by Emily Giffin
“It’s actually not too bad. There’s no beadwork or lace, which keeps the cost down,” Linda says.
I’m sure it is that bad—but in my mind, I’m already making concessions on venue, flowers, and photography to make up for it.
“I have to say—this is the dress that your stylist predicted you’d love,” Linda says. “And boy, was she right.”
“Your stylist?” my sister says. “You have a stylist?”
I shake my head. “No. I mean, she’s a stylist, but she’s not my stylist. She’s just helping me. As a friend.”
“Who is she?” my mother says, always wanting to keep track of all my friends.
“Her name is Amy,” I say, glancing nervously at Scottie before adding that she grew up with Matthew.
“She’s such a lovely girl,” Linda says. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s doing okay. She’s really strong….I think she’s been distracting herself with work,” I say, feeling guilty for having questioned her diving into wedding planning so soon after losing her husband. “And teaching yoga.”
Fortunately, my family doesn’t ask what we’re talking about, and Linda just says she’s glad to hear it. After we chat a bit more, I change back into my clothes, and Linda leads us downstairs. When we get to the front door, I tell her again how much I appreciate all her help and that I’ll be in touch soon about the dress.
“Okay. Take your time, dear,” she says. “It’s a big decision.”
“I know,” I reply. “But I think this is the one.”
“Well, I always say—with men and dresses, you have to follow your gut,” she says. “When you know, you know.”
A few hours later, after Scottie and I take a power nap, then shower and get ready for the engagement party, the two of us are in a cab heading uptown to Park Avenue. The plan is for the two families to meet and share a champagne toast before the other guests arrive—at which point Matthew and I will give them something additional to toast about. All simple enough, but I really and truly am not sure if I can get through the initial gathering with our families, let alone the entire evening. I have to say—Matthew has been wonderful, reassuring me over the phone that everything is going to be fine.
“Let’s put this in perspective,” he says at one point. “We’re talking about a wedding and a baby. Not a terminal illness.”
I silently replay his words, and can’t help thinking of Byron, which, of course, makes me think of Grant and the fact that the baby could be his.
“What if it’s not Matthew’s?” I blurt out to Scottie, a thought I’ve managed to suppress for days.
“It is,” Scottie says, knowing exactly what I’m talking about. “I know it is.”
“Why do you say that?” I say.
“Because I just know…and besides, at this point it doesn’t matter.” He echoes what Jasmine said to me, but puts it much more bluntly. “Grant is dead. Matthew is alive. You’re marrying Matthew. There’s nothing to be done. It doesn’t help anyone to dwell on all of this.”
“I could tell him the truth.”
“Sure. You could tell him the truth. You could even announce the whole, entire complicated truth at the party! Ding, ding, ding,” he says, imitating someone clinking a spoon against a crystal glass. “Attention, everyone. Especially our nine-eleven widow, Amy, right over there…So I have some really big news. I’m pregnant, but the baby may or may not be Matthew’s. It’s entirely possible that it belongs to Amy’s husband, who was having an affair with me in the months before he died.”
“Stop,” I hiss to Scottie, as I catch our cabbie glance at me in the rearview mirror.
“Sorry,” he says, lowering his voice. “But that’s essentially what you’re suggesting. Look. This is an all-or-nothing situation. Either you confess all of that—everything from top to bottom—or you just go with the assumption that this baby is Matthew’s.”
“Okay. Okay,” I say.
“And as far as Amy goes?” Scottie says. “This baby really isn’t any of her concern. Even if it is Grant’s, you know, biologically, it has nothing to do with her.”
“I think Amy might beg to differ,” I say.
“Okay. Well. First of all, Grant’s dead. No offense.”
“I’m not sure ‘no offense’ is the right expression here—”
“Okay, sorry. But second of all, what makes you think he would have stayed with her? Maybe he would have chosen you.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I say.
“I don’t know. But again—it’s a moot point. You’re marrying Matthew.”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m marrying Matthew.”
* * *
—
I do my best to put all of that out of my mind as we pull up to Matthew’s parents’ building, enter the formal lobby, and tell the doorman we are here for the Capells’ party.
“Yes, of course. The fifteenth floor,” he says with a proper little bow. “And congratulations, Miss Gardner.”
I look at him, surprised that he knows my name when I’ve been to the building only once before. Then again, it’s exactly the kind of detail that Mrs. Capell would totally think of, maybe even showing the doorman my photo with the polite instruction to “make the bride feel special.”
“Thank you,” I say, my stomach churning.
We turn and walk to the elevator, my heels and Scottie’s wingtips click-clacking on the polished marble floor, making an ominous echoing sound.
“Whoa. Fancy digs,” Scottie says, looking all around and touching everything as we go. He runs his hand over an antique side table, then reaches up to rub the petal of a giant peony in an arrangement on another table, confirming aloud that “it’s not fake.”
“Quit touching everything,” I say under my breath. “I’m sure there are cameras.”
He looks up and around again, even more intrigued, as I push the brass button calling the elevator. A long few seconds later, the doors open and we enter the tiny, posh enclosure complete with a little green leather bench. Scottie predictably takes a seat, crossing his legs and admiring his reflection in the mirror. He adjusts his bow tie, then smokes a pretend pipe, while I take deep breaths and we creak our way toward the penthouse apartment.
When the elevator opens, I hear jazz music and see my entire family already gathered in the foyer with Matthew and his parents. My heart sinks a little, as the plan was for them to come after Scottie and me, so that I would be present for the introduction. But of course my dad always arrives early.
As Matthew hugs me hello, Mrs. Capell rushes toward me, kissing the air beside both cheeks, then enveloping me in a heavily perfumed embrace. “There she is! The beautiful bride-to-be!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Capell. And thank you for hosting this party. It’s so nice of you,” I say as it hits me that I’m going to soon have a mother-in-law. For some reason, this blows my mind more than the concept of having a husband.
“Oh, it’s our absolute pleasure,” she says, then looks at Scottie, taking both his hands in hers. “And you must be the famous Scott.”
“I am, indeed,” he says, beaming. “But please—call me Scottie.”
“Scottie it is,” she says, still holding his hands.
He eats this up, of course, kicking into his autopilot schmoozing, complimenting Mrs. Capell on her “lovely home,” then shaking hands with Mr. Capell. Meanwhile, a photographer hovers a few feet away, snapping candid shots.
“Shall we get a few posed pictures before the guests arrive?” Mrs. Capell asks, but she doesn’t wait for an answer before swiftly leading us into the living room and efficiently orchestrating a series of formal photos. First me and Matthew alone, then the two of us with both mothers, then the two of us with all four parents, then the three men, then the three ladies, then my family with Matthew. Then the Capells with
me, while Mrs. Capell laments that Lizzie is in Paris for work.
The second we’re finished we return to the foyer as a pair of white-gloved caterers emerge from the wings, each balancing flutes of champagne on a silver tray.
“Everyone take a glass!” Mrs. Capell says.
Once again, we all do as we are told. Matthew returns to my side, sliding his arm around me, and telling me how beautiful I look.
“Doesn’t she?” Mrs. Capell chimes in, then compliments my dress.
I thank her, wondering if she knows the backstory—that Amy picked it for me and her son paid for it. Something in her eyes tells me that she does, and I feel a stab of embarrassment.
“So how about a toast?” Mr. Capell says, raising his glass.
“Go for it, Dad,” Matthew says.
Mr. Capell clears his throat as he looks at me. “Cecily, I can’t tell you how happy we are with the news of your engagement to our son. I’ll save the good stuff for later tonight—but for now, I’ll say that we can’t wait to welcome you into our family. Cheers to Cecily and Matthew!”
Everyone echoes the sentiment as we all make eye contact with one another before sipping champagne. Even I take one tiny sip.
A second later, my mother dives right in. “So. We’ve been discussing the wedding. Right, Helen?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Capell says, nodding, her sapphire drop earrings sparkling. “We have.”
“And anyway…the thing is…we all think this winter wedding idea is a huge mistake,” my mom says. “At least if you do it this winter.”
“All righty then,” I say before giving Matthew a deer-in-the-headlights look.
His grip tightens around my waist. “And why’s that, Mrs. Gardner?” he asks in his most diplomatic voice. I briefed him on our conversation last night, so he’s ready for this.
She goes through her weather concerns, and then says, “And it’s just way too soon.” She looks at Mrs. Capell, who also takes the diplomatic route.
“Well, you and Matthew need to do what’s best for you…but I’m worried it won’t give us enough time,” Mrs. Capell says, looking at me.
“Not nearly enough time,” Mom says.
“And the holidays are in between,” Mrs. Capell adds. “So that will crunch things further.”
“Exactly,” my mom says. “What’s the rush? It’s not like this is a shotgun wedding.”
All four parents laugh as my flute slips from my hands. Horrified, I watch it tumble in slow motion, then crash onto the marble floor in an explosion of crystal and bubbles, like a cliché from a movie.
For one chaotically still second, nobody moves or says a word. Then both caterers spring into action, one ushering us out of harm’s way while the other sweeps up the shards of glass with a broom and dustpan.
On the verge of tears, I say I’m sorry, apologizing for more than just broken glass and spilled champagne.
Under his breath, I hear Scottie quoting Rob Lowe in St. Elmo’s Fire: It ain’t a party till something gets broken.
“It’s fine, dear,” Mrs. Capell tells me. “It’s just a glass.”
More awkward silence follows before Matthew steps up and says, “So. About that…shotgun wedding thing…”
It’s not the artful opening I expected from my usually polished fiancé, but it’s as good a segue as any at this point.
I catch Scottie’s jaw drop with a hint of glee as Matthew continues. “The reason we want to get married in January…is that…we actually do have a bit of a time crunch.”
“What sort of a time crunch?” Mrs. Capell says, now looking worried.
“Well, a nine-month sort of time crunch…”
Both mothers stare back at us, their eyes wide.
“Cecily and I are expecting!” Matthew says.
More silence, followed by a long, exaggerated wooo-hooo from Scottie. I know what he’s trying to do, but it backfires, making everything infinitely more awkward.
“Congratulations!” my sister finally says. “How far along are you?”
“Almost twelve weeks,” I say.
“Twelve weeks?” my mom says, her eyes wide with shock and hurt. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”
“We wanted to tell our families together,” I say, now starting to sweat.
“In person,” Matthew adds. “So I know this isn’t traditional—or what we planned—but we didn’t know we were pregnant when I proposed.” He’s making this point for me, just as I asked him to.
“Right. So it’s really not a shotgun wedding,” I babble. “Because we aren’t getting married because we’re pregnant….”
“Well. It is what it is,” Mrs. Capell says, her smile looking more like a grimace.
“Mom,” Matthew says, giving her a death stare. “Isn’t there something else you’d like to say?”
“Well, yes, of course, I’d like to say congratulations,” she says, looking at Matthew, then me, then her son again. “You’ll forgive me for needing a moment…to switch gears….When are you due, dear?” she says.
“In late June,” I say.
She nods and says, almost to herself, “Okay…so nobody will really think to do the math after the wedding.”
Matthew’s face turns rigid as he says, “Actually, Mom. Cecily and I were thinking about announcing our news tonight.”
“Tonight?” she says, looking aghast. “To everyone?”
“Yes,” he says. “To all one hundred and sixty people that you invited.”
“Oh, honey. I would really prefer you didn’t do that,” Mrs. Capell says, glancing at her husband. “Walter?”
“I tend to agree,” Mr. Capell says.
“Why?” Matthew says, looking at his dad.
“Because your mother has gone to a lot of trouble to plan an engagement party.”
“Right,” Mrs. Capell says. “Not a baby shower.”
“Nobody said anything about a baby shower,” Matthew says.
“Good,” Paul says. “Because I didn’t bring a baby gift.”
“You didn’t bring any gift,” Scottie says with a smirk.
I can tell both of them are just trying to keep things light, but my mother shoots them a look, then says, “I agree with the Capells. Let’s just focus on your engagement…and take in this pregnancy news as a family for a moment. Privately. What do you think?” She looks at me with pleading eyes.
I shrug and say, “That’s fine, Mom. Whatever you guys all want.”
“No. It’s what we want, Cecily,” Matthew says.
“Look, sweetie,” Mrs. Capell says, staring at her son. “It’s just a bit…inappropriate to announce a pregnancy at an engagement party.”
“Wow,” Matthew says. “Sorry to be so inappropriate.”
“You know what I mean,” she says. “Now. Come on. Stop pouting and please don’t spoil the party.”
“Sure,” Matthew says, just as the doorbell rings. “You got it, Mom.”
* * *
—
The rest of the evening unfolds exactly according to Mrs. Capell’s impeccable script. Her well-heeled guests arrive, elaborate appetizers are passed, expensive champagne is poured, toasts are given, dinner is served, fine wine flows. Meanwhile, Matthew and I mingle and pose for photos, thank everyone for coming, and play our parts as the perfect couple.
To be fair, we actually are a rather perfect couple tonight, united in our disappointment with our parents’ reaction to our news. We stay together as much as we can, and when we are separated, we exchange glances across the room. At one point, we also share a sidebar in the back hall in which Matthew asks if I’m okay. I tell him that I am, just a little sad.
“It’s going to be all right,” he tells me. “They’ll get over it.”
I nod, but can’t help thinking that our baby—the Capells’
first grandchild—isn’t something that anyone should have to get over.
Oddly enough, the saving grace of the evening turns out to be Amy. She seems to know everyone and is the life of the party, charming and funny, making such a genuine effort to bring my family and Scottie and Jasmine into the fold. I also really like her parents, especially her father, and I can tell my family is taken with all the Silvers, though my brother seems to have ulterior motives. I catch him bringing a drink to Amy, and I quickly nip it in the bud, informing him that she’s a 9/11 widow and he should lay off.
Even Scottie and Jasmine, who have every reason to feel uncomfortable knowing what they know, seem to gravitate toward Amy, and at one point, as the evening winds down, the four of us end up in a tight circle, discussing my favorite wedding dress—which Scottie has dubbed the “Elizabeth Bennet” gown.
“We heard that you predicted that would be the dress,” Scottie says, clearly impressed.
“I did,” Amy says, nodding.
“How in the world did you do that?” he asks her.
“I don’t know. It’s just so her,” Amy says. “Elegant and feminine and understated and timeless.”
“Aw, thank you,” I say.
“It’s true,” she says. “And I think we should design the whole wedding around that look.”
“You mean Jane Austen-y?” Scottie says.
“Yes. Exactly. What do you think, Cecily?”
“That could be really cool,” I say, picturing it.
“Yes,” Amy says, beaming. “It’ll be perfect.”
“Tell that to Mrs. Capell,” I say with a sigh.
“Oh, believe me, I intend to,” she says.
“You heard?” I say. “About our little announcement?”
“Yeah. Matthew told me,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Whatever to all that.”
“Exactly!” Scottie says, giving Amy a high five. “God, I love this girl.”
“But seriously,” Amy says. “I’ll handle Mrs. Capell. She just needs to be reassured that we have time to plan a gorgeous wedding. I promise that’s her only concern here.”
