel’s room—the Blackberry Room—there was an antique loom, and a giant dormer window that looked out over Raquette Lake. Outside this window, on the roof, in the moonlight, was a skunk.
    “There’s a skunk out there,” said Rachel. She still wore her wedding dress. She pointed at the roof, looked out at the night. It was spring in the Adirondacks, but the windowpanes were cold.
    “It’s two in the morning,” said Rachel. “There’s a skunk outside our window.”
    Perhaps Jacob should have been thinking about consummation. Instead, he was wondering how a skunk could possibly scale a three-story building.
    “Mephitis mephitis,” said Rachel. “That’s Latin for the common skunk.”
    For the Times, Rachel had once checked animal facts.
    “How’d he get up there?” said Jacob.
    The man and his bride watched the skunk. The skunk was black and white and did not currently smell bad.
    Rachel removed her shoes, rubbed her feet. “I don’t know how romantic this is. A Mephitis mephitis outside our window on our honeymoon night.”
    Jacob didn’t reply.
    “I’m going to take a bath,” said Rachel.
    She went into the bathroom, closed the door. Jacob stayed looking at the rodent. The skunk wasn’t moving. It was planted five feet from the window, in plain view of