Dress Rehearsal

by Jennifer O'Connell

  “Hi, Hugh.” I stood up and started to clear away the tasting plates.

  Amanda gave her brother a hug. “Hugh is one of the few people who doesn’t look at us like we’re crazy for doing this.”

  Hugh shrugged. “Hey, as long as I’m not asked to be the maid of honor, I’m fine with it.”

  “We keep trying to set him up with women, but he’s not exactly a willing participant.”

  “Must I remind you that the last time I went on a blind date with a woman she ended up falling in love with my sister. My friends still won’t let me live that down.”

  “Hugh wasn’t my type, but I didn’t know it at the time.” Allison stood up and leaned in to give Hugh a kiss on his cheek, but he grabbed her from behind, spun her around, and bent her backwards into a very Fred Astaire-like dip before kissing her on her nose.

  “He thinks all these fancy moves will show me I’ve picked the wrong sibling,” Allison told me, her head hanging upside down so that the tips of her blonde curls swept along the floor.

  “It’s a good thing I don’t have a fragile ego,” Hugh conceded and helped Allison upright.

  “Hey, Lauren, know any women looking for a handsome, eligible mortgage broker?” Amanda asked.

  “Let’s not worry about my eligible status right now. What’d you two go with?” Hugh stuck a finger into the half eaten slice of sour cream fudge cake and swiped a glob of icing before Allison could slap his hand away. “Good stuff,” he noted, licking his finger.

  “We went with the orange blossom yellow cake as planned,” Allison confirmed.

  “With raspberry mousse and pink pistachio-scented buttercream,” Amanda added, completing Allison’s sentence.

  Hugh shook his head, disappointed. “I see my advice meant nothing to you two.”

  “Please.” Allison bumped her shoulder against Hugh, nudging him away from the table. “This guy wanted us to get a carrot cake!”

  “What can I say? I’m a sucker for old fashioned carrot cake – my tastes are perfectly pedestrian compared to my sister and her girlfriend here.”

  “Fiancé,” Allison and Amanda reminded him.

  While the two brides went on to describe for Hugh the fresh magenta and coral poppies and peonies they wanted cascading down the cake’s tiers, I reassessed the carrot cake-loving mortgage broker in front of me. Hugh was the polar opposite of Steve - preppy, clean cut and involved in a fast moving industry. His hair was conservatively cut, cropped close to his neck with neatly manicured sideburns that were probably kept in check every morning courtesy of Gillette. But a wave of hair falling casually across his forehead belied Hugh’s otherwise exceedingly ordinary haircut, and made me think that perhaps this guy was someone Paige should meet. He was probably 5’9” or 5’’10” max, which meant he was perfectly proportional for Paige, and any man who could find humor in the fact that his sister’s future bride was originally supposed to fall for him, well, he couldn’t take himself too seriously.

  Besides, I felt like I owed it to Paige.

  “So, you’re a mortgage broker?” I asked Hugh.

  “Yep. Why, are you buying a place?”

  I shook my head and gave Hugh a conspiring smile. “No, but I have a friend that I think you should meet.”

  Chapter 14

  Maria was gone and I was about to lock up and call it a day when the front door swung open and a tall, blonde woman in a black cropped wool pea coat rushed in.

  “Hi Lauren, I’m Vivian Linden, Robin’s editor,” she gushed, approaching me in long strides. “Sorry, I’m late. I am so excited to meet you – just thrilled!”

  I reached for Vivian’s hand, but she brushed it away and embraced me like we were long lost sorority sisters, the only thing missing was the secret handshake. “I have so many friends who love your work and after talking with Robin, I feel like I already know you.”

  Vivian was a lot younger than I anticipated, which meant she was probably around my age. Whenever I pictured publishers or editors, I either envisioned caftan-wearing women with graying hair at their temples pulled back absentmindedly into updos kept in place by number two pencils, or Diane Keaton look-alikes in vintage suits and funky berets. Either way, I figured they lived alone with mountains of manuscripts piled up on their night tables. But Vivian was neither hiding underneath a caftan nor an Annie Hall clone. And, considering she was dressed in trendy low-rise black pants that not only made it clear her stomach was flat but that her ass was perfectly toned, I doubt she spent her nights alone in bed reading.

  Vivian walked around the gallery with her arms stretched out like Julie Andrews atop an Austrian mountain before she burst into song.

  “This place is perfect,” Vivian cooed, although she didn’t bother elaborating on what it was perfect for. “Did Robin tell you my idea?”

  “Sort of. She said you were thinking about a book of my cakes.”

  “Oh, Lauren, not just a book. The book. The definitive book on wedding cakes by Lauren Gallagher, creator of Lauren’s Luscious Licks.” Vivian held her hands up, her thumbs and forefingers in right angles as if she was trying to visualize how the boutique would look in a frame. “I see pictures of your cakes, glossy, high concept photos by a master photographer, maybe Pietro Visconte or Randy Bock,” she mused, naming photographers I thought only shot fashion models.

  “Aren’t there already books like that?” I asked, thinking that if I could prove my theory with Paige and Hugh, Vivian would really have a story worth publishing.

  “Lauren, of course there are wedding cake books, lots of boring books by authors people have never heard of. But there aren’t any books by Lauren Gallagher.” I must not have looked convinced because Vivian tipped her head to the side and reached for my hand, which she patted. “I don’t think you realize what you have here. People come to you for an ideal – a vision of how their wedding day is meant to be, the conclusion of months, sometimes years, of planning. Lauren’s Luscious Licks is a form of wish fulfillment. Nobody comes here because your cakes taste good.”

  It sounded like Vivian had been talking to Robin. I knew there was supposed to be a complement in there somewhere. I just had difficulty finding it. “They don’t?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, your cakes are fantastic, absolutely divine. But they’re more about a standard. You’ve set the standard for wedding cakes the way Vera Wang has set a standard for wedding dresses. There are tons of books about wedding dresses, but when a bride sees Vera Wang On Weddings on the shelf in a bookstore, she buys it. And why? Because it’s by Vera Wang.”

  Vivian went on to describe her vision for the coffee table book, complete with cover art and a huge launch party that would simulate, what else, a wedding reception. “So what do you think?”

  “It sounds beautiful, but do you really think you could sell a book just filled with photographs?”

  “Oh, but it’s not just pretty pictures of cakes. They’d be organized any way you see fit – by season or month, or even type of wedding – formal, garden, destination. You’d have total creative license.”

  “And people would buy that?”

  “Lots of people, women mostly – women like you, who believe that the cake represents more than just dessert, that it represents the crowning moment. It’s all about anticipation really, isn’t it? We want to heighten that anticipation, let it build page by page, photo by photo, creating a cake-induced climax that leaves women glowing and satisfied, like it was all worth the wait.” Vivian basked in her own after glow for a few seconds before coming back down to earth. “Don’t forget, while brides may be willing to devote hours to selecting just the right cake, when the big day arrives, sitting down and eating cake when you have two hundred guests to entertain, isn’t exactly a priority.”

  Right. As Robin pointed out, they’ve all moved on to the chicken dance.

  “Think what it would do for your business. And then there are all sorts of tie-in possibilities – you could become like the Emeril of wedding cakes.
”

  Vivian bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, as if the mere thought of my wedding cake empire was just too great. “Think big!”

  The Emeril of wedding cakes – it didn’t get much bigger than that.

  I wanted to tell Vivian about my cake theory, but I was afraid she’d react like Maria did and call my idea half-baked. Then again, she was Robin’s editor, and if Robin was willing to consider that there might be some truth to my predictions, then maybe Vivian would, too.

  “What if I told you that I thought the cake a couple chooses says a lot about their relationship?” I asked cautiously, ready to drop the topic if Vivian wasn’t convinced.

  “I’d say I was intrigued.”

  “Then what if I said I thought I had a talent for predicting whether a couple will break up or not by watching them pick out a cake?”

  “I’d say we had a best seller in our future.” Vivian rubbed her hands together, savoring my revelation. “Have you ever been able to put two people together because of the cake?”

  “Not yet, why?”

  “Well, it’s just that brides are optimistic people by definition, predicting disaster is probably not something they want to read about. I had more of a feel-good book in mind.”

  I saw Vivian’s point, but I couldn’t help but feel a little let down. “Sure, that makes sense.”

  “Great. I’ll work up an offer and get back to you. You may want to get a lawyer or agent involved. Robin’s agent is fabulous.”

  Robin had an agent?

  “Tootles!” Vivian tossed a wave over her shoulder and as quickly as she’d arrived, she was gone.

  After the whirlwind that was Vivian, I needed her idea to settle in. I closed up the boutique and walked down Newbury Street toward Clarendon, where Pottery Barn shone like a beacon for young, attractive men and women methodically setting the stage for their lives with backdrops of earth-toned Charlston sofas and Sundari kilm rugs, accented with carefully placed props of stoneware, glass and antiqued pewter.

  As I pulled the giant glass door open, I was bathed in the smell of newness. Buttery leather sofas and glossy wooden end tables, jewel-colored chenille throws tossed casually over the arm of a chair – they all tempted me to sit down, throw my feet up on an ottoman, and declare myself home. But of course, my home looked nothing like this, yet. Someday it would, when I finally settled into a place that I knew I’d be in for a while, or when I just settled down, period. But for now I had no problem using the Newbury Street store as a substitute.

  Although Vivian went on and on about how much she loved the idea of a cake book, she didn’t mention how much she was willing to pay for one. Even so, just the idea that she’d get back to me with an offer sounded good. I mean how hard could it be to make a few cakes and have some spectacular photographer snap some shots of them?

  But if I could get Paige and Hugh together in time, maybe I could give Vivian the feel good book she was after. There was no reason why my cake theory couldn’t work in reverse – getting people together before they were seated at the tasting table. Besides, I liked the idea of being the harbinger of good news. It sure beat a lifetime of interventions.

  I shifted into browsing mode and started on the left side of the store. A few customers wandered through the aisles clutching reams of paper I recognized from the bridal registry printer, pages filled with margarita glasses, Audrey flatware, serving platters and table linens. They kept glancing at the sheets of paper, comparing the SKUs on the pages with the items they held in their hands.

  I wound my way through the store, pausing briefly when I recognized items Robin picked for her own bridal registry. In an ironic twist of fate, the store where Robin and Mark had picked the props for their life together was also the place that gave it a final nudge over the cliffs into oblivion. I’d heard the story so many times in excruciating detail that I no longer had to picture what it was like for Robin that afternoon. I felt like I’d been there.

  On their second wedding anniversary, Robin had taken Mark shopping for her assistant’s birthday gift and Mark trailed solemnly behind, something she attributed at the time to nothing more than male shopping aversion. Every once in a while they’d walk past a display, a wall-less room impeccably laid out to tempt shoppers into thinking it was actually possible to create a similar environment at home without the help of merchandisers and design professionals. And, when they passed those displays, Robin caught glimpses of herself in the distressed-framed mirrors and liked what she saw.

  They looked good together, Robin and Mark. With her chestnut highlights falling over the shoulder of her black leather coat, her sleek blow-out creating a stark contrast to the wavy hair curling at the collar of Mark’s brown bomber jacket, they looked like an advertisement she’d see in one of her seminar brochures. An ad that showed women how it was supposed to be when you grew up and finally married the guy you were never sure you’d get.

  Eventually, Robin selected the fishbowl vase for her assistant and, on their way to the register to pay, stopped in front of the Emma cake stand.

  “What do you think? For an anniversary cake?” she asked Mark, running her finger along the stand’s scalloped and beaded edges.

  “Sure,” he’d answered flatly, and then added. “I guess we should stop on the way home and pick up a cake.”

  On the way back to their apartment, Robin and Mark bought a cake at the grocery store, a white one with dandelion yellow piping and three fluffy yellow rosettes (even as she was picking it out, Robin knew I’d disapprove, of both the cake and the fact that she hadn’t ordered one in advance from Lauren’s Luscious Licks). Once I’d told her my cake theory Robin saw this event as ominous foreshadowing of what was to come.

  That night Mark brought the cake out on the new Emma cake stand, a single flickering candle in its center struggling to breathe as he awkwardly placed the cake on the table in front of Robin. Looking back, she often wondered if he was trying to give her a hint – that the solitary candle trying to survive on its own was in fact meant to prepare her for what would follow. Mark told Robin to blow out the candle, which she promptly did, forgetting to even make a wish. When the flame was out, Mark said more than he had since they returned home from the shopping trip.

  “I’m not happy,” he said, his eyes fixed on the thin line of smoke wafting up from the candle she’d just extinguished. “I don’t want to be married anymore. I want a divorce.” (At this point in the story I always let my jaw drop open, as it was my duty to act shocked even though I knew it was coming).

  Once Mark made his proclamation, Robin knew it was over. There would be no therapy, no hashing it out until late at night trying to figure out how to fix things. Even as his words echoed through her body before finally settling somewhere in the pit of her stomach, she steeled herself against him; she’d be damned if she’d disagree with him, if she’d humiliate herself by asking him the question that swam through her head – why now? Before they got engaged, she’d given him reasons to get out. He’d even found out about one. But once Mark slipped that ring on Robin’s finger, she’d stopped questioning where they stood or seeking answers from other men.

  Sitting there facing Mark, his face blank with no sign of remorse or doubt, Robin felt compelled to agree, to tacitly admit defeat and save face, as if she’d been thinking the very same thing but had been waiting until after the cake to break the news. (This was where I usually nodded my head, a sign that I understood exactly what Robin was thinking at this precise moment.)

  Mark left the apartment a few minutes later. But before closing the door behind him, Mark left a list of the things he wanted. It was a short list that included the stereo, a rubber tree plant he’d had since college, and his CDs – a list that included the belongings that mattered to Mark, but didn’t include one single thing from their own Pottery Barn registry. (“What, not one single thing?” I usually cried, appalled.)

  Later, when Robin brought the still uncut and uneaten cake into the kitchen and
placed it on the counter, she picked up the matches and relit the candle. She closed her eyes and blew, wishing with all her might that Mark would drop dead. (I always patted Robin on the shoulder when the story was over, as if to say good for you, that son of bitch deserves to be dead.)

  I’d shopped in this very Pottery Barn for the items on Robin’s registry. Although it was only four years ago, it seemed like a lifetime, like a different Robin. She’d always been so concerned about not letting a man define her, and here she ended up letting a man’s exit become the defining event in her life. Funny how that worked out.

  I continued winding my way through the store, following the smell of potpourri and room spray until I reached a display of large square Pottery Barn coffee table books propped up on stands. The cover of the book titled Bed showed overstuffed pillows snuggled against a cozy sherling bed cover casually turned down at one corner. Three old fashioned suit cases were stacked bedside for night tables, which, after thinking about Robin’s story, didn’t seem like such a great idea. Why give someone the opportunity to think about leaving as he was lying in bed with you? I removed the book from the display and flipped through the pages.

  Was this what Vivian had in mind? A book of eye pleasing photos that reminded readers that nobody’s bedroom really looked like those pictures. Even the casual touches intended to give the rooms a lived-in feel didn’t reflect real life – in real life all those woven wicker baskets would be overflowing with magazines and books and other things tucked into the tasteful bins that provided convenient hiding spots when company visited. But as I continued to turn the pages, I saw that the book had more than just pictures of professionally designed rooms, it also had tips and how-to’s that showed readers, in fact, they too could recreate an atmosphere that resembled the picture on the page. Now that was a hell of a lot more interesting.