by Shirley Jump
“Of course I am.” The answer zipped from her mouth too quick, like a piece of gum she'd spat out. Was she satisfied? As satisfied as she'd been last week? Last month? Last year?
“Listen, I don't want to fight with you,” Barry said. “I'm sorry I told my mother you were a virgin. I don't know what I was thinking. Just trying to head off an argument. I was wrong. I apologize.” He took her hands and drew her to him. “I know you're perfect for me. I can't help it if I want everyone else to think so, too.”
She looked up into Barry's steady brown eyes. They didn't tease her or make her question anything at all. They were there, day in and day out, as reliable as sunrises. “You're right, Barry,” she said. “We're made for each other.”
“And after the wedding, my mother will be going back to Maine. It'll be just you and me again. Everything will go back to normal.”
Candace laid her head against his chest and let out a sigh. “I can't wait.”
Of everything she'd said in the last few days to Barry, those words were the closest to the truth.
* * *
“You better like this dress,” Bernadine said. “Shopping for it had my corns popping like a bag of Orville Redenbacher. Do you want to see them?” She thrust her foot into the front seat of Barry's Honda Civic. The smell of sweaty leather overpowered the tiny pine tree dangling from Barry's rearview mirror.
“Uh, no, that's okay.” Candace forced herself not to gag until Bernadine had withdrawn her Naturalizer. “I'm sure I'll love the gown.”
“Well, if you don't, I'm not returning it. Not without a soak in some Epsom salts.”
Three weeks until she leaves. Three long weeks.
Barry pulled up in front of his apartment building, parked the car, set the emergency brake, installed his Club, got out, checked that his LoJack was on, then opened the doors for Candace and his mother. After they exited the car, he thumbed the lock on the remote, listened for the double beep, then did it again.
“Barry, the car is locked,” Candace said. “It's more secure than Fort Knox.”
“You can't be too careful in a city like this,” Bernadine said. “The Boston Strangler came from Boston, you know.”
“That was decades—”
“And Son of Sam. And the Zodiac Killer.”
“Neither one of them came from Boston,” Candace said.
“Not to mention the mafia has big ties to this area,” Bernadine barreled on, ignoring the serial killer location argument. “My boy is just being smart, like I taught him.” She patted Barry's shoulders.
He put a hand over hers. “Exactly.”
Candace took a long, hard look at the two of them. Hadn't Della said a hundred times, “Marry the man and you marry his mother, too”? Could she really stand to be tied to Bernadine for the next fifty or so years?
Bernadine lived in Maine, two states away. Surely that was enough distance.
“Lord, I need a Turns,” Bernadine said, letting out a belch. “That Eye-talian food tore my stomach to shreds. Barry, you better step on it. I think I'm going to need your powder room.”
Maybe two states away wasn't enough. Especially not since they'd raised the speed limit on the trans-state highway system.
To help her think about anything but what was going on inside Bernadine's intestines, Candace reached into her shoulder bag, pulled out her planner and flipped the purple tabs to the current day. “Barry, we have a few wedding details to talk about tonight. I have to finalize some numbers with you.”
“Speaking of which, I met with our photographer,” Barry said, leading the way up the two flights of stairs to his apartment. “She has great ideas for making the most out of the parking lot at the hall for some outdoor shots. You're really going to like working with her. She thinks just like we do.”
“Parking lot photos? I thought we were thinking of stopping off at a lake or a park.”
“No time for that. Marcy knows. She's very efficient, has everything planned down to the last minute. Carries the nicest organizer. Leather bound. And her handwriting—very precise. You have to admire someone with nice handwriting.” Barry nodded. “Say, did you make the calls I asked you to make?” He paused in unlocking the first lock on his door. “I got all mine done this afternoon. Mother helped me.”
“Calls?” Then she remembered. The invitations. The cheap labels. “Oh, God, no, I forgot.”
Barry inserted the key into the second lock, then turned to look at her. “That is completely unlike you. You're normally so together. So organized.” He paused and turned to her, laying a palm against her cheek. For a moment, his caring gaze connected with hers and reminded her of why Barry was the one she'd chosen.
“You're right.” But images of another man's blue eyes popped into her mind like stubborn bumblebees trying to squeeze their way into a closed rose.
Barry turned back to the door, undid a third lock, then a fourth. “Well, this will make you feel better.” He flung open the door and flicked on the light switch. “Ta da!”
“Oh, it's ... it's ...” Candace struggled to find a word. Any word. Something that wouldn't alienate her soon-to-be husband and mother-in-law in three syllables or less. “Delightful.”
“I knew you'd like it,” Bernadine crowed. “When 1 saw it, I thought of you.”
Which said a lot about Bernadine's opinion of her. The dress bloomed off the hanger in a shower of bright white tulle, trimmed with thick white lines that curlicued around the bell-shaped base. The V-necked bodice opened in a gush of ruffles, like a Dolly Parton costume gone awry.
Candace took a few steps closer. “Is that suede on the skirt?”
“Genu-wine imitation,” Bernadine said. “Since my Barry is allergic to leather.”
“Gee, I didn't know they made that kind of thing in white.”
“The veil is trimmed to match. Wait till you see it.”
“Oh, wow, there's a veil, too?” She tried to work up some measure of enthusiasm into her voice.
“Try it on, honey. See how it fits.”
Candace hovered in the doorway, her planner still in her hands. The etiquette section in the back definitely didn't have any advice for getting out of this situation with tact. “It's, ah, bad luck to see me in my dress before the wedding.”
“Oh, I know you. You don't believe in superstitions. And neither do I. Nothing's going to ruin our wedding.” He kissed her cheek. “Nothing at all.”
This dress just might. “It looks a little ... big.”
Bernadine heaved herself onto the couch and propped her corns on the maple coffee table. “I knew she wouldn't try it on, Barry. I told you she wouldn't like what I picked out.” Bernadine withdrew a handkerchief from her bosom and pressed it to her nose. “I've never had a daughter to dress, and shop for pretty things with, and I'd so hoped Candace would be that daughter. But now”—sniffle—“I'm already being rejected.”
“Oh, Mother, it's not like that at all. Candace loves the dress, don't you?” Barry turned and gave her a help-me smile.
There were certain times in life when lying was good form. When it became a peace offering, not a sin. “Of course I do. I... I can't imagine walking down the aisle in anything else.”
The dress wasn't even a Honda. It was an Edsel. She tried not to think of the Mercedes back at Reverie Bridal. Maybe if she squinted she could pretend they were the same dress.
Nope; she'd have to poke her eyes out to come close. Here comes the bride—Oedipus.
Bernadine sniffled. “Are you sure you like it?”
“Of course.” But I hope like hell it doesn't fit and I have to return it.
“Try it on, honey, and show Mother.” Barry grabbed the gown, pressed it into her arms and gave her a gentle push toward the bedroom.
Two minutes later, Candace had stepped into the dress from hell. If there was ever a dress that would make a bride want to commit suicide, this was it. The bodice pressed against her breasts, flattening them into pancakes while the skirt flared out at the hips and but
t, giving “Baby Got Back” a whole new meaning. The sleeves poofed up, mutton-chops on steroids, obstructing her peripheral vision.
The faux suede had something in it that caused it to attract lint like a magnet. Every time she turned, little flecks of Barry's navy carpeting seemed to pop up and adhere themselves to the curlicues.
And worst of all, the damn thing fit like a glove.
“How is it?” Barry called through the door.
Hideous. “Wonderful.”
“Can I see it?”
Only on my dead body. “In a minute.”
Her cell phone rang and she dove for her handbag, hoping it was Spider-Man with a plan for escaping Barry's bedroom wearing anything but this dress. Hell, she'd swing nude from the window if it meant not having to wear Psycho Cowgirl Gets Married in public.
“Candace?” Rebecca said. “We have trouble. You better get down to the shop right away.”
Not a Marvel Comics hero, but close enough. She let out a sigh of relief. “I'm on my way. Soon as I figure a way out of this fashion emergency.”
2 cups strawberries
1 cup raspberries
3 tablespoons Grand Marnier
2 tablespoons brown sugar
10 ounces semisweet chocolate
10 ounces white chocolate
As much ice cream as you need
If you need an escape route, what's better than one made of chocolate? First, start with the serious stuff. Marinate the berries in the Grand Marnier and brown sugar. Let sit while you're getting the rest assembled.
Then melt the chocolates in separate double boilers until they're smooth as a clean getaway. Place them into a piping bag (improvise with Ziploc, if need be) and pipe out a crisscross lattice pattern over a large glass bowl. Allow to cool, then remove from the dish. Careful—you don't want to break your best chance for escape!
Take your chocolate cup, invert it into a bigger bowl or on a plate, spoon in some berries, top with ice cream and more berries. If there's any melted chocolate left over, well, don't let it sit there—put it on top. Though, remember, if you're trying to make a fast escape, eating too much might slow you down.
Solution? Take it in a leak-proof to-go bag.
CHAPTER 12
“They're orange,” Maria said. “Orange doesn't go with babies. Especially not Day-Glo.”
“I know. And we ordered two hundred of them.” Rebecca let out a sigh.
“Did you specify pink and blue?”
“Yep. But the lady who took our order over the phone had the handwriting of a chimpanzee.” Rebecca held up the scribbled invoice that had been packed in the box. “Either that or the brains of one.”
“Now that's an insult to primates. They're actually smarter than most men.” Maria snagged a cookie out of the jar on the counter. “They are. I read it in Cosmo.”
Candace picked up one of the wicker containers. “Aren't these supposed to be shaped like baby bassinets?”
Rebecca nodded. “Hey, maybe we could paint them—”
“Paint isn't going to help this. They're not just the wrong color; they're the wrong shape, too. Look at this. They're kind of long and thin and...” She paused as the shape began to connect in her brain. “Oh, my. They look a lot like—”
“Penises.” Maria wagged a cookie in emphasis.
Candace sunk onto a stool and cradled her head in her hands. Her heart began to race, her breath coming in gasps again. Would this Tuesday never end? “This is terrible. We're supposed to send our first shipment of 'Welcome to the World' baby baskets to Brigham and Women's Hospital Friday afternoon for Vogler Advertising. We've got two hundred cans of formula and packages of diapers. Then tomorrow, we're making two hundred baby-bottle-shaped chocolates and two hundred dozen pink-and-blue frosted cookies. Not to mention the hundreds of candy cigars we bought for accents.” She moaned. “I don't think new mothers want a glow-in-the-dark genitals basket.”
“At least not until after the six-week checkup,” Maria said.
Rebecca shot her a glare. “Even that's pushing it.”
“We're in a peck of trouble,” Maria said, hooting with laughter. “Sorry, I couldn't resist.”
“Maybe we could paint them. Glue some wheels on the outside,” Candace said, her voice rising a couple of octaves. The room began to close in on her. “No one would know the difference if we put a big bow over th-th-the tip.”
“No bow is going to mask that.” Rebecca pointed to the end of the basket.
“Sure it can!” Candace yanked a yellow ribbon off the wall and jabbed it onto the end of one of the baskets. It drooped to one side, trailing against the counter, looking more like spent sperm than satin. “See?”
It hadn't worked. Even a chimpanzee could see that.
Oh, God. This was awful. A total disaster. Worse than anything that had happened thus far.
Candace yanked a small paper bag off the shelf behind her, shook it open, then placed it over her mouth and started to breathe into the sack. In. Out. Until the world stopped spinning and her heartbeat reached a nonlethal range.
“Candace, honey, you need to calm down,” Maria said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Here, have a chocolate.” She plucked a mini Hershey's bar from a bowl on the counter, unwrapped it and handed it to Candace.
She raised her head out of the bag and stuffed the candy into her mouth, then let out a sigh when the endorphins hit her brain. Ah, a much better solution than the sack. “Mmmm. More.”
Maria sailed a couple more down the counter.
Candace ate them in two bites. The suede bell-bottom dress flashed through her mind. Then the manicotti with Michael. Then Della, sleeping on her couch. Then fishnet body stockings draped all over her apartment. “More. More. More.”
“Are you okay, honey?” Maria asked. “They're just penis baskets. We've dealt with worse.”
“I'm fine,” Candace said, trying not to sob. She stuffed another chocolate into her mouth. “I'm fine. I'm just fine.”
“You said that three times,” Rebecca said. “Fine people only say it once.”
Candace shook her head so fast, her hair whipped at her face. “I'm a little stressed about the wedding, that's all. There's so much to do....”
“Did you find a dress today?”
“Yes.” She dropped her chin into her hands. “And yes.”
“What's that mean?”
“I found one I loved. And then Barry bought me one he loved, too.”
“Your fiancé bought your wedding gown for you?” Maria shook her head. “Girlfriend, this is worse than I thought.” She grabbed her purse, flicked up the clasp and pulled out a box of Godiva. “Here. You need it more than I do.”
Candace sniffled and took the box. “Thank you.”
“I take it you hate the dress?” Rebecca asked.
“You know that section in the back of Glamour where they put all the fashion don'ts?”
“The women who think polka dots go with plaid and cotton briefs look sexy sticking out of too-tight Guess?”
“This dress is so bad, they couldn't put it on that page. It's a fashion 'Don't Even Bury Me in That.'”
“Oh, honey, you need to do something about it.”
“What?” She sighed. “Barry thinks I love it. Bernadine laid a guilt trip the size of Rhode Island on me when I hesitated to try it on.”
“Your mother-in-law was there?” Rebecca shook her head. “This may be irreparable.”
“Nothing's unfixable.” Maria dug in her purse, produced a second box of Godiva chocolates and handed it over to Candace.
“And if that fails,” Rebecca said, picking up one of the glow-in-the-dark baskets and handing it to Candace, “use one of these to hold your bridal bouquet.” She put on a bright smile. “At least then no one will be looking at your dress.”
One box of Godiva and twenty minutes later, the Three Musketeers split up, divvying up the chocolate supply and the greater Boston area, each taking a section of the city to scour. The
y left no craft store unturned, no Wal-Mart untouched in their quest for anything wicker and baby.
Maria found basket number two hundred shortly after nine that night, setting off a jubilee of cell phone rings. Candace headed home, her Honda Civic loaded to the gills with wicker.
One disaster averted.
A flicker of light from the backyard caught her eye. It was too big to be a firefly, and too little to be firefighter training. Which left only one answer.
“Let me guess,” Candace said as she came around to the back. “You had a late-night craving for s'mores?”
Grandma Woodrow shook her head. “I can't stand graham crackers. The crumbs get all in between my breasts and gum up the friction, if you know what I mean.” She tossed another log onto the campfire. “I'm practicing.”
“For what?”
“For my Appalachian hike with George. We're going to camp under the stars.” Grandma grinned and spiked her brows. “Au naturale.”
“You'll scare the bears.”
“Maybe we'll teach them something about the birds and the bees.” Grandma rustled in a cooler beside her. “Want a weenie?” She waggled a hot dog at her.
“No thanks. I've had enough of those for one day.” Candace sighed and laid her head on her knees.
“I don't think I want to ask. And for me, that's saying something.”
Candace plucked at a few sprigs of grass. “Trust me, you don't want to know.”
Grandma laid a hand on her arm. “Is everything okay, sweetie?”
The fire flickered, fending off the mosquitoes and sending out a steady blanket of warmth. Either Grandma's hand on her wrist or the smoke had gotten to her eyes, because they filled with tears again.
And the nearest chocolate was in her car.
“My mother's living with me, my mother-in-law has picked out my wedding dress, my fiancé thinks I'm Polly Perfect, and... and I'm almost out of Godiva.” She shook her head. “No, I'm not okay.”
“Brunhilde picked out your dress?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It's a sign.”
