Liar's Guide to True Love (26 page)

I don’t argue. He needs space. He needs time to process all this. I get it. I just nod and walk him to the door. I’m about to lose him again? “Nick, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” he says. He runs his hand through his hair. “I’ll call you,” he tells me. I can’t tell if he means it, if he wants to call me, or if he just says that because I’m so desperate for him to. “I gotta go,” he says. “Good night.”

I raise my hand to say good-night, since I can’t get the words past the lump in my throat. I close the door behind him and slump down to the floor. I’m just exhausted, really. All the lying about not being a wedding planner was tiring, the angst over whether or not he would meet me tonight, never mind the long walk home—all of it has just drained me. My worst events, the ones that keep me running in heels all day and all night, dealing with the most difficult personalities, are nothing compared to the dread I feel at losing Nick. After all of this. And yes, I know this was all my own doing, and boy, have I seen the error of my ways. I just sit there for I don’t know how long before I finally decide to get ready for bed. Getting Nick back (again!) will take even more energy.

Sunday

Wedding Tip: Sometimes your mother is right.

I wake up around eight the next morning to the sound of my phone ringing. There really isn’t anyone who would call this early except my mother. I answer it, with my sleepy, early morning frog voice.

“There you are, Cassandra. It’s your mother. I was just calling because I wanted to make sure you got my message about brunch.” I’m not sure where my mother thinks an answering machine message would
go
exactly, to some mysterious message black hole?

“I got it, Mom, must have just missed you on my way back from the wedding.” A little white lie to avoid the long story won’t hurt.

“So you’ll come then? There’s a 9:14 train you can make if you get up now.”

I hadn’t decided really, but somehow the words come out of my mouth, “Sure, I’ll come. No Kevin though,” I add hurriedly. I hope she isn’t disappointed.

“Oh I figured. It was such short notice, with that big job he has.”

“Right.” Right, I think,
that
is why he isn’t coming to family brunch.

“Well just call when you get off the train, and Dad will pick you up.”

I shower and get dressed in a sleeveless, grey silk top, skinny denim capris and a medium heeled wedge sandal. I put on the sterling silver Elsa Peretti heart necklace that my parents got me for my high school graduation. It’s a little young for me now, so I rarely wear it, but my dad was always so proud that he picked it himself. At the last minute I decide to layer it with a couple of other chains that have different textures—an oxidized silver one that I found on Etsy.com, and a longer one that I bought at a street fair. Not a bad look, I decide, and maybe not too young for me after all.

I grab my bag, and pick up a coffee and Sunday
Times
on my way to the N/R stop. I’m at Penn Station in no time at all. Once I get on the New Jersey Transit train, I settle in with my newspaper for the hour-long ride to Princeton. I look at the headlines just to make sure I’m not missing any big news. Then I go to the “Styles” section. Last night’s couple is not in today’s paper, as I already know. Oh yes, GG Bride was at the end of her rope about a month ago when she still hadn’t heard from
The Times.
Apparently she was not only
not
chosen for the “Vows” column, but they didn’t choose to feature their wedding announcement
at all.
She called the paper a few times, and was down in the dumps for a few days, trying to analyze
why
they didn’t choose her (I mean,
them
).

I was so engrossed in reading about all the happy couples, making mental notes of various event venues, I didn’t immediately notice the older woman who decided to sit across from me, until she said, “Don’t worry, deary, your day will come. No need to be wistful.” I look up to see a woman who must have been near eighty or so, smiling at me, with what I interpret as pity in her expression.

“Oh, I’m not—I’m a wedding planner. I just like to read these, you know, because it’s what I do.” I hand her a business card, out of habit, and out of optimism.

She squints and puts on her glasses to read it. “A wedding planner! How wonderful,” she says. “But you’re not married yourself I see.” She looks pointedly at my left hand. “Isn’t that sad for you, to help everyone else on their happiest day, when you haven’t had one yourself?”

She is genuinely trying to be kind and sympathetic, so it’s difficult to get annoyed when it seems like such a genuine sentiment. She reminds me of many of the grandmothers and great-aunts of my clients. “It’s really not sad at all,” I tell her. “I love helping people on their day. And I’m not so sure I’m good at relationships right now,” I find myself saying.

“Oh, pshaw! What’s to be good at? You find someone you like, you snag him and that’s that.” Her eyes light up, and I know what’s coming—the story of how she met her husband. She doesn’t disappoint. “When I met my Greg, God rest his soul now, I was driven, I tell you. I just knew, there was something about him I wanted. He was ambitious, confident, but not just all bravado, mind you. He was caring too, a gentleman. I knew very well how nicely he could treat a woman, because, well, when I met him, he was engaged,” she says with a sniff. “He was engaged to my cousin, Sue.” She raises her chin a bit, and looks me in the eye with pride. “But I knew, I knew all along, she wasn’t for him. She didn’t have the spirit I did, the smarts,” she says, pointing her index finger to her temple. “She wouldn’t have been able to challenge him as I did, be a winning partner at cards the way I was. I was his business partner for
years,
you know. And women my age just didn’t do that then. Oh no, Sue would have been terrible for him. He would have been miserable.” She sniffs again. “She forgave me eventually, forgave both of us.” She looks down into her lap and turns her (not insubstantial) diamond ring. “But I did what I had to do,” she says, “to get my man and make him happy.” She notices me looking at her engagement ring, which is an unusual thing for a woman her age to wear. Most I’ve come across will wear a simple gold band. She smiles. “It’s a bit extravagant, I know. Not what you’d expect from a child of the Depression. My Greg gave it to me for our ten-year wedding anniversary. We could finally afford it then.” She looks away, probably thinking about that anniversary, about their life together. She is lost in her own thoughts all of a sudden, leaving me to mine.

I decide to text Nick:

I stare out the window, wondering if he will write back, wondering if he had to go into work today, wondering if he’ll see me later. I get a text, and I check it eagerly, but it’s just Emma.

Crap, I had totally forgotten about Emma. I write back:

I wonder if my multiple exclamation points are a dead giveaway to my feelings of guilt.

It’s just two more stops to Princeton now, so I pull out a small makeup bag and apply some mascara, powder and gloss. I certainly don’t need a lecture from my mother about the importance of keeping up my appearance even if I’m just going to the house I grew up in in New Jersey.

Once we pull into Princeton, I walk out to the parking lot, to the general area where my parents have picked me up more times than I could count. And just like he did when I was in high school, coming back from a day in the city, my father leans against the parked car, with his neck craned, watching for me. He waves his arm as soon as he sees me, as if I might not notice him there, in a parking lot that is half empty.

It is only a fifteen-minute drive to the house now. My father has always taken these drives as an opportunity to chat without constant interruption from my mother. He tells me how beautiful I look, noticeably appreciating the fact that I’m wearing the necklace he picked out all those years ago. As usual, he asks about the girls, if Suzanne is enjoying clinical medicine, or if she’s eager to get a cushy corporate gig like so many doctors these days. As a semi-retired ophthalmologist, he has always taken a special interest in Suzanne’s career. I should bring them all for brunch next time, he says, he’d love to see all of us. He pauses and startles me by saying, “I’m glad you didn’t bring Kevin.” He says it a bit uncomfortably and doesn’t seem to be expecting a response. “Don’t tell your mother I said that.” I chuckle and realize what a good idea it was to come here.

We pull into the driveway where Emma’s car is already parked. We walk into the house through the garage, just like we always did, and I leave my bag in the mudroom, just as I always did. I hear the familiar clattering of dishes, and Emma’s mumbling in annoyance as my mother instructs her on how
exactly
to set the table. Emma gives me a head nod and smile in greeting. Robert is on his cell phone in the corner of the living room.

“The prodigal daughter has returned,” exclaims my mother, in all her drama. She even throws her arms up in the air, poking fun at herself. In her normal voice she says, “Nice to see you, honey. There’s coffee on the counter, though you’ve probably had one of those expensive
lattes
already.” Emma and I look at each other and roll our eyes.

I offer to help get brunch ready, but as usual, my mother already has the food perfectly timed to be served all at once. The “nice” china is set, thanks to Emma, and there are even vases of fresh cut flowers from the garden all over the kitchen, dining room and living room. A woman can be very productive when she gets up hours before anyone else. Now that I’ve arrived, she is preparing the scrambled eggs and toasting the bread.

I go over to Emma. “Sorry, Em for not looking at your designs earlier. It’s just been nuts these days…”

“No, it’s fine! You were totally right not to look at them on email. I produced a couple of samples, so you can see what they would really look like on paper. It’s so much better that way.” She goes and gets a folder out of her bag. Robert is off the phone now and comes over while she is showing me the different designs.

They are good, really good. She was always talented, but I didn’t realize her style was so versatile. She has done two designs that can be considered more traditional, with script-style flourishes and floral patterns, but the contemporary colors make them feel fresh and original. She’s also done more casual, modern styles using darker color palettes and multiple font styles that instead of looking like they clashed, actually served to give a vibrant energy to the pieces. Emma’s biting her lip and looking at my reaction for approval. It’s easy to give, and I tell her honestly that they look professional and could stack up to any stationer’s graphics.

“See, I told you she’d like them,” Robert says to her. He smiles at her, and not that condescending smile that I’ve seen husbands give. It’s a genuine proud, loving smile. “She was so nervous about these,” he says to me. “When she didn’t hear from you, she kept pacing around the kitchen, up all hours.” Emma looks at me sheepishly and I feel guilty all over again. “But I told her you were probably real busy. Working world is crazy these days, isn’t it Cass? If a person’s lucky enough to be working, they’ve got to be at the top of their game.” Emma looks away, then looks at Robert, and then looks away again. It was an innocent enough comment, but maybe Robert is worried about his job? Pharmaceutical companies are not in great shape these days, with all the consolidations. Losing the one income they have when they might be trying to start a family is probably another strain Emma could do without.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Emma says. “I spent that extra time finding some printers in the city who can produce these types of things. So, if someone wanted one of my designs, I could get them all printed and assembled for you.”

I am impressed by her initiative and tell her so. “So do you think you can make me a binder of samples that I can show clients?”

Emma grins. “Consider it done.”

My mother calls us into the dining room, and we sit down to a feast of eggs, sausage (turkey, of course), scones and a baked French toast that has become one of her signature dishes. There is freshly squeezed orange juice, which has become my father’s daily job to make, since he “insisted on getting that danged fancy juicer,” according to my mother, and she insists they get their money’s worth.

Emma and Robert have a certain ease and casualness that comes with living in the area that I’m a little envious of. Sure, these are my parents and my former home too, and I probably come out here once a month or so during the low wedding season. But the bread basket is not new to their eyes, and the traffic cameras installed between their home and here hold no meaning for me. All the same, it is nice to be in a situation where I’m not “on”—no one is looking to me to find out where the centerpieces should go, there is no one to impress, and I’ve already apologized to Emma and have been easily forgiven. And I know it’s terrible manners under normal circumstances, but since I’m at “home” I have my BlackBerry on the table. My family has long gotten used to the seven-days-a-week nature of my job, and truthfully, I’m waiting to see if Nick calls or texts. Unfortunately, I get horrible reception in this house.

When my father is on his second helping of French toast, and I have refilled everyone’s coffee, I see Emma exchange a look with my mother, and Emma shakes her head no. Did she think I wouldn’t notice? “What is it?” I say. “What is it that you two need to ask me about?” Of course I can guess. Emma has had enough of a peek into my city life recently to pique her curiosity about my dating status. And I am certain that my mother has already reported everything she knows about the Nick fiasco. I have already decided that I won’t tell my mother about the answering machine mishap—she would be mortified that she was part of the cause of my current romantic drama, and even more mortified that I was entertaining a gentleman in my apartment at that hour of the night. But aside from that I figure I have been missing in action enough lately that they deserve to barrage me with whatever they want to ask.

“Did you ask Kevin to brunch? Or did you ask Nick?” Emma says. My father takes this opportunity to wisely retreat to the deck with his newspaper, and encourages Robert to go with him.

“Neither,” I say. “What, I’m not enough company on my own?” I joke, and meet silence. “Kevin and I are done, for good. And Nick—Well, I don’t know what we are.”

“You and Kevin were plenty cozy when I was there,” Emma chimes in.

“A lot has changed.”

“That was like, three weeks ago!”

“
A lot has changed,
” I repeat. “I don’t know exactly what it was. I think I just suddenly saw things a little more clearly all of a sudden.”