by Beth Labonte
“No, wait,” I say, suddenly remembering one more thing. “How come Roger told Mom that she should bring an open mind? What would she need an open mind for at a clothing swap?”
Babette and John just look at each other and shrug. Roger can’t answer the question because he’s conveniently disappeared back into the living room.
“Maybe he thought I couldn’t wear polyester,” says Mom.
“What?”
“Some people are only able to wear cotton. Maybe he thought I needed an open mind in order to try synthetics.”
“Geez, Mom. Do you seriously believe that? Roger only has one thing on his mind, and it’s got nothing to do with what your clothes are made from.”
Yes, I realize that I just spoke the same words my mother spoke to me on the cruise—men only have one thing on their minds, Summer. S-E-X. I suppose if Graham is starting to remind me of my father, it’s only natural that I should turn into my mother.
“Oy, please,” says Mom, without nearly enough conviction to satisfy me.
“Just don’t swish anything you’re going to regret, okay?” I give her a meaningful look. “Some things, once swished, can never be un-swished. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“Do you know what she’s talking about?” Mom asks Dad.
“Babette,” says Dad. “Is there any sort of return policy on swished items?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I mutter, grabbing Graham by the elbow and hustling him toward the front door. “Let’s just get out of here.”
He has the decency to wait until we reach the street, before laughing at me for the entire rest of the night.
18
Just as Mom promised, all eight of us are back in the function room of The Lakeview this morning, drinking Bloody Mary’s and eating brunch, while watching a band audition for us on-stage. It’s not really an audition, though. I mean, we have no choice, these are the guys we have to use. Luckily for us, they’re fantastic.
Mom totally saved the wedding.
It turns out that her mysterious phone calls yesterday were to her childhood friend, Eileen Maxwell—which explains why she was yelling at directory assistance, as she and Eileen lost touch years ago. Eileen is the mother of Tyler Maxwell, who happens to have been a runner-up on one of the early seasons of American Idol. I don’t know how I could have forgotten about this. For weeks, Mom talked about nothing but Tyler’s beautiful voice and how she and his mother used to have tea parties with their Nancy Ann Storybook Dolls (I don’t know, Mom’s pretty old). Anyway, for weeks she had me on the phone until eleven o’clock at night, dialing in my votes. At least she thought I was on the phone until eleven o’clock dialing in my votes. In reality I dialed in twice and went to bed.
Now Tyler Maxwell performs on cruise ships and lives nearby in Orlando.
He’s just finished singing “Fly Me To The Moon,” in a voice that sounds exactly like Sinatra. On short notice, he was only able to bring along a drummer and a trombone player, but he says that he can get the whole band together for Saturday night. It’s unbelievable. I mean, the band I originally had was crap compared to this guy. Total crap.
“You really came through, Mom,” I say. “This guy is amazing. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Being allowed to help with the wedding is thanks enough,” she says.
“Of course you’re allowed to help,” I say. “Why do you have to word it that way?”
“Maybe because you planned the whole thing without me.”
Touché.
“I know,” I sigh. “And I already apologized for it. Are you going to hold it over me forever?”
Of course she is. Who am I kidding?
“All I’m saying,” says Mom, “is that I could have hired Tyler a long time ago. I told you he was talented. It’s a shame he didn’t win that American Idol. We certainly voted for him enough times.”
“Right.” I clear my throat. I’m sure he would have lost even if I had actually voted for him. I mean, it’s not like he lost by four votes or anything.
“Eileen said it was such a close vote,” says Mom. “Not winning really changed the entire course of his life. He fell into a deep depression after the show ended and didn’t leave the house for months.”
Oh, geez.
“Well he looks great now,” I say. “And if he’d won, he might not have been living here in Orlando, right? So, it was all for the best. For us, at least. Anyway, it was really cool that you were able to get him.”
“You’ve never given me credit for being cool before,” says Mom.
“That’s because you’re always afraid of being cool,” chimes in Eric. “That’s why you own so many sweaters.”
“See?” says Mom. “I’m nothing but a joke to the two of you.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks.
“I see the things you say about me on Twitter.”
Eric’s eyes widen. “You’re on Twitter?”
“I told you I was cool. Your father and I set up accounts last year. We follow you, Dr. Oz, and the Center for Disease Control.”
“I’ve sent six tweets!” says Dad.
“Oy, please.” Mom bats her hand. “He makes me tell him what to type.”
“What are your Twitter names?” asks Eric. He looks completely engrossed.
“MrBoopster,” says Dad. “Because I like Betty Boop.”
“Clearly,” says Eric. “Mom, what’s yours?”
She hesitates for a moment, glancing quickly at me and then back at Eric.
“EmptyNester123,” she says.
Oh, man. That is such a Mom thing to do. She probably signed up for that name as soon as I told her I was planning the wedding with Babette. She knew that someday, somehow, I would find out about it, and I would feel guilty. Which I did, and I do. Mission complete.
“But what do you guys tweet about?” asks Eric, the sadness of Mom’s screen name going right over his head.
“Is this really important right now?” I interrupt. “Look, Mom. I was wrong to have not included you and I’m sorry. But you’re here now, and you’ve proven yourself cool...well, maybe not the part about following the Center for Disease Control on Twitter...but you get an A plus for Tyler Maxwell.”
Mom smiles. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, have a muffin.” I push the basket across the table, along with the little bowl of butter packets. Mom’s smile drops from her face like a ton of bricks.
“What? What’s wrong?”
She unwraps a packet of butter and holds it up for Dad to see, squishing it out in front of his face. “Look, Richard. It’s softened!”
“So, what?” I ask.
“That means it hasn’t been refrigerated properly. Or maybe they gave it to us from somebody else’s table.”
One of Mom and Dad’s greatest fears in life is of being given butter that once sat on somebody else’s table. Mom likes her butter straight out of the fridge, rock hard, and totally un-spreadable. She peers at it quizzically through her bifocals, as if the face of its previous owner is going to materialize on the golden foil.
“Did you know, Joan, that butter can actually go without refrigeration for several days?” asks Graham.
“Really?” asks Eric.
“Yep. Its fat to water ratio discourages bacterial growth.”
“Interesting,” says Eric.
“I thought so,” says Graham.
“I hope this isn’t how they handle the wedding food!” says Mom, ignoring the both of them. “Babette, did you tell the kitchen to make sure the steaks are well done?”
Babette looks like a deer caught in the headlights. “Oh. I, um, I believe Nadine said that they cook all the steaks medium.”
Wrong answer.
“Oy! You need to specify well done or everybody will come down with food poisoning!” Mom marches off in the direction of the kitchen armed with the bowl of softened butters, and Babette hot on her heels.
She has a point. After N
adine switched my wedding cake to carrot, she probably requested that the steaks come out so rare they’re grazing on the salad.
Ba-dum-ching!
“I like a good medium rare,” says Graham.
“Too bad,” I say. “You’re getting it well done. Everybody is. Even if they ordered the vegetarian meal.”
I’m slightly disenchanted with Graham at the moment. I talked to him this morning about my theory of Nadine being in cahoots with Francine to ruin the wedding. He looked at me like I was completely mental, and then actually had the nerve to defend her. He said that Nadine is working very hard on our free wedding—he always has to emphasize how free it is, as if this whole thing were my fault—and that he’d like to see me organize an entire wedding without making a few mistakes.
A few mistakes?
Sure, I might goof up the seating chart a bit—seat Aunt Esther next to her verbally abusive ex-husband or something—but it would be a cold day in hell before I accidentally switched anybody’s wedding colors to bubblegum pink. I’m sorry, Graham, but there is simply no excuse. The conversation ended with me storming out of the room, blathering something along the lines of The truth shall set you free! How that even relates to this situation, I have no idea. But when I start throwing bible quotes around, you know we’re in a bad way. I was also still on edge over last night’s Sunset Swishers party—still am, to be honest—and may have overreacted.
Anyway, here we are.
I head up to the stage and thank Tyler Maxwell for coming. Then I bring him over to Nadine who has a vendor contract waiting to be signed. I read it through to make sure she didn’t slip in any funny business, such as a clause about every third song being “Who Let The Dogs Out,” but everything looks good. Apparently legal jargon isn’t in Nadine’s bag of tricks.
“We’ll see you on Saturday then,” I say, smiling and shaking his hand. I give Nadine a stern look before heading back to our table. Mom and Babette still haven’t returned. John looks totally bored. Dad’s staring up at the light fixtures.
“So, what’s on the agenda for the rest of the day?” asks Eric. “Cake testing? Open bar sampling?”
I snort. “If you think they threw open bar in with the free wedding package, you’re nuts.”
Eric freezes with a piece of muffin halfway into his mouth. “Are you serious?”
“Um, yeah.”
He and Graham look at each other, then Graham looks at me.
“How come you didn’t tell me this before?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug. “How come you didn’t ask about it before?”
“I don’t know,” says Graham. “I just assumed a Blenderman wedding would have an open bar. I didn’t think it needed asking about.”
“I think a little chat with the wedding planner is in order,” says Eric, pushing his chair back and standing up. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” says Graham, and they head off to look for Nadine.
“I can’t believe Babette didn’t request an open bar,” says Tanya. “I figured that would have been her number one priority.”
“Oh, it was,” I say. “She offered to pay for it too. But the thought of her and John’s friends getting hammered on my wedding day grossed me out. Can you picture Roger on the dance floor with access to unlimited quantities of alcohol?”
“Nice try,” laughs Tanya. “But it’s happening now, missy. Whether you like it or not.”
She motions toward Graham and Eric, standing in front of Nadine putting on some sort of pantomime performance. Graham is pretending to pour shots, while Eric pretends to throw them back. Then Graham does a little spin and pretends like he’s juggling liquor bottles. He did that once with real bottles, back when we first started dating. We were hanging out at his condo one night when he came bounding into the room dressed in this purple sequined shirt, and referring to himself as The Amazing Blenderman. He put “It’s Raining Men” on the stereo, grabbed a few bottles, and had me in hysterics right up until he dropped and broke a three hundred dollar bottle of Cristal. Still, it was a good night.
I smile at the memory, my annoyance at Graham quickly starting to dissipate.
“At least I can say that I tried,” I say.
“You know,” says Tanya, gently pounding her fist on the table. “If you’d only had the wedding back home—”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
“Sorry,” she says, smiling. “I’ll change the subject. You know, you never did answer your brother’s question. What is on the agenda for today?”
19
I bring Tanya with me for back up.
We told the rest of the family that we were going shopping for wedding night lingerie, which took care of the chance that anybody else would want to come along. Well, Graham still wanted to come, but I told him that it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride’s underwear before the wedding. Now we have to swing by a Victoria’s Secret on the way home, or whatever the equivalent is down here at Sunset Havens. Margaret’s Unmentionables would be my guess.
Where we’re really going is to Francine’s house. I need to have a little chat.
We pull up out in front of the house and turn off the golf cart. A sign hanging from the lamppost reads Francine & Frederick, confirming that we’re in the right place. All of the houses around here have them—Francine & Frederick, Babette & John, Roger & Whoever’s Drunkest.
“Francine’s a widow, right?” asks Tanya, looking at the sign.
“Yeah,” I say. “But I don’t know the etiquette for erasing your spouse’s name from your lawn ornament.”
“I can’t believe you think this poor woman is out to get you,” says Tanya. “She’s probably just lonely.”
I filled Tanya in earlier on my suspicions regarding Nadine and Francine, and I can tell that she thinks I’m a paranoid lunatic. Just like everybody else. That’s okay, though. I don’t need her to believe me. I just need a witness.
“Just because she’s old, doesn’t mean she’s nice,” I say. “It’s a common misconception. Hansel and Gretel fell for it too, so don’t feel bad.”
“You’re not going to hurt her, are you?” asks Tanya, furrowing her eyebrows and, if I had to guess, picturing the outcome of Hansel and Gretel (evil witch shoved into oven).
I hold my hands up in the air. “Do you see any weapons on me? No, I’m just going to ask her some questions and make a few things clear. I need her to understand that this behavior is unacceptable. I can’t have these women ruining anything else. Mom only knows so many American Idol contestants.”
“But you can’t just go in there and start accusing her of things!” says Tanya, looking more horrified than when she thought I was going to cook her.
“Says who?”
“Says the rules of living in a civilized society!”
“Those rules don’t apply to wedding planning.”
“What if you’re wrong, Summer? These are Babette’s friends. Maybe you’re skipping town after this weekend, but Babette has to live here with these people.”
“That’s her fault, not mine.”
“That’s it, I’m leaving.” Tanya jumps out of the cart and starts walking briskly back up the street.
“Okay, okay!” I shout. “I’ll be subtle! Geez.”
Tanya stops walking, turns around, and reluctantly gets back in the cart.
“If we’re going to do this, we can’t just barge in there and start questioning her,” she says, firmly. “We need some sort of excuse for being here. Any ideas?”
I shrug. “We could invite her to the bachelorette party.”
“Seriously?” Tanya laughs. “You think this woman is sabotaging your wedding, and now you’re going to invite her to your bachelorette party?”
“Well, it’s the same night as Graham’s bachelor party. At least if she’s with us I’ll know she’s not out, hiding in the bushes, taking incriminating photos to send me in the mail.”
“She could hire a photographer to do that. And if
Graham’s actually doing something incriminating, wouldn’t you want to know?”
I narrow my eyes, the wheels in my head spinning. God, there are so many levels of craziness involved with planning a wedding. And being in a relationship.
“I was kidding!” says Tanya, seeing the look on my face. “Man, you really have lost it. Look, I know you don’t want to hear it, but if you’d just had the wedding back home—”
“I know,” I say. “I know it and I’m being duly punished for it. My mother hates me, and I’m about to interrogate an old woman. I’ve come to terms with the fact that Martha Stewart Weddings isn’t going to be contacting me any time soon.” I jump out of the golf cart. “Coming?”
Tanya rolls her eyes and follows me grudgingly up the walk to Francine’s front door. I ring the bell. I’m not even sure she’s home right now, but it’s four o’clock so there’s a good chance that she’s primping herself for the early bird dinner. After a few seconds, we hear somebody fiddling with the bolt and the door swings open. Francine is standing there, wrapped in a pink bathrobe, her hair in curlers.
“Girls!” says Francine, looking from Tanya to me. “What a nice surprise.”
“Hi, Francine,” says Tanya. “I hope we didn’t disturb you.”
“Not at all. I was just putting on my face for dinner. Come on in.”
We follow her into the house, where it smells like the Marlboro Man was holding a bake sale. On the table is a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
“Would you girls like a cookie?” asks Francine.
“Yummy,” says Tanya.
“No, thanks,” I say, shooting Tanya a look. No way was Francine in here innocently baking cookies. I don’t think that she’d go as far as poisoning me, but I’m not convinced she wouldn’t toss in a box of laxatives. Not that she knew we were coming. Still, a girl can’t be too careful behind enemy lines.
“Suit yourself,” says Francine, picking a cookie up off the plate and taking a bite. Okay, fine. Maybe they’re not laced with laxatives. Or, maybe Francine is constipated. Just call me Sherlock.
“So, what brings you girls by?” she asks, finishing her cookie and lighting up a cigarette.
