Slightly Married (26 page)

“Is this a present for me, Grandma?” I ask, eyeing the still-bulging bag a tad uneasily. “Because I love it!”

“I knew you would!” she says triumphantly—and snatches it back just as my mother arrives. “Connie, Tracey said everyone will love them.”

“Pardon?” Uh-oh. An ominous thought has just appeared on the horizon.

“She made two dozen of those as party favors for tonight, to surprise you,” my mother explains.

Two dozen? There are two dozen of these things?

“But once we got here and I saw how—fancy—the party is, I didn’t think it would be right to hand them out.”

“She doesn’t think they’re fancy enough,” Grandma sneers.

“Well, they’re very fancy,” I say, fingering the doll’s very
very
fancy ruffled skirt. “It’s just—”

“I know what you’re going to say. I didn’t bring twenty-four rolls of toilet paper. Just this one, for an example, so they can see how it’s supposed to work. They’ll have to use their own T.P.”

“I’m sure they won’t mind, Grandma, but—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” she cuts in again. “There aren’t enough of these to go around. Well, that’s not my fault. I thought you said Jack had a small family,” she adds accusingly.

“He does. Compared to ours.” And if I had to guess, I’d say the vast majority of Jack’s family—and our friends—probably aren’t toilet-paper-cozy kind of folk.

“Well, I was thinking we could pull numbers to see who gets them, or give them away as door prizes,” Grandma suggests, “or—”

“What are we talking about, girls?” That’s Raphael, popping out of the men’s room and sidling right into the conversation in his Raphael way. “Oh my God, what
is
that?”

“It’s…” I falter helplessly.

“Oh, I love it!” Raphael grabs the toilet-paper bride out of my hand. “It’s so kitschy! Tracey! Where did you get it?”

“I made it,” Grandma says proudly.

Raphael screams with joy. “Of course you did, Grandma! I should have known!” Raphael hugs her. “You’re the modern-day Martha Stewart!”

Okay, Martha Stewart is the modern-day Martha Stewart, and I wouldn’t necessarily call my grandmother a modern-day anything. Nor can I imagine Martha crocheting two dozen bridal latrine dolls. But Raphael is gushing and Grandma is glowing, so who am I to rain on their little parade?

“Someday when you have time, Grandma,” Raphael tells her, “I’d love it if you’d make one for me!”

“You can have one right now, Ralphie!”

“Are you serious, Grandma?”

Hugs abound; there is much rejoicing.

Never in the history of the world have two people been more delighted with each other.

I look at my mother, who turns her hands up a little, as if to say, “What do you want from me?”

“Tracey? The Carsons have to leave now.” Wilma has penetrated our little huddle outside the ladies’ room door, and she has a middle-aged couple in tow. “They wanted to ask you something about the wedding.”

“Sure!” I aim a big, bright bridal smile at the Carsons, Jack’s childhood neighbors, who seem like nice people. “What is it?”

“We were just wondering how long a drive it is to get to your hometown—Buffalo, is it?”

“Brookside. It’s about eight hours, give or take.”

“Eight hours!” The Carsons exchange a glance.

“But it’s an easy plane ride,” my mother, the jet-setter, pipes up. “Just a hop, skip and a jump. We hope you can make it.”

“We’ll certainly try.”

The Carsons and I do a couple of those double handshakes, each of us using both our hands to clasp both of the other person’s hands—warmer and more intimate than a one-handed, businesslike handshake, but we’re not on hugging terms yet.

Or maybe we won’t ever be. I’ve noticed people don’t hug as much in Jack’s world as they do where I come from. Things are predictably more stiff and formal amid the country-estate crowd than among the country-bumpkin crowd.

Mr. Carson reaches into his pocket and takes out an envelope. “Congratulations.”

“Oh, thank you!” These nice country-estate people just gave me a card….

And, good God, Grandma just gave these nice country-estate people a toilet-paper cozy.

“How…sweet.” Mrs. Carson turns it over in her hands, not quite sure what to make of it, or of the batty old lady in the hot pants.

“I hope you like it,” Grandma tells her a little huffily. “Too bad there aren’t enough to go around.”

Holy crap, Grandma!
I silently scream.
Cut it out, would you!

Mrs. Carson looks questioningly at Wilma, who smiles warmly at Grandma and asks, “Did you make it yourself, Theresa?”

“Yes.” She lowers her head shyly, suddenly all fake-modest.

“Isn’t she the
best?
” That, of course, comes from the president of Grandma’s fan club.

Wilma and the Carsons agree with Raphael that Grandma is, indeed, the best.

Then the Carsons beat a hasty retreat, and my mother tells Wilma in a low voice, “I’m so sorry. She made them as party favors. I tried to tell her they were silly, but—”

“Not at all,” Wilma returns with an easy smile. “I think it’s really sweet. I wish my own mother had been that giving.”

I want to point out that her own mother made my dream wedding possible, but I don’t know if Jack told her that he sold his Disney stock, and I don’t know if she’d mind that he did.

Turning to Grandma, Wilma says, “It was so nice of you to make those for the guests, Theresa. They’re adorable!”

“But I don’t have enough for everyone.” Grandma can’t resist sending a glare my way.

“Oh, that’s all right. We’ll just do first come, first serve,” Wilma tells her.

“You mean first
leave,
first serve?” Grandma laughs hysterically at her—well,
joke
isn’t really the word for it.

But Wilma, ever the good sport, chuckles. “Why don’t you sit right in that comfy chair over there, Theresa, and hand them to people as they go.”

Grandma is thrilled to death with that plan.

And you know what? I am right back to being thrilled to death with my future mother-in-law, Wilma.

So thrilled that I’ve instantly forgiven her for the flower-girl debacle and decide to consider—
maybe
—giving the twins from hell some kind of wedding duty—say, handing out programs.

I’m even more thrilled when, in the privacy of a ladies’-room stall, I peek at the engagement card the Carsons gave me and find an enclosed check for a hundred dollars.

Not only that, but as Jack’s family and friends gradually make their way toward the door, I find myself holding more cards—presumably with more checks inside.

“I can’t believe this,” I whisper to Jack as yet another set of his relatives make their way out into the night, good-naturedly clutching their toilet-paper cozies. “Why are they all giving us money?”

“It’s an engagement party. That’s what people do.”

“Not people in Brookside. It must be a local custom.”

“Must be.”

“We have our own local customs in Brookside,” I say, watching Grandma explaining how the toilet-paper cozy works to an elegant-looking friend of Wilma’s, who leaves wearing an affectionate smile.

At last, Grandma’s shopping bag is empty, my purse is bulging with white envelopes and most of the guests are gone.

The party was a success, I’d say.

Wilma is my hero.

In fact—don’t faint—Inner Tracey has almost convinced me to let the twins be flower girls after all. Along with Kelsey, of course. I mean, that’s what Jesus would do, right, if he were a bride?

Brimming with bridal joy, I walk into the ladies’ room.

It appears to be empty at first. Then I spot Jack’s sister Emily, reapplying lipstick in the mirror in the far corner.

Uh-oh.

“There you are!” I say impulsively, as if I’ve been looking all over for her.

“Here I am.” She doesn’t smile or meet my gaze in the mirror.

I have to pee really badly, but instead of heading for the stall I step up beside Emily and manage to find my own lipstick in my purse without dumping any of the engagement-card booty onto the floor.

I normally don’t put on fresh lipstick for a train ride home at this time of night, but I have to make things better with Emily somehow, because…

Well, again, what would Jesus do?

“Listen, Emily, I found out you’ve been really hurt because you thought—”
Wait…you thought?
“—that I didn’t ask you to stand in the wedding…”

“You
didn’t
ask me to stand in the wedding.”

Right you are, Emily.

“God, I’m so sorry…I really thought I had!” I hear myself say. Huh? “Things have just been so crazy.”

She’s looking at me as if
I’m
crazy.

That makes two of us.

I quickly wipe the what-the-heck-am-I-doing? expression off my reflection’s face. Then, to shut myself up, I get busy covering my mouth with a slick of frosted pink lipstick.

“You mean…you want me to be in the wedding?” Emily asks incredulously.

“You’d better be…I ordered you a dress!” There goes Inner Tracey, obviously having staged a coup. I scowl at the mirror and silently scold
Cut that out!

“You ordered me a dress?” Emily asks.

I see Inner/Outer Tracey nodding vigorously, darn her. “Size two, right?”

Goodbye, Sonja.

Hello, Emily.

“Size two. Right. But…” She frowns. “I mean, wouldn’t you have needed a deposit?”

“Oh, I’ve got your deposit covered.” Beatific smile. I’m a bystander watching this tanned, white-draped all-but-unrecognizable Jesus-like creature take control of the bridesmaid situation and make it all better.

“I know you’ve been broke lately, so I didn’t want to ask you for it.”

A big, relieved grin spreads across Emily’s face.

“Anyway, I’m really sorry for the misunderstanding,” somebody—I swear it’s not me—is telling Emily. “Of course I want you in the wedding. I would never leave you out.”

“I didn’t think so, but…” She shrugs and shakes her head. “Thanks, Tracey. I can’t wait! It’s going to be such a blast!”

“Yes!” I say. “A blast!”

Watching her leave the bathroom, I exhale shakily and look warily into the mirror.

She’s gone.

Yup, that’s me all right
. Big, worried eyes, furrowed brow, clenched fists, emotionally drained.

Whoever would have imagined getting married could be so complicated?

Then again…at least the wedding-party issue is all straightened out now.

I’m adding three flower girls, but merely exchanging one bridesmaid for another. I’ll send Sonja her hundred bucks back, care of Mae, and hope she gets it.

If she wants to get upset with me for kicking her out of the lineup, that’s fine. Better her than Emily. I’m not going to be related to Sonja for the rest of my life.

Which reminds me…

Buckley never showed.

I wonder why.

12

“S
o you really want to know?”

That’s Buckley, in response to my asking him—for the hundredth time this summer—why he didn’t come to our engagement party back in June.

“Yes,” I say, sipping from the cold Corona bottle in my hand. “I really want to know. But—” I hold up a finger and wag it in his direction, shaking my head “—I don’t think you’re going to tell me.”

“Why not?”

“Because you always blow me off when I ask you about it. Why should today be any different?”

It’s a sweltering August Sunday, late in the day. We’re hanging on the beach in the Hamptons, where Jack’s sister Rachel has a share in a house with a bunch of her friends. Everyone else—Jack, his friend Mitch, Rachel and her new boyfriend, Nick, and a bunch of their housemates—is still in the water.

Which is really choppy today. Not to mention freezing.

Even in the dog days of August, the sea here doesn’t get much above seventy degrees. Apparently, Buckley and I are the lightweights of the group; we went in as far as our knees and returned promptly to the sand chairs and beer-stocked cooler. Here we sit comfortably beneath a bright blue umbrella watching the surf, with our bare legs sprawled before us in the hot sand, portable radio cranking U2.

“Today is definitely different,” Buckley informs me mysteriously, and sips his own beer.

I find myself glancing down at an icy drop of condensation that’s fallen from the bottle onto his bare, tanned chest.

Big mistake.

There I go again, being slightly attracted to my good friend Buckley.

I can’t help it. Blame it on the inherent sexiness of the moment: Bono’s wailing love song, all this bare sun-kissed skin, the pervasive scent of Coppertone. Our little patch of umbrella shade feels oddly intimate amid the glaring stretch of sand, with no one in earshot but a scavenging gull.

“Why?” I ask Buckley, glad I’m wearing sunglasses and he can’t see my eyes drifting back to his chest.

“Why, what?” He’s also wearing sunglasses, which makes me wonder where his eyes might be drifting.

Not to be vain, but…

Well, I’m looking pretty good lately. Better than I ever have—which is how it’s supposed to be when you’re getting married, right?

Buckley seemed kind of surprised when he first saw me this morning. It’s been awhile; I’ve been busy with work and the wedding and he was busy finding a new place to live. There was no real reason to move, other than that he said he wanted a fresh start. Can’t blame him for that.

Just before the Fourth of July, Jack and I helped him move into a great studio in Tribeca. Then he skipped town around the date he and Sonja would have been getting married. He went out to Long Island and visited his mother, then spent a few weeks with his sister in California. We’ve e-mailed, of course, but only sporadically.

Meanwhile, I’ve lost a few more pounds, mostly because of stress. But Brenda, Latisha and I have been doing this yoga class the agency is offering after work a few nights a week, so I feel more toned than I ever have before. And my fake tan, courtesy of Raphael, has developed into the real thing, thanks to a couple of beach weekends like this.