Notes From the Backseat (19 page)

4:33 p.m.

 

D
ear Marla,

My God. What is it about a wedding that reduces everyone to weepy old women? Even Phil, who takes pride in his cynical, neo-punk persona, was crying like a girl during the ceremony. Okay, so I shed a few tears myself. Is that a crime? Not enough for extensive mascara damage, so don't worry yourself.

Joni's radiant. Some of it's the glow of love, some of it's champagne and some of it's the thorough exfoliation treatment I subjected her to this morning. Plus, her makeup is exquisite—I used just enough to give her the natural, satiny sheen of a woman filled with bliss.

At the moment I'm hidden away in a hammock on the hill with a glass of bubbly, which is nice. Everyone else is frolicking in the meadow, dancing to bluegrass or eating the amazing pan-Asian finger food provided by Joni's mom. The weather is divine—warm sun, cool shade. There are little mashed potato clouds that float by every now and then, but other than that the sky is one huge, silky swath of vivid blue. It's a day the gods whipped up in honor of love—not the somber devotion of old people, but the impulsive ardor of fools. Salty breezes play with your hair and the air smells of ocean, pine and redwoods.

How do you like the new notebook, by the way? That legal pad was way too awkward. Coop bought this in town today, after picking up the tuxes. When he handed it over, he said, “What exactly are you filling these things with, anyway?”

“My life story,” I said. “Want to be in it?”

He grinned. “Depends. Am I the hero with huge pecs or the passing-fling dude?”

“Jury's still out,” I said, “but you've got nice pecs, if that's the casting criteria.”

You know what? Forget all this mamby-pamby he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not shit. Who cares what happened in Malibu? Dannika hasn't said one trustworthy thing since I met her. Why would I let her conniving little stories undermine the only relationship I've ever had worth saving? I'm just going to believe in Coop and love him and assume he's being honest until I've got reason—I mean
real
reason—to think otherwise. Damn the torpedoes, or however that goes. Seeing Joni and Phil today makes me want to be brave and stupendous; they make me want to love with the sort of abandon that can sink ships and scatter stars.

First things first, though: outfit update.

Quickly: I'm in my sunflower-yellow rayon faille strapless dress with a thin, rhinestone-studded belt, a fitted jacket with scalloped peplum, a rhinestone choker and matching teardrop earrings, an oval-brimmed hat made of genuine beaver-fur felt and, of course, as usual, my signature leopard-print kitten heels.

Phil and Coop are in classic tuxes with tails, at my insistence. I sent Coop all over town this morning looking for a place to rent them. I wasn't going to see my gorgeous bride standing next to a couple of guys in cheap corduroy blazers or velveteen or whatever it is boys put on when left to their own devices.

Okay, okay, Dannika's wearing a chiffon dress in pale orange with a plunging beaded bodice. The short, flowy, above-the knee style shows off her mile-long legs to great effect, but frankly the overall look is a little too Victoria's Secret for my taste.

Just so you can visualize the dramatis personae.

Joni's dress we'll get to in a minute.

Originally, the bride had no intention of hiding herself from the guests as they arrived. She'd planned on mingling with her friends, dressed in her shapeless nightgown-thing, drinking beer like it was any old day at the beach. That was one of many plans I had to alter today.

Luckily, Phil was able to scrounge up a big army tent; we pitched it near the dunes and I made it my on-site beauty headquarters. Joni thought it was silly to stay away from her guests, but I explained it was necessary if she was going to debut with any panache. I wanted everything to be perfect when she walked across the sand to join hands with Phil. I even had an old guy with a banjo work out a little ditty that sounded passably close to a here-comes-the-bride. I was going for gasps all around, with dabbing handkerchiefs from the women and choked-down emotions from the men. You know me: if I'm mystical about anything, it's the power of a truly glamorous entrance.

Remember when I prepared you for your first date with Jean-Paul? There was steaming and plucking, masks and lotions, an hour of experimentation to find just the right nail polish. Well, take that experience and ratchet up the intensity about twelve notches, you'll have a pretty accurate picture of our morning. Things were a little tense at times. Not only were we rushed, with inordinately high stakes, but I didn't have all of my tools, so a good deal had to be slapped together from the ingredients in Joni's kitchen: egg white pore-shrinkers, avocado masques, that sort of thing. In a way, this was just as well, since Joni's an organic girl at heart; no doubt some of my more chemical-edged products would have freaked her out, even though they're faster and more effective than nature's bounty.

The dress, though, was the real challenge. I considered lending her my elegant shirtwaist number with rhinestone buttons, but that seemed rather tacky since everyone had seen me in it just the day before. Even if we could overcome that, I knew the effect would be more chic than romantic, which just wouldn't do. I tore through Joni's closet in search of anything I might be able to work with, but it was wall-to-wall peasant-gear in there: torn jeans, aging cords, wool sweaters, frayed ponchos. She barely owned a single skirt, let alone a dress that could be transformed into a gown.

Finally, desperate but trying very hard not to show it, I asked about the grandmother whose riding gear I'd worn yesterday. Did she leave behind anything else? Joni thought about it a second, then told me if she had, it would probably be in her mother's attic. She explained how to get there, and as soon as I was out of view, I ran down that dirt road in the grandmother's boots until my lungs ached. When I arrived at the old Finnish farmhouse, Joni's mother greeted me with surprise. I told her why I was there and as soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted my mistake.

“But Joni already has a wedding dress. Mine.”

“Yeah, um, the thing is, there's a stain on it. Red wine. We tried everything to get it out, but nothing worked.” It wasn't a lie, exactly.

“Oh, that! I think that's from when I wore it, but who cares? No one will notice.” She pushed some lank gray bangs out of her eyes and I tried to imagine her as a professional dancer. Her sagging breasts and bulging stomach were now encased in a cheap-looking sweatshirt with the logo of a roofing company splashed across the chest. Below that, ill-fitting polyester pants clung to her lumpy hips and thighs. I was in full-on makeover mode and I was already seeing what a little foundation and the right shade of matte lipstick could do for her washed-out, spider-vein riddled complexion.

“Mrs. Greenfield, I'll level with you. This is an important day and Joni deserves to look stunning.” I took a deep breath and pressed on. “I'm sure your dress was gorgeous on you, but she should have something that reflects her personality. That's why I just want a few minutes in your attic.”

She seemed a little taken aback by my earnest intensity, but she let me in. “Are you sure you want to bother?” she asked uneasily. “I mean, a dress is a dress, right?”

I had to struggle to maintain my composure.
A dress is a dress?
Where do people pick up such misguided ideas?

“The right dress,” I said, “is nothing short of a miracle.”

She gave me a funny look, but finally pointed me up the stairs. She apologized about not being able to help, saying she had a lot of cooking to do, but I assured her it was no problem. You know from tagging along at flea markets and estate sales that I prefer to paw through other people's junk alone. I was afraid I might have hurt her feelings, but I figured a slightly miffed mother was a small price to pay for Joni's resurrected beauty.

It took ten minutes of weeding through cluttered milk crates and decrepit rattan chairs before I found the steamer trunk. As soon as I saw it, I knew its potential, and my heart started fluttering inside me like a wild bird in a cage. A tiny brass padlock kept the lid firmly locked, but a little work with my bobby pin and voilá, the treasure chest was laid bare.

It was Granny's stuff, all right. I recognized the same subdued, understated taste responsible for the glorious riding boots I had on. Breathing in the heady scent of silks, chiffons and furs growing old together, I carefully unfolded one item after another. There were mink stoles and satin gloves, rayon dresses and wool blazers. It was clear this trunk was reserved for only the most cherished items in her wardrobe—the elite distillations of a lifetime spent loving quality clothes. Going through them was strangely intimate and as I removed each piece I refolded it and set it aside with the reverence of an archaeologist uncovering ancient jewels.

The last item in the trunk was a simple ivory silk dress. It was knee-length, sleeveless, with a fitted waistline and a subtle A-line flare. I loved the bateau neck and the tiny seed pearls embroidered along the waist and at the hem. It was Joni all over—or rather, the Joni I imagined, freed of her natty dreads and her Mexican ponchos. I held the silk to my face and inhaled deeply, thanking the attic gods for this rare find.

Hours later, when Joni emerged from that musty old canvas tent, I gasped along with everyone else, even though I'd left her side just minutes ago. She was beautiful. The naked curve of her scalp seemed to heighten the striking perfection of her face: she was all cheekbones, eyes, teeth and lips. The silk luster of the dress along with the buffed-to-perfection shine of her skin made her look lit from within. Walking across the sand in her bare feet, the afternoon sun pooling in the hollows of her clavicles, she was luminous.

Looking at her serene smile, no one would ever believe the conversation we'd had five minutes earlier:

As she joined Phil under a driftwood arbor, she didn't look the slightest bit stressed or unsure. I was so relieved. Ever since last night, when her panic had manifested itself in none-too-subtle ways, I'd been gambling on my gut instinct. I sincerely trusted that she wanted to spend her life with Phil. If I didn't believe that—deeply, instinctively—there's no way I would have busted my butt making her glow.

The ceremony was gorgeous, if a little counterculture. Big River was more inspiring than any church could hope to be; it was an expansive, dramatic beach framed by the Navarro River on one side and steep, weather-beaten cliffs on the other. Instead of a preacher, Joni and Phil opted to be married by an elegant old woman sporting a halo of frizzy grey hair, flowing purple robes and a delicate orchid lei. Coop stood beside Phil as the best man, looking dapper and sexy as hell, even if his tux was just slightly on the small side. Joni's bridesmaids were Portia and Miranda. They wore matching green silk dresses that, paired with their fiery hair, brought to mind mermaids. Joni read a beautiful poem she'd written. I don't remember the whole thing, but there was one part that stuck in my head:

In love, we cannot make mistakes

we can only make beauty

fragile, deadly flowers

strewn about like confetti.

When they kissed, the crowd cheered wildly. Someone threw a felt fedora into the air. The banjo player picked a few lines of something fast and jubilant that sounded suspiciously like “Ice, Ice, Baby.” A couple of seagulls careened overhead in wide, giddy circles. Beside me, Dannika swiped at a tear with the back of her hand. I passed her my handkerchief and she blew her nose in it, hard, then handed it back.
Thanks.

“I'm never getting married,” she said, “but it's still so goddamn beautiful.”

I nodded in agreement—with the beautiful part, not the never-getting-married bit. I found a patch of my handkerchief that wasn't defiled by her snot and dabbed at a few tears of my own.