by Jean Stone
I hate to run, but I must pick up my daughter at riding lessons.
Sorry I can't stay longer, but I think Cassie is coming down with a cold.
I promised I'd help her study for her history exam tomorrow.
Kids, he thought, and wondered if Patty ever realized all the things she was missing. Then he remembered Patty was no longer childless. She had a son.
He wondered if she would leave her son the way she'd left her daughter.
He tried to distract himself by studying the phone. Just as he located the FLASH/CALL WAIT button, the phone rang again.
“Hello?” he asked, tentatively.
“Andrew?” It was not John. Again, it was a girl.
He sighed. “Yes.”
“Andrew, this is Frannie Cassidy. John Benson's assistant.”
John's assistant? A kaleidoscope of pictures spun in Andrew's mind. John was sick. John was in an accident. John was dead.
“I was checking Mr. Benson's messages and yours sounded urgent. He's out of the country, didn't you know?”
“He didn't tell me he was going anywhere,” Andrew said.
“I guess he kept it a secret, even from me, until they were leaving for the airport. He took Irene on a surprise fortieth anniversary trip to the South Pacific. He is such a romantic, isn't he?”
A romantic? With his wife? Perhaps John had been right, that Andrew should have known better than to give any credence to media gossip. “How can I reach him?” Andrew asked.
“Well, that's why I'm calling. They're on one of those tiny islands that have no communications. Like Gilligan's Island, I suppose.” She paused. “Forty years. Can you imagine?”
Forty years. No, actually, he couldn't imagine. “When do you think he'll be near a phone again?” He tried not to sound annoyed; it wasn't Ms. Cassidy's fault. But what the hell had John been thinking? He knew the pressure Andrew was under.
“They'll be gone a week. Until next Wednesday.”
Wednesday. The day after the Sakes Alive! appearance.
Andrew lowered his head, thanked Frannie for calling, then wondered if, having managed to stay married forty damn years, despite the rumors about countless “others,” John Benson should be the one writing the column about women.
39
DON'T
Forget about the kids: yours, his. If they're young, plan a special wedding “activity” that you can do together, such as decorating a practice wedding cake. If they're in the wedding party, practice walking down the aisle together balancing a silly-looking stuffed animal on their heads. Don't forget an on-site baby-sitter. Few people think other people's little children are adorable when they're racing through the church or around the tables at the reception.
As Jo pulled into her mother's driveway the next morning, she wondered why she hadn't found a Ted the Butcher in her life, a man who could commit, a man who wanted to love her for the long haul.
Not that she'd given any man the chance. It was hard to give a man a chance when the ghost of Brian lingered in the corners of her mind, gnawing at her heart, nudging out her common sense.
The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to scream. Instead, she took a long, deep, yoga breath, shut off the car, and went up onto the back porch of her mother's house.
Through the window of the door, she noticed Marion at the table, a recipe box by her wrist, paper and envelopes surrounding her.
Jo smiled and let herself in. “Looking for more things to do with blueberries?” Jo asked.
Marion laughed. “No. I'm writing out a guest list for the wedding. You said the reception includes seventy-five guests. Oh, Ted and I have lived in West Hope too long. It's so hard to pare down all the folks we both know!”
Guilt. It rushed at Jo with the force of a tsunami, a giant tidal wave guaranteed to wipe out most of civilization situated in its path.
“Mother,” she said, the wave wobbling her feet. She sat at the table across from Marion. She folded her hands on the embroidered placemat. “That's why I've come.”
“To help with the list? Oh, honey, it's okay. It's fun, actually, to think of all the friends I have. All the friends Ted and I have.”
Jo stared at the recipe box. This wouldn't be as easy as she'd hoped. “Mom,” she said. “I'm here to talk about the wedding. You don't have to do this. You don't have to do this to help Second Chances.”
Marion laughed again. “You think that's why I'm marrying Ted Cappelinni? To help out your business?”
“Well, gee. You've been seeing each other for so long . . .”
“Too long,” her mother answered. “For the last decade Ted has tried to get me to marry him. If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't have the courage. I might at first have considered that it would help out you girls. But now . . .” She looked off into space and smiled a smile of secret joy, as if she were a schoolgirl and had been invited to the prom. “I don't know, Josephine. But I think it's high time I had a chance at happiness, don't you agree?”
Jo would have preferred if she hadn't come at all, if Sakes Alive! had never called, if she'd never developed such an obsession to succeed.
Marion put down her pen. “I love Ted Cappelinni. That's why I want to marry him.”
“Oh” was all that Jo could say. What else? How could she say, “Gee, Mom, I hate to burst your bubble, but the wedding has been called off,” or “Mother, I know you'll understand when I say we're going to give away the wedding to someone who will give us better publicity.”
“Honey,” Marion said as she patted Jo's hand. “I can't thank you enough. I'd forgotten what it was to be so excited. And at my age! Imagine!”
No, Jo couldn't imagine.
So instead of telling Marion the truth about the wedding, Jo kissed her mother's forehead and said she was glad things were going to work out, and that she'd just stopped by to say “Hello” on her way to work. Then she left the house and drove directly to the shop, wondering what the heck she would do now and what she would say to the others.
“I'll find a way to pay for it myself,” she said to Lily and Sarah and to Elaine, who had showed up that morning though she seemed distracted and was a little pale.
“That's preposterous,” Lily said. “We'll work something out.”
“No, Lily. It's bad enough you're fronting this whole operation. I won't have you pay for my mother's wedding, as well.”
“I said, we'll work something out,” Lily repeated, with an edge to her voice that Jo had never heard. “In the meantime, we need to discuss our wardrobes for Sakes Alive! I simply have nothing in my closet. Sarah, I want you to create something special for me. Something that says ‘successful' and ‘fanciful' and a little flirtatious. Frank says I'm adorable when I'm flirtatious.”
A twitch, a twinge, a tweak of hurt alighted on Jo's heart, then, thank God, flitted away.
“By Tuesday?” Sarah asked. “I design jewelry, Lily, not clothes, for godssake.”
“Well, get over it. And while you're at it, I'll need it for Monday, not Tuesday. We have to be certain that it's absolutely divine. And we mustn't clash!” she added. “Let's choose our colors carefully and not look as if we live out in the boondocks.”
Andrew smiled, which was the most animation he had shown since Jo had arrived. Jo shook her head, marveling at the transformation in Lily from helpless child to a woman who had taken charge. Maybe having money afforded one an inner core of strength. Maybe that was why Jo was feeling so indecisive and insignificant and insecure these days.
It would be a different wedding, not Elaine's, but a wedding, nonetheless. Marion and Ted would have Elaine's wedding, and Second Chances would have the beginnings of a portfolio of pictures for the future.
There also would be a second wedding for the sweepstakes, a thirty-thousand-dollar wedding in the Berkshires that they would give away. The time and place would be the bride and groom's choice. The contract would give Second Chances unlimited rights to take, use, and reproduce the photos as they
desired, with discretion, naturally.
“Cheaper than national advertising,” Jo had commented.
Of course, legally, if the winner preferred the cash to the goods, they'd have to pay up. But the exposure would be worth the risk.
It all looked good on paper.
Which was why Jo did not know why she felt apprehensive Tuesday morning when the white limo arrived at the secretaries' building just after dawn to begin the three-hour trek south to Manhattan.
“We must hire a limo,” Lily had insisted. “Arrival is everything.”
Jo had protested. “The studio is on the forty-fifth floor. No one will see us.”
“We can't be sure of that, can we?” Lily had said and had gotten her way because it was her money, after all.
Still, Jo had worried. How long would it be before Lily became tired of footing the bill?
Andrew had tried to get out of going. He claimed he needed to get busy researching locations and availabilities, for receptions and the like, for the sweepstakes wedding.
Lily would have no part of that.
Then he said the fact was Cassie had a competition Tuesday after school and he hated the thought that he would not be in the bleachers.
Lily said she'd pay the riding school to change the date.
In the end, Andrew just said no, that he hated New York City and that the thought of going brought on an anxiety attack.
Finally, Lily told him he had to go or she would fire him, and how anxious would that make him? In part she'd been being playful, but Andrew took the hint.
So by the time the limo arrived at the secretaries' building, inside sat eager Lily, calm-as-always; Sarah, slightly more animated; Elaine; and an unhappy-looking Andrew. Slipping in beside Andrew, Jo smiled and said, “Good morning.” As the long car snaked down the narrow driveway, she wondered if the others eagerly awaited their fifteen minutes of second-wedding fame, and if they should say a group prayer that Kevin Green wouldn't make them look as foolish as Andrew said he would.
The limo made a pit stop. He knew if he had coffee it would give him indigestion, and that was the last thing Andrew needed. The women went inside to use the ladies' room. He took a swig from a bottle of Evian and in his mind reviewed the words he'd typed last night.
Lesson #7: Don't lie to a woman. If it doesn't come back to bite you in the ass, you'll spend your time poised, waiting for it to bite.
He then explained that, despite his efforts to thwart what he referred to as “a daunting business move,” the women were insistent, their new venture having risen to become the most important thing in life, their self-confidence teeming with testosterone, as if they were in control and they very damn well knew it.
As if they were—shit—as if they were men.
Of course, he couldn't add that he feared it would change once they met Kevin Green.
Surveying the inside of the limo, the rows of tiny white lights along the baseboard, the thick clear drinking glasses in their holders along the sides, the remnants of the stale, nasty scent of cigarette smoke clawing at the red velour-covered side walls, Andrew glanced at his watch. In an hour and ten minutes they would be in Manhattan. Between now and then he needed to devise a plan that would save his ass until the final credits rolled.
Until this awful nightmare, hopefully, had passed.
40
What made you want to go into business, Ms. Beckwith? Aren't you wealthy enough?”
“Money isn't everything, Mr. Green,” Lily said with her sweet smile. She looked pretty in the pale pink chemise that Sarah had crafted and which was set off by Sarah's silver jewelry and her own pink diamonds. She was sitting next to Kevin. On her right were Jo, Sarah, then Elaine. Andrew was downstairs, watching the show from the bar across the street.
His exoneration had come more easily than he'd expected: “I can't ride in the glass elevator,” he'd pleaded as he pointed to the bank of five glass elevators, wrinkled a worried brow, and pretended to hyperventilate three or four short breaths. “Open spaces give me vertigo.”
They'd been standing in the lobby of the building where Sakes Alive! was to be taped. Lily had been exasperated, but finally waved Andrew off. “Oh, for goodness sake, Andrew, don't come with us, then. Leave him be, girls,” she said, marching toward the elevators. “We don't want to delay the show.”
So there he sat, on a comfortable barstool, drinking coffee that he finally allowed himself to drink, watching the minisideshow with his heart standing in repose, prepared to pounce on quick command into his waiting throat.
“After my dear Reginald died,” Lily was saying, “I needed something productive to do. I wanted to contribute to society. And I wanted to be with my friends.”
“Yes, well, I suppose you've spent enough time on the society pages to believe that weddings are, as you say, ‘productive.'”
“Oh, my, yes. Especially second weddings. Forty-six percent of all weddings today include at least one partner who has been married before.”
Andrew smiled at the way Lily slipped in the forty-six-percent fact that Jo had fed her in the limo. If Lily didn't make it in the second-wedding business, she could hit the talk-show circuit.
With continued poise, Lily said, “It's so reassuring to know that the world no longer expects anyone not to make a mistake, don't you think?”
Kevin tented his fingertips together. He leveled his eyes on Lily. “I guess you're the expert, Ms. Beckwith. You've made several mistakes, haven't you?”
Argh.
Jo coughed. Sarah grimaced. Elaine looked directly into the TV monitor. Across the street, Andrew gripped his coffee mug and braced himself for the sarcasm that was sure to come.
“I've had two divorces, Mr. Green,” Lily said. “Poor Reginald died.”
“Oh, that's right. Poor Reginald Beckwith. What was he worth, about two hundred million?”
She smiled again. “No.”
Andrew was amazed at Lily's composure, at the way she was holding her own against the antagonistic host.
“But I haven't come to New York to talk about my deceased husband,” Lily blurted out before he could interrupt with another foolish question. “I've come to talk about second weddings, second chances at love. My friends and I are very excited about our new business in the Berkshires.”
“Tell us about your friends. Are they elite widows like you?”
The camera zoomed in on Jo. God, Andrew thought, she really was gorgeous, sophisticated yet homespun. “We were roommates way back when, in college,” Lily continued. “This is Jo; she's very smart. And Sarah.” The camera panned. “Sarah's highly creative. And Elaine, who you might say was the reason we all came together.” Elaine made a tiny wave toward the monitor, having apparently taken the last step out of her depression on national TV. “And, of course, there's Andrew,” Lily quickly added, and the camera cut back to her. “He's our handsome, sensitive receptionist, who keeps us all together.”
“‘Andrew'?” Green asked, and Andrew froze as stiff as Atlas in the skating rink at Rockefeller Plaza. “You have a male receptionist? Isn't that a sort of switcheroo?”
“Absolutely. But Andrew offers a male perspective on weddings geared to the more mature woman, the bride who is looking for quality and elegance. Her needs, after all, are different from today's young brides.”
“And did Andrew the Receptionist accompany you today?”
Lily nodded. “He's outside. He has acute anxiety problems in the city.” It was her turn to look squarely into the camera. “Sorry, Andrew, honey. I hope you're watching, though.”
Oh yes, he was watching. The coffee rumbled in his gut.
“How many of your ‘brides' wear white?” Kevin Green suddenly interjected with an abrasive chuckle. Sadly, the small studio audience laughed along with him.
Lily smoothed the lap of her pink chemise and did not answer.
“Oh,” Green said. “I guess that's a sensitive area.” Chuckle, chuckle.
Andrew no longer car
ed what Green was saying to the women. He was only grateful that the subject had been deflected away from him.
“What about attorneys?” Green suddenly fired questions as if he were a courtroom lawyer. “Do you keep one on retainer for prenups and quickee divorces? Is that part of your second-wedding package?”
Before Lily had a chance to speak, Green added, “Speaking of which, did you and poor Reginald have a prenuptial agreement? He was how old? A hundred and eleven?”
Lily stood up. “If you invited us here today because you enjoy mocking people, Mr. Green, I suggest you find another victim.”
Andrew held his breath, hoping Lily could hang in long enough to talk about the sweepstakes. Until she at least repeated the name of Second Chances and said it was in West Hope.
It was too late. Lily stalked off the set, her head held high, her expression unscathed. And Kevin Green faced the camera wearing a smile of victory, misplaced though it might be. The others sat in their chairs, Elaine staring once again into the monitor.
Across the street, Andrew wilted on the barstool with surprising disappointment.
On the way back to West Hope, Lily got quite drunk.
Unknown to the others, she'd stocked the limo with champagne bottles for their supposed victory, for a toast to their success.
Now she drank in silence, as they crawled toward the New York Thruway. “We should have listened to Andrew. We should never have come.”
“It's as much my fault as anything,” Jo said. “I know Kevin Green's reputation. I guess I got carried away by the thought of the great exposure.”
“It's no one's fault,” Sarah said. “The guy's a jerk.”
“What happened?” Elaine kept asking, because she said she'd been so startled she was there, that she'd tuned out every word.
