Natasha handed Summer her sippy cup of juice. “Eloise, I didn’t even know you had a brother.”
“We’ve been on the outs for the past year,” I explained, and then burst into tears.
“El, I’m so sorry,” Jane said.
Amanda and Natasha nodded sympathetically.
I hadn’t even told Jane, whom I usually told everything, about the last time I spoke to Emmett. A year ago, when my grandmother was in the hospital recovering from a stroke, Jane (who’d come every single day bearing fortifying treats for me, like bottles of Coca-Cola and M&Ms), had asked why Emmett hadn’t visited.
“Because he’s a self-absorbed jerk asshole,” I’d screamed like a lunatic.
And for the millionth time in our friendship, which was probably the only thing in the world besides my grandmother that I couldn’t live without, Jane had slung an arm around my slumped shoulders and off we’d gone to St. Monica’s Church to light candles for our losses, our monthly ritual despite the fact that neither of us was Catholic. Jane’s father died from a brain aneurysm when she was nine, and her mother died from ovarian cancer, as mine did, when she was nineteen. She understood.
During some of those candle-lightings, when I’d been there more for Jane than myself, I would wonder which was worse: a dead father or a deadbeat father. A father who was taken from you by the fates of the universe, or a father who was taken from you by his own free will.
Jane and I had never had that conversation because I never spoke about my father.
“So was I right?” Jane asked, shaking sand out of her shoe. “Is it possible that what’s going on with your cold feet has something to do with your family?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I said. I couldn’t talk about it.
But I was going to have to. Because a month from now, my brother and father were expected in the Wow photography studios for a family-photo shoot.
“Are you going to hire stand-ins?” Amanda asked.
I shrugged. “I guess.”
Hello, I’m looking for a fake father and a fake brother to stand in for my real father and real brother at a photo shoot. They should wear black T-shirts, and use hair gel for that “urban appeal.” No, I don’t need to meet them beforehand; the more like strangers they seem, the more like my real family they’ll be!
“El-eez sad?” baby Summer asked, peering up at me from her mother’s lap, her sandy little hands wrapped around her sippy cup.
I played with her pretty auburn curls peeking out from under her knit hat. “No, sweetie. Eloise happy.”
Summer smiled, handed me her Elmo mold and began clapping. “Elmo. Elmo!”
Making Elmo pies with a two-year-old till the sun went down sounded pretty good to me at the moment.
chapter 3
Living with Noah was a lot like living alone, except that I now lived in a very nice one-bedroom brownstone on the Upper West Side, a five-minute walk to Central Park and the Bethesda fountain with its Angel of Waters statue, where I did my best thinking. And, there was his stuff, of course, guy stuff—electric shavers and black Calvin Klein underwear and button-down shirts and big black shoes and gigantic Boston University gray sweatshirts that I put on whenever he left for one of his trips.
As an investigative journalist, Noah was always leaving at a moment’s notice for business trips to a scandal-ridden somewhere. One minute he could be brushing his teeth and the next he would be on a plane to L.A. to cover a pop star’s fight with her boyfriend, toothbrush still in hand.
This weekend he was in Washington with Ashley, his annoyingly voluptuous co-worker who tended toward tight V-necked sweaters. Apparently, the daughter of a famous politician and her aging rock-star husband were holding a press conference outside her father’s office. Noah and Ashley often did a He Said, She Said sidebar on the same story, offering each of their thoughts from a gender perspective. In Hot News focus groups, their He Said, She Said column was rated as a subscriber favorite.
Translation: Noah and Ashley weren’t going to be sent to opposite ends of the earth anytime soon.
In my little corner of the world, though, on the sofa that Noah and I bought together, our first major purchase as a couple, was a two-foot-high chocolate Santa with a note: I love you, fiancée of mine. See you Monday night.—N.
I shook the sand out of my shoes, picked up my Santa and unwrapped a leg. I was a chocoholic. I loved these awful hollow chocolates that drugstores and supermarkets sold for every possible holiday. Noah had a stash from Christmas to last me until Valentine’s Day, when he’d start hoarding giant red-foil-wrapped chocolate lips. Every time he left on a trip, he’d leave me a giant chocolate something with a lovey-dovey note.
I’d rather have Noah. Around. Home.
“I love you too,” I said to the empty apartment. “I do, I do, I do.”
I did. I changed into his big gray Boston U sweatshirt and inhaled the yummy smell of his soap and aftershave, flopped on the couch, broke off one of Santa’s legs and stared at my diamond ring, twinkling in the dim light.
I’m engaged. I’m getting married.
A moment of elation.
Then a dull panic.
I twisted the ring around my finger.
Two days ago on the subway, the total stranger sitting next to me said, “You know what that means, when you twist an engagement ring or a wedding ring around on your finger like you’re doing? It means you want it off. It means you don’t want to get married.”
Had I been twisting my ring? I guess I had.
But I didn’t want it off. Yes, I did. I didn’t. I did, I didn’t. I did, I didn’t.
Didn’t.
Noah proposed on New Year’s Eve. For hours I’d been sitting next to an empty chair at a nightclub table full of happy couples, and then suddenly, I was engaged.
I tried to remember how I’d felt just moments before Noah had unexpectedly shown up. I was at Celebrate, a nightclub in Forest Hills, Queens, with Jane’s wedding party—Jane and Ethan, Amanda and Jeff, Natasha and her new boyfriend Gideon, and Jane’s cousin Dana and her husband, Larry. Jane’s aunt Ina had bought the tickets (seventy-five bucks a couple) as an engagement gift for Jane. As half of my couple was away on business, I thought I could stay home and watch Dick Clark. But Ina had shelled out a whole seventy-five for me, and so I had to go.
Noah was in Las Vegas with Ashley, on the trail of the politician’s daughter who’d supposedly run off to Vegas with the aging rock star. Rumor had it they were planning to say I do at the stroke of midnight in one of the wedding chapels.
While I sipped my champagne, thoughts of Noah and Ashley in a hotel room keeping me stone-cold sober, I had visions of coming home to a blinking light on my answering machine:
Hi, El, it’s me, Noah. Um, I’m really sorry, especially for leaving a message like this on the answering machine, but I thought I should tell you that Ash and I just eloped, ourselves. We were here and all, right at the Elvis Presley wedding chapel, and you know I’ve always had a major thing for Ashley, even though I’ve denied it vehemently. You’ll move out while we’re on our honeymoon, won’t you?
Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath.
Celebrate had been packed to capacity with happy couples blowing noisemakers and talking, laughing, eating, dancing, drinking. Kissing. Lots and lots of kissing. Some even had leftover mistletoe from Christmas.
While everyone smooched, I moved pieces of dinner, rubber chicken cordon bleu and limp, waxy green beans and a hard roll, around on my plate. I was the only one who looked as if she wasn’t having any fun.
On my left, Jane and her fiancé, Ethan, were making out. Not obnoxiously. Nicely, actually. Kissing the way people did when they were in love.
On my right, Amanda and her husband, Jeff, were debating whether their children, who had yet to be conceived, should be two or three years apart.
Across the table, Jane’s cousin Dana Dreer Fishkill and her husband, Larry, were reciting their New Year’
s resolutions. “I resolve to love you even more, if that’s even possible!” Dana was saying.
Natasha and her very good-looking All My Children costar, whom she’d just started dating, were staring into each other’s eyes on the dance floor.
And then there was me, sitting next to…no one.
“Omigod, it’s eleven forty-five!” Dana had shouted from across the table. “Fifteen minutes until the new year. Whoo-hoo!”
As Dana whoo-hooed and the couples kissed, I slid lower in my chair, hoping I could slip unnoticed under the table and just hang out there for a while.
“Is this seat taken?” a voice whispered in my ear.
Noah!
I whirled around, and there he was, standing behind me, his brown leather jacket dusted with snow, the scarf I bought him for his birthday last month wrapped tightly around his neck. “But you’re in Las Vegas!”
He kissed me. “Actually, I’m right here.”
I wrapped my arms around him. Moments later, we were on the dance floor, swaying to Madonna’s “Holiday.”
“I love you, Eloise,” he whispered in my ear.
Ten. Nine. Eight…
“I love you too, Noah.” And I did. So much!
Seven…Six…Five…
“I couldn’t spend New Year’s Eve without you,” he said, kissing me.
Four…Three…Two…
When the crowd got to One, Noah shouted, “Will you marry me?”
Blink. Pinch me.
I blinked. I pinched myself. He was really here. Asking me to marry him.
And as everyone hooted and hollered and clapped and cheered for the new year, I wrapped my arms around him and said, Yes, yes, yes!
Three hours later, I was pacing the tiny bathroom in our apartment, chewing Tums. Chewing my fingernails. Chewing my lower lip.
What the heck had happened?
I bit off a piece of Santa’s other leg and flopped onto my stomach on the sofa.
R-ring!
I grabbed the phone, hungry for Noah’s voice. But it was Philippa Wills.
“Okay, guess who I am,” Philippa said. She cleared her throat. “Does this look like a traditional dress to you, Philippa?” she said in a raspy voice. “Eloise, you may choose from this rack or that rack.”
I laughed. “Snap, snap, people!”
“I hate Astrid’s guts,” she said. “I didn’t know you lost your mom. I’m so sorry.”
The thing about Philippa Wills was that she was more complicated than anyone would ever guess and she could be very kind. When she was kind, like now, I’d feel bad for dreaming she’d find a new Best Friend From Work.
“You mean Acid,” I said.
Philippa laughed. “We’re lucky our rings fit her definition of classic and modern. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be surprised if Astrid made us change them too.”
I glanced down at the ring on my left hand.
Twist On.
Twist Off.
“Your ring is so pretty!” she said. “It’s good the band is so thin, a thicker setting would have overpowered the diamond. What is that, a half-carat?”
Find a new best friend from work, Philippa!
“So, Eloise, why won’t your father and brother be able to come to the photo shoots?”
Nosy. Nosy. Nosy!
“My father lives really far away,” I said, but I had no idea if that was true. I had no idea where Theo Manfred lived. “And my brother is climbing Mount Everest.”
I wasn’t sure why I’d said that. That wasn’t the kind of thing you could lie about and months later say, Oh, I thought he was.
“Wow,” Philippa exclaimed. “That’s cool. My brother couldn’t climb a hill.” She laughed at her own joke. “Weston is Mr. Wall Street, earning millions.”
Weston Wills. He sounded like a guy who earned millions.
I was trying to think of my getaway. Cookies burning in the oven? Other line ringing? Someone at the door?
“Omigod, Eloise, I just remembered why I called you in the first place—do you know if we have to type our wedding planning diary entry?”
“Um, I would think so,” I said. Although Philippa did have perfect penmanship, of course.
“Okay,” she said. “Thanks, Eloise. Bye!”
I’d forgotten about the wedding planning diary.
Your diary entry should focus on the poignancy of shopping for your bridal party without Mother. It’s a strong human-interest point for our readership. Yes, a theme of Mother’s unfulfilled dream—to see her little girl married.
I glanced at the photo of my mother on my bedside table, my beautiful mother in her red peacoat.
Be perky! Use exclamation points.
I sat down at Noah’s desk and turned on his laptop, grateful to have something to think about other than my roiling stomach.
Dear Wedding Diary
Today I went bridesmaid-dress shopping! My bridesmaids will be wearing the ugliest dress—if you can even call it a dress—that the world has ever seen! And the world will see it, because my bridal party has been photographed oohing and aahing over it in a national magazine!
Then again, who really reads Wow Weddings!
I felt much better.
At 2:00 a.m. on Sunday, I woke up from a nightmare. Astrid O’Connor was my mother and she was taking me wedding-gown shopping in It’s Your Day, but it wasn’t It’s Your Day, it was Saks Fifth Avenue, my mother’s favorite department store.
“Does that look like a classic dress to you, Eloise?” Astrid snapped as I ran to a live model wearing the Big Bird dress. “As Wow Weddings’s Classic Bride, you must choose a traditional dress. How about this lovely Audrey Hepburnesque gown? Oh, yes, you would look so beautiful in it. I would be so proud to see you walking down the aisle to Noah in this gown.”
“But I’m not the Classic Bride. I’m Today’s Modern Bride.”
Astrid laughed. “Eloise, don’t be silly. There’s nothing modern about you.”
I ran to the model wearing the Big Bird dress, but she backed away, her yellow feathers ruffling. The more I ran, the farther back she went, leaving feathers in her trail.
Suddenly, I was in the dressing room with Mini-Astrid and Jane and Noah and baby Summer holding out her arms and shouting “Da-da. Da-da!”
Astrid drew aside the curtain. “Your wedding planning diary is not in my in-box, Eloise,” Astrid shouted. “You cannot get married!” She grabbed my hand and tried to twist off my ring.
Nooooo!
I darted up in bed, my heart pounding, and grabbed Noah’s pillow and held it to my chest.
Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath.
Astrid O’Connor as my mother? What? Why hadn’t I paid attention to Psych 101?
I turned on my bedside lamp and sat up in bed, staring up at the ceiling. The dream started to fade, and all I could remember was that Astrid O’Connor was my mother and that I wanted to wear the Big Bird gown but couldn’t.
Astrid O’Connor as my mother was a lot more of a nightmare than wearing that yellow feather dress would ever be.
I glanced at the photo of my mother on my bedside table. She was sitting on a bench in Central Park on a gorgeous fall day four months before she died. The trees were changing colors, and a squirrel was racing along the bench next to her.
She’d been happy that day, feeling better than usual, but a good friend’s daughter was getting married that night, and my mother wasn’t well enough to go. She wanted me to go in her place, and I did.
“Weddings are so stupid,” I’d said when I got home. “What’s the point? All that money, all that time planning, and for what? Men don’t stick around anyway.”
“Some men do,” my mother had said. “Not every man is like your father, Eloise.”
My plan was never to get married. I was scared to death of marriage.
But then my mother died, and what scared me changed.
Be perky. Use exclamation points.
Dear Wedding Diary, I typed.
&nbs
p; And typed and typed and typed until I woke up at 6:00 a.m., my face pressed into the warm keyboard.
Wow Weddings Memorandum
From: Astrid O’Connor
To: Eloise Manfred
Re: Wedding-Planning Diary Entry #1
Eloise,
See my comments on the attached. The bits about your mother need perking up. In Wow Weddings, there is no cancer, only serious illness. There is no death, only loss. Sidenote: I realize you’re in the art dept. and not editorial, so please consult a dictionary and utilize your spell-checker for your entries. For example, “casket” has only one “t.”—AO
chapter 4
“I got an A on my first diary entry!” Philippa squealed, her pink-and-white face looming over the rim of my cubicle on Tuesday afternoon. “I am so getting promoted to assistant editor at my next performance review!”
My diary entry had no grade. Apparently, it was so far afield from what Astrid wanted that it didn’t even merit a D+ for effort.
“What did you get?” Philippa asked.
I was saved from answering by the ringing of Philippa’s phone.
“Philippa Wills, editorial assistant, Wow Weddings magazine,” she chirped into the receiver. A moment of silence. A happy shriek. “Hi, Parker! I love you too, sweetsums. No, you’re sweetsums. No, you are! Okay, bye, Parkie.”
Parker Gersh was not a Parkie.
Philippa’s face appeared over my cubicle again. “I’m getting married—and to the greatest guy on earth!” she trilled. “And it’s all thanks to you, Eloise! Four months ago, I didn’t even have a boyfriend! And now I’m getting married. Whoo-hoo!”
Four months ago, when I thought I’d been having a private telephone conversation with Jane in my cubicle, Philippa had poked her head in the moment I hung up and said, “At least you have a love life, Eloise. At least you have a boyfriend, even if he’s always away on business with whatshername—What is her name, his flirty co-worker who’s always all over him?”
Did Philippa listen to every phone conversation I had? Apparently so.
Whose Wedding Is It Anyway? Page 4
