Nope, not buying it, says Inner Tracey, who really needs to get a life—other than mine, I mean.
All right, so maybe I do want to hear Buckley tell me I look good, the way he always does when I take extra care with my appearance. He’s a good friend. He notices things like that.
So does Jack, of course. He’s supposed to; he’s my fiancé.
It’s just kind of nice to be appreciated by a man who isn’t Jack, even if I am almost a married woman and my secret crush on Buckley is ancient history.
I feel pretty. So sue me, Inner Tracey.
“Listen,” I tell Jack, “I don’t care what you wear, just put something on quick because we have to get moving.”
He decides to switch to every male’s when-in-doubt uniform: khakis, a blue chambray button-down, loafers.
“All set?” I ask, checking my teeth for lipstick one last time. I must say, I haven’t looked this good in ages. My complexion has cleared up thanks to this great ointment Kate gave me, my cheekbones haven’t been this pronounced in—well, ever. I’m at my lowest weight since middle school, and I feel great.
Hopefully I can keep the pounds off long enough for all the pictures we’re going to want to take on our honeymoon. You can hardly go around in a hip-camouflaging blazer in Tahiti.
We head down to the street, where Jimmy the doorman whistles at me as we scurry past him. “Looking hot tonight, Mrs. C.”
He’s been calling me that ever since we got engaged. Being referred to as Mrs. gave me butterflies the first few times he did it, but now it makes me feel kind of…like someone else.
Nobody specific.
Just—not me.
On the avenue, Jack scans the oncoming, downtown-bound traffic stopped at the light. “Let’s get a cab.”
“Subway’s cheaper.” We’re trying to save every possible penny for our wedding.
“Cab’s faster.” Jack checks his watch. “We’re supposed to be there in seven minutes. We’d have to change trains three times to get there.”
“You’re right.” What’s an extra ten bucks in the grand scheme of wedding things?
Well, I’ll tell you what it is. It’s three and a third French onion soup appetizers.
We’ve been going over the catering menu for our reception, and found that we’ve had to make a few compromises.
Instead of offering filet as the red meat choice, we’re doing a lesser cut.
And we’re serving the wedding cake as, rather than in addition to, dessert.
But Jack still has his heart set on a French onion soup appetizer, and I think we can make it happen if we cut some corners.
Just as I still have my heart set on an exotic South Seas honeymoon, and I think we can make that happen, too.
The airfare is taken care of, thanks to our vouchers, though we haven’t booked anything yet. We can’t until we find a way to swing that hut-on-stilts, which is considerably more pricey than three hundred French onion soups.
But I’m hoping Jack will come around to my way of thinking.
After all, he owes me one: I agreed to the soup.
Of course, it helped when Jack pointed out that cooked-onion breath isn’t nearly as pronounced as raw-onion breath. And I’m brilliantly combating potential reek with our wedding favors: each guest will get a little tin that’s imprinted Thanks a Mint, Jack and Tracey, and filled with killer-strong wintergreen drops.
Clever, I know.
Kate helped me come up with that idea.
Well, actually, what she said was that she makes Billy pop a Wint-O-Green Lifesaver every day because his morning breath still makes her nauseous, and I ran with it from there.
Now, as we careen along the streets in the cab, zigging south and zagging west, I try to figure out how to bring up the possibility of having Buckley in the wedding party.
But every time I’m about to mention it to Jack, either I chicken out, or the cabbie swerves around the corner and I get violently slammed against the door, which tends to break my concentration.
I guess it can wait.
We can’t get across Fifth Avenue in the Twenties or Teens because there’s some kind of protest march going on, so we have to go farther south, skirt Washington Square Park and come back up through the maze of pedestrian-and-traffic-clogged streets of the West Village. What a pain.
You know, I really am starting to get sick of living in Manhattan. But I promised Jack I won’t bring that up anymore—not until November, at least. He said we have enough to think about just trying to pull off this wedding, and he’s right.
The thing is, of the two of us, I get the impression I’m the only one who’s giving that much thought anyway.
The cabbie makes Eighth Avenue his own personal speedway and we get to the restaurant a mere twenty minutes after our reservation.
As we climb out of the cab, I can see Buckley and Sonja waiting out front. Their arms are folded and they look extremely pissed off, which I assume is because we’re late. But then they see us and immediately brighten, and I realize maybe they must have been pissed at something else.
Like each other.
I find myself wondering how things are going with them. Buckley hasn’t said…but then, I haven’t spent much time with him in the past few months.
He gives me a quick hug and an appreciative once-over. “Hey, you look great tonight.”
What’d I tell you?
“Thanks.” I try hard not to beam, conscious of Jack’s and Sonja’s presence. Not that either of them is paying the slightest bit of attention. Sonja is hugging Jack and telling him how happy she is that we’re engaged.
When she lets go, Buckley shakes Jack’s hand and offers a hearty, “Congratulations, bro!”
Bro? Since when does Buckley call anyone bro?
He’s trying really hard to be dudelike and jovial, I decide. And it’s not working.
Sonja excitedly grabs my hand. “Let me see your ring, Tracey! Ooh! I love it! Buckley, did you see her ring?”
“I saw it.” Yup, his smile seems a little tight. “Good job, Jack.”
At least he didn’t attempt bro again, because that’s so not him.
Inside, the hostess informs us they gave our table away—no surprise there, it’s a Friday night and the place is hopping. But at least she’s apologetic about it, so we decide to stay even though we have to wait in the bar until they can seat us.
Jack and Buckley decide to order Spanish beers, and I’m pretty much set on a glass of white wine cut with seltzer until Sonja tries to talk me into a mojito.
“You’ll love it, Tracey. It’s so refreshing.”
“Wine spritzers are also so refreshing.”
“Come on, just have a mojito with me. You like rum, right?”
But it probably isn’t a good idea to have it on an empty stomach, and I haven’t eaten since the half a bagel I scarfed down at a breakfast meeting.
Sonja, however, can be very persuasive.
Exhibit A: the rock on her own fourth finger. Exhibit B: her bumped-up July wedding, which is bearing down on us like a black funnel cloud.
Okay, I should probably pick a more upbeat analogy.
I just can’t think of one. “Bearing down” just happens to have an ominous connotation, and Buckley’s the one who phrases it that way, not me.
Jack says, as we wait for our drinks, “So you guys have moved up the date to this summer, huh? That’s exciting. It’s right around the corner.”
And Buckley says, “Yup, it’s bearing down pretty fast.”
I can’t help but picture him running frantically for his life, tossing wild-eyed glances over his shoulder as a wedding gown-clad Sonja chases after him, cackling.
We sip our drinks, and she’s full of excited chatter about their wedding, which will be held in some quaint old inn outside Boston. In fact, they’re mailing out the invitations Monday morning.
“We had to pull the wedding together so quickly that it’s going to be a lot smaller than we originally tho
ught. I felt so awful when Raphael said something the other day to Buckley about it because unfortunately, he and Donatello aren’t on the guest list.”
For a moment I think maybe that’s a big hint that Jack and I aren’t invited, either.
But then she says, “You guys will love this inn. It’s so romantic. You should think about going back up there for your honeymoon. The foliage will be gorgeous around then.”
“We’re actually going to Tahiti for our honeymoon,” I can’t resist saying as I sip my mojito, which is truly so very refreshing. And piercingly strong.
“Tahiti? You are?” Sonja is sounding a little envious.
“We are?” Jack is sounding a lot sarcastic.
Buckley has nothing to say about our honeymoon plans, just sucks down the rest of his beer and announces, “I’ll get another round.”
He’s gone before any of us can point out that we’ve barely made a dent in our own beverages.
We talk about Tahiti—rather, I talk about it, and Jack sits there mostly shaking his head. Then when I halt my travelogue to pick a mint sprig out of my teeth, he asks Sonja if Buckley is okay because he doesn’t seem like himself tonight.
“He’s a little stressed,” she says somewhat apologetically.
“Cold feet?” I ask.
“Why? Did he say something to you about that?”
“No. I’m just…I mean, a lot of guys get cold feet. I just assumed…”
I trail off as Buckley reappears. He sets another refreshing mojito in front of me and there’s nothing to do but suck down the remainder of the one in my hand.
Well, technically, there might be other things to do, but this is definitely my best option at the moment. Sonja’s, too, I notice, watching her guzzle her first drink and slam down her empty glass like a brauhaus regular.
“Hey, go easy. Those are strong,” Buckley warns her.
“You’re the one who got me another one,” she snarls.
Yup, I’d say there’s definitely some tension brewing between bridal couple #1.
As the conversation meanders along, I notice that whenever Sonja brings up the subject of their looming nuptials, Buckley changes it.
After a while, I can’t help but feel kind of sorry for her. I mean, she’s trying so hard to be excited about their wedding, and he seems anything but.
Then again, she did manipulate him into it. He’d have been content to wait a little longer, unlike Jack, who really wants to get married this year…and who went to all that trouble and expense to book Shorewood for me.
I’m so very lucky, I think as we sit down at last in a cozy booth for four. And so very wasted.
I’m not as familiar with tapas as the others are, but I say yes to everything they suggest ordering. A pitcher of white sangria? Hell, yes. Alongside another pitcher of mojitos? You bet. Chorizo-and-goat-cheese-stuffed figs? Why not? Beef snout with tripe? No problem. Ximxim? Bring it on—whatever it is.
I’m telling you, all that rum on an empty stomach has me loving everything and everyone, even snout. Even Sonja.
We’re in one of those booths where the curved bench goes around three sides of the table and the fourth side is open. Buckley and Jack are seated on the outside edges facing each other across the table; Sonja and I are on the inside facing out, doing all the talking, mostly to each other.
As we work our way through the many platters and, I think, many pitchers, we compare notes on wedding dresses, flowers, menus, cakes, honeymoons.
“Are you really going to Tahiti?” she asks wistfully.
“Definitely.” I ignore Jack’s eye-roll. “What about you guys?”
“I want to go to Beirut—”
“Wow,” I say. “Beirut.” And I don’t mean that in a good way.
“—but Buckley just wants to do a few days in Kennebunkport.”
“Kennebunkport, huh?” I glance in Buckley’s direction for the first time in a while.
“It’s pretty scenic up there.” He sips his Dos Equis.
“I’m sure it is.”
“And the Maine coast has gorgeous beaches.”
“Well, Lebanon has gorgeous beaches, too,” Sonja says defensively. She knows this because, “My boss’s aunt Gwelda went last year.”
“Your boss’s aunt Gwelda went to Afghanistan and said that was beautiful, too. I’m thinking your boss’s aunt Gwelda has a death wish.”
“Buckley!” Sonja looks pissed, and I hide my snicker behind my sixth or seventh refreshing cocktail.
I must say, I enjoy these mojitos.
I must also say, Buckley looks pretty miserable, and not just because it looks like he’ll be spending the better part of July in Beirut.
“Come on, Sonja, who goes to Afghanistan on vacation?”
“It was a while ago,” Sonja snaps. “And I’m sure it was beautiful, back before it was so…”
“Desolate? Unpaved? Dangerous? War torn?” Jack supplies helpfully. “Take your pick.”
“All of those!” She flashes him a big loopy smile. “Anyway…what was I saying?”
Beats the hell out of me. I’m just sitting here munching on an inebriated apple slice I plucked from the dregs of the sangria pitcher.
“You were talking about Beirut,” Jack prompts. “Afghansitan. Kennebunkport. Aunt Gwelda.”
“Oh! Right! I just want a honeymoon we’ll remember for the rest of our lives. A real adventure. But Buckley never wants to go anywhere exciting,” Sonja complains as I swig my sangria.
“Don’t worry,” I say, suddenly feeling like I’ve discovered my long-lost soul sister. “Jack doesn’t, either.”
“Sure I do,” my fiancé says amiably.
“Where? Name one exciting place you want to go.”
“Home to bed,” he says, stretching and yawning.
“That’s not exciting.”
“Not lately.” He raises a suggestive eyebrow at me. “But you have the power to change all that.”
As I grin flirtatiously at him, I notice he’s a tad blurry.
“You guys can’t go home yet,” Sonja informs us, and darned if she isn’t slurring. Or maybe that’s just me.
Wait! I’m not talking!
It’s her: “Le’ss have dessert and after-dinner drinkssss.”
“If I drink any more I’m going to be trashed, like you,” I protest.
“Who caresss? Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“You’re right! Who caresss?”
We newfound soul sistahs order dessert wine and flan, then traipse off to the ladies’ room, where we both pee and I ask Sonja to be one of my bridesmaids.
Yes, that’s right.
Don’t ask me why or how it happens.
Just know that it does, right around the time that we both come out of separate stalls to wash our hands.
For a second, I’m sure I imagined I said it in the first place. I mean, I wasn’t even thinking about it. I was mainly wondering whether the flan will come in caramel sauce.
Maybe, I think hopefully, that’s the question I posed aloud.
“Yes!” Sonja squeals, hugging me, hard. “Definitely!”
Okay, are you thinking she loves caramel sauce as much as I do? Because that’s what I’m thinking.
“Oh, Tracey, that’s so sweet!”
Yes, yes, caramel is very sweet indeed.
She hugs me again, then cries out, “I can’t believe you want me to be in your wedding party!”
I can’t believe it, either!
“I wish I could have you in mine,” she goes on, accepting a paper towel from the smiling bathroom attendant, “but we’re only having Buckley’s brother and my sister. He just wants a best man and maid of honor. How many attendants are you and Jack having?”
Let’s see, so far, I’m having about twenty and he’s having none.
“We’re having quite a few,” is what I tell her as she leans into the mirror to apply more lipstick, “including you and Buckley.”
“Buckley’s in it, too?” She loo
ks positively giddy with joy all over again. “I didn’t know that!”
Coincidentally, Jack doesn’t, either!
“Don’t say anything to him—Jack hasn’t asked him yet,” I tell her. “But he’s definitely going to.”
“Maybe he’s asking him right now!”
“Maybe he is!”
And maybe I’m a drunken lunatic who should go home to bed before I ask the smiling bathroom attendant to be my flower girl.
Saturday afternoon, I manage to pull myself together to keep my date with Kate.
I use the term pull myself together very loosely, because I’ve looked and felt like dog-doo ever since I rolled out of bed at eleven forty-five, even after scarfing down a huge brunch at the diner with Jack.
Wearing a huge hoodie sweatshirt of Jack’s, sneakers and jeans that are falling off my newly shrunken hips, I meet Kate at her brick town house on a leafy block of Thirty-eighth off Park, not far from the bridal boutique.
“Good gracious, sweetheart, what happened to you?” she drawls, giving me a once-over as she answers the door.
Under ordinary circumstances, I feel vaguely dowdy and unkempt in Kate’s company. Today, I’m definitely the ugly stepsister to her Cinderella-with-child; she’s fully made up and wearing one of her darling maternity ensembles: silk blouse, cardigan and pants, all in sherbet colors that complement each other and her fair coloring.
“Mojitos and sangria—that’s what happened to me. Do you have any ginger ale?”
“Hay-ell, yes. Come on in, as long as you think we have time.”
“If I don’t sit down and sip some ginger ale right now, I’m going to vomit.”
“Join the club.”
She leads the way through her elegant grown-up house, which is filled with real furniture. Whenever I return to our apartment after visiting Kate and Billy, I realize that Ikea and pressed wood lack a certain je ne sais quoi, and feel like Jack and I are merely playing house.
Kate is going with me for another dress fitting, and we’re going to order the navy velvet bridesmaids’ gowns.
I’m armed with nine checks from the girls for a hundred dollars each and a spreadsheet I compiled containing wedding-party info, including the bridesmaids’ sizes. I apparently got Sonja’s last night in my drunken stupor because this morning in my purse I found a cocktail napkin that’s scribbled: Sonja size 2. I also found a wad of five twenties Jack said she handed me as her deposit for the dress.