Slightly Engaged

by Wendy Markham

“Not you,” I say as Wilma makes a warning noise in my ear. “We were talking about someone else.”

  “Who?” he asks dubiously.

  “You mean whom,” I amend, just to buy time.

  He grits his teeth. “Whom are you talking about with my mother, Tracey?”

  “Maybe it actually should have been ‘who’ when you phrase it that—”

  “Tracey, come on! Who?”

  “Your father.”

  Judging by Wilma’s muffled groan, I’m guessing that wasn’t a good choice. But it’s too late now.

  “Your mother said something not very nice about your father and she doesn’t want me to tell him.”

  I wait for him to ask what she said, but he doesn’t. He merely rolls his eyes and says, “What else is new? And since when do you and my father chat?”

  True. I’ve only met the man twice.

  “There’s coffee,” I say brightly, to distract him, and I point at the counter in our kitchenette.

  Our Kitchenette. That’s right. Ours. Forever.

  “I’ll be off the phone in a second. Unless you want to talk to your mother?”

  “Not if she’s on the warpath against my father again.” Jack pads over to the coffeepot, yawning and stretching.

  I feel gloriously giddy. I’m getting married. I’m getting married!

  Just as soon as Jack asks me.

  Which, I’m assuming, will be soon. Won’t it? At least by tonight. Or tomorrow, at the latest.

  Of course by tomorrow, I reassure myself, while making forced, self-conscious conversation with his mother for a few more minutes. Jack is listening in now, no doubt ready to pounce on anyone who dares slander his father’s good name.

  Before the weekend is out, Jack will pop the question, I’ll accept, and it will be full steam ahead to the wedding.

  I can hardly wait.

  I wonder if it’s too late to throw together something for three hundred guests, give or take, in October?

  Part II

  Sweetest Day, Beggar’s night

  Chapter 4

  Previously on Lifestyles of the Poor and Single, Wilma Candell inadvertently—or not—revealed that her son, Jack, had a diamond and would be getting engaged any second.

  Presumably to me.

  That was over a month ago.

  Hearing Jack’s key in the lock, I quickly conceal the dog-eared October issue of Modern Bride—which I purchased back on Labor Day weekend an hour after Jack’s mother spilled the beans—inside this week’s People and stick it in the center of a towering stack of freebie magazines he’ll never touch.

  Here comes the groom, I think.

  I think this with just a pinch of irony, considering that forty days and forty nights have passed since his mother told me that an engagement was imminent.

  Actually, I think it with a dollop of irony and a side of frustration.

  What’s a girl to do when the man she loves is keeping proposal plans and diamonds all to himself?

  All she can do is wait.

  Wait, and secretly plan every detail of the wedding so that when The Question—and celebratory champagne corks, and engagement-photo flashbulbs—finally pop, she won’t be waylaid by research on reception halls, caterers and honeymoon destinations.

  “Hi, honey, I’m home,” Jack quips, draping his coat over the nearest chair.

  I watch him deposit his keys, wallet, sunglasses, Metro-card, umbrella, comb, handkerchief, a handful of change and a pack of Mentos on the table.

  I swear he somehow carries more in his pockets than I do in my purse, which is bigger than this apartment.

  “How was the meeting?” I ask him, tilting my head up as he bends to kiss me from behind the couch.

  “It went great. She was happy with my plan.”

  He’s talking about the client and a media plan, of course.

  I wish he would talk about me and his proposal plan, but short of asking point-blank whether he has one, I have to be patient. As far as he knows, I still think we might be getting married in a few years and I’m just hunky-dory with that.

  If it weren’t for Wilma, I would probably be job hunting in Brookside right about now. Thank God her secret-keeping ability is directly converse to her son’s.

  “I brought you something,” he says, and I get my hopes up.

  “Here,” he says, and hands me a plastic shopping bag that I can feel contains a smallish box, and I get my hopes up even further.

  I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that nobody proposes by handing over a ring box in a plastic shopping bag.

  Here’s my thought: Jack isn’t the most traditionally romantic guy in the world. I wouldn’t put it past him to give me—

  “A Chia Pet?” I say incredulously, pulling it out of the bag.

  “I saw it and thought of you.”

  “Really.”

  It’s a small gnome. A gnome that will presumably sprout a green Afro.

  For a moment, all I can do is stare at it.

  Then, knowing I might regret it, I ask, “Why did you think of me?”

  “Because you were just talking about how gray and dreary and dead everything is now that summer is over,” he says, and I can tell by his expression that he didn’t think it was this lame a few seconds ago, before he opened his big fat unromantic mouth.

  I’m trying to think of something nice to say to bail him out, but all I can come up with is, “Um, thanks.”

  “I just figured it would be nice to see something green and growing.”

  “It will be.” A gnome with green, growing hair. How…nice.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I guess it was a stupid idea.”

  “No,” I tell him, feeling sorry for the poor clod. “It was really…sweet.”

  I pretend to admire my Chia Pet. Then, when enough time seems to have passed, I put it on the table.

  “All I want to do now,” Jack says, sitting down beside me and taking off his shoes, “is put on sweats, order take-out pizza and watch the Mets get clobbered in their playoff game.”

  “Oops,” I say.

  “What?” He looks at me suspiciously. “Don’t tell me the cable is out.”

  “No…but you’re close.”

  “How close? Is the picture fuzzy?”

  “No, Raphael is coming over to play Trivial Pursuit. We’re making paella. He’ll be here in fifteen minutes.”

  Jack has the courtesy not to groan at that news, but I can tell he wants to.

  “How is that close to the cable being out?” he wants to know.

  “You know…you can’t get more ‘out’ than Raphael,” I crack.

  Jack clearly isn’t the least bit amused.

  It isn’t that he doesn’t like my friend Raphael, because everyone likes Raphael. Well, maybe not everyone.

  Chances are, your average homophobic red-stater isn’t going to appreciate a bawdy, wisecracking male fashionista. But in this little corner of the world, everyone—including Jack—likes Raphael.

  That doesn’t mean he prefers Pursuit and Paella to Pizza and Piazza. Still…

  “You hate the Mets,” I remind him.

  “Right. And I want to witness them die.”

  Is it my imagination, or is that hint of viciousness directed at me?

  “Sorry,” I say with a shrug. “But you can still watch the game. Raphael and I will be quiet.”

  He snorts at that. “Trace, Raphael isn’t even quiet in his sleep.”

  He’s right. We shared a room with him at Kate and Billy’s Hamptons share in July and the air was fraught with deafening snores and anguished—or perhaps libidinous—shrieks. I probably should have thought to warn Jack that Raphael talks in his sleep. And that he sleeps in the nude.

  “Well, lucky you, he isn’t sleeping over tonight,” I tell Jack.

  “Yeah, lucky me. I’m going to change into my sweats.”

  “Sweats?”

  “What’s wrong with sweats?”

  “Sweats are just too
…”

  “Too…what?” he asks. “Too comfortable? Too hetero? Too…?”

  “Dumpy. I mean, come on, Jack, we’re having company. And you know how Raphael is. He’ll be dressed up.”

  “So you want me to dig out my feather boa and hot pants so he and I can be twins?”

  I have to laugh. “No, just at least wear jeans, okay?”

  “Is a sweatshirt out of the question?”

  “Only if you were planning to wear the hooded one with the broken zipper and the bleach stain on the front.”

  I can tell by his expression that he was.

  “What’s wrong with that one?” he asks. “Too dumpy?”

  “Too Unabomber.”

  He scowls.

  “Don’t be mad, Jack. Come on. Cheer up. Do you want to invite somebody over, too?” I ask in my best toddler-soothing voice, thinking maybe poor Jackie wants a playdate, too.

  “Like who?”

  “How about Mitch?”

  Mitch is one of his college buddies who recently moved to Manhattan and doesn’t know many people yet. I keep meaning to fix him up with one of my friends, because it’s a sin to let a cute single guy go to waste in this town.

  “I can’t invite Mitch,” says Jack, who needless to say doesn’t share my views on cute single guys going to waste.

  “Why not? He’s probably sitting home alone.”

  “That’s better than being pounced on by a horny queen who thinks every single guy in New York is secretly closeted.”

  “Horny queen?” I echo ominously. “That’s really mean, Jack.”

  “It’s also how Raphael described himself in the last personals ad he ran.”

  That’s right. He did. And he meant it in a most complimentary way.

  He got a ton of responses, too.

  “Don’t you remember what happened when you invited Raphael over the night Jeff was in town?” Jeff is an old frat brother of Jack’s.

  Feigning Alzheimer’s, I ask, “No, what happened?”

  “For starters, Raphael gave him a lap dance.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I shrug. “I guess you won’t be inviting anyone over tonight, then.”

  “I guess not. You’re lucky I’m staying home at all.”

  I’m lucky he’s staying home? Is it me, or should he be wearing a wife beater and belching down canned beer when he says something like that?

  “I’m going to change,” he says, planting a cozy little kiss on my nose, and I promptly decide to let him off the hook.

  You can’t really blame a guy for being a little cranky under the circumstances. In fact, how many straight live-in boyfriends would shave, and put on a nice polo shirt and clean jeans for a horny queen?

  That’s exactly what Jack does.

  He emerges from the bathroom in a mist of air freshener just as I’m about to open the door for Raphael.

  “Is that Lysol?” I ask, sniffing.

  “Room spray. Gristedes was out of Lysol.”

  “Snoopy Sniffer is going to comment,” I warn him.

  Raphael’s nose is even more discriminating about scents—good and bad—than he is about fashion.

  Jack shrugs, and I open the door.

  First, I should point out that with his Latin good looks, Raphael is a dead ringer for Ricky Martin. Rather, Ricky Martin is a dead ringer for Raphael because, as Raphael likes to say, he himself is still hotter than hot and Ricky is more over than pink tweed bouclé.

  I should also point out that Raphael is dressed in red from head to toe this fine evening. Red leather jacket, tight red T-shirt, tight red jeans, and—

  “Are those red patent-leather spats?” I ask. Ay carumba.

  “Yes!” Raphael shouts joyously, and strikes a toe-pointing pose. “Tracey, do you love?”

  “Hmm…” I tilt my head. “I could possibly grow to love. Where did you get them?”

  “Either I bought them off a folding table on the Bowery, or at JCPenney when I was in Missouri on business last year. I forget which.”

  “My money’s on the Bowery,” Jack says dryly, draping an arm over my shoulders.

  “Mmm, I think it was Penney’s,” Raphael says decisively, and heads toward our kitchenette toting a couple of grocery bags.

  “What did you bring?” I wriggle from Jack’s embrace and follow him.

  “Everything we need for paella, including rum.”

  “Rum goes into paella?”

  “No, Tracey, the rum goes into us. We’re making mojitos. Oh!” He smacks his head. “I forgot something at the spice market. I knew I would.”

  “What is it?” I ask, opening the narrow cupboard where we keep your basic salt, cinnamon and garlic powder. “Maybe we have it.”

  I have no idea what we have, since this has become mostly Jack’s domain. It’s not that I don’t cook, or can’t cook. It’s just that ever since he cooked for me on one of our very significant first dates, it’s become our little tradition.

  “I need saffron,” Raphael reveals. “Got any?”

  I glance at Jack, who’s lingering on the outskirts of the kitchen because three adults can’t fit within the perimeter unless one of them is a waif.

  “No saffron,” Jack informs Raphael.

  “Jack!” Did I mention Raphael’s conversational style is liberally sprinkled with exclamation points and people’s first names? “Do you want to double-check? Maybe you have a smidge left somewhere.”

  “Nope. I haven’t bought a smidge of saffron since…hmm, let me think—ever. Can your recipe do without?”

  “It can, but…well, that’s kind of like making marinara sauce without tomatoes,” he says dramatically.

  Moment of silence.

  What to do, what to do…

  Jack asks, “Would they have it at the Korean grocer?”

  “Probably.”

  “Okay, then I’ll go down to the corner and get some.”

  I shoot Jack my most grateful, loving look. The look I usually reserve for situations involving my family. Or sex.

  “Jack!” Raphael screams joyfully. “Ohmygodthatwouldbegreat! But…are you sure it’s not a problem?”

  “Not at all.” Jack is already grabbing his keys. “We’re low on beer anyway.”

  “But, Jack, I’m making mojitos,” Raphael protests.

  “Will you be insulted if I just stick with a Budweiser?”

  “Not at all. Will you be insulted if I tell you that I don’t really like that cologne you’re wearing? It smells a little fruity. Not in a good way.”

  “I’d be kind of insulted,” Jack says, pulling on his coat. “Considering that I’m not wearing any cologne.”

  “Oops! Sorry. New coat?” Raphael immediately wants to know, buzzing over to Jack like a bee that just discovered a honey slick.

  “No, I got it last winter.”

  “JCPenney, Jack?”

  Jack looks insulted. “Barneys, Raphael.”

  “You’re kidding! You know what? It would look really great in a nice tomato red. Or royal blue, with epaulets,” Raphael pronounces, rubbing the placket between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Right. Well, I’ll be back soon with the saffron,” Jack says, and manages to extract himself from Raphael’s grasp.

  “They call it mellow ye-llow…ba da, ba da…” Raphael sings, unloading his bags as Jack beats a hasty retreat. “Mellow ye-llow.”

  The minute the door closes behind Jack, he breaks off his ditty to say, “Tracey! I thought he’d never leave!”

  “Raphael! Are you telling me you didn’t really forget the saffron?”

  “No. Well, yes,” he admits. “I mean, I didn’t forget it. I just kind of…you know, ran out of cash.”

  “What about your credit cards? Maxed out again? I thought you were going to keep the spending in control from now on.”

  “I splurged on something yesterday. Something big and juicy-licious…and no, it wasn’t human so don’t even go there.”

  I presume there is the male-escort servic
e I talked Raphael out of patronizing one lonely night last spring when he was captivated by an ad for an escort who billed himself as Lengthy Louie.

  “So what was your splurge?” I ask dutifully. “And how much cash did you spend?”

  “Two hundred bucks.”

  “On shellfish and rice?”

  He nods. “The saffron would have been forty dollars an ounce.”

  “Are you kidding? Where? Your dealer?”

  “Tracey, you’re funny,” he says without cracking a smile. He begins unloading his groceries onto the counter. “No, I found it at the spice market.”

  “Why is it forty bucks?”

  “Because, Tracey…” His eyes are round and he pauses significantly before saying in a near whisper, “It’s like powdered gold.”

  “Really?”

  Raphael shrugs. “Who knows?” He hands me a mesh bag filled with live clams and a red-and-white paper deli carton containing shrimp.

  “This stuff was two hundred bucks?”

  “Almost.”

  Raphael suddenly seems very interested in the line of grout between the countertop and the backsplash.

  “Okay, spill it,” I order. “What else did you buy on your way over? And I’m not talking about food.”

  He reaches into his pocket and guiltily produces a silk scarf. “I saw it in the window of that little boutique by my subway stop and I had to have it. It matches my eyes, Tracey, don’t you think?”

  “Your eyes are not plaid.”

  “Listen, I know what you’re thinking—”

  “That you’ve got some major—”

  “Cojones?” he asks slyly. “So I’ve been told, many, many times.”

  “Um, Raphael, can we please leave your cojones out of this conversation?”

  “Tracey, Jack won’t mind getting the saffron for us. He can use some fresh air.”

  Before I can ask Raphael what makes him think that—or admit that it’s probably true—he goes on, “And anyway, I was hoping we’d have a chance for some girl talk.”

  “About…?”

  “About…you might want to sit down for this.”

  We both look around the kitchen, which consists of a sink, a stove, a fridge and a few inches of free counter space.

  “Never mind sitting,” Raphael says. “You can hear it standing up.”