The Sleeping Beauty Proposal (9 page)

“Guess what I found in the attic?” Lucy holds up a sage green book. “Don't you want to scream?!”

Stuffed to the gills with brochures, fabric swatches, sample invitations, and even a few dead flowers is Lucy's old
Martha Stewart's Keepsake Wedding Planner.
The very sight of its torn binding brings back bad memories of hours and hours spent tasting dry, over-sweet cake, trying on endless dresses, and debating every detail down to whether the ribbon on the ring bearer's pillow should be narrow or wide.

“I saved it for you. I knew this day would come!” She lets out a squeal and wraps her bony arms around my neck.Whispering in my ear, she adds conspiratorially, "Now you can kiss that admissions job good-bye and we can hang out together at the Arsenal Mall all day!”

Yippee.

We spring apart and Lucy shoves the book into my arms. I nearly keel over with its weight. “I have done so much bush-whacking for you.You'll have it easy peasy. I've written down all the right florists, the right caterers, everything.”

“Though maybe Genie will want to get married in England,” my mother adds, batting her eyes hopefully. "That is a possibility, isn't it?”

This, of course, would elevate my mother to a celestial realm among her girlfriends, to have a daughter marrying in Old Blighty.

“I'm not sure there will be a wedding, Mom ...”

Lucy jerks my arm. “No way.You have to marry here. I've already contacted Bea Cummings.”

I search my personal data bank for a Bea Cummings and come up with the chain-smoking, coughing hag Lucy hired to do her wedding.

Oh, no. She didn't. A wedding planner already?

“This is awful,” my mother exclaims.

“Too soon,” I agree. "Much too soon.”

“No,” Mom disagrees. “Too late.This morning I called Elise.”

Elise?

“Mom, that's awesome!” Lucy again squeals so loudly my father covers his ears. “Elise DuPont is in
such
demand. How did you do it?”

Mom opens her mouth to answer, sees my father frowning, and snaps her trap.“Tell you later. Right now we have to figure out what to do. Elise or Bea.”

Suddenly, both of them are staring at me. "Well?” Mom asks. “Which is it, Genie? Elise or Bea?”

I am speechless. I couldn't pick out either in a lineup.

Lucy says knowledgeably, “Get used to it, Genie. This is the first of many, many decisions you're going to have to make between now and September fifteenth. Frankly, you can't go wrong with either. Bea is kind of sarcastic and cold, but she's a pro who's been in the business forever. Your wedding will run like clockwork. Elise is more flighty and younger, but much more creative. She'll make it magical.”

I am frozen in place.When I signed up for this faux marriage thing, I never imagined I'd be hiring wedding planners within twenty-four hours. Come to think of it, I have no idea what I imagined.

“Hold on,” my mother says, stepping back. “We're getting ahead of ourselves, choosing wedding planners when we haven't even covered the basics.”

Whew! My shoulders sag in relief and I realize my muscles are throbbing, I've been at such rigid attention. “You're right, Mom. We should slow down.”

“Absolutely. I'm sure Hugh will want input. Don? Where did you put that number for Hugh's parents, the one that came on their Christmas card last year?”

My hand shoots out to avert a crisis. “You are not calling Hugh's parents.”

“Of course we called them. That's what one does when one's daughter gets engaged. The parents of the bride immediately call the parents of the groom to congratulate them.” She shakes off my hand. “Don't be so dense, Eugenia.”

I calculate the grammar in my head.There's a past tense there. “You mean you already called?”

“Last night. Though we totally forgot about the time difference, didn't we, Don? They must have been in bed because they didn't pick up.”

Suddenly, I'm overcome by a violent urge to jump out of my own skin.

“So, we'll try again now. It's better you're here, anyway, Genie.” Mom takes the portable from Lucy, who's thoughtfully fetched it from the family room. (Thanks, Lucy.) “And if Hugh's there, we'll talk to him, too. I can't wait to tell him how happy we are that he finally asked you to marry him, and in such a dramatic way, too.”

No, no, no. They cannot call Trevor and Susanna Spencer. They cannot call Hugh. That would ruin everything.

I reach for the phone. “You can't. It's too late.”

“It is not. It's only ten there.”

“You forget about their daylight saving time,” I argue, winging it. “They're seven hours ahead of us in the summer.”

Mom holds the phone out of my reach. “Don't be ridiculous. They're only five. Now do I have to dial a one first, Donald, or a zero?”

In desperation, I turn to Lucy, who is smiling from ear to ear. Of course. Why wouldn't she be? She thinks I'm really getting married. She has no idea that we are about to call two near strangers in another country, on another continent, and welcome them to our family for no reason other than I am pretending to be engaged to their son.

“Put it on speakerphone, Nance,” Dad says.

“Right.” Mom presses a button and props the phone on the glass table, while we gather around listening to the foreign farting ring of Trevor and Susanna Spencer's London phone. My heart is pounding so hard everyone must hear it. I have got to get out of here. I cannot stand here while my whole family listens to Susanna proclaim me insane.

Dad slaps an arm around my shoulder and holds me tight.“We are so proud of you, do you know that,Toodles?”

Not Toodles. Anything but Toodles.

“Hellooo?” The woman answering is ultimately British. Upper crust. Refined. I cringe, anticipating what will come next.

“Well, HELLO!” Mom shouts, completely forgetting that satellites and digital technology mean you no longer have to holler at the foreigners. “This is Nancy Michaels calling from America.”

There is a pause, an awful, dreadful pause. "Who?”

“NANCY MICHAELS,” my mother shouts. "GENIE'S MOTHER.”

Oh, God. I can't take this. Any minute now and my cover will be blown.

“I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about? Have you rung up the wrong number?”

Mom gives Dad a questioning look. “Is she daft? Genie, has Hugh's mother gone dotty?”

“Just forget it, Mom,” I urge.“Call back later. I told you it was late.”

“Nonsense. Donald, you talk to her.”

Dad lets go of me and in an even louder voice bellows,“THIS IS DONALD MICHAELS, FATHER OF GENIE MICHAELS. HUGH'S FIANCÉE.”

Oh, crap. He told her.
Hugh's fiancée.

“I had no idea,” the woman says, clearly confused. “Let me go find Hugh.” With a clunk, she puts down the phone and goes off.

That's it. I need to escape so that I'm not here when Hugh returns and the hail of shame rains down.

And then I see my savior. Jason, touchstone of all that is right and proper, is carrying out a salad and regarding my mother's empty martini glass with dismay.

Jason doesn't look like your run-of-the mill super Christian. His brownish hair's not short. In fact, it's kind of long and shaggy. He doesn't wear Dockers or a cross or anything. Right now he's in a white button-down shirt and wearing his customary hemp necklace. If they'd made born-again Christians like him when I was in my twenties, I might have gone to a few revivals.

“Congratulations, Genie,” he says, giving me a quick, brotherly hug.

“We're talking to Hugh's parents now,” Mom says excitedly. “Having a bit of a communication problem, though. They can't seem to find Hugh. They're taking forever.”

Praise the Lord for small miracles. "Mom. Don't you need another drink?”

Mom looks doubtful, all part of her act. “Maybe just one more martini. No, a pitcher for all of us. It is, after all, a special occasion.”

A pitcher of martinis? Gag. She really is going overboard.

"I'll make it,” I say, trying to move past her.

“But you can't.You have to be here when Hugh gets on.”

“Let Jason make them,” Dad says.

“Yes,” Mom agrees, “let the Christian boy make them.”

“Those who don't drink, mix, you know,” adds my father heartily, handing Jason his own empty glass. “Make 'em in the spirit of FDR, son.”

Jason exchanges wordless signals with Lucy, whose plan, I'm guessing, is to have him mix them weak. I'm not sure it is possible to mix a weak martini, but I'm willing to help. Anything to flee the prospect of hearing Hugh's shocked and angry reaction.

“I'll go with him,” I say, “to make sure he can find the vodka.

Call me when Hugh gets back on. I've got to go to the bathroom anyway.”

Mom waves me off. “Very well. Make yourself one, too.”

“No, thanks. I'm not drinking.”

She shoots a stricken look at Dad. “Not drinking?”

"Nope. I'll just have a 7UP.”

I turn my back and follow Jason to the kitchen as Mom, Dad, and Lucy clump into a huddle. In any other family not drinking would be barely noticed, totally accepted, or even applauded. In mine, it's cause for immediate discussion.

Chapter Six

Jason is examining a shelf of my mother's cookbooks when I enter the kitchen. Poor kid. He has no idea that martinis are not food.

“Let me help. I think the vodka's in the freezer.”

“I know what a martini is. I just need to know the proportions. ” He picks out a slim red book of drink recipes circa 1955 and begins flipping through it. “What was that about FDR?”

The huge bottle of vodka's lying on top of the frozen vegetables and ice-cream sandwiches like the bully of a frozen underworld. I pull it out, one ear cocked toward the patio for the inevitable cry of disbelief when Hugh tells them the truth.

“It means to make them dirty. FDR liked his martinis dirty.”

"Dirty?”

"Lots of olive brine.”

“Oh.” He goes back to studying the book as if he's cramming for a chemistry exam.

“I'm sorry my parents do this to you. I mean, you shouldn't have to ... 'cause of your”—oh, God—“beliefs and all.”

“That's what you get, being a Christian,” he quips, flattening out the pages. “First, we're thrown to the lions, and then we're forced to mix martinis for Episcopalians.”

My mother would argue that as Episcopalians we are Christians, too, but I'm not in the mood for religious debate. Instead, I search the refrigerator for olives while Jason tries to find the vermouth.

“So, you and Hugh are going to buck the trend and get married, ” he says, pouring vodka into a measuring cup.

I pull out a tray of ice. My parents' automated ice maker broke one week after they bought the new refrigerator and they never bothered to fix it. “Yup.”

“Excited?”

“Kind of.”

“You, um, don't seem thrilled.” He pauses. “Is it Hugh?”

Crack!
The ice cubes pop out of their plastic tray. "You might say that.”

“Because he's not here?”

“More like because he doesn't know.”

“Doesn't know you're here?”

“Doesn't know we're engaged.” I cannot believe I just said that. “Hugh never asked me to marry him. I made it up.”

There is silence. My back is to Jason and I don't dare turn around, though I hear him pour in something else and then the clank of a spoon against glass. All I can think is
Don't stir, you idiot!

The stirring stops and Jason asks, “You're kidding me, right?” “Nope.” Grasping a handful of ice, I dump it into the glass pitcher. “You're not supposed to stir the martini. It bruises the vodka.”

“You can't bruise vodka. It's diluted ethyl alcohol. I don't know how you people can drink it.” He removes the spoon and carefully lays it on a dishcloth.Then he reaches out, takes my hand, and says, “Why?”

“Because it loosens all your joints and makes you feel relaxed.”

A minute passes while he processes this. “I'm not asking why you drink. I'm asking why you're lying about getting married to Hugh.”

The only reply I can think of is,“It's a long, complicated story. The bottom line is that Hugh apparently has been having an affair and she's the woman he proposed to on television, not me.”

“Ahh.”

“You've got to take out that ice or it'll be watery. My father hates that.”

Jason holds up the spoon. “With this?”

“I dunno.”

“It'll get stirred.”

“That's a risk I'm willing to take.”

I watch as Jason carefully lifts out each ice cube and am reminded of
The Gods Must Be Crazy,
when the bushman studies the Coke bottle.What an odd ritual this must be to him, the act of preparing and ingesting poison.

“Do you think I'm going to hell?”

Jason gives me a look. “Why do you ask me questions like that?”

“Because you're an authority on what's in and what's out as far as hell is concerned.”

Lifting out the last ice cube, he chucks it into the sink and says, “You ever want to sit down and talk about God's eternal plans for each of us, I'm here for you, Genie, but right now I think you've got other stuff to worry about.”

“Like the fact that my parents are talking to Hugh's parents, who have no idea that their son is fake engaged to me?”