Romance Is My Day Job (24 page)

This time, she's keeps saying the same three words. “Oh my God. . . .”

“And then he gave me the ring. . . .”

“Oh my God. . . .” Mom is never this inarticulate.

“So, I need to get regular manicures now and not the crappy ones I do myself.”

“Oh my God. . . .”

She does regain consciousness enough to ask me when we want to have the wedding.

“Maybe February or May,” I say.

“What about September this year?” she says. “We old folks need it fast. I'm going to have a heart attack. Oh my God. . . .”

The rest of the conversation is full of more “Oh my God”s and little bursts of praise for Sam. This boy will be her son-in-law. She'll have him full-time, her very own academic to play with. I can't even begin to think about the future lovefest between Sam and Don. They will be related.

As soon as I get off the phone, I call my brother. Instead of “Oh my God,” he keeps saying, “Wow.” I can hear Carlos yelling in the background. Our family keeps getting bigger and bigger.

“Should I tell Dad?” I ask. I really don't want to, but I guess it would be rude not to say anything to my father, to let all his relatives find out over Facebook before he does. Though a malicious part of me wants to do it that way.

“You need to call him.”

Yeah, so how would that go? The sooner I call him, the sooner I can change my Facebook status to “Engaged.” Engagement narcissism is second only to Facebook narcissism. The likes will boost me into the happiness stratosphere even though I'm already happy because I am engaged, in case that's not clear. Engaged. Engaged. Engaged.

I completely forget that Sam is in the room.

With the phone in my hand, I go into the bathroom. Sam is in the rest of the studio calling his father and brother, telling them the news. I can already hear Sam describing the ring to his father and explaining why he didn't want to save money by choosing jewelry from the family's safe-deposit box in Miami. It makes me laugh.

I dial my father's number, hoping my stepmother doesn't answer because then I'll have to speak to her.

“Hello?” Thank goodness, it's just my father.

“Hi, Dad. It's me.”

I already know I have a good two minutes to get my message through before he wants to get off the phone. I'm sure he'll be polite, just not gushing. I'm paying him a courtesy before I shout my news from the rooftops.

“I'm engaged to that guy I e-mailed you about.”

“Oh . . . well, congratulations.” He sounds surprised, and not upset in any way. I like to think he might be happy for me and the fact that despite everything, I found a decent person. “So, tell me about him.”

“He's teaching French at Barnard. He lived in Israel for eight years.”

“So, I guess he must be on Israel's side.”

“Well, he has more knowledge of the Middle East than most of us who've never been there. He loves Israel, but he thinks each side has the enemy it deserves.”

My father chuckles. I can hear him judging my fiancé, though perhaps it's envy. My dad never got to fight in a war or go anywhere truly dangerous. The worst nail-biting moments he's had came from mountain climbing (though he's had some life-and-death moments). I doubt he's ever had to stay in a shelter or live in fear of a suicide bomb going off in a restaurant. My father, at heart, is an adventurer, but one who's been homebound for most of the past thirty years.

“Congratulations,” he says.

“Yep, I'm actually getting married, probably early next year.” No talk of the ceremony or his participation.

The few minutes are up and we discuss the upcoming Smith reunion, where I will bring Sam to meet him. It might be a good idea for them to meet before we get married. Plus, I can't resist the Smith starchy foods, and they are nice people. I don't worry a bit about introducing him to my mother's side of the family either. The Sullivans will love Sam because he'll eat great piles of their food. He will love them for yelling at him to eat more.

Finally, it's done. My dad knows. Mom and Patrick know. And now I go to Facebook and change my status to “Engaged,” close my eyes, and wait for the flood of “likes” and congratulations. I am going to marry Sam Bloom.

 • • • 

A ring on your finger makes a difference. I always thought it wouldn't, but it does. Dare I admit that I like that feeling of ownership? It's so unfeminist of me. Out of defiance, I tried out different rings on that finger: a hematite ring, an amethyst ring, then a fake wedding band for when I wanted to be left alone. This new engagement ring feels right. I used to be bothered by these traditions, but now I'm swimming in them, willingly.

Going to work engaged feels fantastic. On the subway, I keep peering down at my ring. I have one now. With new energy, I get my engaged breakfast and engaged coffee, take out my building pass with my left hand, flashing my ring as much as possible.

The newly engaged usually enter the Harlequin office to squeals and demands to see the ring, hear the proposal story and wedding details. Very little gets done by the affianced lady, because who can stop looking at her ring? Not me, and I am no different. Though I stay in my office—since I don't want to be too obvious and showy—I quickly whip out my hand and give details to anyone who asks.

My friend Sarah, the editor for our nonfiction line, examines the ring and says, “It's a good setting. That way the diamond can breathe.” If it weren't for Sarah, I wouldn't have a clue what I wanted in a ring. She gave me some websites to scour at a point when I overheard Sam talking to Warren about “waterslides” and should he get one “waterslide” or “three waterslides.” I figured out that
waterslide
meant “diamond.”

The ongoing pleasure of the engagement is indescribable. It's like a bubble bath, cake, and champagne rolled into one—all day long. Sam and I are a little nicer to each other, not that we weren't before. We smile more, hold hands more, and I'm sure we're nauseating the general population.

For months now, he's had plans to go to Israel to visit a sleep clinic. I know, why would he need a sleep clinic? Between you and me, I'm not sure either, though he does have a problem with snoring and waking up in the middle of the night. At least he's proactive about getting help, almost comically so. I just witness and support him as much as I can. Health care is cheaper over in Israel (if you ignore those thousands of dollars for a plane ticket), and Sam has convinced himself he has serious sleep issues. I've learned to just nod my head over his latest health fixation.

After a couple of weeks of engagement bliss, Sam leaves and I'm alone for ten days. It seems strange to have the place to myself again for such an extended period. I keep thinking how wonderful it will be—watching movies all day, reading until three
A.M
., eating as much crap as I want. My solitude is back, though not enough for me to miss being single. I just have some time to adjust to this new phase, sort of like when Carrie and the girls go on a trip together—returning to the source before they all get into more permanent relationships. I'm returning to me.

For the first forty-eight hours, I'm deliriously happy in this decadent living. When I go to play computer solitaire, I don't start crying. The television watching is epic, with various takeout delivery people stopping by with my meals. Sam and I communicate the way we used to, via Skype.

By the third day, I hate the silence. Where is my Sam making me laugh, stomping over to the fridge to eat all the leftovers? Sure, my apartment is cleaner. The bed gets made and stays made. I barely have dishes in the sink, and the bathroom doesn't carry that “boy” film of hair and who-knows-what. But I miss Sam, his voice, his playfulness, the company, and even his snoring.

And there's another thing. If I think about it too much, my legs start to shake, and I get that sick feeling. But I have to do something about it. Finally, it's time for me go across the street to Duane Reade and buy my very first pregnancy test.

I choose my favorite cutoffs, an oversize bleached-out pair that are so big that I feel skinny; my favorite tight shirt; and flip flops. I throw my hair up in a bun. No makeup. This is my comfort wardrobe for when I feel and look like hell, which is fine since I'm on vacation and having a mini panic attack. Even though it might be bad for the baby, I pop an Ativan, because the idea that I need to take a pregnancy test makes me unable to breathe properly. I can barely move. Five days late.

We've already established that “if it happens, it happens.” But so fast? I guess it's a good thing, but I'm petrified. Might as well find out if I am pregnant or not, so I walk over to the Duane Reade, legs shaking, and find a test, along with some Altoids, a candy bar, and some Doritos. It's absurd that I'd be so nervous. If I got pregnant, I'd have the baby. Now that I have an actual significant other, it wouldn't be reckless. We have the money, the support network.

To be honest, I'm not one of those girls who's dreamed about being pregnant. That's not a crime, I know, but I feel guilty for it. Isn't that supposed to be ingrained in me? When I'm around children, I love playing with them. The idea of raising Sam's child makes me happy, but does that kid have to come from me?

All of a sudden, I'm dealing with it. I could be pregnant, earlier than we planned. We might have this little red-haired kid with a big nose running around eating and breaking things. I love the idea, but it's terrifying. After drinking thousands of gallons of water, I go and deal with taking the test.

In the past three days, I've accepted that we might add to our family. So much has changed, and rather quickly.

“So, I'm really late,” I say to Sam.

“Oh . . . ,” he answers. “You may be carrying my child.”

He sounds happy, so I start to feel a bit more upbeat. The idea of children starts to excite me, though not enough to overpower my anxiety. We'll just say the balance between the two is leveling off.

“And it didn't even take that long. Wow.” He sounds shocked.

“I don't know yet. It could be a false alarm,” I say.

When we hang up, I do feel some pressure. If I'm not pregnant, he'll feel let down. If I am, I'll be scared out of my mind, but less so with him there. I guess I need to face reality, take the test.

I follow the directions and wait it out. And another test, watching closely as they both turn negative.

I feel that mixture of disappointment and relief. I wanted to be pregnant, sort of, especially since I could live out the fantasy of calling myself “knocked up,” creating the suspicion of a shotgun wedding. How fun would that be? So I'm not pregnant. When I tell Sam, he's supportive. We already discussed the possibility that we might not be able to have children given my advanced age. We decided that we should try and see what options are open. More than anything, I don't want to go through years of IVF and fertility clinics, the heartbreak that goes with them. Having a child isn't my main objective in life (though I'd adopt in a second).

My panic stops, the adrenaline ebbs, and I regain my appetite enough to devour the bag of Doritos. I am calm again, returning to the woman I was before all of this happened. But the whole experience makes me think about the baby issue. Sam returns in a few days, and I take the time to think about the months to come.

I have a wedding to plan. The baby can wait a bit longer. In addition to my author Marie sending me not one but three wedding-planning books, I consult that beacon in any bridal storm: I join the Knot. And this is when the real fun begins.

Because I've never cracked open a bridal anything, I need a whole lot of help. Fast.

In a romance novel, there is no long engagement period after our rugged hero Jake Hunter proposes to Cassie McBride. He gives her a ring, then the author fast-forwards to their blissful wedding. The cause of the bride's puffy glow is anyone's guess—too many falafels? Or a belly full of baby?

Their families go ape with happiness, fussing over who's going to make what wedding dish (there's a lot of potluck in romance). Aunt Cora provides the Something Old—like a hanky blown into by a bride in 1874—and the bratty sister coughs up Something Blue, her favorite skanky garter she wears to the Rocking G-Spot Saloon every night. Cassie and Jake have these amazing nuptials—the whole town attends—and look forward to the honeymoon (wink wink), though every day is a honeymoon, if you know what I mean.

For me and Sam, the engagement begins with his trip to Israel and a pregnancy scare. With every twinge of fear about my life changing, I look at my ring and remember:

I love Sam. Sam loves me.

I also remember that my family doesn't resemble those in most romance novels. My mother is a larger-than-life powerhouse. She's the one who has to be intimately involved in my wedding. In my corner, I also have many “Aunt Cora”s, all of whom provide spunk, fun, and wisdom. I love my uncles and cousins, too. No surprises there.

My father is another story.

Often, romance heroines are orphans with little extended family. But if Cassie McBride did have a father, he would be one of the following:

1. Dead

2. Drunk and dysfunctional

3. Adorable and loving from the beginning, married to the same woman for fifty years

4. A cold jerk from the beginning

5. A cold jerk from the beginning and dying

Poor Jake Hunter is in the same situation. Usually, Jake has a hard time dealing with his father because they are so similar. Jake Hunter Sr. has worked the ranch for decades and wants his son to take over. Jake has his own dreams, but often they get sidelined due to tragedy and he has to raise his five brothers and sister on his own. Maybe Aunt Cora helps, but she's getting old. Well, not old enough to stop baking those fluffy blueberry muffins.

My dad doesn't fit into any category. He was a loving father until I reached adulthood and could feasibly live on my own. At that point, he and my stepmother had been married for more than a decade, so why the sudden chill? I hadn't lived at home since before prep school, and before that, I was the girl who stayed in her room or lingered at friends' houses for as long as possible. I didn't want to be a burden on them, so I worked through my chores, tried to be good, and used my allowance on things I needed, things parents would normally buy for adolescent female offspring. I must have made too many mistakes as an adult, ignored my father and stepmother, or gone into the wrong profession. After many years, I realize that his pathology has little to do with me. No one can truly diagnose why I fell out of favor with my father, and so I move on from it. At heart, I will always love my father, but it's best for us to go our separate ways.

Getting married stirs up that primal family stuff you'd rather keep buried. Now I have to deal with old crap, which means digging into my daddy issues, once again. For the past few years, it's been a relief to be estranged rather than to lose myself in trying to please my father and stepmother when I visit. The father I knew is long gone.

But I can't help but think,
You have to take the high road. That way, you can say you did everything you could.

As I work out my guest list, Sam says this a few times before it sinks in. I know he's right. I
have
to invite my father to my wedding. He has to meet Sam, too, and I know the perfect time: the Smith reunion in August. There are layers upon piles of reasons why I should dis my father altogether. It would be thoroughly satisfying to withhold my invite. I picture my wedding, all his siblings in attendance, and his realizing he's been left out.

Okay, this makes me sad.

The one last glimmer of father-daughter hope we had was at my cousin's wedding, maybe seven years ago. She's a little younger than I am and had finally found her Mr. Right. I blubbered all the way through the ceremony. This girl, who'd been quiet, wildly intelligent, and sweet—multifaceted, really—she could get married, too. In her early thirties, my cousin did her work, went to church, loved her friends and family. One day, she met her husband and her whole life changed.

If I weren't so happy for her, witnessing her palpable joy, I would have scowled my way through the affair and been envious. Instead, I noshed and hung out with her brother, and Patrick, of course. At one point, with some prodding from his wife—who does the right thing occasionally—my dad came over and asked me to dance. He was one of those fun dancers, too, loved making an ass of himself . . . or was sappier than sap, the way a real dad should be.

My father and I slow-danced, with me more rigid than usual because I felt so much emotion. I wanted to have fun, but the moment was far too painful for me. We barely hugged or acknowledged each other unless my brother was in the room, and then all eyes went to Patrick. Now my dad was paying attention to me, even though it was someone else's idea.

I put my head on my dad's shoulder, the way I used to when we'd hug. All of a sudden, I thought I'd start weeping. My father was holding me, really dancing with me, as if he might have wanted to be there.

“Maybe someday we can dance at my wedding,” I whispered in his ear, not knowing how he'd react to such a bold statement.

“I'd like that,” he whispered back.

Seven years later, that memory is still vivid. I keep remembering it through the wedding planning, like when I go to put his address on the save-the-date card.

Maybe he'll remember that moment when he sees the announcement, that the little girl he once carried around, took hiking, ran the track with, grocery shopped with, cried with in post-divorce hell, sat in an audience to watch in every bad play—she found someone, that “pure gold” he told me to seek in a husband when I reached the age of having serious boyfriends.

Today, I have to deal with the father I have. The one who cancels at the last minute after making plans to see me in New York. The one who barely acknowledged my getting a master's degree or moving to New York. The one who doesn't answer e-mails or letters and stipulates that shared DNA doesn't mean we need to do anything more than send the occasional card once a year. And this is the father who defends his wife after she sends nasty and abusive letters to me.

If I follow that “high road” I'm supposed to take, I have to facilitate a meeting between Sam and my father. Smith family reunion. August. Only a month away. I think about
A Little Princess
, the girl who makes the best of a bad situation, and I know I can do this.

 • • • 

You'd think bridal planning would create euphoria in a relationship. For me and Sam, not so much. In fact, he becomes weirdly distant soon after putting the ring on my finger. Maybe it's the pregnancy scare or the fact that he's been married before. Or he could be having second thoughts. Sam isn't the type to get engaged without careful consideration.

I keep asking if anything's wrong, and he says no. I take this at face value. Normally, I would freak at the first whiff of boy-weirdness, but then I remember several things:

1. He'd make a huge fool of himself if he bailed on me.

2. He has nowhere to go except maybe to his dad's.

3. Everyone would pity me, which I'm okay with.

4. This whole love thing has been pure gravy and if he left, I'd survive (though it would still suck).

5. I do feel that he loves me.

With these five points, I keep planning our wedding. He shows little interest in this either, except to veto ideas.

“Maybe we could just go to city hall,” I suggest to Sam one night. Seriously, that's such a “me” thing to do. It would alleviate stress. No Ativan needed. No huge expenses, because weddings, as I'm discovering, are a huge racket. Everything costs way more than it should. Plus, at city hall, no people would see me hyperventilating as I take my vows.

Sam looks up from his book, searches my face, and smiles. “I think you might want a more memorable wedding.”

Because he says this, I'm reassured that he'll go through with the wedding. Sam is money-conscious. Why would he want an expensive wedding just to jilt me?

“Okay,” I say. “You're right.” Imagine, me agreeing to a real wedding because it's insurance against his bailing. It's sort of true, too, what he says. I do want a party. This is a huge event for me. As difficult as it might be, a bigger wedding would be unforgettable. I deserve this. Seriously, I will never go through this again.

I decide to take Sam's aloofness in stride . . . no matter how bad it gets.

 • • • 

I've watched hundreds of movies about weddings. Many of my married friends stressed about “location” when they got hitched, like saying you have to “book the cathedral a year in advance.” I find this hysterical. I mean, how can all the places be booked so far in advance? Can't you find a nice patch of grass and get married there? No, because it's booked until infinity.

So the first bit of wedding stress I experience is over the location, since it's clear I won't be marrying Sam anywhere good. I do a little research on the Web, trying to find a few places with the following criteria:

•  I can walk there.
  
•  It's not that expensive.
  
•  It doesn't look like a fast-food wedding chapel.
  

The first two do not exist. No matter what, if you're the bride, you'll be hauling shit, which means you need a car. And to avoid the fast-food venue, you need to max out a couple of credit cards, which is reality. Sam and I visit one place near where we live, and the guy can spend only a few minutes with us. The view is lovely, of the uptown area and its environs, but the banquet hall has a few strange corners and a vibe of faded glory. Pass.

I don't want to consider leaving Manhattan for my wedding. Anywhere outside of Manhattan is cheaper, but I am one of those annoying New Yorkers who rarely ventures away from her borough. I'm running out of options. It's summer; I'm a sweating bride-to-be and desperate for answers. Where do I even begin my search?

This is where my mother secretly intervenes. And she meddles the old-fashioned way, by mentioning my search to friends, relatives, anyone who will listen. “My daughter is having a wedding. Where should I put on this big party?” And that's how she pitches it, as a big party. Bonnie Gene Smith, hostess with the mostest, wants a big shebang. She doesn't exactly ask for help, but she's the kind of person people want to please.

Enter Uncle Bob, the husband of my mother's sister, graduate of Yale, passionate about politics and family, and another powerhouse in my family. Though he suffers from muscular dystrophy, there is no stopping him from planning massive family events from his scooter. He congregates and facilitates, can get anywhere, can argue you into considering wild conspiracy theories, talks to managers about turning down the “damn music” in restaurants, and can converse into the wee hours, telling harrowing tales of his coming-of-age and the pit of scum that is DC politics. I love watching him in action. He gets riled up about a variety of causes and breaks his back to create an occasion.

Uncle Bob makes a few phone calls and charms the event planner at the Yale Club. We have no affiliation with the club, which is why it's appalling that we have an appointment with their event planner. I chalk it up to Uncle Bob's skills of persuasion.

My mother and I go to meet Dari, a lovely smiling brunette, who ushers us into her office.

She hands us a packet of information and we review it. I do my initial gulping over the price, but it's more reasonable than many places in Manhattan. We could do this. I'm inviting no one, though.

I look over at Mom.

She nods. “We can do this.”

“Are there any special requests you have, like themes for your wedding?” Dari asks.

I'm not sure what pills I'm on. Maybe it's just stress or the heat. I lean forward and declare, “I want a Duran Duran–themed wedding.”

“Of course. All Rhodes lead to Nick,” Dari responds without missing a beat.

My venue search is over.

 • • • 

The Smith reunion in August, a mere five months before my wedding, is sort of like the one I attended when I first moved to New York City. This time, there's the additional tension between me and my father and the big engagement bomb I just dropped.

Swimsuits on hand, Sam and I enter the Connecticut lake house and see the Smiths sitting at a long table, eating hot dogs and hamburgers. We're a little late to the event, which I blame on poor map-reading skills. Late is better than never, though I feel all eyes on us. Wearing his signature tan hat—one that covers the head and has a significant brim—to protect him from the sun, my father is eating Greek yogurt.