It Had to Be You

by Georgia Clark

  The idea sent a peculiar chill up Gorman’s spine.

  He loved Henry. He loved that Henry fell asleep reading in bed almost every night and didn’t wake when Gorman carefully removed his reading glasses. He loved that Henry approached life with a measured and practical thoughtfulness but could still be spontaneous and funny and cut a mean rug on the dance floor. He was trustworthy and hardworking and patient. Kind to children and animals.

  Marriage used to be boring. But it was interesting to consider—just consider—that getting married, or hell, becoming a father, in his midfifties might just be the most radical thing Ralph Gorman could ever do.

  45

  As much as Clay was enjoying dating Zia, he knew there was something she wasn’t telling him. The secrecy wasn’t a problem—everyone had their boundaries, and the fact she wasn’t broadcasting every waking thought was refreshing. But Clay sensed her wanderlust wasn’t the carefree kind that sent twentysomethings cavorting around the world with backpacks and journals. Zia pursued exploration with the mindfulness of someone in a walking meditation.

  It niggled him. Still, he was very happy to be back in Manhattan, spending a night at home together, making a delizioso lasagna.

  While she showered, Clay popped in his wireless earbuds and returned a call to Dave. “Sorry I’ve been MIA,” he told his manager, hunting around for a bottle of wine. “Zia and I have been… catching up.”

  Dave chuckled. “Good for you, man.” Then, after a slightly awkward pause, “That’s kind of what I was calling about.”

  Clay paused, one hand on a dusty bottle at the back of the pantry. “Meaning?”

  “You want the good news or the bad?”

  “The bad.” Always. Zia, the eternal optimist, would have opted for the former.

  “Michelle’s book is coming out.”

  “What? What about the army of lawyers? A bloodbath, with billable hours?”

  “Freedom of speech, man. And she never signed an NDA, so…”

  Clay groaned. His knees buckled, and he sank to the kitchen floor. He could see the tabloid covers now. CLAY BEGGED MICHELLE TO MAKE HIM HER SEX SLAVE!

  “I know, man,” Dave sighed. “It sucks.”

  It didn’t just suck. It was a colossal violation. As his star rose over the years, Clay had spent a lot of time musing about personhood and celebrity. The more famous he got, the less the rules of society applied to him. Often that worked in his favor—his outsize paycheck, the access he could expect, the best seat in every restaurant, concert, first class, whatever. But it also worked against him. He was more an idea than a person. Something to be used: for power, for money, for a laugh. His identity, and thus his worth, was determined by a scrim around him that was in part created by his actions, and in part created by the culture, and its oscillating tastes and values. Michelle’s book would change how society saw him and thus change him, without him taking any action at all. There was something deeply frightening about that reality. That ultimately there were two Clays. The real Clay, and the Clay invented by the desires of others: Illusion Clay. And he was never quite sure which one was in charge of his life.

  “What’s the good news?”

  “Excellent question. The good news is there is a lot of interest in your mysterious new woman.”

  The jerk of panic propelled his head back up. “What? How does anyone even know?”

  “Russo, c’mon. New York’s a big small town. You can’t keep this stuff secret forever.”

  “Yes, I can.” Even to his own ears, he sounded whiny.

  “All I’m saying is, Lana”—his publicist—“and I think a well-timed announcement would take a lot of eyeballs away from Michelle’s book, and onto you. What story would you rather read: the one about the bitter, bitchy ex, or the one about the happy, hot new love?”

  “Neither.” Jesus, didn’t everyone have better things to do than read about people they didn’t even know?

  “Well, most people prefer the happy, hot new love. We get you papped, then you bring her to a red carpet. Maybe a spread for People—”

  “No!”

  “You’re right: Vogue. No, Vanity Fair—”

  “No, no.” Clay was back on his feet, checking the shower was still running. He lowered his voice. “I’m not ready. We’re still getting to know each other. She’s not even my girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, cool.”

  He could all but hear Dave rolling his eyes.

  “How long’s it been?” Dave asked.

  “Three months.” That wasn’t long. Was it?

  Dave went on, sounding annoyingly casual, “And you’re not seeing anyone else, you spend all your free time with her, and when you’re not with her you kind of talk about her nonstop.”

  “I don’t talk about her—”

  “Dude,” Dave interrupted. “You do.”

  The old Clay would’ve done it. Not parade Zia around like a sideshow, but make things more official. Be seen in public. Tell the truth about his feelings to his family and inner circle. But the new Clay was cautious. There was still that fear, as groundless as it was, that Zia didn’t like the real Clay. That she’d fallen for Illusion Clay, the one he had no control over, the one most people genuinely believed him to be. That she’d start to want what that Clay could give her, further erasing the real Clay from the world. He pressed his lips together, willing the strength to trust her. Love her, like she deserved to be loved. But it wasn’t there.

  And then, there was the other concern. The darker one.

  “Say we do it,” Clay said flatly. “Would she get hate mail? Twitter trolls? Death threats?”

  These were, of course, rhetorical questions.

  Dave was silent for a beat. “You have a lot of very supportive fans.”

  “But it’s different for women. Different for people of color. Different if you’re not used to it.”

  And there was no way optimistic, kindhearted Zia Ruiz would be able to handle the tsunami of hatred, of overt racism and sexism, that would try to drown her if they were to go public. It would threaten her faith in humanity. Clay left the house every morning knowing that tens of thousands of people hated him, for no good reason at all. He didn’t like it, but it went with the territory. But he couldn’t do that to Zia.

  “Of course it’s a concern,” Dave said carefully. “But are you sure worrying about that is not just an excuse?”

  He wasn’t sure. But he needed more time to figure it all out. He wilted forward in defeat. “We’re not ready.”

  Dave sighed. “We’ll work something else out. And, Clay?”

  “What?”

  His manager’s words were tactful. But they were also a warning. “Zia’s a pretty cool chick. She won’t live in the shadows forever.”

  46

  Liv suggested Vanessa keep her father in the loop about all the wedding preparations: the menu, the ceremony, the guest list, the dress. “The more he knows about the day, the more connected he’ll feel to it,” Liv said. “Hopefully.”

  But despite Vanessa’s efforts, her line of communication was decidedly one-way. Liv’s polite voice mails and emails also went unanswered. As the day of the wedding dawned, hazy and humid, Liv felt equally ashamed and angry that her logistical powers weren’t enough to guarantee Vanessa’s key bridal wish. Weddings were a space outside of normal life. A space where dreams could come true and magic could happen. Liv was determined to create that magic for Vanessa. Intent on proving to herself and her client that she hadn’t lost her touch.

  The ceremony was set for 6:00 p.m., with doors open to guests a half hour prior. Liv and Savannah arrived at midday to oversee setup: unpacking personal decor, running through the timeline with the vendors, double-checking the floor plans. It wasn’t exactly a modern venue. As Liv put it to Savannah, it was a clubhouse where rich white men could fanboy about late-stage capitalism over a bottle of American bourbon.

  The venue’s mounted animal heads—including one of an elephant—appeared as earn
est odes to colonialism. Better days, the deceased beasts seemed to signify. Better days.

  At exactly 5:30 p.m., General Fitzpatrick was one of the first to arrive, in his service dress uniform. Instead of mingling with Lenny and Vanessa’s friends, he loitered in a far corner, a drink in hand.

  This would’ve been Eliot’s job. A bit of dick swinging and sexist jokes about bridesmaids and C’mon, man, do the right thing. Now the task fell to Liv. She lowered her center of gravity, channeling the cocky confidence of her dearly departed, and swaggered over. “Ahoy there.”

  His eyes narrowed, not able to place her.

  “Liv Goldenhorn. Vanessa’s wedding planner.”

  He returned her handshake reluctantly. The air around him was prickly.

  “The club looks fantastic,” Liv enthused. “So much history.” From every wall, portraits of dead white men judged her best effort at manly. “I heard Teddy Roosevelt bagged the elephant in the Great Hall.”

  The general snorted. “Old wives’ tale.” His voice was thick and guttural. Possibly not his first cocktail. “Do you hunt, Mrs. Goldenhorn?”

  Not the time to point out it was Ms. “I was born on the Upper East Side. Less bayonets, more bagels.”

  This failed to raise a smile. “Didn’t think so. Not really a woman’s game.”

  Which was probably crocheting and childbirth. Time to get “man-to-man.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase. It’s your child’s wedding day. It would really mean so much to everyone here, especially Vanessa, if you’d honor her desire to walk her down the aisle.”

  The general bristled. “Do you have children?”

  Liv braced herself. “I have a son.”

  “A little boy.”

  She knew where this was going, but felt no choice but to answer: “Yes.”

  “And how would you feel if one day that little boy—who you played catch with and taught how to chop firewood—came home and said, I’m.… I’m…” His voice died on the vine. He couldn’t even conjure the words.

  “A girl?” Liv finished. Her blood turned hot. “Look, honestly? I’m sure that would be disorientating and confusing. But I love my child, General Fitzpatrick. Not his gender. And whoever he turns out to be, even if it’s wildly different from what I wanted or what I’m comfortable with, I’ll be on board.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  The general took a long slug of his drink. “You have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Liv snapped, “Well, that makes two of us.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Maybe it was the talk about Ben, or the fact the ceremony was in twenty short minutes, or maybe it was just the fact that this man was choosing to hurt his daughter on her wedding day over his outdated notion of tradition.

  “With all due respect, you’re being an asshole. So for Chrissake, just do the damn aisle walk.”

  The general’s voice was pure steel. “With all due respect, go to hell.”

  * * *

  The guests assembled for the ceremony. Lenny stood at the altar, smiling nervously and rocking on his heels. Around the corner, Vanessa waited for Liv’s cue.

  The general was MIA.

  Liv raked the seated crowd. She spotted Sam across the room, whom she’d asked to do a sweep of the kitchen. Sometimes guests could be found eating their feelings. But Sam just shrugged and shook his head.

  “What’d he say when you talked to him?” asked Savannah.

  Liv tightened her hands around her clipboard, inwardly cursing. “I may have lost my cool.”

  Savannah stared at her. “What does that mean?”

  Liv continued searching the guests. “He wouldn’t have just left, would he?”

  Savannah’s face slackened. “No. He’s going to walk Vanessa down the aisle. He’s her dad. It’s her wedding day.”

  “I know,” Liv said tightly. A small, stupidly hopeful part of herself was expecting to see the general magically appear on Vanessa’s arm. Give Liv a nod, maybe even a wry smile.

  “We have to find him,” Savannah said. “We have to make him see—”

  “There he is.”

  The general was slipping into a spare seat toward the back. Not even the first row.

  Savannah blinked. “So, he’s not…”

  “Nope.” Liv shook her head, just once. She’d blown it. “Keep it together,” she told her horrified business partner. “This isn’t about you.” Liv gave Vanessa her cue.

  The music started. The crowd twisted around, their faces happy and expectant.

  Vanessa Martha Fitzpatrick held her head high. Traditions can be observed, updated, or rejected. But it was harder, sometimes impossible, to engage with tradition entirely on your own. With deliberate measured steps, Vanessa began walking herself down the center of the aisle.

  47

  Liv said it was over. But Savannah Shipley could not take no for an answer.

  In the cocktail hour, she found the general at the far end of one of the club’s crimson-and-dark-wood bars, nursing a whiskey. She took the seat next to him and ordered one neat, flashing him a smile as bright as the brass buttons on his suit jacket.

  He eyed her. “Didn’t think girls drank whiskey.”

  He didn’t appear to recognize her. Maybe that was a good thing.

  “I’m from Kentucky, sir,” she said, leaning into the accent. “We don’t drink much else.”

  “Kentucky, huh?” His voice was still wary. “I’m from Cincinnati.”

  “I have cousins there! Tell me somethin’, is the Sugar n’ Spice Diner still the best breakfast spot in town?”

  He shrugged, but she could see she’d sparked a memory.

  “We used to go after church,” she persisted. “Stack of their famous wispy-thin pancakes…?”

  “With bacon on the side.” He patted his gut with a faint chuckle. “Trying to cut back. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Still, you gotta eat. What’d Mark Twain say? ‘Eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside.’ ”

  The general snorted and turned back to his glass.

  “Well, I’ve had a humdinger of a week,” Savannah announced.

  He took a sip, curious in spite of himself. “How’s that?”

  Savannah pouted, girlish. “I had a fight with my daddy.”

  “That’s no good.” The general’s demeanor turned fatherly. “Your old man is always right. You remember that.”

  “Oh, sir, I know. My daddy’s my hero. He taught me to ride a horse and shoot a rifle and I’m still damn good at both.”

  The general grunted, his gaze softening with nostalgia and an undercurrent of pain.

  “Now that I live in New York,” Savannah continued, “I worry he thinks I’ve left him behind. I haven’t. I’m just becoming my own person. I think that frightens him.” She pressed her hand to her chest, willing a tear. “I love my daddy so much: I just can’t imagine him not being part of my life.”

  General Fitzpatrick circled the whiskey in his glass as if in thought.

  Savannah blew out a breath, her smile turning cheery. “But I know we’ll make up. Because deep down, we love each other. He just has to understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “That everyone grows up. And it’s never too late to say sorry and start again.” Savannah held the general’s arm, speaking in the hushed tone of two close friends. “In my book: family comes first. Always.”

  A light went off behind his eyes. “You’re one of the wedding planners.”

  Savannah froze; sprung.

  He huffed out an annoyed, if genuine, chuckle. “You almost had me.”

  “Honestly, sir? I meant every word.” Savannah dropped the syrupy charm, replacing it with her best attempt at New York candor. “Look, my dad and I don’t always see eye to eye. But he’s my father. And I’d rather have an imperfect father than no father at all.” She felt an unexpected surge of power as she leveled her eye contact with his. “You�
��ve got one chance to get Vanessa back. Do not fuck it up.” Savannah picked up her whiskey and left, daring to hope she’d made an impact.

  48

  At 7:30 p.m., Liv ushered the guests into dinner in the Great Hall. Vanessa and Lenny took their seats at the head table. But the general’s chair, several seats down from Vanessa’s, was empty. Liv glanced over the other tables, wondering if he’d missed his name card.

  “Excuse me?”

  General Fitzpatrick was standing on the stage, a microphone in one hand. Zach, who was supposed to be MC’ing, shrugged helplessly at Liv, mouthing, He just took it!

  “Quiet,” ordered the general, and the room obeyed.

  Liv ran through her options. Should she take the mic? Cut the power? Scream, “Look at me, I’m a pumpkin!” and hustle the old man back to the 1950s? Catching Savannah’s eye, Liv pointed at Zach and made a warning face. Savannah nodded. She understood that if the old man went rogue, Zach should drown him out.

  “My name is General Tucker Fitzpatrick and I’m…”

  Liv tensed, a sprinter ready for the starter gun. If he said “Adam’s father,” she’d take him out herself.

  The bride was sitting stock-still. Her face was the color of her dress.

  Savannah was by Zach’s side. The DJ had one finger hovering over his computer keyboard, ready.

  “I’m,” said the general, “I’m Vanessa’s father.”

  Liv let out a breath. It hadn’t been easy to say it. But at least he had.

  The general rubbed between his eyes. “Although I probably haven’t been a very good father the past few years.”

  Liv swapped a look of disbelief with Savannah. That was the last thing she expected him to admit.

  “When I look around this room,” the general continued, “I don’t see a lot of familiar faces. I don’t really know my daughter’s life here.” Again, too much emphasis on daughter. But he was trying. “I don’t really know my daughter. At all. And that’s… well, that’s my fault.”

  No one moved. All fidgeting and whispers and wine guzzling had ceased. The room was utterly, eerily silent.