by Hope Lyda
“Maybe the early arrival of Harry and his mom will turn out to be a good thing. A chance for us all to…”
“His mom is coming?”
She peers over at a year-at-a-glance wall calendar hanging from her bookshelf. “Yes, early.”
“Where will they stay?”
She gives me a look.
“Not with Carson?”
Sadie reaches toward her bangs, but I grab her hand and hold it. She cries for a while. I’ve been around her for the waterworks so many times during the engagement that I have figured out her pattern. Shake. Shake. Breathe in. Exhale cry.
“You have nothing to worry about. I’m sure Carson just wants his son close. You should see that as a sign of responsibility.”
“Can’t he responsibly get them a hotel—a nice hotel?” She waves her hands in the air with exasperation and then folds them back in her lap as though worn out. “I don’t really feel that way, Mari. His son should be with him. I’m just not sure where the boundaries should be with Harry’s mom.”
“Have you discussed it with Carson?”
“Not at all. I found out through his mother. She called to go over the rehearsal dinner arrangements and mentioned that Harry and Leila should probably be invited since they will be staying with Carson.”
“Well, our history is always with us. As I recall, you had a former boyfriend on the invitation list. Ghosts of romances past.”
“He was my first and only long-term romance before Carson. But Carson was married. Married.” Sadie repeats the word in case I didn’t get the significance. “I thought girls like you and me would be safe from such things. And that women like Angelica, who find love around every corner, would be the haunted ones.”
I sigh and yet cannot help but laugh with her. I have such warped thoughts too. “Sadie, do you realize that the two of us have bought into the existence of a picture-perfect life hook, line, and sinker?”
“Is that wrong?”
“It’s like women running around using a magazine’s latest rules to change their dating life. Now, that might totally work for them. But the sad part is that all of us want to believe so badly in one cookie-cutter story line that we are willing to follow rules or trends instead of God’s leading.”
“I already blew the perfect timeline concept, so I might as well allow a new story line to unfold.”
“Exactly. The story intended to unfold.” Just then my phone rings to the Sesame Street theme. “It is probably Caitlin, drowning in tulle.”
“Answer it. That ring is no better than Star Wars.”
“Let me talk to my real friend!” I pretend to be insulted. “What happened?” I say instead of hello.
“Mari? It’s me. Nothing happened.” Beau’s voice crackles through a bad connection.
“What?”
“My mentor flew in a day early…”
“And boy are his arms tired,” I punch line.
Beau doesn’t seem to notice my incredibly accommodating sense of humor. “So I’m afraid I will be out of commission today and on through the weekend. Sorry about dinner. I’ll have to cancel because my mentor…”
“Yeah. I got that part. That’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
Like I have a choice. “I’m bummed because we hardly see each other anymore, and I had reserved a table at that new Thai place…” as I hear my voice I realize I sound needy, but I don’t really feel that way. “I do understand, though, how much work is involved in this program, Beau. You know I’m supportive of it, right?”
“Thanks. I’ll call ya later. Sorry about canceling. She didn’t give me any warning.”
“She?” That neediness tone just spiked.
“Yes. Paige.”
Paige. I sense a hint of preplanned nonchalance.
“It’s just business, Mari.” He sounds very male about now.
“I realize this. So why didn’t you mention it was a she before? Like when I made the mistake of thinking it was a he a moment ago? Or the forty million times we have discussed this mentor program and your mentor. Your mentor-ess. Which sounds like…”
“Don’t be silly, Mari. I’m sure I mentioned Paige by name. I really have to go. We’re okay, right?”
“We’re okay. I’ll call you later.” I decide not to dig any deeper into this topic while in front of Sadie. She has just unveiled her secret, but I cannot expose mine. Though I want to assure us both that while the love we receive might not be exactly as we pictured, it can still…
“I had better call you. We’ll be in a meeting.”
End of conversation. Beginning of suppressed questions.
“Bye, Beau,” I whisper with a tinge of melodrama and hang up the phone.
Sadie clears her throat. “Mari, you have nothing to worry about with Beau. He’s like the ideal guy.”
“As in like but not the ideal guy?”
“Uh-oh. You’re in quite the mood.”
“Yep. I had better be going home. I have lots of weekend plan revisions to make and comfort food to pick up.” My voice falls away, as do my thoughts and a little hope.
Sadie seems to notice. “It will pass.”
We hug and she gives me an extra squeeze.
I grab my sweater from the hook by the door. My silver ring gets caught on the sleeve, but I’m too impatient to detach myself so I wave the cardigan like a flag as I gather my purse, a few bridal magazines, and the box of books about dating and cabin building. “It was worth looking for,” I say on the verge of tears. The fact that I know I am overreacting does little to calm me.
“What was?” Sadie comments absently, a bit too baffled by my sweater dance to recall how we just spent our Friday evening. “Oh, love.”
“Right.” I meant the photo.
The soothing evening air kisses my face, and I pull the door closed.
Tutu Good
Sometimes it is when a friend says nothing that you can discern the loudest cry for help. When Angelica decided to swear off men and get her life back on the straight and narrow, I think she narrowed life down too far. This is my realization today as I watch her sluggishly move from the escalator to the china department, where I have just printed thirty pages of registered gift listings for Sadie and Carson from a kiosk.
Angelica has always had an edge about her but never, ever lines. Until now. Beneath the fluorescent lights and above the glow from crystal displays fine creases appear in surprising numbers around her mouth and about her eyes.
“Tell me this is the novel you always wanted to write,” she pleads.
“Afraid not, fellow shopper. But the good news? I had them printed out in ascending price order. We can get rid of these.” I scan the pages and toss twenty-eight of them in the recycle bin.
“What does that leave? A ‘first year of marriage’ Christmas ornament?”
I return my gaze to the list. “Pretty much.”
Among the salad bowls and the beach-themed weekend plate sets we wander, pick up random items and scrunch our noses. Nothing suits our friend. “You think the only good choices were in those last chapters?” Angelica asks, sighing.
“These gifts are for people who don’t know her,” I groan.
“You’re right. Let’s go. We won’t find it here.”
We make our way through the crowd of registering almost-brides and commission-frenzied saleswomen to the heat of the afternoon.
“Let’s go in here.” Angelica points to a restaurant on the corner. I’m too hot to say I just ate lunch.
When we step into the cool, I realize this is Nonconformity. Angelica and I have a history here but she does not say a word. She nods to our hostess, who is wearing a tall Abe Lincoln hat and again to our waiter, who is dressed in a tutu.
Angelica’s eyes glance over the decorative walls and large booths we had first seen on a Friday night last year. She had left the place early with some other friends and Peyton had remained behind with me to profess his feelings of admiration for her. It was when
Angelica was dating anyone and everyone except for guys who had potential to make her stop and consider what life would look like through the lens of love. I had consoled Peyton and wondered why I was always the girl having love for her friends professed to her. Even in high school, this had been my role in the dating wheel.
“Nachos and diet soda.” Angelica hands her menu over to tiny dancer and motions for me to order.
“Lettuce wraps with the orange salsa and an iced tea.”
Our waiter curtseys and walks off toward the kitchen. Only now do I notice he has on turquoise Converse sneakers.
“Are you going to tell me what is going on?” I say with blunt force.
Shock. Surprise. Innocence. They all make a brief appearance on Angelica’s face, but the looks of acknowledgment, guilt, and self-loathing remain. “Yes. I know this is where Peyton told you he liked me. Can’t a girl eat wherever she wants during a busy shopping day with a good friend? The kind of friend who doesn’t bring up sore subjects?”
“I think you are pining.”
“Pining. Pining?” She first says the word quickly and then the second slowly, trying to make sense of it. The friend formerly known as “Angel” to her in-crowd groupies never had to nor desired to pine for anyone. “That is ridiculous. Nobody pines these days. When have you known me to pine?”
I look down at her fingernails. Just as I had suspected. Brittle, unpolished, and completely her own jagged stubs. “Let’s see—perhaps it was the last time you went out in public without a manicure.”
Those hands pull back toward their owner and disappear under the table.
“Angelica, when are you going to let yourself take a chance? At least call the guy and let him know if he is waiting in vain. You know he hasn’t dated anyone.”
Her eyes soften and her mouth draws together with worry. “Is he mad?”
“No. Just hopeful and a bit enamored with a girl he has never gone out with. What a nut, right?” I lighten the mood by insulting the object of my friend’s secret admiration.
She laughs and raises her eyebrows, which also have returned to an au naturel state. “I promised that I would take a break from dating and see what God gave me to fill that void.” She pauses as our waiter returns with our food. “It turned out to be a lot.”
“Too much,” I add. “Need I list all the volunteer activities you are involved in? Your time helping me at Golden Horizons alone would qualify as a part-time job. I appreciate it, but combined with the church stuff, fund-raisers, food bank, and sponsorships of children in Africa, you have no time to…”
“What? Say it.” Angelica dips a chip deep in the sea of orange and awaits my response with accusatory eyes.
“To know yourself, I guess. Wasn’t that your objective?”
She drops the chip back into the bowl and sips her drink. “What if I return to myself and become self-absorbed again? You know what I was like before.”
“Uh, yeah. But this extreme swing of the pendulum is throwing you off balance too. Getting your faith and personal life back on track does not require you to pay penance this way. Have you left forgiveness out of your theology?”
She nods and retrieves the abandoned, soggy chip. This time she devours it. She looks up a bit hopeful. “You’re probably right.” While she chomps away with revived hope, a slight wince crosses her ruby mouth.
“What is it?”
“A couple months ago I was at a store buying a baby shower gift for a woman at church. The girl at the counter said, ‘Happy Mother’s Day,’ and I said, ‘No, thank you.’ ” Angelica traces her finger along the edge of the table and seems frustrated. “I said it like she asked if I wanted pickled herring.”
“Pickled herring?”
“I hate pickled herring.”
“I’ve never had…”
Angelica interrupts my digression. “The point is that my response was so immediate. ‘No, thank you.’ I mean, who says that? Do you really think this is the kind of woman Peyton wants? Deserves?” Angelica points a hangnail in her direction.
“He deserves a lot. You’re right.” I look directly at my friend. “But, Angelica, you are amazing. You have so much to offer someone.”
“You are just saying that so I will buck up and stop being the downer in Sadie’s fairy tale.”
“Not true. I’m saying it because I don’t want to show up at your apartment someday and see you in fetal position, on the couch, with Tori Amos or Kate Bush music playing in the background.”
“That happened once in college,” she states for the record and cracks a smile.
“Would it help to know he is still waiting for you to emerge from your dating coma? This is recent and accurate news.”
“He’s too good.” She shakes her head back and forth as though this is actually a bad trait.
“Is this what you are trying to do?” I add up her recent behavior and compare it to what she has just said. “Are you trying to become good enough for Peyton?”
“Maybe,” she shrugs. “That sounds crazy out in the open. In my mind it made sense.” She laughs at herself. “I wish I understood why Sadie’s engaged bliss has sent me spinning.”
The friend I thought was immune to jealousy and peer pressure has just confessed to conforming to the confusion all of us have experienced since Sadie’s engagement.
“Well, join the club, sister. I have yet to feel good enough for Beau.”
“But you have what Sadie has.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I say quietly, not wanting to go deeper into my own doubts.
“You haven’t answered my question. How do I find my way back to myself without going overboard?” The last chip is devoured and Angelica licks the salt from her fingers.
I look up and see the tutu coming toward us. He has added one of those propeller beanie hats to his outfit.
“Ask him. He seems to have found the key to moderation and mental health.”
“Funny.” Angelica tosses a toothpick with yellow cellophane toward me. It sticks in the weave of my top.
For a moment I have hope that my friend is on her way back to herself.
What Goes with Chartreuse?
I look at my latest wedding responsibilities written out in purple ink on vellum—Sadie’s elegant way of dictating our lives. It would be a welcomed touch if revised lists—in calligraphy—did not arrive in my mailbox regularly. I’ve taken up origami because the paper is too pretty to toss in my produce plastic bag-lined wastebasket.
We are all seated on a silver bench awaiting Valerie, the overzealous bridal consultant who is going to show us Sadie’s choice in bridesmaid dresses. Sadie had to go out of town for a national botanical society conference, but she made us promise that we would call her with our reaction as soon as we saw the dresses. She said we might be surprised by the style she went with, but she knew we would grow to love them.
This last comment and our collective closets full of pink lace sweetheart necklines and wide-load, rear-end bows make us all nervous. Angelica is biting her newly manicured nails, Caitlin is tracing the pinstripes on her pants with a dime, and I am willing Valerie to make her sedative offer to me just one more time.
“So perfect of her to be gone.” Angelica rolls her eyes and returns to her Bible study notes.
I try to defend the defenseless. “Sadie wanted to be here. Can she help it if she is so well known in her field that she was asked to speak on designer gardens of the twenty-first century to her peers?” I wish I had nails to bite. All I can think of are those dang awful monogrammed purses made to match the creation we are about to see.
“Sadie has great taste. I mean, a bit sedate for my preferences,” says Caitlin, “but we have nothing to worry about. Besides, she has been in more weddings than all of us combined. She knows better than to offer us garments of fluff and no substance.”
“Excuse me, Valerie?” I call out to our MIA hostess.
The second in command happy girl rushes into our viewing room on heels tha
t are toothpick-thin. “Yes. Can I help you?”
“Did Valerie go to lunch?”
Happy girl the clone realizes I am kidding but impatient. “Of course not. You’re funny. Ms. Verity’s dresses were special ordered, so we are transporting them from the shipment cases to the preview trolley.”
“This is bridal shop speak for Valerie is unpacking boxes and loading a roller rack, am I correct?”
Nod.
The nice version of me returns for one last try at nourishment. “I’m sorry. We are all on our lunch break and very hungry. Could we have that tray of appetizers come through here again? And could you at least ease our angst by assuring us that the dresses are not made out of taffeta stiff enough to walk the aisle by themselves?”
She takes in my requests and rings for more food. “I don’t want to give away too much, but I promise you that there is not a thread of taffeta on these unique dresses.”
Angelica looks up from Philippians, which is now painted highlighter yellow in her travel Bible. “Wait. Classic is rarely described as unique. Get Valerie in here pronto.”
The squeak of the preview trolley arrives just ahead of the creak of the snack cart. The dresses are draped in opaque garment bags and the veggies are wrapped in wontons. I have a hard time remembering which I am actually here for.
Valerie pulls one from the pole and positions it to face us. She begins to unsnap the seams.
Snap.
Snap.
“I feel like we should have a drumroll,” Caitlin whispers.
I am about to joke “we have egg rolls,” but now the dress is revealed and I cannot think of anything except “bold stripes.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Angelica snaps.
Caitlin rubs her eyes and repeats the motion. I know this doesn’t help because I just did the same and the dresses are still…
“Vibrant Vixen.” Either Valerie speaks with self-absorbed alliteration or she names our gowns.
“Excuse me?” Angelica says, incredulous.
“Aren’t they fabulous? These are hard to find designs from Europe.”
You mean hard to look at.
