Never the Bride (18 page)

I know exactly what she’s talking about, and I’m glad she knows without my saying what is bugging me. “Wet Clay,” I say quietly.

“Why?”

“Because he’s not formed, not designed right—not for me.”

“That’s it.”

I groan and start composing an e-mail for those Fine Techs. “And I bet you’re going to tell me that today is a day worth celebrating.”

“Like a graduation from him,” she says.

I turn in my chair to face her, and she steps back to give me some space. “Malia, when is this all going to stop?”

“What?” she asks.

“Trying to turn every negative thing in my life into something positive. Every lost love is ‘just an opportunity for better love.’ Every loser boyfriend is ‘just proof I’m too good for him.’ It’s getting pathetic. People are running out of things to say excuses for me and my wretched love life.”

“You know that book I’m reading?”

“The one where the woman gets her man?”

“Yes. Remember, it takes four hundred five pages to get there. Gracelynn-Danielle Trubeau is falling for all the wrong guys through the whole story. Finally she wakes up to what is right in front of her.”

I turn back to my e-mail message. “Yeah, well, with a name like Gracelynn-Danielle, you’d expect her to have some identity crises.”

“All I’m saying is that your ‘finally’—it’s coming, honey. I know it.”

“Maybe. But I’m thinking it’s going to be more of a
War and Peace
page count, if you know what I mean.”

Malia squeezes my arm. “I better let you get back to work.”

I shoot off the e-mail to the computer company. I start to grab my things when an alert announces I have a new comment on my blog.

I collect my purse, briefcase, keys, and phone and walk to my car. Do I have any advice? Hahahahaha. More than I’m certain he needs.
But I like this guy. He seems genuine, willing to go the extra mile. I compose a note to him in my head as I drive.

No, take out “novel concept.” This guy doesn’t need sarcasm. I try again.

Too
Pirates of the Caribbean—ish?
I mean, maybe he’s the one person on earth who isn’t impressed with Jack Sparrow. Okay, let’s try an entirely different approach.

Yes. I like that. I’m on a roll.

And with that, I pull up to the pier, where I’m helping a man propose who
didn’t
only have eyes for me. Sometimes my life is so stinking ironic.

Brooklyn is rushing toward me. “Where have you been?”

“Sorry. Had trouble putting up that Web site. How’s it going?”

“I think okay. I’m pretty sure I have everything in place.” She’s looking around, one hand gripping a pencil, the other a clipboard. I study her, and my heart sort of swells with pride. She’s being so responsible. I pull her into an unexpected hug.

“Uh…what?” she asks, her words smothered by my shoulder.

I can’t stop hugging her. Finally she pulls away. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” I smile.

She eyes me as she hands me my walkie-talkie. “Jess, you’ve got to focus. A lot has to go right here.”

“I know.” I snap to attention. “Where’s the boat guy?”

“He’s over there. He’s waiting for you. I gave him the hundred-dollar bill.”

“Hi, this is Jessie,” I say into my walkie-talkie. “Can you hear me?”

The boatman waves to me. “Ten-four, little lady.”

I wave back. “Okay, I’m thinking about twenty yards out. Let’s try it and see how it looks.”

“Gotcha.” He pulls away from the dock.

Brooklyn grabs my arm. “I’m going to go get the balloons and tell the camera guy where we want him to hide.”

“Perfect.” I glance at my watch. “We’re about ten minutes out. Clay should be texting me pretty soon. We need to stay in touch, okay?”

“Okay.” Brooklyn rushes off.

I’m standing on the small hill near the pier, watching the boat maneuver into place. The sun is setting perfectly behind him. The water sparkles like expensive champagne, and the breeze blows my hair off my face and shoulders. Everything is perfect for this proposal. “Even the
weather is
cooperating,” I mumble.

My phone vibrates. It’s Clay texting me.
R 5 MIN OUT
. I put the walkie-talkie to my mouth. “Clay just texted. They’ll be here in five. Everyone, stand by.”

I turn and gasp. God is back. In my personal space, no less. I take a moment to catch my breath. “Why did You send me to that chapel?” I try not to sound hostile, but I feel that way.

He doesn’t answer, but I don’t really give Him time, either.

“Besides, of course, to get a chance to prove You do, indeed, control the weather. Like now, for instance. Perfect weather. You and Clay must be tight.”

“I was trying to do something for you.”

“Really.” I study Him. “What?”

“It didn’t go according to My plan.”

“No? Because I thought the rain shower was so perfectly timed.”

He steps even closer, a gentle but serious expression on His face. “So I’m giving you another chance.”

“I’m kind of busy right now.” I gesture to the water. And the balloons. And the pier.

He doesn’t look at any of it. “Go to the twenty-four-hour Laundromat at State Street, and wash your clothes at eight o’clock tonight.”

“I have a washer and dryer at my condo.” I fold my arms. “Why would I—”

“You wouldn’t.” He smiles. “But then again, I do have custody of the pen.” He turns and begins walking away.

“Hey! When you were
knitting me
in the womb, did it ever occur to You to
knit
me some blond hair?”

“No,” He says, without looking back.

“Jessie!” I whirl around and Brooklyn’s running up to me. She’s out of breath. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you! I’ve tried calling you on your walkie-talkie and—”

I hold it up. It’s turned off. It can’t be said enough—He does like my undivided attention.

“Come on!” Brooklyn says, tugging at my arm. “It’s time!”

We race down the hill and take our hiding spots. I can see Clay’s car coming toward us, a trail of dust behind him on the gravel road.

“Jess, two o’clock,” whispers Brooklyn into the walkie-talkie. “Coming toward ya.”

They park and get out of the BMW. Clay and I always thought it was funny that we both drove Beemers. The only difference is that he’s the kind of guy that wears his like an emblem.

I haven’t seen Gwyne in a long time…except in my nightmares. She’s taller than I remember, plus her hair has grown out. It’s long, falling down her back in perfect golden waves. She removes her oversized shades and swings her oversized handbag onto her undersized arm. Clay takes her hand, grinning wide enough for a satellite to pick up the glow off his newly whitened teeth.

They are talking as they walk to the pier. A small crowd is there; really the perfect number of onlookers. Not crowded, but enough to make her the center of attention.

I take a deep breath. Timing is critical. I focus and give the cue for the flare.

A pop and then a whistle causes everyone to look up. The red flare shoots into the sky and reflects against the water.

Clay takes Gwyne’s hand and pulls her toward the end of the pier.

She hesitates. “Clay what are we doing here?”

I glance at the cameraman. He’s following it all with precision. “Okay cue banner,” I say into the walkie-talkie.

The boat captain raises the banner. In big, black, and—I dare say slightly obnoxious—fancy lettering, it reads,
Marry Me, Gwyne. I Love You. Clay

As if I’ve cued the bystanders, they all start oohing and aahing as they watch Clay turn to Gwyne. He reaches for her arms, then squeezes her hands. But she’s still looking at the banner.

Maybe she’s a slow reader.

“Clay?” she says. But it’s not so much what she says as how she looks—like she’s a first-hand witness to a tsunami rolling in. “Clay?”

Clay drops to one knee and lets go of her hands to pull out a box from his shirt pocket. Gwyne’s eyes are so wide it looks like she’s about to put in contact lenses. She’s clutching her heart but not in an endearing way. If I didn’t know better, I might call for a doctor.

My attention shifts to Clay. He’s still grinning, his teeth gleaming in all their glory, but the rest of his face is so strained and tense, the grin looks more like a grimace.

“Marry me?” he squeaks, down on his knee, back straight as a board, one arm extended with the ring, the other behind him like a perfect gentleman.

Gwyne puts her hand to her mouth, shakes her head, cries, looks like she needs a wastebasket.

“Oh no…,” I groan.

Then I see the balloons. Brooklyn has released them too soon, and they’re gliding upward, twirling in the wind, dancing—but with no occasion.

Gwyne backs away. “No. No. Clay, no. I can’t. I—”

Sobbing, she turns and runs. And I mean like a triathlete with something to prove. She’s in stilettos, but even that’s not stopping her. Neither is her behemoth leather handbag, which nearly knocks over an elderly couple.

She’s gone.

Clay is frozen, still on one knee, the ring glinting in the last light of the day. People are shaking their heads and turning away, like they’ve just witnessed a crime.

Brooklyn is suddenly next to me. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” I say, watching Clay slowly rise and close the ring box. The captain is lowering the banner, and in an unfortunate streak of bad timing, two balloons collide against a light pole and pop, causing a couple of screams and Clay to duck.

“Weirdly symbolic,” Brooklyn whispers.

“Wow,” I breathe. “I didn’t see this coming.”

“Well, just make sure you get the check from him. It’s not our fault she didn’t say yes. He still has to pay for it.”

I give Brooklyn a look. “Very businesslike, but let’s make sure he’s okay”

“I have no idea what to say” Brooklyn says softly.

“Why don’t you get everything wrapped up. I’ll go help him.”

I know a thing or two about being dumped.

I order dinner for both of us, though Clay probably won’t eat for days. I’m starving but order a salad. I order Clay a thick, twenty-ounce steak, to help him on his way back to manhood.

The restaurant sits over the water and from our table near the glass windows, the ocean rolls and the sun sinks below the horizon. Violins swell through the sound system, and the tiny candlelight between us flickers as waiters breeze by.

I quietly eat, trying to think of something to say. At the pier, I asked if there was anything I could do, and he just said he didn’t want to be alone, so I suggested the restaurant where he already had a six o’clock reservation. I think he just wanted to be anywhere but there on that pier. People were still gawking at him when we walked off.

His steak is getting cold and he’s on his third beer. The ring in its
black box sits alone in the center of the table, next to the candle. He stares at it, like he’s in a trance.

“You know, Clay, it was a beautiful proposal. Any girl would love that. And if Gwyne can’t see that, it’s her problem, you know? I mean, you went all out.”

He doesn’t agree or disagree. He just stares. I wonder if I should cut up his steak for him. Then he reaches out and opens the box. He shoves it toward me. I look at it and make adoring expressions. “It’s beautiful. Wow. Really amazing. Spectacular.”

“A month’s salary right there. She didn’t even look at it.”

“Her loss, Clay.”

“Yeah? Why does it feel like mine?” He sighs and picks up his fork, stabbing around on his steak. “I can’t believe this happened to me.”

“Do you think she just got cold feet or something?”

He shakes his head. “No.” He pierces a bite of steak, but it doesn’t make it to his mouth. “There have been signs. Signs I guess I decided to ignore. When you want something so badly, I guess you tend to just write those off, make excuses for them.”

“That’s only natural.” I cut my salad up, eating slowly.

“We were having a lot of bad days. Lots of fights. Disconnecting.”

“It happens sometimes.”

“It’s just, you know, we’ve been together for like—”

“Three years and two months.”

“Yeah, and that’s a hard thing to just turn away from.”

“Sure.” I take a big bite of bread and study him as he saws away at his meat with a knife that is apparently very dull. Or he’s just bad at cutting meat. Either way, the steak is mutilated.

He drops his knife and fork and snaps the box closed. “Has this ever happened to you?”

“What?”

“Rejection in front of a large group of people.”

“Clay, of course it has. I’ve been rejected more times than—”

“I meant with your business. Has this happened with your business?”

“Oh. Um, no. This is a first. But, you know, we’ve only just opened. It’s bound to happen again.”

His face turns soft. “I guess you’re no stranger to rejection. I’m…I’m sorry about it all, Jess.”

I awkwardly dismiss and acknowledge it all at the same time. I think my face is a contorted assortment of frowns, smiles, nods, and lip biting. I would’ve guessed seeing Clay face the biggest rejection in life might bring some self-satisfaction, but at this moment, I just want the guy to feel better. It’s like the past never happened.

He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Thank you for…I mean, you have no reason to be here for me. Seriously, don’t…don’t feel like you need to sit with me all night.”