by Alex Wellen
“Wait,” he tells me. Does Gregory think this marriage is too sudden? Surely he wouldn’t have us live together first. Living together is a “cop-out”—just ask your buddy Sid. I should call Gregory back and invoke Sid’s advice.
I whip out my cell phone, toggle over to my outgoing calls list, and redial Gregory. The call connects instantly.
“Hello,” he says.
I hang up.
Gregory doesn’t have caller ID. Gregory may have caller ID. I don’t know if Gregory has caller ID.
He knew it was me. He has my number. If he thinks something’s wrong, he’ll call back. I wait for the phone to ring, but it doesn’t. I try to imagine what he’s doing. I envision him playing computer solitaire. He’s reading a World War II thriller. He’s reheating leftovers from the party. He has no reason to suspect that I just called or that we still need to talk. In his mind, we made a deal: I’m waiting. But should I?
I prop my feet up on the dining room table, pry off my sneaks, and slip off my socks. What I wouldn’t do right now to have Mac Daddy here to help me.
What if I ask now? Claws for cons. Toes for pros.
The toes have it over the fingers, six to three. There’s no resisting simple math: I’ve got twice as many reasons to ask than to wait.
I swing by the car and grab our Scrabble set. When I walk in the room, Paige is adjusting the strap on her black cocktail dress. A few loose strands of hair hang like bangs. I shake the familiar scarlet game box in her direction.
“Yes!” she says jerking her fist down as if she’s just scored a goal.
CHEZ Canard is located about twenty minutes north of the Thistle Dew in Healdsburg, the quaintest of Sonoma towns. I selected the four-star restaurant not so much for its soft lighting, vaulted ceilings, or subdued atmosphere, but for the Parisian cuisine. Tonight I will finally deliver on the pledge I made to myself more than a decade ago: order a complete meal for Paige in French. I downloaded the menu off the Internet last night, but very little of it was actually in French (or English for that matter). I’m still not sure what Kaffi Lime, Saffron Nage, or Salt-cured Torchon with Rhubarb is. Still, I did my best to translate the menu from Chinese to English to French.
“The lady will start with the hairy cot-verts aveck pasteek et Bookerone,” I say, butchering Paige’s appetizer.
The garçon nods his head confidently, but nothing’s registering.
I give him a hint by pointing to the Green Beans with Watermelon and Anchovies on the menu.
He tells me that I’ve made an excellent choice, but neither Paige nor Frenchy can stand much more. Halfway through ordering her entrée, the two of them beg me to surrender like Napoleon at Waterloo.
I rush us through the most expensive dinner of my life so we can get back, and get started. As we coast past Sonoma’s tree-lined plaza packed with small shops, restaurants, and historical buildings, Paige can’t help herself.
“Let’s walk dinner off,” she implores. “It’ll be romantic.”
“We can do that when it’s light out. Let’s go back to the room. It’ll be plenty romantic there,” I assure her. “I brought red wine. We’ll flip on a fire.”
Before she can answer, I’m turning into the rock driveway of the Thistle Dew Inn. I pull the emergency brake, pop the car in neutral, and turn off the ignition. The car slowly winds down. The crickets chirp loudly.
Then the first tremors strike. This is the real thing: something on the order of a magnitude 5.0 earthquake.
“Did you feel that?” I cry.
“Feel what?”
“There it is again.”
“I think my cell phone’s vibrating,” she realizes, digging through her purse.
She’s right. The muffled hum is emanating from her purse. My heart is thumping. I’m cracking up. Gregory is calling so he can spoil everything.
“Let the call go,” I suggest calmly. “We’re on vacation.”
I place my hand on her bare thigh and strangle the pleather steering wheel with the other. She produces the phone. The tiny green cell phone light illuminates the cabin like kryptonite.
“Hmm, it’s Lara,” she says, studying it.
Lara knows! Paige looks at me. The phone vibrates again. Please don’t answer it, I plead with my eyes. I kiss her on the lips. The phone buzzes. I kiss her neck until the phone stops. Thirty seconds later, the device alerts Paige that she has a voice message.
“How about we Jacuzzi before ‘The Sex’?” Paige asks.
“Why not,” I tell her. A dip in the hot tub and a couple of glasses of wine might smooth things out.
The whirlpool is a sliver of paradise. A crescent moon pokes through a fortress of cedars and oaks. We have the tub to ourselves and we cook in silence. Arms resting on the ledge, eyes closed, bubbles frothing, jet streams pounding, I am convinced that everything is going to be all right. I often feel this way in Jacuzzis. Maybe this inn will do, after all.
I’m about to become someone’s husband. Have you met my wife?
When I open my eyes, I’m staring face-to-face with the innkeeper.
“Evenin’, sailor,” she greets me in wire rim glasses, a floral button-down blouse, khaki shorts, and ratty gray hair. She knows exactly why we’re here.
Please go away, I think.
“Warm enough for you?” the woman asks.
Suddenly, with striking speed and force, she submerges her hand into the hot tub only inches from my rear. A second later she pulls out a stringed thermometer.
“One-oh-three,” she says, inspecting it carefully. “Perfect soup!”
“Perfect,” Paige kindly repeats with the same inflection. “Thank you so much.” Paige is always thanking everyone for everything.
“Goodnight,” I tell Chatty Cathy.
“Nighty-night,” Cathy chirps back.
It’s time.
Back in the room, while Paige is busy setting up the Scrabble board, I subtly drag my duffel bag into the bathroom and fish out the rings, jamming one in each back pocket. Then I grab the California Syrah by its neck, pinching two plastic cups between my fingers. Does it get any more romantic than this? Paige is just about done flipping over the tiles when I return. I take a seat across from her on the floor and begin picking my letters.
“You get seven, not eight,” I remind her.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. Ready?” she asks.
I am: in my back pockets, both rings, and in my front pocket, the seven letters that I’ve been carrying around all day.
After four plays each, the board starts opening up. I still haven’t quite figured out how I’m going to get the crucial letters from my pocket to this rack without getting caught.
“You’re peeking at my letters,” I complain.
“Are you mental? How am I looking at your letters from over here?”
“Cheaters never prosper,” I remind her.
I grab my rack of letters, crawl over to the bed, and pull down one of the large crocheted pillows with my free hand. Retaking my seat across from her, I reposition the pillow so it shields my tiles from the board. I lean forward and give Paige a big smile, readjusting the ring box poking my left buttocks cheek.
“You’ve completely lost your mind,” she determines.
It’s Paige’s turn, but I see my window of opportunity—the “E” in “LEFTY.” My heart begins to race. At all costs, I must prevent her from playing that “E.”
“If you don’t use the ‘Y,’ then I will,” I threaten her.
“Hold your horses.” She’s trying to concentrate.
“The ‘Y’ is four points plus the double-word score …”
“I know. I know,” she says with a hint of anxiety. “But I don’t have anything.”
“Take your time,” I encourage her.
While Paige contemplates the “Y,” I slide all the letters on my rack into one hand and casually drop them behind my back. Then, from behind the pillow, I slowly reach into my front pocket, and pull out the replacements.<
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“I think you’ve learned your lesson,” I say, tossing the down pillow aside and moving my rack closer to the board. “Whose turn is it?”
“Fine!” she says. “I’ll go!”
“Good!” I say theatrically.
“Fine!”
Paige uses the “Y” and plays “YAWN” for twenty points. Not bad for someone who said she had nothing. I score it. I always keep score.
“My turn,” I say, steadying my hands. Using the “E,” I lay out my letters—
I begin tallying up my score.
“Ramyr-me?” she asks. “Is that a word?”
“Two, five, ten, fourteen, plus a double-word score,” I whisper to myself.
“Use it in a sentence,” she demands.
“That’s twenty-eight points,” I say, adding the figure to my column. It was all fun and games until I wrote “28” on the official score sheet. Now Paige is irritated.
“Ramyr-me is not a word, Andy.”
“Are you challenging?”
“How can I challenge? We have no dictionary. Just tell me what it means.”
“Oh wait,” I say as if it’s only just occurred to me. I slide my tiles around on the board, rearranging them to read “ARMMY RE” and then finally “MARRY ME.” I let the words sink in. The blank expression on her face is priceless.
“You’re not allowed to play two words,” she says softly.
“Can we make an exception?”
“This isn’t a game,” she says.
And yet it is.
“Can I be your husband?” I say tenderly. “Will you be my wife?”
I suspect that this is at least the second member of the Day family whom I’ve made cry in the last two hours.
“Of course, definitely, absolutely! Did I say yes?”
She moves toward me on her knees, crossing the board and losing her balance as she slips on one of the tiles. We tumble backward and that’s when she notices the letters discarded behind me.
“And I’m the cheater?”
“But all I have is this,” I say, pulling out a Red Rocket candy ring from my right pocket. I tear open the packaging with my teeth and beckon her left hand. The red candy jewelry clumsily slips down her tan ring finger.
“It’s lovely,” she says, holding it high, batting her eyelashes. Then she brings her hand to her face and pops the candy in her mouth.
“Don’t eat it!” I exclaim. “Fine, eat that one, but don’t eat this one,” I say, pulling out a small red jewelry box etched in gold fabric.
Her eyes widen. The candy ring makes the perfect popping sound when she removes it. Paige hesitantly opens the red jewelry box, the Red Rocket still awkwardly hanging from her left hand. She stares at it. Staring back at her is a one-carat, virtually flawless white diamond with a small diamond baguette on either side in a sparkling platinum setting. Indeed, Igor Petrov sold me the most beautiful stone.
RAMYR ME for JAGUAR, seven letters for six … plus six weeks’ salary.
“Of course I’ll ramyr-you,” she says.
I pull off the Red Rocket and slip the diamond ring in its place. It’s two sizes too large for her.
Hugging me tightly, she rests her head on my shoulder, and lifts up her hand to study the sparkler.
“My father is going to be so happy,” she whispers across my nape.
CHAPTER 12
You’re Going to Fix This
THE engagement bliss lasted six minutes. Then Paige started ripping the room apart for her cell phone. I’m willing to bet she doesn’t look for it powered down and stowed away in a sock at the bottom of my duffel bag. I couldn’t risk Gregory interrupting the deed or Paige playing back Lara’s voice message.
“I had it right here,” she cries, referencing the nightstand.
Got me, I pantomime.
“No pressure, and this is not a trick question, seriously,” she says innocently enough. “Did you happen to ask my dad before you asked me?”
“I did ask your dad,” I reply.
Paige lets out a sigh of relief.
“You didn’t have to, but I appreciate it,” she says, dragging the antique cast-iron bed away from the wall. “Can you call my phone with yours?”
“Just take mine,” I relent.
I pinch the inside corners of my eyes to help make the approaching migraine go away.
He’ll hear her voice and he’ll change his tune, I pray.
Paige dials Gregory, then puts her cheek up against mine so we can both listen and speak together. I can hear it ringing. She glances over at me as if to remind me that this is the part where we both scream: “We’re getting married!”
“You talk,” I lip-synch, pulling away as it rings a second time.
We stare at each other, both holding our breath. Paige tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. There’s still time to confess everything.
Why isn’t Gregory answering? Is it because he sees my name on the caller ID? He’s avoiding me. He thinks I’m calling for a third time. He’s irritated. He’s going to pick up and start screaming into the other end.
Hang up!
“Your daughter’s getting married,” Paige says like peekaboo. “You Sneaky Pete, how long have you known?”
Paige starts pacing around the room as she listens. Gregory does all the talking. Paige turns serious. Then she smiles. She nods. She nods again.
“Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh,” she says.
Now she’s thanking him … thanking, thanking, thanking, nodding, nodding, nodding. This is good. Confidence building. Future brightening.
“Of course, hold on, Daddy,” she says handing me the phone. “He wants to congratulate you personally.”
“Hello?” I say playfully, as if I don’t know who it is.
Utter silence.
“Gregory?” I ask, checking the line.
Paige beams a smile in my direction.
I whisper to Paige, “I think we lost the cell signal.”
She shrugs.
“Are you disturbed?” Gregory asks. He is beside himself.
“There he is,” I inform Paige, with a forced grin.
A few seconds pass.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks. “Just smile and nod your head.”
I’m way ahead of him.
“Listen here. I’m not going to be the one who ruins this day for my daughter. I thought I made myself perfectly clear. We were going to wait.” He pauses to cough. “Why on earth would you ask my permission if you were just going to do whatever you want, anyway?”
Paige can tell something’s wrong.
“I don’t care what you say. We’re more excited than you are!” I cheer.
I’m about to vomit our expensive dinner.
“You and I are going to have a long talk at work tomorrow,” he says.
“Well, the wedding planning will have to wait one more day. I’m off tomorrow, and your daughter and I are touring wine country. There must be something we can bring back for you.”
Paige is delighted by my generous offer. I can read her mind: Go ahead. Just do it. Call him “Dad.”
“Friday then!” he says, catching on. “You’re going to fix this,” he says in no uncertain terms.
“The ring is beautiful. She can’t wait to show it to you, too,” I say.
Gregory hangs up, and I tell the dead air to have a good night.
Lying head to toe on the bed, passing the phone back and forth, we start calling everyone we know. The more people we tell, the more the lie becomes true. First we wake up my parents in Vegas. Then we break the news to Lara in Los Angeles. Apparently she didn’t know anything. All of our friends ask the same questions. The men look forward: When’s the big day? The women reminisce: How did he do it? Did he ask your father? With each phone call I fine-tune the fib. I’m caught up in the excitement. By the time we reach Sid, I’m pathological.
“Aw, that’s great news, small fry. See what I said,” Sid tells Cookie. Then he’s back to me: “I just kne
w Gregory would give you the go-ahead.”
“I did just like you suggested, Sid,” I tell him, giving Paige a loving grin. “Gregory and I had a long talk, and he’s excited to discuss the next steps.”
Now Cookie is screaming in the background. “For Christ’s sake, they’ll be engaged in the morning,” she cries.
“Sorry kids, Cookie needs her beauty sleep.”
“Hang up,” she yells a second time.
I promise to call Sid tomorrow.
We’ve called everyone, even a few wrong numbers. It’s time for the engagement sex. Paige crawls on top of me and flips over so we’re both facing the ceiling. We stare at the intricate ceramic molding where a chandelier once hung.
“This is comfy,” she says.
I grunt back. To be crushed like this feels good.
“I’m tired. You tired? Because I’m tired,” she says quickly.
The alcohol buzz and engagement adrenaline have worn off and I’m feeling drained too.
“I am.”
A tacit agreement has just been reached.
“But just so you know, I want to,” Paige swears, turning her head slightly to kiss me on the cheek.
I close my eyes and start making snoring sounds. She adds her own snores to the beat.
“We have to promise to have sex in the morning,” she mumbles.
“I’m totally there,” I say monotone.
And before long, we’re out, one mattress on top of another.
Daybreak arrives and through a series of unconscious gymnastic moves, we’ve miraculously slipped into our customary snoozing configurations.
Paige is going to be a good sleep partner. Like any couple, we have our occasional land grab issues in bed, but aside from the occasional, terrifying psychotic laugh in the middle of the night, Paige doesn’t snore, move, or even speak in her sleep.
The bed is still crooked from when Paige was looking for her cell phone, and I never bothered to close the wooden shades, so now my face is sunburned. Paige is fending off the light by holding a folded pillow over her head with both hands. I roll my head toward her, hesitantly opening one eye for fear of bursting into flames. As the room comes into focus, I realize that Paige’s gorgeous diamond engagement ring is only inches from my face. It’s about to slip off. I gently push it back down her finger and close my eyes.
