I open the door to Malia’s Gifts & Flowers. A robot Cupid, playing Love Is in the Air, pretends to shoot an arrow. I never liked Cupid. Thought he was a little creepy with his diaper and fat rolls.
I notice Malia behind the counter, sacking up some grand gift for a guy. She hands him change and wishes him luck. Malia is beautiful for her age. She’s sixty-two and looks like she’s forty, except she’s all gray. She has a youthful playfulness about her. She spots me and waves enthusiastically I wave back, then block the door so the guy with the balloons, stuffed pink bear, and card can’t get out.
He gives me a curious look.
I can smell his cologne. “Hi.” I smile.
“Hi. Excuse me.”
“Not so fast.” I look carefully over his purchases and notice he had picked out a card that had made me snort out loud when I read it last week. Funny, but not so romantic. “Love the balloons. The pink bear is cute. But trust me, you’ll want to write something personal in the card.”
He looks down at it, a slight panic crossing his face. “I went with humor. Maybe I shouldn’t have. I’m…I better go back…this is…”
I place a steady hand on his shoulder. “Listen, the card is fine. It doesn’t matter what’s in there. Just write something personal. You don’t have to write an essay, just two or three lines that make her feel like you have thought this through.” I let go of his shoulder and step aside.
He nods, gazing up at the balloons. “Maybe the balloons were a mistake.”
“How long have you been dating?”
“Not long. Three months.”
“Then it’s perfect. It’s too soon for jewelry, but this still says, ‘I’m crazy about you.’”
“Thank you,” he says, relieved.
“You’re welcome.” Malia is coming toward me, so I step toward her and embrace her with a hug.
“How are you?” she asks. “I didn’t see you this weekend.”
“Fine. The shop looks great! Love the Valentine’s decorations.”
“Yeah? I kind of think I went overboard.”
“No,” I say, gazing at the hundreds of hearts hanging from the ceiling. “It’s the season for going overboard. For most people, anyway.”
She pinches my cheek and begins walking toward the counter. “What brings you by?” She looks me up and down as I walk with her. “You eating enough, girl?”
“More than my share of my favorite food group.”
Malia arranges a pile of fake roses as she talks. “How many times do I have to tell you? Chocolate is not a food group.”
I grin and adjust the heart-shaped notepads. “Hey, I’ve got to get my antioxidants somehow.”
Malia looks up at me, worried. “Well, are you at least carrying Benadryl?”
I smile. She’s such a mom. “Yes, I’ve got my emergency supply here.”
“Let me go microwave some organic spinach for you.” She starts moving toward the back room. “I’ll season it; it’ll give you energy.”
“And stick in my teeth.” I grab her arm, and she stops, though it’s obvious she’s disappointed. “It’ll be awkward,” I say, “because I won’t know I have green slime on my teeth and nobody will tell me. I’ll get home, see it, die of embarrassment—and then I’ll have to eat more chocolate. So I better pass.”
She shoots me a mild look.
I begin to browse. “I need a bridal shower gift.”
A customer approaches the counter, and I let Malia take care of him.
I wander the displays, looking for anything that doesn’t scream Valentine’s Day. I pick up a cloth doll with a mop of blond hair. “The bride’s young enough that she might actually enjoy this,” I holler as I hold the doll high enough for her to see.
I hear her laugh. She finishes with the customer and joins me.
“Did you know,” I say, fingering the yarn, “that your son has quite the thing for blondes?”
Malia nods. “No curing a man of that.” She reaches for a display and hands me a shiny silver heart-shaped frame. “She’ll love this. One can never have too many frames.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll wrap it up nicely for you.”
“You’re a sweetheart.”
She takes my arm as we head for the register. “You know, speaking of, I could introduce you to the guy who owns Fine Computer Techs. They do my Web site. He’s single.”
“Unless fine means something other than ‘talented computer geeks,’ I think I’ll pass. Have we not committed to memory the last disaster you set me up with?”
“I swear I had no idea he would ask you for one of your kidneys.” Malia’s eyes grow wide at the memory.
I pull out my credit card and hand it to Malia. “Maybe I have commitment issues, because although his great-uncle Ned sounded completely fascinating, I wasn’t ready to part with an organ.”
Malia laughs. “I’m serious, though. This computer guy, he’s a cutie. He’d be just right for you.”
“I need more depth, Malia. He speaks binary, and I need more than just zeros and ones in my life.”
She hands me my card and receipt. “He’s fully HTML.” She winks and begins looking for wrapping.
I smile. I love that she gets my jokes. Blake gets his sense of humor from her. The thing is, Malia has this track record with me. She’s tried to set me up twelve times. Twelve disasters. Maybe because she never tried to set me up with Blake. I don’t blame her. I act awfully uninterested to protect my own interests. But still. Can’t his own mother see what a great couple we’d make?
Malia sets my gift aside for a moment to help a pregnant woman who has approached. She’s wearing a short-sleeved cotton blouse with tiny tulips all over, and some khaki capris. Her shiny, youthfully golden hair is pulled up high into a ponytail. Her stomach is beautifully round, and she’s rubbing the bottom of it with one hand, like the baby is already in her arms. I start rubbing my belly just watching her. Except when I do it, I look like I’m expecting chocolate-chip cookies.
“You ready, hon?” Malia asks her.
“Yes.”
Malia peers over the counter. “Do you know if you’re having a boy or a girl?”
“A boy.”
“Oh, do tell us! Have you picked a name?” I see something in Malia’s eyes…a longing for a grandchild of her own.
“Jonathan. It took three years for me to get pregnant, so my husband and I consider this little guy to be a gift of God. That’s what Jonathan means.”
I have to wonder: what name means “in desperate need of a man”?
Mr. Coston is in a particularly bad mood today. He sends me out twice more for coffee. I take my time and this time don’t add so much sugar.
The atmosphere is somber for the afternoon. We’ve all been lectured three or four times. I try to focus, for once, on my work. By five I am exhausted and still have to attend the break room bridal shower. I turn off my computer, straighten my desk, dust, Lysol, squirt my hands, and then head for the break room.
A few people have gathered, and Nicole is trying to secure a streamer that has fallen. I climb on a chair to help her.
“Hey.” She smiles. “Can you hand me some tape?”
“Sure.” I reach for it and rip off a piece. “Nicole?”
“Yes?”
“Promise me when I get married you’ll do something bigger—maybe outside the office or something?”
Nicole glances at me. “Honey, when you get married, we’re going to give the Fourth of July a run for its money.”
I hand her the end of the streamer. “Christa’s nice. Maybe we should’ve done something more.”
“She’s a co-worker. We don’t hang out on weekends. There’s a difference.”
“What’d you get her?”
Nicole stands on her toes and manages to re-secure the streamer. “A gift certificate to Pottery Barn. You?”
“A frame and a month’s supply of antibacterial gel.”
Nicole laughs. “Wow.”
“It’s practical. She’s going to appreciate that after she shakes everyone’s hand at the reception.”
Nicole glances at me. “You’re serious?”
“What? I tied a cute satin bow around it.”
We are climbing down just in time to see Christa entering, surrounded by a half-dozen people.
“…and my fiancé tied my ring to the mistletoe and waited for me to notice. It was so adorable.”
“A little unoriginal, don’t you think?” I whisper to Nicole.
“I don’t know. Jerry dropped to one knee, popped open the box, asked, and we ordered chicken wings, so it sounds kind of nice to me.”
“I’m just saying, mistletoe is overdone. Now dropping it down the chimney, that’s creative.”
“Santa’s got the corner on that market.”
I sigh and sit on one of the folding chairs that we’ve put into a circle. Christa is popping her shoulders up and down, just as happy as any human being can be. It’s genuine. And she doesn’t seem to care we’re in a break room.
“I’m just saying,” I whisper again to Nicole as soon as she sits down beside me, “she deserves a more creative proposal than that.”
“Jessie, some people are not creative. They’re okay with things not having to be done over the top.”
“I’m not over the top.”
Nicole puts on her sales smile as she looks up at the arriving guests, but she turns sideways toward me and says quietly, “You dream big.”
I can’t respond for the moment because Nicole welcomes everyone, tells some nice anecdotes about Christa, and then begins the procession of presents. But as soon as I get Nicole’s ear again, I whisper, “I like the personal touch. I like things not to be cookie cutter.” I gesture to Christa as she pulls out a slinky negligee. People are giggling. “I’m simply saying that she’s the type of person who would make her bridesmaids wear peach dresses with dyed-to-match shoes. When I get married, you’re going to thank me for being a little more original.”
“Like what? Scratch-and-sniff dresses?”
“Funny. No. Like maybe letting everyone wear what they want.”
Nicole laughs. Hard. Nobody notices because they’re all laughing about the fluffy bunny slippers Christa just unwrapped. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Nicole whispers. “You’re not capable.”
“Of what?”
“Letting us choose what we wear.”
I smile at Christa “That’s not true.”
“So you’re fine with your sister in a dress cut so low we can see her bellybutton ring and me wearing that off-white skirt I’ve had since—”
I wave my hands. “Sensibly. That’s what I mean. Wear what you want as long as it’s sensible.”
“Uh-huh. But here’s the thing. Your definition of sensible has a lot of parameters.”
Just then Christa pulls out the antibacterial gel. “Ohhhh…um…the bow is lovely.”
“There’s more,” I say, pointing to the bag.
She reaches in and pulls out the frame. Now she’s gushing again. Good. I’d hate to have stopped all that gushing.
I turn back to Nicole. “You’re still coming over Wednesday, right? Jerry’s cool with it?”
“Yes, I’m still coming. And I think it’s big of you to ask for help.”
Christa is now pulling out his and her robes from Mr. Coston. “Oh! Beautiful!”
I sink into my seat.
three
“I think the red looks good,” Nicole says, leaning toward the mirror like I am. We’re both staring at my jugular red lips, shiny like I’ve eaten a bucket of fried chicken. I glance at Nicole. She seems more sure than I feel.
“I don’t know,” I say, standing upright. “I mean, it’s very, very red. It’s the first thing you see coming. Is there a woman attached to those lips?”
“It fits you.”
“Fits me?” I stare at myself, trying to see what Nicole sees. “I wear Burt’s Bees lip balm with a hint of color.”
“For tonight, though, isn’t the whole idea to stand out?”
“Yes…” I turn away from the mirror and then look back quickly, trying to catch myself off guard. Still, the first thing I see are my red lips. “But I’m afraid my lips are going to upstage me.”
“The guys will know what’s coming.”
I glance over at her. “What’s that mean?”
Nicole smiles knowingly. At least I hope it’s knowingly. She better not be winging this. “It’s like foreshadowing in a book,” she says. “The lips say a lot. And yours will get a chance to talk before you do.”
“You’re not winning me over.”
Nicole turns me to her, puts her hands on my shoulders. “It’s not a bad thing. You are a strong personality. There is nothing wrong with that. But it’s misleading to wear powder pink and then light them up.”
I turn back to the mirror, forcing her hands off my shoulders. “I don’t light them up. I engage in conversation. We have eight minutes. There is no time for small talk.”
“But it’s still about first impressions.”
“So my first impression is going to be about my mouth.”
“Like I said, foreshadowing. Plus, you have great lips for a white woman.” I slump but Nicole straightens my back. “You have to stand tall in this dress. And don’t lean over or the lips will be a moot point, if you know what I mean.”
“Zip me up,” I say, grabbing my chest and now eying the dress, wondering if this little black number with the scoop neckline is such a good idea.
She zips.
I grab a towel and swipe the sink. Droplets of water drive me crazy If people would just wipe up their messes, nobody would have to worry about leaning against the bathroom counter and leaving with dark wet smudges on their shirts. It’s the small things in life, you know?
I check my watch. “Okay. ’Bout time to go. So you’re sure? The ensemble works? I look inviting but not cheap? Happy but not peppy?”
She brushes some hair off my cheek. “You look beautiful, Jessie. You are beautiful. Remember that when you walk in. Hold your head high. You are a fine catch.”
I hold my head high and feel like a fine catch. “I have a good feeling about tonight.”
An uneasy expression passes over her face. “Just go have fun.”
“I know, I know, my expectations always get me in trouble. But something’s different. I feel different.”
“There’s power in red lipstick.”
I laugh. “As long as it doesn’t land on my teeth.”
Her face turns a little serious. “Now. We need a game plan.”
“Why?”
“Well, you know, last time it was…according to you—I’m using your own words—it was, um, grossly disappointing.”
I grab my little black purse and shove my light-it-up lipstick inside. “I had an off night, that’s all.” I bustle around gathering my things so I can make a quick exit.
Nicole, however, perches on the edge of the bathtub and pats the spot. I wipe it with a towel and then grudgingly sit next to her. “As your friend,” Nicole says, “—and again, you called me—I think you could try a different approach this time.”
I push my cell phone into the tiny purse and zip the bag shut. “What do you mean?”
“Just minor changes, that’s all I’m saying. I’m thinking that you completely take out their hair-color preference. You can’t hold it against a person because they like a certain hair color, and then you’ve automatically put them on the defensive. I’m saying don’t even broach that subject. Just be casual, let them do most of the talking.”
“It’s peed dating, Nicole. And it’s a scientific fact that men who prefer blondes rarely mate with a brunette.” I resist the urge to stand up.
“This is not a Wild Kingdom documentary.”
“I’ve got to know something about them,” I say, pressing my lips together. They feel very heavy.
“Yes. But you can tell a lot about a guy by what he asks
you.”
I stop. I raise an eyebrow. She has a point. I’d never thought about that before.
“I know, I’m brilliant.” She winks, stands up, and whisks me out of my bathroom. “And you, my darling, are going to make every man in that place speechless.” She steps back from me and takes me in. “Audrey Hepburn, eat your heart out.”
I slump again. “Please. I don’t have the eyebrows.”
Nicole laughs and reminds me to keep my shoulders back. “You call me tonight, okay? I want to know the details. You know I live vicariously through you.”
We walk out the front door together and I lock up. “I would give anything for a family like yours,” I say.
“Baby, you wait until it’s the right time.”
“Easy for you to say.” I throw my shoulders back. “You’re not speed dating on Valentine’s Day.”
It’s a nice evening. The sun is low and glowing above the ocean water. The salty smell entices me and I wonder if I might better serve myself by just going on a long walk on the beach. I circle several downtown Santa Barbara streets, trying to find a decent place to park. It’s prime real estate, though, on a Friday evening. I watch a man pull over and drop his wife off before he goes to find a parking space. She gives him a quick, appreciative wave. And, as if the heavens opened up with harp music, a white Cadillac pulls off a meter and the man slides in, a half a block from where he dropped off his wife. I slap my hand against the steering wheel. Maybe I should lobby for handicap parking and single-woman parking.
I’m about to run late, especially if I have to park a few blocks away. I give it one more circle. There! Up ahead! A meter, and it looks plenty big for me to cram into. I accelerate. I’m only a quarter block away, but up ahead…a Miata. Top down. The guy inside is alone, has black hair, and sports a five o’clock shadow. No shades. Our eyes meet. Wow, gorgeous, this one.
I grin and nod toward the spot, hoping he’ll let me in. Technically he got there first—just by a second or two—but he’s on the wrong side of the street. His blinker is flashing aggressively. He lifts his eyebrows and acknowledges me, pointing to the spot. I smile and am about to mouth thank you when he waves, U-turns, and whips right in.
Never the Bride Page 3
