Whose Wedding Is It Anyway? (18 page)

W
hen I woke up the next morning, Emmett was fast asleep on the sofa. On his chest lay his wallet, open to a photo of Charla.

I wondered if Theo Manfred did that, looked at photos of my mother, of us. If he
had
any photographs of us. Then again, if you looked at photographs, you might as well be there with the people.

I glanced at Emmett, at the picture rising and falling with his every deep, sleeping breath. I wanted to stick around and be there when he woke up, but I had a feeling Emmett needed some alone time on safe ground, and I had to be at Fly With Us Travel in midtown at 9:00 a.m. sharp to meet the
Wow
crowd to “pick” a honeymoon destination.

Honeymoon. Wherever it was Noah and I were going on our honeymoon, I would be married when I arrived. I would be Eloise Benjamin—figuratively, if not literally.

As the Second Avenue bus bumped its way downtown, I stared at my ring and forced myself not to twist it.

I wondered where Noah and I would be going for the honeymoon. Jupiter? That would be modern. Or perhaps hell. That would be truly nouvelle!

When I arrived at Fly With Us Travel, the owner was handing out brochures to the
Wow
ers. Astrid, Mini-Astrid, Devlin, his assistant and Philippa were seated around a long oval conference table.

“We’d like to push two of our least-popular honeymoon packages,” the tall, gaunt man said. “We and the two resorts are splitting the cost of the packages to ensure that both of our names are given equal treatment in the magazine feature.”

Astrid nodded. “Of course.”

“Given the country’s patriotic spirit of late,” the man said, “we’d like to highlight the good old U.S. of A.’s very special honeymoon locales.”

What? I wasn’t going to Tahiti? Venice? Iceland?

Ah. I was going to Hawaii! No problem. Noah and I, some white sand, the bluest of blue water—

The owner waved two brochures in the air. “So, without further ado, we are pleased to be offering the Orlando, Florida, four-star hotel package and the Chicago, Illinois, Culinary Bed-and-Breakfast package.”

Huh? Were those honeymoon destinations? Which was the modern one and which was the classic one?

Astrid read my mind. “As our Classic Bride, Philippa will be going to the sunshine state of Florida. Eloise, our Modern Bride will be going to the famed windy city of Chicago.”

I’m going to Chicago in the dead of winter on my honeymoon? Was that modern because no one in their right mind would do it?

I glanced at Philippa. She was staring into space. I waited for her to protest Florida, but she was barely blinking.

No:
But where’s the
this
stack?

No:
I want to go to Chicago in the dead of winter!

No:
Can I call Parker for his thoughts?

Instead, she looked as if she was about to cry.

“And guess what, Classic Bride?” the owner said, staring from me to Philippa until Mini-Astrid pointed at Philippa. “Two tickets to Walt Disney World are included free!”

No reaction. Not a peep. Not even the tiniest of snickers.

Ground control to Philippa. Come in, Philippa. Didn’t you hear, you get to go to Walt Disney World and see Mickey Mouse and spend your honeymoon with thousands of children!

“I’m delighted,” Astrid said. “We really need to go back to basics. And what is more basic than good old-fashioned Florida sunshine and Mickey Mouse!”

Ground control to Philippa Wills.

Nothing again.

If Astrid’s nonsensical comments couldn’t rouse even a grimace out of Philippa, something was really wrong.

“I love it,” Astrid said. “I absolutely love it. Not only does the Classic Bride go back to basics, back to tradition, but the Modern Bride learns how to cook on her honeymoon. How positively post retro!”

Did that actually mean something?

“Classic Bride, you may choose from the Orlando four-star Hilton or the Orlando four-star Marriott,” the owner said, handing her two brochures.

She didn’t take them.

“Philippa, are you all right?” I asked.

“I’m not going to Florida,” Philippa said quietly.

Ah. There was the Philippa I knew and had started to love.

Astrid glared at her. “Philippa, as the Classic Bride, you must accept the traditional honeymoon package. You may choose between—”

“I’m not going to Florida,” Philippa repeated, her face, her voice expressionless. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “Philippa, I’ve had just about enough—”

Philippa threw the brochures high in the air. One landed on Astrid’s wrap. “I’m not going on my honeymoon because I’m dropping out of the magazine feature. You can find a new Classic Bride.”

“Philippa, enough with the theatrics,” Astrid scolded. “No one has time for this.”

“I’m serious,” Philippa yelped. “I’m dropping out. It’s not worth the hassle. I want the wedding
I
want.”

A vein moved in Astrid’s temple. “Let me make myself absolutely clear, Philippa. Unless the
wedding
is off, the feature is
on.
Perhaps I need to remind you of the binding contract you signed—page six, paragraph one.”

“The wedding
is
off,” Philippa cried, and ran out the door.

I looked everywhere for Philippa. Two different Starbucks, a diner, the cosmetics counter at Bloomingdale’s. I didn’t have her cell-phone number, and got her machine twice at home.

Finally, I went to her apartment building. She lived in a fifth-floor walk-up seven blocks north of me, on the fifth floor, of course. When I buzzed her apartment, I didn’t expect an answer, but I heard the shaky hello come through the intercom.

“Philippa, it’s Eloise.”

Buzzzzz.

I pushed through the heavy double doors and hiked up the stairs. Philippa was waiting on the top step, her blond hair in a ponytail, her blue eyes red-rimmed again. She’d changed into a T-shirt and jeans, two items of clothing I had never seen her wear.

“I was planning to move in with Parker once we got married, but now I guess I’ll be living here forever.” She broke down in sobs, and I took her hand and led her inside, to the futon that dominated the studio.

“The wedding is off?” I asked, reaching for the box of tissues on her nightstand and handing it to her.

She nodded.

“What happened?”

She sniffled and blew her nose. “I told Parker there was something I had to tell him before we got married and that was that.”

“He called off the wedding because you changed your name?” I asked.

“Not just that,” she said.

I waited.

“I also admitted that I’m really Queens, not Manhattan. That my father is a plumber, not an investment banker. That my mother is a cashier at a diner, not a fund-raiser.”

Ah.

“He said I’m a phony and a fake and the wedding’s off,” she said, breaking down again in sobs. “Philippa, I’ll bet that Parker just feels as blown away by the information as I do. You just need to explain why you felt you had to change your name and some details of your background. The important thing for him to know is how hard you’ve worked to lead yourself to him.”

She stopped crying. “That’s exactly what I did, isn’t it? Parker is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“Go tell him,” I said.

She brightened. “Will you hang out for a little while until I make myself look decent?” she asked.

I nodded. “You bet.”

She hugged me. “I’m really glad you’re my maid of honor, Eloise. Although, at my wedding, you’ll be my
matron
of honor. You’ll be a married woman by then.”

“Philippa, do you ever get cold feet?” I asked her. “Or are you one hundred percent sure that Parker Gersh is the man for you?”

“Oh, I know he’s the one,” she said, applying her trademark pink lipstick.

“How?” I asked. “How are you so sure?”

“Because he feels like home.”

“You’re the third person who’s said that in response to the question,” I told her.

So why was I the only one who didn’t understand what that meant? What did home feel like?

Incomplete. Like something is missing.

That was what my apartment felt like to me when Noah wasn’t there, which was usually.

So if A plus B equaled C, then Noah felt like home.

Which, in my neighborhood, wasn’t a good thing.

“Look at what Acid just dropped in my in-box,” Philippa said the next day at work, waving a memo over the top rim of my cubicle. She let it flutter down; it landed on my keyboard.

Wow Weddings Memorandum

To: Philippa Wills
From: Astrid O’Connor
Re:
Wow Weddings
’s Today’s Bride Feature: Classic Bride
Dear Philippa:

Please advise as to your premarital status. Yesterday you verbalized that you and your fiancé are no longer planning to marry. As such,
Wow Weddings
will need to find a new Classic Bride and reshoot at considerable expense. We will need to know, no later than start of the workday on Monday, if we must cancel your contract.—AO

Philippa spit on the memo and crumpled it into a ball and three-point shot it into my wastepaper basket. “Poor Philippa,” she singsonged. “I, Queen Bee Acid O’Connor, am oh-so-sorry that you and Parker are having problems and that the wedding has been called off! Why don’t you take the morning off and go talk to your fiancé? Don’t you even give this silly feature a thought. After all, what’s more important—the rest of your life or a magazine that no one reads anyway?”

I laughed. “The magazine, of course!”

She smiled, then her face began crumpling and she dropped into my guest chair. “It’s been two days, and he still won’t take my calls or return them. I’ve gone to his apartment and to the
Hot News
office. He won’t see me.”

Brainstorm!

“Philippa, I have an idea. Have you written your
Why I Said Yes!
column yet?”

She shook her head.

“Write it,” I told her. “Now. Fast. And then messenger it over to
Hot News.
”

“But he knows why I said yes. Because I love him. Because I want to spend the rest of my life with him.”

“But tell him
why,
Philippa. Tell him exactly why. Parker’s a journalist. He’ll respond to the written word.”

“You think?” she asked, her entire expression brightening.

“I think. And hurry up. If it doesn’t work, we’ll need a new tactic. If you don’t tell Acid the wedding’s on by Monday, you’re out of the feature.”

“You know what? I really don’t care about the stupid feature anymore,” she said. “What am I getting? A wedding I don’t want.”

“A
free
wedding you don’t want,” I reminded her.

She shook her head. “I just want Parker.” She bit her lip. “I guess it would be nice to have a big wedding with all the trimmings, even if it’s not exactly the wedding I’d plan for myself. I don’t want to go to City Hall. I’ve always dreamed of the whole thing—the gown, the flowers, the tables for ten.”

I smiled. “Then you’d better get busy writing this all down for your
Why I Said Yes!
column.”

She flew away from my cubicle and into her own. Moments later, I heard the fast clicking of her keyboard.

An hour later, I heard the fast clicking of Astrid O’Connor’s and Mini-Astrid’s heels in the hallway.

“Philippa!” Astrid barked. “What is this?”

I peered through the doorway of the cubicle. Astrid was standing in front of Philippa’s cubicle, waving a few pieces of paper.

“What’s what, Astrid?” Philippa asked, blue eyes innocent.

“Why don’t I read this aloud,” Astrid threatened, “and we’ll see if you really want our tens of thousands of readers to know this…
information.
”

Philippa crossed her arms over her chest. “Go right ahead,” she said.

“‘
Why I Said Yes!
by Philippa Wills,’” Astrid began slowly in a singsong voice.

“So far, so good,” Philippa said.

Astrid glared at her, then at the paper in her hand. “‘I said yes to Parker Gersh because when I’m with him, I’m the most me,’” she read.

“Is that what you have a problem with?” Philippa asked her.

All eyes swung to Astrid.

“If I may continue without interruption,” Astrid snapped. She cleared her throat. “‘Let me start at the beginning,’” she read. “‘I was born in Flushing, Queens—’” she raised her voice “‘—to Brenda and Harold
Wilschitz.
They named me Phyllis.’” She raised her voice again.
“Phyllis Wilschitz.”
She glanced at Philippa. “Shall I continue?” Astrid asked, triumph in her voice.

“Oh, please do,” Philippa responded.

“I think I’ve read quite enough,” Astrid said. “My dear girl, I am all for self-improvement. If my parents had named me Agnes O’Dickwad, I would have changed it to Astrid O’Connor in a heartbeat.”

Mini-Astrid burst out laughing, then clamped a hand over her mouth.

“However,” Astrid continued, “your column, as is, does not reflect the mind-set of the Classic Bride.”

“The Classic Bride wouldn’t have changed the name her parents gave her?” I asked.

Astrid smiled at me. “Exactly.”

I affected Philippa’s innocent expression. “But doesn’t tradition dictate that Today’s Classic Bride
change
her name to her husband’s?”

Astrid glared at me. A cool glare. An
I have never liked you or your stupid haircut
glare. Then she turned her attention to Philippa. “As
Wow Weddings
’s Classic Bride, Philippa—or Phyllis, rather—you must write your column from the perspective of a traditional woman. Our advertisers are looking to you to be their voice, their model for all their products.”