Whose Wedding Is It Anyway?

by Melissa Senate

  “You’re going to do what you want to do, Emmett.”

  “Meaning?” he asked.

  “Meaning, it would be really great if you wanted to be a father to your child,” I said.

  “No ‘You should do this, you should do that’?” he asked. “That’s what I expected from you.”

  What good is it if you don’t want to? I thought.

  If you didn’t want to be a father, how could you be a father? You could do it out of a sense of duty, and you could rise to the occasion—and maybe you’d be rewarded in ways you never imagined.

  I wondered if it worked liked that. If you could do something out of duty and end up happy, like in Hallmark Hall of Fame movies on television. Last night, I watched a cable-TV movie about a mean, lonely grandmother whose grown children had run from her the minute they could, and whose abandoned grandchildren were desperate for a home. She took them in out of duty and struggled against loving them, and then tried sticking them on a bus to some other relative—only to let the bus go by when it came.

  Maybe it would be like that for Emmett.

  Maybe he’d take one look at his baby and fall in love.

  There’s intrinsic motivation and extrinsic motivation, my grandmother had said. Your father didn’t seem to have either.

  “Am I like Dad?” Emmett asked in a small voice. “Is that who I’m going to be? That son of a bitch?”

  “That’s up to you, Em.”

  He looked at me and dropped his face in his hands.

  “I hired a model to be my father for the photo shoot on Monday,” I told him. “I thought you should know.”

  “That’s pretty pathetic,” he said. “A fake father?”

  “Two weeks ago, I hired a fake brother just in case you didn’t show up.”

  He stared at me. “Well, I did.”

  “Well, our father’s not going to show up, is he?”

  “Why don’t you tell your boss to go to hell?” he asked.

  “Because that’s not what you do in the real world, Emmett. As much as I would like to, she’s my boss. I need my job. I need to pay my rent and bills. And I really like my job. I might not like Astrid, but I like my job. You can’t go around telling people, especially people who pay you, to go to hell just because you don’t like them.”

  “I don’t need a lecture,” he said.

  “Actually, little brother, you do.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Are you ever going to get off my case?”

  “No.”

  “Great. You’re going to be a lot of fun to be around.”

  “Someone’s got to set you straight, Emmett.”

  “The baby’s going to do that,” he said, and I could tell he was surprised it had come out of his own mouth. He lay down on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling. “Can I crash here tonight?”

  “You can,” I told him, “but go home, Emmett. Someone’s waiting for you.” And with that, I went into my bedroom.

  chapter 18

  When I woke up the next morning, Emmett was fast asleep on the sofa. On his chest lay his wallet, open to a photo of Charla.

  I wondered if Theo Manfred did that, looked at photos of my mother, of us. If he had any photographs of us. Then again, if you looked at photographs, you might as well be there with the people.

  I glanced at Emmett, at the picture rising and falling with his every deep, sleeping breath. I wanted to stick around and be there when he woke up, but I had a feeling Emmett needed some alone time on safe ground, and I had to be at Fly With Us Travel in midtown at 9:00 a.m. sharp to meet the Wow crowd to “pick” a honeymoon destination.

  Honeymoon. Wherever it was Noah and I were going on our honeymoon, I would be married when I arrived. I would be Eloise Benjamin—figuratively, if not literally.

  As the Second Avenue bus bumped its way downtown, I stared at my ring and forced myself not to twist it.

  I wondered where Noah and I would be going for the honeymoon. Jupiter? That would be modern. Or perhaps hell. That would be truly nouvelle!

  When I arrived at Fly With Us Travel, the owner was handing out brochures to the Wowers. Astrid, Mini-Astrid, Devlin, his assistant and Philippa were seated around a long oval conference table.

  “We’d like to push two of our least-popular honeymoon packages,” the tall, gaunt man said. “We and the two resorts are splitting the cost of the packages to ensure that both of our names are given equal treatment in the magazine feature.”

  Astrid nodded. “Of course.”

  “Given the country’s patriotic spirit of late,” the man said, “we’d like to highlight the good old U.S. of A.’s very special honeymoon locales.”

  What? I wasn’t going to Tahiti? Venice? Iceland?

  Ah. I was going to Hawaii! No problem. Noah and I, some white sand, the bluest of blue water—

  The owner waved two brochures in the air. “So, without further ado, we are pleased to be offering the Orlando, Florida, four-star hotel package and the Chicago, Illinois, Culinary Bed-and-Breakfast package.”

  Huh? Were those honeymoon destinations? Which was the modern one and which was the classic one?

  Astrid read my mind. “As our Classic Bride, Philippa will be going to the sunshine state of Florida. Eloise, our Modern Bride will be going to the famed windy city of Chicago.”

  I’m going to Chicago in the dead of winter on my honeymoon? Was that modern because no one in their right mind would do it?

  I glanced at Philippa. She was staring into space. I waited for her to protest Florida, but she was barely blinking.

  No: But where’s the this stack?

  No: I want to go to Chicago in the dead of winter!

  No: Can I call Parker for his thoughts?

  Instead, she looked as if she was about to cry.

  “And guess what, Classic Bride?” the owner said, staring from me to Philippa until Mini-Astrid pointed at Philippa. “Two tickets to Walt Disney World are included free!”

  No reaction. Not a peep. Not even the tiniest of snickers.

  Ground control to Philippa. Come in, Philippa. Didn’t you hear, you get to go to Walt Disney World and see Mickey Mouse and spend your honeymoon with thousands of children!

  “I’m delighted,” Astrid said. “We really need to go back to basics. And what is more basic than good old-fashioned Florida sunshine and Mickey Mouse!”

  Ground control to Philippa Wills.

  Nothing again.

  If Astrid’s nonsensical comments couldn’t rouse even a grimace out of Philippa, something was really wrong.

  “I love it,” Astrid said. “I absolutely love it. Not only does the Classic Bride go back to basics, back to tradition, but the Modern Bride learns how to cook on her honeymoon. How positively post retro!”

  Did that actually mean something?

  “Classic Bride, you may choose from the Orlando four-star Hilton or the Orlando four-star Marriott,” the owner said, handing her two brochures.

  She didn’t take them.

  “Philippa, are you all right?” I asked.

  “I’m not going to Florida,” Philippa said quietly.

  Ah. There was the Philippa I knew and had started to love.

  Astrid glared at her. “Philippa, as the Classic Bride, you must accept the traditional honeymoon package. You may choose between—”

  “I’m not going to Florida,” Philippa repeated, her face, her voice expressionless. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Astrid rolled her eyes. “Philippa, I’ve had just about enough—”

  Philippa threw the brochures high in the air. One landed on Astrid’s wrap. “I’m not going on my honeymoon because I’m dropping out of the magazine feature. You can find a new Classic Bride.”

  “Philippa, enough with the theatrics,” Astrid scolded. “No one has time for this.”

  “I’m serious,” Philippa yelped. “I’m dropping out. It’s not worth the hassle. I want the wedding I want.”

  A vein moved in Astrid’s temple.
“Let me make myself absolutely clear, Philippa. Unless the wedding is off, the feature is on. Perhaps I need to remind you of the binding contract you signed—page six, paragraph one.”

  “The wedding is off,” Philippa cried, and ran out the door.

  I looked everywhere for Philippa. Two different Starbucks, a diner, the cosmetics counter at Bloomingdale’s. I didn’t have her cell-phone number, and got her machine twice at home.

  Finally, I went to her apartment building. She lived in a fifth-floor walk-up seven blocks north of me, on the fifth floor, of course. When I buzzed her apartment, I didn’t expect an answer, but I heard the shaky hello come through the intercom.

  “Philippa, it’s Eloise.”

  Buzzzzz.

  I pushed through the heavy double doors and hiked up the stairs. Philippa was waiting on the top step, her blond hair in a ponytail, her blue eyes red-rimmed again. She’d changed into a T-shirt and jeans, two items of clothing I had never seen her wear.

  “I was planning to move in with Parker once we got married, but now I guess I’ll be living here forever.” She broke down in sobs, and I took her hand and led her inside, to the futon that dominated the studio.

  “The wedding is off?” I asked, reaching for the box of tissues on her nightstand and handing it to her.

  She nodded.

  “What happened?”

  She sniffled and blew her nose. “I told Parker there was something I had to tell him before we got married and that was that.”

  “He called off the wedding because you changed your name?” I asked.

  “Not just that,” she said.

  I waited.

  “I also admitted that I’m really Queens, not Manhattan. That my father is a plumber, not an investment banker. That my mother is a cashier at a diner, not a fund-raiser.”

  Ah.

  “He said I’m a phony and a fake and the wedding’s off,” she said, breaking down again in sobs. “Philippa, I’ll bet that Parker just feels as blown away by the information as I do. You just need to explain why you felt you had to change your name and some details of your background. The important thing for him to know is how hard you’ve worked to lead yourself to him.”

  She stopped crying. “That’s exactly what I did, isn’t it? Parker is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

  “Go tell him,” I said.

  She brightened. “Will you hang out for a little while until I make myself look decent?” she asked.

  I nodded. “You bet.”

  She hugged me. “I’m really glad you’re my maid of honor, Eloise. Although, at my wedding, you’ll be my matron of honor. You’ll be a married woman by then.”

  “Philippa, do you ever get cold feet?” I asked her. “Or are you one hundred percent sure that Parker Gersh is the man for you?”

  “Oh, I know he’s the one,” she said, applying her trademark pink lipstick.

  “How?” I asked. “How are you so sure?”

  “Because he feels like home.”

  “You’re the third person who’s said that in response to the question,” I told her.

  So why was I the only one who didn’t understand what that meant? What did home feel like?

  Incomplete. Like something is missing.

  That was what my apartment felt like to me when Noah wasn’t there, which was usually.

  So if A plus B equaled C, then Noah felt like home.

  Which, in my neighborhood, wasn’t a good thing.

  “Look at what Acid just dropped in my in-box,” Philippa said the next day at work, waving a memo over the top rim of my cubicle. She let it flutter down; it landed on my keyboard.

  Wow Weddings Memorandum

  To: Philippa Wills

  From: Astrid O’Connor

  Re: Wow Weddings’s Today’s Bride Feature: Classic Bride

  Dear Philippa:

  Please advise as to your premarital status. Yesterday you verbalized that you and your fiancé are no longer planning to marry. As such, Wow Weddings will need to find a new Classic Bride and reshoot at considerable expense. We will need to know, no later than start of the workday on Monday, if we must cancel your contract.—AO

  Philippa spit on the memo and crumpled it into a ball and three-point shot it into my wastepaper basket. “Poor Philippa,” she singsonged. “I, Queen Bee Acid O’Connor, am oh-so-sorry that you and Parker are having problems and that the wedding has been called off! Why don’t you take the morning off and go talk to your fiancé? Don’t you even give this silly feature a thought. After all, what’s more important—the rest of your life or a magazine that no one reads anyway?”

  I laughed. “The magazine, of course!”

  She smiled, then her face began crumpling and she dropped into my guest chair. “It’s been two days, and he still won’t take my calls or return them. I’ve gone to his apartment and to the Hot News office. He won’t see me.”

  Brainstorm!

  “Philippa, I have an idea. Have you written your Why I Said Yes! column yet?”

  She shook her head.

  “Write it,” I told her. “Now. Fast. And then messenger it over to Hot News.”

  “But he knows why I said yes. Because I love him. Because I want to spend the rest of my life with him.”

  “But tell him why, Philippa. Tell him exactly why. Parker’s a journalist. He’ll respond to the written word.”

  “You think?” she asked, her entire expression brightening.

  “I think. And hurry up. If it doesn’t work, we’ll need a new tactic. If you don’t tell Acid the wedding’s on by Monday, you’re out of the feature.”

  “You know what? I really don’t care about the stupid feature anymore,” she said. “What am I getting? A wedding I don’t want.”

  “A free wedding you don’t want,” I reminded her.

  She shook her head. “I just want Parker.” She bit her lip. “I guess it would be nice to have a big wedding with all the trimmings, even if it’s not exactly the wedding I’d plan for myself. I don’t want to go to City Hall. I’ve always dreamed of the whole thing—the gown, the flowers, the tables for ten.”

  I smiled. “Then you’d better get busy writing this all down for your Why I Said Yes! column.”

  She flew away from my cubicle and into her own. Moments later, I heard the fast clicking of her keyboard.

  An hour later, I heard the fast clicking of Astrid O’Connor’s and Mini-Astrid’s heels in the hallway.

  “Philippa!” Astrid barked. “What is this?”

  I peered through the doorway of the cubicle. Astrid was standing in front of Philippa’s cubicle, waving a few pieces of paper.

  “What’s what, Astrid?” Philippa asked, blue eyes innocent.

  “Why don’t I read this aloud,” Astrid threatened, “and we’ll see if you really want our tens of thousands of readers to know this…information.”

  Philippa crossed her arms over her chest. “Go right ahead,” she said.

  “‘Why I Said Yes! by Philippa Wills,’” Astrid began slowly in a singsong voice.

  “So far, so good,” Philippa said.

  Astrid glared at her, then at the paper in her hand. “‘I said yes to Parker Gersh because when I’m with him, I’m the most me,’” she read.

  “Is that what you have a problem with?” Philippa asked her.

  All eyes swung to Astrid.

  “If I may continue without interruption,” Astrid snapped. She cleared her throat. “‘Let me start at the beginning,’” she read. “‘I was born in Flushing, Queens—’” she raised her voice “‘—to Brenda and Harold Wilschitz. They named me Phyllis.’” She raised her voice again. “Phyllis Wilschitz.” She glanced at Philippa. “Shall I continue?” Astrid asked, triumph in her voice.

  “Oh, please do,” Philippa responded.

  “I think I’ve read quite enough,” Astrid said. “My dear girl, I am all for self-improvement. If my parents had named me Agnes O’Dickwad, I would have changed it to Astrid O’Connor
in a heartbeat.”

  Mini-Astrid burst out laughing, then clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “However,” Astrid continued, “your column, as is, does not reflect the mind-set of the Classic Bride.”

  “The Classic Bride wouldn’t have changed the name her parents gave her?” I asked.

  Astrid smiled at me. “Exactly.”

  I affected Philippa’s innocent expression. “But doesn’t tradition dictate that Today’s Classic Bride change her name to her husband’s?”

  Astrid glared at me. A cool glare. An I have never liked you or your stupid haircut glare. Then she turned her attention to Philippa. “As Wow Weddings’s Classic Bride, Philippa—or Phyllis, rather—you must write your column from the perspective of a traditional woman. Our advertisers are looking to you to be their voice, their model for all their products.”

  “My first name is Philippa. I am Philippa Wills. And that’s who I’ll be for the rest of my life. I’m not changing my last name when I marry Parker—if he’ll still marry me, that is. And I’m not changing the column. Why I said yes is on those pages in your hand. It’s the truth.”

  “That’s all well and good, Philippa,” Astrid said. “However, I wasn’t aware that you had final approval of anything.”

  “Of myself, I do,” Philippa replied. “Of my future, of my personal life, I do.”

  “Let me make myself very clear,” Astrid said. “If you are not going to cooperate with the needs of the feature, with the needs of Wow Weddings’s readership, you must resign. If you are not in my office by 9:00 a.m. sharp on Monday to let me know that the wedding is indeed on and that you will cooperate, I will null and void your contract. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal,” Philippa said.

  “And by the way, Philippa,” Astrid added. “Despite your current engagement issues, I do expect you to be present for the reception-site selection shoot tomorrow and the registry-selection shoot on Friday. Per your contract with the magazine for the Today’s Bride feature.”

  “I wouldn’t miss either shoot for the world,” Philippa said.

  Astrid glared at Philippa, then rolled her eyes and clicked down the hall, Mini-Astrid following, her pen flying over her pad as Astrid barked notes for finding a potential replacement for the Classic Bride.