But I was touched when I returned to my office at last to find a bunch of congratulatory e-mails from the girls and orders to meet them here for happy hour.
“Well, anyway, I’m really sorry I’m so late,” I say apologetically, reaching for a broken-off tortilla chip from the nearly empty basket on the table and dredging it through what’s left of the salsa. “If I’d have known I was going to be stuck there this late, I would have said we should celebrate another night.”
“It’s okay…Here, we ordered you your raspberry margarita.” Brenda hands it over. “Actually we ordered one when we first got here, but we had to drink that. This is your freebie second. It’s a little melted.”
It’s pure liquid, but who cares? I take a sip and the tepid tequila burns its way down to my empty stomach. Pure heaven after a hellacious day in Account Exec Land.
“Come on, come on, give it over.” Latisha snaps her fingers and beckons for me to show her my left ring finger. “Let’s see what Jack did.”
I grin and thrust out my hand, wiggling my fingers and admiring the way the marquis-cut diamond catches the red and green neon light reflecting from the Tequila Murray’s Semi-Kosher Mexican Restaurant sign in the nearby window.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm. Look at you!” is Latisha’s satisfyingly appreciative response. “Girlfriend, that is some serious bling.”
Yvonne lifts a raspberry-colored eyebrow—tinted to match her raspberry-colored hair, which just so happens to match my melted raspberry margarita—to indicate her approval.
“Did I not tell you it was go-aw-jus?” Brenda asks in her Jersey accent, which always becomes more pronounced after a margarita or two.
“You even got a manicure,” Yvonne observes, knowing my fingernails are usually a mess.
“Don’t look too closely.” I withdraw my hand. “I did it myself last night. And I messed up a few nails trying to type while they were wet.”
“Typing?” Latisha shakes her cornrows in dismay. “Please don’t say you were working on a Sunday night.”
“I wasn’t working, I was online looking up wedding stuff.” I reach into the black tote bag and rifle around for the manila folder that doesn’t contain statistics geared toward constipated barbecue-goers.
“When are you going shopping for your dress?” Brenda asks. “Because I can come with you, if you want.”
“I already found my dress.” I pull out a dog-eared, months-old clipping from Modern Bride. “What do you think?”
Two agree that it’s beautiful, the other—guess who?—declares it go-aw-jus.
“The ad lists stores that carry it and there’s one on Madison, so I’m going to go up there as soon as I can and order it so it’ll be in on time.”
I’m about to tell them that I’ve also picked out the bridesmaids’ dresses—navy velvet sheaths—but first, I have to officially ask them to be in the wedding.
Before I can do that, Brenda asks, “Did you set a date yet?”
“Honey, she set a date last year,” Yvonne comments.
Which is true.
Still…
“Jack and I are thinking the third Saturday in October would be good.”
Rather, I’m certain the third Saturday in October is when we’re getting married, because I called Shorewood on the sly yesterday. I didn’t even give my name, because I don’t want the news of my engagement to leak back to my family through the small-town grapevine.
Although the banquet manager, Charles, wasn’t in, the waitress who answered the phone checked the book for me and said it looked like the date had been booked by someone else then crossed out. I was supposed to call Charles back today to check, but of course, I never had time.
So, yes, I’m fairly certain that we’re getting married on the third Saturday in October.
I tried to discuss the details with Jack a few times yesterday, but got nowhere. Still in the basking mode, he kept asking why we had to worry about details now.
Let me tell you, it’s a relief to be able to discuss the details with someone, even if it isn’t the actual groom.
“This is where I want to have the wedding,” I say, passing around a photo I printed off Shorewood’s Web site last night. “It’s a country club up in my hometown, right on the lake.”
“Lake Tahoe?” Yvonne asks cluelessly.
“No. Lake Erie,” I say. “Lake Tahoe is out West somewhere. California. Anyway—”
“It’s in Nevada,” Latisha cuts in. “I know because Derek wanted us to elope there at one point.”
“No, it’s in California,” Yvonne rasps, holding somebody’s margarita straw like a cigarette. I can tell she’s itching for a smoke. Who isn’t at this point?
Brenda starts to protest. “No, it’s in—”
“California!” Yvonne cuts in. “I was there once, a long time ago, and the only time I was ever in Nevada was when I was a showgirl in Vegas.”
“You were a showgirl in Vegas?” Brenda asks incredulously. “I thought you were a showgirl in New York. A Rockette.”
“Well, I was a showgirl in Vegas, too. Just for a few months,” she adds ominously, and I gather that stint didn’t have a happy ending.
“Well, you were also in Nevada more than once,” Latisha informs her, “because that’s where Lake Tahoe is.”
“Maybe it’s in both states,” Brenda interjects. “Like the Grand Canyon.”
“The Grand Canyon isn’t in California and Nevada!” I protest, wondering why we’re talking about western geography in the first place. I use it to segue neatly into eastern geography with, “Getting back to Lake Erie, though—”
“No, I know, the Grand Canyon’s in Arizona and Utah,” Brenda cuts in. “Jeez, I’m not as dumb as I look. What I meant was, it’s in two states, and maybe Lake Tahoe—”
“I don’t know…is the Grand Canyon really in Utah?” Latisha asks. “I’m trying to picture it on the map. I don’t think it’s in Utah.”
“Paulie went out there to hike the canyon a few years ago with his buddies right before we got married,” Brenda says, “and I know he said they were going to Utah because I remember I told him not to let those polygamists out there give him any ideas.”
“Oh, for the love of God.” Yvonne pulls out a cigarette and her lighter and heads for the door.
“What?” Brenda asks with an innocent little frown.
“Come on, baby girl…” Latisha shakes her head. “Do you really think Utah is swarming with polygamists who want to brainwash a bunch of hiking cops from New York?”
Who cares about any of this? is what I want to scream.
“Speaking of New York cops, Paulie’s on the night shift, so I’ve got to get home.” Brenda throws down a couple of twenties and pushes her chair back. “That covers me and my share of Tracey’s.”
“Thanks,” I say, “but you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” Brenda stands over me and gives me a big squeeze. “This is your engagement celebration, remember?”
Yeah.
Only I forgot.
“Hey, wait, Brenda—”
She turns around, en route to the door. “Yeah?”
“I want you to be a bridesmaid. Will you?”
She grins broadly. “Of co-awse. It would be an hon-ah.”
Left alone at the table with temporarily abandoned Yvonne’s coat and purse and Latisha, I hastily add, “You, too. Will you be my bridesmaid?”
“Hell, yes,” she says, and hugs me hard.
I catch her checking her watch as she releases my shoulders.
“You should go,” I say, checking my own. “It’s getting late. Go tuck your kids in.”
“Ha, you think Keera lets me do that these days?” She shakes her head. “I’ve been hangin’ out here until it’s safe to go home. Which it isn’t until I know Bernie’s in bed and sound asleep. Because if he’s still awake and he hears me come in, he gets all wound up and he’s awake for another two hours, wanting to climb all over me.”
“J
ack is kind of the same way,” I say with a sly smirk.
“Yeah, that won’t last.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once you’re married, everything gets to be old hat. And I mean everything. Trust me on that.”
“You mean…?”
“I do.” Latisha shakes her head. “Me and Derek used to have some big ol’ sparks goin’ on, morning, noon and especially night. Now all I want to do when I get into bed at night is sleep.”
She reaches out and pats my engagement ring. “But don’t worry, those days are way down the road for you. You just have fun planning your wedding.”
With that, she’s gone, and I’m left wondering when the fun is going to begin.
4
My cell phone rings as I’m striding down Lexington Avenue on Wednesday afternoon, headed to Sushi Lucy’s for lunch.
I bet my next paycheck that it’s Carol, wondering where I am. Everyone’s going crazy getting ready to present to McMurray-White again tomorrow.
I snuck away while Carol was on the phone with the Client, who have made it abundantly clear that they don’t believe we Account people need meals, sleep or natural light.
Checking caller ID, I see that it’s not Carol; it’s Will McCraw.
I was just kidding about my next paycheck—you knew that, right?
“Tracey, how’s it going?”
Yes, I answer the call. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years now.
“Funny you should ask that, Will, because it’s going particularly well, as a matter of fact. I—”
“That’s great. I just wanted to call and thank you for the Valentine—”
Yes, I sent him a Valentine, but it’s not what you think. It was a funny Shoebox one and I only sent it as an excuse to tuck in my new Tracey Spadolini, Account Executive, business card. Which apparently he didn’t notice, because he says nothing about the promotion.
“—and I couldn’t wait to tell you I got a lead in a European touring-company production of La Cage Aux Folles!”
Will starring as a gay man?
“Wow, I’d love to see that,” I say truthfully. “Listen, I have news—”
But he’s talking over me—“Yeah, it’s going to be great”—at least, that’s what I think he said. It might have actually been “I’m going to be great,” knowing Will, but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.
“I’m sure it will be,” I say, “and I’ve got something to—”
“I leave for Transylvania next week—”
“Will, I have to tell—wait, did you say Transylvania?”
“Right.”
Huh. I didn’t even realize Transylvania is a real place. Had I known it was a real place, I would imagine it filled with dark, brooding types and, yes, vampires—not musical-theater buffs. You learn something new every day.
“Will,” I jump in, realizing there’s been a lull, “I’m engaged.”
Dead silence.
“Hello?” That explains the lull; we must have gotten disconnected.
Nope. He’s still on the line.
“That’s great,” he says slowly, for once having been struck momentarily speechless. Ah, life is good. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” I beam.
“When’s the wedding?”
“October, I think. We have to—”
“October, I should be back by then.”
Okay, back?
Does he actually think he’s going to be invited to my wedding?
I really want to say, “You don’t know Jack.”
How I longed to tell Will McCraw, after he pretty much threw me away, that he was utterly clueless. About me. About life.
But now, strangely, I don’t feel as though I have anything to prove to him.
My work here is done.
“Well,” he says, “good luck with the planning and everything.”
“Thanks. Good luck to you, too.”
Doing gay musical theater in Transylvania.
For once, I think as I hang up the phone, both Will and I have simultaneously gotten exactly what we deserve.
I get to Sushi Lucy’s and hang around in the small mirrored vestibule, trying to diagnose the painful bump on my nose. Yup. It’s a newly erupting zit, all right. It’s been ages since I’ve had one, but I know they’re brought on by stress.
I bet I’ve escaped this problem until now because I could always rely on cigarettes to blow off steam. Now that I’m no longer smoking, all that tension is pent-up inside me, just waiting to erupt.
Is it any wonder that my reflection reveals a big, ugly red blemish, thanks to the living hell that is Abate’s Summer Barbecue campaign?
Mental note: stop for cigarettes—I mean, Clearasil—on way home later.
There’s some in the medicine cabinet at home, but I noticed when I was rummaging around in there the other day that it expired in ’03.
I know, you’re wondering why I don’t just toss it.
Because it’s Jack’s, that’s why. The last time I got rid of one of his decrepit belongings—a single stray gray-white nubby gym sock that had been kicking around various surfaces in the bedroom for ages—he was annoyed.
No, I don’t know why. But I decided on the spot that he would be responsible for disposing his own useless crap from there on in.
And I’ve noticed he never does, even when I call his attention to stuff like expired medication, single socks and aging takeout leftovers he never should have saved in the first place.
Magazines are the worst. Thanks to his media job on consumer electronics and men’s personal-care products, he gets comp subscriptions to just about everything but Modern Bride. There are towering stacks everywhere. I wouldn’t be surprised if, near the bottom, there are cover stories on the pope’s passing, the Red Sox World Series or Nick and Jessica’s divorce. Their wedding, too, probably.
Oh, well, that’s a fault I can live with, in the grand scheme of things. Nobody’s perfect.
Nor, to my dismay, is my complexion.
That’s a big fat ugly zit on my nose, all right.
But I’m not here at Sushi Lucy’s strictly for pimple verification. I’m actually waiting for my friend Buckley to meet me for lunch so I can finally share my big news. I wanted to do it yesterday, but it was such a zoo at the office that I couldn’t get away.
Today is a zoo, too. I shouldn’t be here, I should be working.
But I want to tell Buckley about my engagement in person before he hears it from someone else because…
Well, partly because I still haven’t been able to relish the pleasure of telling anyone in person. That will happen when we meet Jack’s mom and sisters for dinner tomorrow night, I’m sure, and when Raphael comes home from his honeymoon, and again when we fly up to Buffalo in a few weeks to tell my family—the soonest we could get an affordable flight.
But I’m dying to share my news in person right away with someone who will appreciate it. And I’m sure Buckley will, because he’s my friend….
Except…
Part of the reason I want to tell him in person is that maybe there’s a lingering teensy, tiny shred of something other than friendship in our relationship.
Did I mention that Buckley and I almost hooked up a few years ago? And that it overlapped with me and Jack, but not really with him and Sonja…?
Oh, right. I did mention it.
I guess I’ve just been thinking about that a lot lately for some reason.
Ever since I got engaged.
I wonder why.
Maybe because when you’re engaged, you realize that you will never ever kiss anyone else ever again. Not just kiss, but…fool around with.
I mean, you’ll fool around with your fiancé, of course—and you will go on fooling around with him after he becomes your husband…
(Unless you listen to Latisha, and I’ve chosen not to. The next time she starts in about the postmarital lack of sparks, I’m going to stick my fingers in my ears and sing “
Love and Marriage” at the top of my lungs.)
Anyway, being an engaged woman, you can’t help but wonder about what you might be missing from here on in.
I can’t help but wonder that, anyway.
But just about Buckley. No one else.
Probably because Buckley is the last person I kissed before Jack, and because it never went any further with him than that, physically. Emotionally, yes. He’s the only other guy I’ve ever felt really connected to, unless you count Will (which I don’t because that was all an illusion on my part—make that a delusion) or Raphael (which I don’t, because I guess I kind of think of him as a girlfriend).
So I guess I kind of think of Buckley as the One Who Slipped Away.
And something tells me he kind of thinks of me that way, too…even though he’s never said it. I mean, he and Sonja have been engaged since last fall.
I still remember exactly how and where he broke the news to me.
Not that it had to be broken, like bad news. Because it wasn’t. I mean, isn’t everyone happy to learn that a good friend is getting married?
It’s just that I was a little surprised, that’s all. Buckley and Sonja had already broken up because she had given him an ultimatum and he didn’t want to get married. Then he changed his mind.
And I guess I’ll always wonder whether…
Nah. Never mind. Forget I said anything about that, or about there being a lingering shred of anything other than friendship between us. Really, the only reason I’m so determined to tell Buckley my news in person is because he’ll be thrilled for me.
For us.
Maybe I should have included Jack today. But he was having lunch with a print rep anyway.
Then there’s Sonja, who is a production editor at some publishing house. She happens to work just a few blocks away and is usually free for lunch. Hmm, maybe I should have asked her to come, too.
Then again, if Buckley wanted her to be here, he’d have asked her himself, right? I mean, it’s not like he knows we’re having lunch together for a specific reason today. I just e-mailed him this morning to set it up. We do that all the time. Still…
Mental note: Set up celebratory dinner that includes both Jack and Sonja.
We were right here at Sushi Lucy’s when Buckley told me he’d realized that if he didn’t step up to the plate, he was going to lose Sonja. He said it in those words. Then he said he had gotten engaged to her the night before, in the middle of watching the World Series.
Slightly Married Page 5
