“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
“So 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 brig
ht 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.
Look, I’m no beach bunny and I’m not wearing a bikini, by any means. But I have to say it’s good to put on a bathing suit and not be tempted, for a change, to pull one of Jack’s old T-shirts on over it.
“So…why is today different?” I ask Buckley.
“Because…there’s no one else around right now. That’s why.”
“You can’t discuss this with anyone else around?”
“Nope.”
Hmm.
I probably should treat this topic like a sun-baked leather seat under a bare butt, and get off of it, pronto!
But you may have noticed I’m not the most prudent gal in town.
“Okay,” I tell Buckley, after another swallow of icy lime-tangy Corona, “Why didn’t you come to our engagement party?”
“You really want to know.”
“Yes, Buckley, I really want to know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
I let out an exasperated sputter. “Yes! I do! Tell me!”
“Okay. Here goes…”
Suddenly, a banner-toting plane buzzes overhead, and we both glance up at it, shielding our eyes.
I see that the sky is darker blue now, tinted with telltale pinkish-orange. It’s getting late.
I also see that the plane’s banner reads: BRING ABATE TO YOUR NEXT BAR-B-Q!!!
The copywriters at Blaire Barnett came up with countless clever slogans for the Abate/Barbecue campaign, but that’s the one the Client chose. What a waste of creative talent.
I’ve been rethinking my plan to become an ad agency copywriter lately. I don’t know if I want to deal with arrogant Clients and their ridiculous demands for the rest of my career.
I have no idea what I want to do instead—but I’m pretty sure agency account management isn’t it. It’s great for now, but after the wedding, when things settle down again and it’s time to think about moving out of our apartment, I really have to give my career path some serious thought, too.
I turn to tell this to Buckley, then remember that we’re on the verge of a big breakthrough revelation here. My professional soul-searching can wait.
“Go on,” I prod, wiggling my bare toes in the sand, “I’m listening.”
“Tracey, I swear to God…I love you.”
“I love you, too,” I say in return. “Even if you didn’t show up for me on one of the most important nights of my life. So just tell me why—”
“No, that is why,” he cuts in. “I just told you.”
“What?”
Why am I not comprehending him? Is it heatstroke? The beer? Bride brain?
I wish I could see his eyes and get a clue.
“I love you,” he says again. “That’s why I didn’t come to the party. Because I didn’t want to watch you celebrating with Jack. I was out-of-my-mind jealous. Because I love you. I’ve loved you for a few years now. I could never do anything about it because we were both with other people. Okay?”
Whoa.
Now I’m glad I can’t see his eyes, and I’m sure as hell glad he can’t see mine.
Speechless, I just gape at him.
“I told you you didn’t want to know,” he says with a shrug, and sips his beer, turning to look out over the water.
I follow his gaze, wishing Jack and the others would come splashing back in to disrupt this insane conversation, but they’re way out there, tiny dots in the waves.
“I don’t know what to say,” I tell Buckley at last.
“Yeah, I knew you wouldn’t. I probably shouldn’t have told you, but…my sister said I should be honest with you. Just in case…you feel the same way.”
“What?” I’m floundering, so far over my head that I might as well be out there in the surf.
Buckley takes a deep breath and looks at me again. This time, for real: he props his sunglasses over his forehead.
What I see in his green eyes takes my breath away.
“Tracey, I’ve never known anyone like you. You’re clever and big-hearted and gentle and crazy and magnetic. Sometimes when we’re together, just hanging out talking and joking around, you have no idea that I’m thinking about grabbing you and kissing you. And that I wish I could just grab your hand and run away with you.”
The first wave—that heartfelt I love you—knocked me off my feet and now they just keep on washing over me, pulling me in way over my head.
“Buckley,” I say hoarsely, “no. You can’t…”
“I know.” He nods. “I can’t. But I do.”
I turn to look at Jack. He’s a speck on the horizon at the moment.
He has no idea that my friend—that our friend—Buckley is in love with me.
But I knew.
That’s what I realize.
Maybe I wouldn’t have used the word love. But deep down, I did know all along that Buckley had unresolved feelings for me.
Just as deep down, I have unresolved feelings for him.
Which we both need to resolve, right here. Right now. Because…
“I’m getting married,” I say firmly, “in less than two months, and—”
“No, I know. Enough said.” His sunglasses are back on. He resolutely lifts his beer bottle to his lips.
“No, not enough said. I mean, you haven’t said anything at all, except that…”
“I love you. Yeah—” his laugh is as bitter as the hunk of lime in my Corona “—I think that’s way more than enough.”
“But…what did you expect me to say to that?”
“Nothing.” He reaches for the cooler on the sand between us. “I didn’t expect you to say anything. I just needed to say it.” His empty bottle lands in the cooler with a clanking sound, and he retrieves another bottle.
I watch him looking around for the opener.
“Here,” I say, handing him Jack’s shoe, discarded earlier in the sand by my chair.
“Huh?”
“It has a bottle opener built into the sole.”
Buckley ju
st looks at it.
“Go ahead.”
“I don’t know. Is it bad form to open your beer with a guy’s shoe when you’ve just told his girlfriend you’re in love with her?” he asks then, and his mouth quirks with a wry smile.
Instantly, the mood is lightened. Thank God.
I laugh a little.
So does he.
“No,” I say. “I don’t think it’s bad form. Open your beer, Buckley. And open one for me while you’re at it.”
He does.
“Fiancée,” I say, trading my nearly empty bottle for the icy one he hands me.
“What?”
“I’m Jack’s fiancée. You said girlfriend.”
Silence.
“You know I’m going to marry Jack, Buckley, don’t you?”
He nods. “That’s what I told my sister.”
“You talked to your sister about me?”
“Yeah. You came up a lot, actually, while I was out in L.A.”
“Because…”
“Because she wanted to know why I wasn’t getting married, and I told her.”
“What?”
“You’re not the only reason I broke up with Sonja, Trace,” he says quickly. “Just part of it.”
“Does she know?” I ask, trying to take this all in. “Sonja?”
He hesitates.
“Yeah,” he says reluctantly. “She knows. I probably shouldn’t have told her, but I did.”
“That would explain why she never acknowledged the engagement party invitation. And she cashed the check I sent back to her for the bridesmaid dress last month, so I know she’s still alive.”
“I’m really sorry you went through all that with her,” Buckley says apologetically.
We sip our beer in silence, listening to the waves and the gulls and the Edge’s wailing guitar riff.
I think about how, just a few months ago, he was planning to marry Sonja and she and I were making plans to be a suburban foursome someday.
Maybe Buckley was thinking the same thing…only we’d be a suburban swinging foursome?
Nah.
He’s as much a one-woman man as I am a one-man woman….
Which I am, aren’t I?
Of course I am.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t have sent Buckley packing way back when I realized I cared so much about Jack.