“So,” Catherine begins, barely looking up from her notebook as she takes notes, “how many guests were we thinking of inviting to this affair?”
“We’d like to keep it small and intimate,” my mother says, folding her hands in front of her on the table. I do the same and smile back at my mom.
“Yes, we totally agree,” Jack’s mother says and I allow myself to take a deep breath. Maybe this afternoon won’t be as difficult as I thought it would be. See, we’re all in agreement already! “I’m not sure how many people you’ll have from your side, but we were thinking that six hundred might be a good number to shoot for.”
“Six hundred what?” my father says.
Jack’s mother laughs. “Barry, you’re so funny.”
“Six hundred guests?” I say, looking at Jack. He and I had always talked about having a small wedding. Jack picks up an album and begins leafing through the pages.
“Yes,” Jack says, barely looking up from the album, “only six hundred. We should definitely cap it at six.”
“I know that your family is bigger than ours,” my mother says with a smile, “but how could you possibly have six hundred guests?”
“Well, Edward has many business contacts that he’s got to include,” Jack’s mother says.
“Are you inviting the entire United States judiciary?” my father asks, looking at Catherine. I know that he’s hoping for a laugh from her, but she keeps a clipped smile on her poker face. I wonder if she’d play the role of dispassionate observer if she knew that my father was paying for the whole thing and tends to be a fairly huge tipper, even when it’s inappropriate and/or discouraged to give a tip.
“Perhaps we should talk menu first,” the wedding coordinator asks, pen poised and ready to write. “What were we thinking for an entrée?”
I see my father’s expression brighten, ready, no doubt, to start talking sirloin.
“We were thinking lobster,” Jack’s mother says first and I see my father’s face fall. My mother, all of the sudden, seems very interested in her fingernails.
“Lobster?” my father says, attempting a smile, “but, Joan, this is a Jewish wedding.”
Everyone just sort of stares at everyone else for a moment and I just silently pray that I don’t have to explain to the Solomons that lobster is so not kosher, which is why my father objects to serving it at a Jewish wedding.
“We were thinking filet,” my mother says, taking a deep breath as she looks up from her hands with a broad smile on her face. “Filet mignon.” The “‘which my husband will lovingly pick out and supply himself” part is implied.
“Excellent choice,” the wedding coordinator says, barely lifting her head up as she jots down notes.
“Maybe we should do a duet—the lobster and your meat,” Jack’s mother says. I’m sure I’m just imagining it, but it seems like she says the words your meat as if she’s talking about my father serving meat from mad cows. I know she’s a vegetarian, but surely she knows how high quality kosher meat is?
“Now you want a surf and turf?” my father says. No one seems to have any idea what my father is talking about, but I do. If only Jack’s mother had served the beef tenderloin my father brought her that first night they all met, maybe some of this hostility could be avoided.
“Joan and I really had our hearts set on lobster,” Jack’s father says. “Don’t you like lobster, Brooke? Whenever we go to the Palm, you always order lobster instead of the steak.”
“Well, I….” I manage to eke out. I always make fun of Jack for his inability to stand up to his father, but now, sitting here in the hot seat, with Jack’s father’s eyes on me, accusing me of loving the non-kosher creatures of the sea, I can almost understand where Jack is coming from. I really can’t imagine having a man like Edward as my own father. I can’t even imagine having him as the judge in one of my cases. (Judge Solomon: “Isn’t that right, Brooke?” Me: “Yes, Your Honor! I’m guilty!” My client: “You’re fired.”)
“Brooke and I love lobster,” Jack says, running his fingers through his hair. Et tu, Brute?
My father turns and looks at me as if he’s King Lear. But he needn’t worry about me.
Now, I know I eat lobster all the time in my regular day-to-day life. And Jack’s right, I would probably eat lobster every day if I could, but the point is, you simply cannot serve lobster at a Jewish wedding. Well, actually, you can (which has now been made exceedingly clear to me today by the Solomons), but the point is, when your father is a kosher butcher and he is paying for the whole thing, you simply cannot serve lobster at a Jewish wedding.
Don’t panic, I think. Be calm. Be cool. Use your super litigator skills to make this man and his father realize that they do not, in fact, want to serve lobster at a Jewish wedding. They want to serve the meat that my father will pick out lovingly cut by cut. But, be so smart as to make them think that they came to this conclusion themselves. The sort of Jedi mind trick young engaged women everywhere are forced to use on their fiancés and future in-laws every day.
“You can’t serve lobster at a Jewish wedding!” I cry out very, very fast. I catch my breath and realize that I’ve jumped a bit out of my chair in my zest. So much for The Force.
“Anyway,” my father says, “some of our family members keep kosher and they would not appreciate being served lobster at this Jewish wedding.”
“Do you keep kosher?” Jack’s mother asks, furrowing her brow, with the same tone I’d imagine her using if she’d asked my father, “Do you practice cannibalism?”
“That’s not really the point—” my mother begins, before being cut off by my father.
“My Aunt Devorah does, for one,” my father says, “if you’ve got lobster on the plate, she won’t be able to eat the meat that’s next to it. She can’t eat something that’s touched lobster. So, what’s my Aunt Devorah going to eat?”
“No one really ever eats the entrées anyway, Barry,” Jack’s mother says to my father, reaching across the conference room table and putting her hand over his. “She’ll probably just fill up at the cocktail hour and skip the main course altogether!”
“Probably not,” my father says, “since at the rate we’re going, we’ll probably be serving cheeseburgers at the cocktail hour!”
“Well, we are from Philly,” Jack’s mother says.
All I can think is, Please don’t say Philly cheese steak. Please don’t say Philly cheese steak.
“You are not serving Philly cheese steak at my only daughter’s Jewish wedding,” my mother says, now leaning onto the table.
See why we’re related?
“Well, of course we wouldn’t serve cheese steak at the wedding!” Jack’s mother says, laughing, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Those crazy Solomons! They almost had us going there for a minute. But, she was just kidding! And thank God, since there is no one thing in the world that is quite as offensive to a kosher butcher from Long Island than a cheese steak from Philly. Eating meat and cheese at the same time is enough of an offense to a kosher butcher as is, but the thought of using Steak-Umms in a sandwich is really just too much for my father to handle.
But, she was kidding! Which means that this thing can turn around in an instant. We can still salvage this day. In fact, we’ll probably all end up going out to dinner after this appointment. We’ll have lots of laughs and drink too much and after a while, we won’t even be able to remember a time where we didn’t all get along famously.
“But,” Joan says calmly, “we may do a little Philadelphia homage at the rehearsal dinner we’re planning for the night before the wedding for our out-of-towners.”
Almost under his breath, my father says: “You are going to serve meat and cheese at my daughter’s rehearsal dinner?” My mother and I lock eyes, both afraid to look at my father, whose face is probably bright red by now, fists clenched into tiny little balls under the table.
“Let’s move on to the cake,” the wedding coordinator asks, changing the subject. “What pr
ice range are we thinking about for the cake?”
Yes, cake. That’s it—let’s talk cake. That Catherine is good. Nothing can divert one’s interest quite like baked goods. Maybe she even has samples for us to taste and we can all have some and get on a huge sugar high and become the big happy family that I just know in my heart that we are destined to be.
Hell, at this point I’d even let my mother chug a glass of champagne if it would defuse some of the tension.
“We don’t want anything too outrageous,” my father says, “right, BB?”
“Yes,” I say, happy that my father and I have regained our composure, “something understated and moderately priced.”
“We don’t have to go moderate,” Jack’s mother whispers to me from across the table, “why don’t you just let us take care of the price of the cake?”
“It’s not just the price of the cake,” my father says, even though Joan’s remark clearly wasn’t meant for him, “I just don’t want it to look overdone and tacky.”
“Will we be giving out lamb chop party favors?” Jack’s dad asks. “That’s not tacky at all.”
“People love lamb chops,” my mother says. “Especially my husband’s. There are people who drive all the way from Westchester just to get a taste of Barry’s chops.”
“Jack,” I say, staring at my fiancé, still concentrating very hard on the albums Catherine has laid out for us, “do you have anything to contribute to this conversation?”
“Whatever you guys decide on,” he says, “is fine by me.”
“Just put us down for the most outrageous one you’ve got,” Joan says. And then, in a whisper, “on us!”
“I think we’ve made it clear,” my father says, taking a deep breath as he does, “that there is no greater pleasure in our life than to pay for BB’s wedding entirely. So Mimi and I would really appreciate it if you would let us do that.”
My mother smiles a Stepford wife smile and says: “Really. It’s our dream to throw BB the wedding she’s always dreamed of.”
“Thanks Mom and Dad,” I say, “you know, Catherine, there are so many wonderful choices you’ve got here for us. But, unfortunately, I’ve got a ton of work to do at the office, so I’m finding it hard to focus right now. I’d very much like to think about it and then come back with my parents and make my final decision.”
Wow. Don’t I sound, like, totally lawyerly?
“That sounds like a great idea, Brooke,” Catherine says, closing her notebook and giving me a warm smile. “Call me to set up the next appointment.”
“I think I’ll go powder my nose,” my mother says, pushing her chair back and getting up from the table.
“I think I’d like to come with you,” I say, as I stand, too, and round the corner to the other side of the conference room table. I give fake air kisses to Jack’s parents and ignore the fact that they try to draw me in closer for a hug. My mother does the same. When I come to Jack, I give him the same air kiss I gave his parents and I can see in his eyes that he knows why I don’t kiss him. My father reluctantly stands and says a proper good-bye to the Solomons.
“See you at home,” Jack says to my back as I’m already half-way out the door.
“See you at home,” I say without turning around. It’s the first time since Jack and I got together that I don’t kiss or hug him good-bye.
Once my mother and I determine that the coast is clear (read: Solomon-free—thank God I didn’t invite the siblings!), we go back to the conference room to pick up my father. The plan is for me to walk them to the parking garage and catch a ride back to my office on their way back to Long Island.
My father stands up as my mother and I walk into the room—he always stands when a lady enters or leaves a room—and I throw my arms around him for a big hug. As he hugs me back, I realize that I’m crying.
“I hope those are tears of happiness, BB,” my father says, “because I’m going to throw you the most beautiful wedding in the world.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, running my fingers along my eyelashes to catch the tears.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” my mother says, patting my head and then kissing it. “This will all work out. Jack will come through, just like he always does, and everything will be smooth sailing.”
“I know,” I say, but for some reason, the tears keep coming. My father takes his handkerchief out from his inside pocket.
“We’re just around the corner from Barneys,” my mother says. “Why don’t we duck in there and see what wedding dresses they’ve got?”
“I don’t think I really feel like it, Mom,” I say, as we begin walking downstairs toward the lobby.
“Call Ripley’s Believe it or Not,” my father says, “Our BB actually doesn’t want to shop. I thought that shopping was the cure to everything for my little Miller girls?”
“I just have too much work to do,” I say, carefully wiping my eyes and handing my father’s handkerchief back to him. My mascara covers the ornate monogram that my mother has put onto all of my dad’s hankies.
“Hey,” my father says, “I have an idea. Let’s all go to Don Peppe’s for dinner. There is nothing in this world that a little homemade red wine can’t fix. After a tiny glass of red and a huge plate of pasta, you’ll feel a world better. And after a cappuccino and cannoli, I promise to drive you back to your office. Whaddya say, BB?”
It would take a forty-five-minute car ride to get to Queens from midtown and even if we were seated right away, it would still take at least an hour and a half to order and eat. And you never get seated right away at Don Peppe’s. Then it would be another forty-five minutes to get back into the city, assuming we don’t hit any traffic, so that means I couldn’t possibly be back at my desk any sooner than three hours. And then eighty to one hundred hours of work awaits me.
But, then again, I’m not exactly rushing to go home to see Jack tonight, so what’s the hurry to get back to work?
“Sounds perfect,” I say as we reach the parking garage. We all pile into my father’s car and head toward the Midtown Tunnel.
17
Back when we were a loving, newly engaged couple who were merely living in sin and not fighting in both the courtroom and the bedroom, Jack and I had our morning routine down pat. I’d wake up first at 7:15 a.m., and hop in the shower while Jack snoozed the alarm until I was done in the bathroom. When I got out of the shower, I’d throw my hair into a towel, and get the coffee ready (that brewed every morning at 7:20 a.m., thanks to the kick-ass coffeemaker with timer settings that Jack’s cousins Judy and David bought for us for an engagement gift) while Jack showered. Then, we’d read the paper and eat breakfast together while my hair dried and I stared at Jack lovingly.
Since the Monique litigation began, things have not exactly been the same. Especially since the incident at the Pierre. Now, I sleep until 7:30 a.m. (those fifteen minutes make all the difference when you’ve worked past midnight…) and Jack takes the New York Post with him to work since I’ve usually grabbed The New York Times on my way out while he’s still in the shower.
Today, as I’m about to run out of the apartment with the Times firmly tucked under my arm, the phone rings. I briefly get that panicked feeling you get when someone calls you and wakes you up in the middle of the night. Why is someone calling here at eight-thirty in the morning? I look at the caller ID and see that it’s Vanessa.
“Whatever you do, do not look at the paper,” Vanessa says.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, sitting back down at our breakfast bar. I look at the clock and see that it’s 8:31 a.m. Jack will be out of the shower any minute.
“No, nothing’s wrong,” Vanessa says, trying to sound nonchalant, “just don’t look at the New York Post.”
If I have any chance of making it out of the apartment before Jack gets out of the shower so that I can avoid him like the coward that I am, I’ve really got to leave now.
“What’s in the Post?” I ask, eyeing the paper that’s on my
kitchen counter. It’s still wrapped in a roll, secured by a rubber band, and I wonder if I take the rubber band off, if I’ll be able to get it back on so as to make it look like I haven’t touched it.
“You are definitely not on the cover of the Post,” Vanessa says, “so do not look at it.”
Is this how she’s trying to get me to not check out the Post? Telling me not to look at it? Does she know nothing about reverse psychology? This woman is clearly not ready for children.
As I eye the newspaper, all I can think is: this is about Monique. This is all about Monique and Jean Luc. No doubt, my videographer has been tailing Jack and me, going through our garbage nightly, and by now knows all the sordid details of the dissolution of partnership. Hell, he probably already knows that Monique went to see Robin Kaplan, divorce attorney to the stars.
This is bad. This is very bad. The second Monique finds out about this, she is going to fire me. And then Noah will fire me! And then I’ll be jobless! On a lighter note, I won’t have to do the document production that Jack served me with the other day, but what kind of self-respecting bride walks down the aisle in five-hundred-dollar shoes while collecting unemployment?
Actually, unemployment might not be so bad. My skin will be clear from the lack of stress from work, and I’ll finally be able to find the time to go shopping for a wedding dress. Hell, I’ll have time to take a class to learn how to make myself a wedding dress! I mean, how hard could couture really be?
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