I walk into the living room and see plants and flowers by the big window. She was pretty specific about watering just the magnolias. But are they the white ones, the green ones, the yellow ones, or the pink ones? I guess I’ll just water every flower. Flowers love water, right?
I find her watering pot, fill it, and then proceed to unload its contents over the plants.
My cell phone rings a moment later. It’s Wendi, the wedding planner. She called me practically daily in the month leading up the nuptials. What could she possibly want now?
A minute later, I play her voicemail, and feel that familiar knot of responsibility begin to coil itself all up in my stomach again. This knot was supposed to be all untangled after their knot was tied!
Lucy. It’s me, hon. Wendi. Well, the wedding is done and Marian’s off on her cruise through the Greek isles! Don’t we all wish we could cruise off after everything we did for the big day? So now it’s time for Thank You notes! To help our bride along, I am going to forward you the list of those who attended so you can fill out the envelopes with all of their addresses. And begin to detail for Marian who gave her what. The gifts are in Marian’s foyer. So, you’ll just have to rummage through them to get started. It should take a few hours max and our Marian will be so appreciative. She shouldn’t have to worry about ANYTHING. After all, she is the bride. I know it’s a bummer to do this over Christmas, but it would be best if she came back from her honeymoon without a worry in the world. I promised her this would get done. Thanks, hon. You’re the best!
Okay, what exactly do wedding planners do? Is their number one responsibility to drive the Maid of Honor nuts?
I jump when Marian’s house phone rings, and begin to refill the water pot. They have a lot of plants. Tom and Marian’s answering machine picks up. “Hi! If you call before December seventeenth, you’ve reached Tom Bolton and Marian Gray. If you’re calling after, you’re calling Tom and Marian Bolton! Leave a message!” Marian’s voice squeaks excitedly, followed by a long beep.
I roll my eyes and smile, unloading the last of the water onto the white and pink plants.
“Hello, this message is for Marian Gray. Well, Bolton actually, it would seem. This is The Chaizer London calling to confirm your reservation for tomorrow night. We eagerly await your arrival and hope The Chaizer is to your liking for this special occasion!” a cheerful man says, sounding just like Michael Caine in Miss Congeniality.
I walk to the kitchen, putting the watering pot in their sink, humming to myself, wishing I had an exotic accent of some kind. It would be so cool to have a British accent. Or an Irish or Australian accent! There’s just absolutely nothing great about American accents. You don’t hear about Europeans wishing they could talk like an American….
My thoughts trail off, realization dawning. I slowly turn until I’m looking at the answering machine inside which that gorgeous accent just disappeared. I can’t have heard him right.
“London?” I say aloud to no one.
Tom and Marian are going on a cruise through the Greek islands. As soon as the question forms, however, I remember. London was Honeymoon Option #2 for the OCD bride that is my sister.
Marian called me feeling like she forgot something and assumed it was turning her stove off or leaving her door unlocked when in actuality she forgot to cancel her honeymoon? For someone with obsessive compulsive behavior, that’s a pretty laughable oversight.
I pick up the phone to call Tom and Marian. They probably haven’t taken off yet. As I begin dialing Marian’s cell phone number, I stop. They’re taking off for their honeymoon. Marian is clearly already getting nervous about forgetting things back home. I would just be adding fuel to that fire. And they really should kick off their honeymoon stress-free.
Okay, new plan. I look at the caller ID, and dial the number in London. I will fix my sister’s gaffe myself. I really am the best Maid of Honor because my job goes above and beyond just the wedding day. I’m more like a Maid of Honor for life.
“The Chaizer,” Michael Caine says on the other end. Two words out of his mouth and I can just sense years of private school and a love of high tea.
“Hi!” I say cheerily. “I’m calling about a reservation that was made and…for Marian and Tom Bolton…um…the reservation…it was made…I’m calling…um…”
I’ve turned into a bumbling idiot. But I can’t help it! As I get to the part where I cancel the reservation, I find myself thinking about her. The psychic from the wedding, I mean. I think about what she said about signs and how I’m supposed to give fate a hand so my life will begin and all that other mumbo jumbo.
I think about how Cady gave this entire, albeit painful, presentation about London only a few hours ago and about how my sister asked me to go to water her plants and check on her place because she’s totally paranoid…and about how while doing that I just happened to hear a message from someone in London because Marian happened to forget to cancel her reservation – something she’d never do in a million years. If this isn’t some kind of sign, then –
“Hello?” the man says, sounding a bit impatient now.
“I…I…”
I’m stammering, making no sense, and my thoughts are completely jumbled. If I could form a coherent sentence, I’m not sure if it would contain real words from the English language.
“Miss, are you alright?” the man asks.
My heart thumps rigorously inside my chest, feeling like it’s in my throat, and I wonder if this man on the phone can hear it, it’s so loud. “I am going to be there tomorrow night,” I say finally. I swallow hard. “At your hotel, I mean.”
“Okay, well, that’s what we had called to confirm. That you’ll be here.”
“I will,” I say quickly, my eyes darting back and forth around Marian’s place. What am I doing?
“Yes. Well, we look forward to accommodating you for this special occasion,” the man says.
When I hang up the phone and look around Marian’s living room - at her flowers spilling over with too much water, her television and her striped navy blue and cream drapes that match her couch - my heart rate quickens and I smile.
“I’m going to London,” I whisper to no one in particular. My stomach does flips deserving of an Olympic gold medal as a happiness laced with a little terror rushes through my body like a cold heat. I’m finally going somewhere.
ou’re going to go on your sister’s throwaway honeymoon?”
I swivel in my desk chair to face Mary. “Yes, and I just charged eight hundred and forty-two dollars on my credit card for a plane ticket so I’d love your unconditional support.”
I click “Print” and my itinerary begins to become an actual, tangible thing one line at a time. I know that printing a document is not the same as flying away from home on an airplane, but at this moment, it kind of feels like it. This is the first step.
Mary tosses the Entertainment Weekly she was reading on the bed in my room and fixes me with her sternest look, which is pretty weak. I mean, she’s the girl next door. Literally. She and I grew up right next door to one another and have been inseparable since we were in the third grade. “Generally when people go on honeymoons, they’re married,” she says. “Now, I myself am not married so I don’t speak from experience, but I heard through the grapevine that they bring that special someone that they married with them.”
“I won’t actually be on Marian’s honeymoon.” I pull my itinerary from the printer tray, feeling like my head and body are suddenly disconnected. “I’m just going to the hotel with her reservation.” Knowing Marian, she probably booked the most posh hotel in all of London.
“There are still a few days left of school.”
“I already called for a substitute.”
“What is your plan when you get there? Your name is not Marian Bolton. Or Marian Gray for that matter.”
“I have her credit card from being a glorified errand girl for the past four months,” I say brightly. “Not that I’d ever use it, b
ut maybe if they need some kind of piece of plastic with her name on it –“
“It’s not an ID.”
“I’ll explain. I’ll…” I trail off. That won’t work. Hotels require identification to check in. Nice ones anyway. I turn back to my computer and open Google.
London, England hostels.
Mary peeks over my shoulder. “Lucy, you’re not going there and staying in a hostel.”
I don’t look back at her as I search through the list of hostels by price and amenities. “Why not?” I ask. “You stayed in like ten hostels when you backpacked through Europe after high school.”
She laughs. “And I was eighteen years old. I didn’t have any savings or know any better.”
Now I look at her. “I want to go,” I say desperately. “Even if I have to stay in some crappy, cheap place.”
Mary places her hands on my shoulders and turns my chair around so that I’m facing her again.
“Why do you want to go right now? I mean…it’s Christmas. And you love Christmas and all of your family’s many, many traditions. Speaking of your family, they’re definitely going to freak out if you take off without any notice to another country. Why not go this summer or something?”
I stand up and walk over to my sock drawer. I open it and scour through until I find it. My passport. I run my fingers absentmindedly over the golden emblem emblazoned on its cover and squeeze it in my hand. “Did you know that I got this when you went to Europe?”
Mary sits forward and looks at me.
“I wanted to go on that trip with you girls so badly. And…I didn’t. I was nervous. The whole thing felt so spontaneous. So not me. So I didn’t get my passport. That was my excuse. But when I got your first postcard, I went and got this right away.”
I open the little book and see my own picture staring back at me. I look at the expiration date. “It’s like I made a promise to myself that I never kept. This thing expires in two years and I haven’t used it once! If I don’t go now, will I just keep pushing this off? Because something will come up. It always does.”
Mary nods, looks from the book to me, and finally, she smiles. “You should go, then.”
I smile at Mary, relieved. If she’s in my corner, then this must be a good idea.
My cell phone chirps. Charles, the oldest of us Gray siblings, is calling. “Shoot.” I look at Mary, clutching the phone tightly in my hand. “Charles and Samantha were having a family dinner tonight to celebrate his big victory on the Mullins case.”
I pull the cell to my ear. “Hey, Big Shot,” I say. I’ve been calling him that ever since he passed the bar exam.
“Hi, Lucy,” he says, sounding serious as always. “Are you coming tonight? Sam’s about to serve dinner. And Cora would like to tell you all about her latest tween drama.”
I can almost hear the eye roll on his end. Cora made me an aunt eleven years ago, and while I love my niece and nephew to death, she may be my favorite for that fact alone.
“I can’t actually,” I say quickly, looking for a little nerve. I’d never miss a dinner like this. Charles works hard and this was by far his biggest case. And my family is that family. If there’s a reason to celebrate, we do. Most of the family manages to show up. And I always show up.
Silence.
“Are you sick?” he asks, sounding a little concerned.
“No. Not sick. Just not coming. I have a meeting.”
Mary walks over to my desk and puts a mug of hot cocoa with marshmallows on it– our favorite winter habit.
“A night time meeting? You’re a third grade teacher and it’s days before holiday break. What kind of meeting do you have?”
I say nothing, wracking my brain for something that would make some sense. I can’t say that I’m heading to London. Mary’s right. My whole family will think something is really, really wrong. I’ve never left the country before. So it hardly seems likely that –
“I guess you heard, then,” he says quietly.
“Heard?”
“That Courtney was coming tonight. And…”
Realization dawns. “And she’s bringing Ian.”
“Yes. But I’ll tell her to stay home, Lucy. I’d rather have you here.”
“I can’t come either way,” I say. “Like I said, I have a thing.”
More silence. Despite the fact that I’m 26, live alone and take care of twenty-two third graders five days a week, Charles seems to still see me as the little kid he taught to ride a bike. He threatened my high school boyfriend’s life (should he ever make me cry or lay a hand on me) – and I have to say, while he tries to act nonchalant about these things now, he’s really not much better. I guess when you’re the youngest girl of five and he’s the oldest child – separated by ten years – this is the norm.
“I’m sorry to miss it,” I say finally, before muttering a ‘see you later’ and tapping the phone off.
I dip a finger into my mug of hot cocoa, letting it barely touch the surface of the cocoa, the melted, gooey marshmallow sticking to the skin.
Mary takes a sip of her cocoa and sits beside me, grabbing my itinerary off the desk and scanning it. “You are planning to tell your family that you’re leaving tomorrow, right?”
I look at her, my eyes wide. “I figured I’d call them from the plane and tell them then.”
Mary laughs. “Why on earth would you do that?”
“Because when I was sixteen years old and wanted to go blonde – just to see if I’d actually have more fun – my mom and sisters held an actual intervention. ‘But you have beautiful auburn hair,’ they said! ‘People would pay money to have your color!’ ‘We’re all redheads. Why would you want to turn your back on your family?’ ‘It’s a waste of money. The upkeep with roots is a real hassle. Dye it when you go gray.’
Mary nods like she’s trying to follow.
“When I entertained the thought of taking off to Los Angeles to work in television, for weeks it was all I could do to avoid hearing, ‘Everyone there is smoking the cocaine.’ ‘You have to sleep your way to the top.’ ‘What would you even do in television? All you do is watch TV Land. The shows you like were filmed in the ‘50s and ‘60s. You can’t work for them! The actors are all dead!’”
I love my career. I love my loft right here in Haley, Massachusetts, where I grew up. I even love my hair color. I’m thankful to my family for always caring about what I do. They would do anything in the world for me. But to them, I am still a little girl in pigtails, my lip quivering as I get on the school bus on my first day of kindergarten.
I’m the reliable one. The constant. I shouldn’t change my hair color. And I shouldn’t jump on an airplane and take a spontaneous trip. When I wanted to take that backpacking trip through Europe with my friends, they said to wait, that one day I would go somewhere. On my honeymoon.
To them, “honeymoon” basically translated to “first vacation ever.” My parents went to Hawaii. Charles and Samantha went to Costa Rica. Marian and Tom are going to the Mediterranean. I’m supposed to wait and go…well, somewhere. Someday.
Well, what if I never get married? I’ll just never go anywhere? No. That is not good enough for me. I’m done standing on the sidelines. I’m done waiting for life. This time, I’m going after it.
I stand up resolutely and walk over to my window. I see Mrs. Suzayaki sitting on her kitchenette stool by her open window having a cigarette, looking at a trashy magazine. She’s my go-to for all the celebrity gossip because she’s pretty much a chain smoker with a lot of subscriptions. I pull my window up, instantly chilled by the winter air on my face.
“Hi, Lucy!” Mrs. Suzayaki says. “Weren’t you going to your family’s for dinner tonight?”
“Not tonight.” I smile, rubbing my hands up and down my arms for warmth. “I’m actually wondering…do you still make Fake IDs?”
Ricky is sitting inside my suitcase, attacking every article of clothing I put in it, thrashing with his furry paws and destroying any sense of order t
o my clothes—almost as if he knows that they represent our impending separation. I pet him and look at I Love Lucy on my TV, and the familiar sight of Lucy Ricardo calms me instantly.
“See that, buddy?” I say to Ricky, gesturing to the TV. “The original Lucy and Ricky. Look at her, all wide-eyed and mischievous, knee deep in shenanigans with Ethel. In about ten minutes she’ll definitely have some ‘splainin’ to do.” I stop petting him and just stare at the TV. “She’d totally do something like this.”
Ricky stares at me.
I flip through the lonely pages of my passport. This book is complete proof that the psychic was right about one thing. I am waiting. I’m waiting to have a stamp. I’m waiting to have a story.
I crawl into bed and gaze out the window at the white lights adorning Mrs. Suzayaki’s bushes. It’s so peaceful out there. A night like tonight echoes for miles. It’s crisp and still. And full of possibility.
The next day, driving into Logan Airport, I feel a nervous thrill inside. As a plane overhead takes off for somewhere, I think of the psychic and clutch my passport in my hand. I look at Mary.
Thinking of the psychic reminds me of Mary’s own run-in with the woman. “Any leads yet on your list of men you already know that may or may not be the love of your life?”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “I scoured Facebook, Instagram, our high school year book and my phone for three hours the other night.”
“And?”
She pauses. “Do you remember Evan Abbott?”
“Evan Abbott…your old guitar teacher?”
She nods. “He was a senior when I was a freshman and I had a huge crush on him. I never saw him after he left for college, but I found him on Instagram. He’s single, handsome, and we used to make each other laugh a lot, which is why I never really learned much and can’t play anything except ‘Free Falling’. I sent him a direct message and we are actually getting together in two days for lunch.”
I shake my head at her. She’s such a romantic. I love it.
Honeymoon Alone: A Novel Page 3
