Slightly Married

by Wendy Markham

  “Why?” I ask sharply.

  Kate shrugs and reaches past her cute basketball-like bump to add another onesie to the towering pile in the wicker laundry basket. “She’s pretty, he’s cute, he’s romantic and good at wining and dining women. They’re both single, and neither of them is really into settling down…”

  “Buckley would be, if the right person came along.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. Not now, anyway. Buckley can’t commit to anyone—or anything, for that matter. Not a job, not even a lease. He bounces around the city freelancing, moving from apartment to apartment. Tracey, he has a lot of growing up to do.”

  I never thought of it that way.

  She’s right.

  “I think I’ll ask him to come to dinner and have Amanda here, too,” Kate muses.

  “No, she’s really not his type.” I shake my head. In response to her questioning look, I elaborate, “He’s so down to earth. She’s not. She’s on the rebound—”

  “So is he. And she’s very down to earth, when you get to know her.”

  “Kate, she got you a thousand-dollar baby carriage imported from France. And she thinks you should name your baby Amadeus if it’s a boy. She is not down-to-earth.”

  “Well, Sonja wasn’t all that down-to-earth, either.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sonja wasn’t right for him. Buckley likes down-to-earth girls. He likes…”

  No. Don’t say it.

  “Me. He likes me, Kate.”

  Why did I say that?

  “Actually…he loves me, Kate.”

  Why did I say that?

  I wait for her to freak out.

  “Um, yeah. No kidding,” is all she says.

  “What?” I gape at her, an unfolded onesie dangling from my fingertips.

  “Hello? Don’t tell me you never knew that.”

  “No, I didn’t know that! Kate! How did you know? Did he say something?”

  “No! It’s just obvious. And I’m sure I’m not the only one who ever noticed it.”

  “I hope Jack didn’t.”

  “Nah. Men are clueless about stuff like that. Jack wouldn’t have Buckley standing in your wedding if he thought he had a thing for you, would he?”

  “God, no. No way.”

  We fold in silence for a few seconds.

  Then Kate asks, “So if you never realized Buckley was into you, how do you suddenly know now?”

  “He told me.”

  Her jaw drops. “Really.”

  “Really.”

  “What did he say, exactly?”

  “He said ‘I love you.’ And some other really sweet things.”

  “To which you said…?”

  “I’m marrying Jack. I love Jack.”

  She nods. “Good. You did the right thing. Buckley’s not husband material. Jack is.”

  “But…”

  “But…?”

  “Sometimes I see Buckley and I feel kind of…wistful.”

  “Yeah. That’s how I feel sometimes, too—not lately, though,” she says with a laugh, patting her rounded stomach.

  “You’re attracted to Buckley?” I must say, I am shocked.

  “Lord-a-mercy, no! I’m attracted to Gabriel. My personal trainer.”

  Okay, not so shocked. I’ve seen Gabriel. Lord-a-mercy is right.

  “God, I miss him,” Kate says. “I swear, the second this baby is out, I’m so there.”

  “You mean…?”

  She nods. “Back at the gym.”

  “Oh! I thought you meant—you know.”

  “Tracey! I would never cheat on Billy.”

  “So you’re just attracted to Gabe, but you wouldn’t do anything about it?”

  “No way. Plus, he’s a huge flirt.”

  “So are you.”

  “Exactly.” She flashes a salacious grin. “Look, it’s human nature to want what we can’t have. But when you come right down to it, it’s all harmless, as long as you don’t act on it.”

  That’s pretty much what Brenda said.

  And it’s what I believe, deep down.

  Being attracted to Buckley even though I’m on the verge of marrying Jack isn’t a bad omen. It doesn’t mean I’m destined to become the Vinnie of our marriage a few years down the road.

  I guess I just always expected that if you were married—or about to be married—you were supposed to be oblivious to all other members of the opposite sex.

  Which really makes no sense whatsoever, because physical attraction stems, at least in part, from chemistry and biology, right?

  Right.

  And a ring appearing on your finger doesn’t have an overnight impact on your chemical or biological self, right?

  Of course right.

  Why did it take me so long to figure this out? No wonder I stunk at science back in school.

  Anyway, I can now accept that I’m destined to live monogamously ever after with Jack—and the occasional pesky but meaningless flicker of unacted-upon attraction for other guys.

  The only question now is, can Buckley and I salvage our friendship?

  I honestly have no idea. I’ve made my peace with it; the rest is going to be up to him.

  13

  “What if my plane crashes?”

  That’s me, talking to Jack in the wee-hour post-lovemaking darkness of a late-September Saturday, my head against his bare chest.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he murmurs, but his arms seem to protectively tighten around me. “Who would even say something like that?”

  “I would.”

  “Well, why?”

  I don’t know. I should be ecstatic. I’m getting married, I’m looking good, I’ve got a great job…

  Why am I feeling so anxious lately?

  “Maybe because for once in my life everything is about to fall into place,” I muse aloud. “I’m so afraid something’s going to come along and rip it apart.”

  Jack laughs softly. “That’s my girl. The eternal optimist.” The laugh evolves into a deep yawn.

  “I’m serious, Jack. Maybe I shouldn’t go up to Buffalo tomorrow.”

  “You mean today.”

  “Right—today.” The digital clock by our bed reads 1:30 a.m. I have to be up and en route to the airport in four hours. I should be sleeping, not stressing.

  “All right,” Jack says drowsily, “so don’t go.”

  “I have to go. They’re throwing me a shower. I’m the guest of honor.”

  It’s going to be held at the Beaver Club, of course. Most Precious Mother was booked for the day.

  A shower at the Beaver Club is fine with me, particularly since only the women on my side of the wedding were invited. Jack’s sisters are throwing me a shower here next weekend. At Tavern on the Green.

  “So go,” Jack advises me. “You’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t know that for sure. What if I crash and die? You won’t even be a widower. They’ll probably list you in my obituary as ‘special friend’ or something.”

  “Were you always this morbid?”

  “Yes. You were just too crazy in love to notice.”

  He snorts but holds me closer still.

  I think about how safe I feel with him; how lucky we are to have found each other; how much I love him.

  When was the last time I even told him any of that?

  It’s been awhile.

  And it’s not like he goes around rhapsodizing about me, either.

  Things have been so crazy lately, sometimes it feels like we just run past each other a few times a day and never even have a chance to talk, let alone sit still and absorb this tremendous step we’re about to take.

  Presuming everything goes as planned, that is.

  It all seems so precarious all of a sudden. Like anything can happen between now and our wedding day. It can all evaporate, just like that.

  I’m not morbid, really. Just…incredibly vulnerable for some reason.

  Suddenly
, I feel this tremendous need to reach out to Jack emotionally, to have a romantic moment, the way we used to. One that isn’t just about the wedding. Or sex.

  “Jack,” I say softly into the darkness, “if anything happens to me, I want you to know that I’m happier with you than I ever thought was possible. And that I think our life together is going to be really great. I mean, obviously if I’m dead that can’t happen, but it’s what I want to happen. I love you more than anything else in the world. Without you in my life, I’d be…You just…I don’t know how to say it—you make me feel complete. You complete me. Wait, I think I just stole that line from some movie. Which movie was it?”

  Silence.

  “I don’t know, either,” I say quickly, not wanting to ruin the moment with an entertainment brain teaser. “Anyway, all I want is for us to get married, and now that it’s finally going to happen, I’m just so afraid something’s going to go wrong, or I’m going to wake up tomorrow morning and find out I dreamed you, and all of this.”

  Silence.

  “Jerry Maguire,” I suddenly remember. “That was the movie. Jack?”

  Snoring sound.

  Oh, geez.

  Did he really just sleep through my big romantic heartfelt speech?

  I punch him in the arm, which jolts him awake.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “You missed my big romantic heartfelt speech!”

  “I did? Sorry. I’m sleeping. What was it?”

  I sigh. “Never mind. Forget it.”

  “No, tell me.”

  “I love you,” I say simply. “That was pretty much the gist of it.”

  “Oh.” He yawns, his warm breath stirring my hair. “I love you, too.”

  And it’s almost like it used to be—me and Jack, cozy, content, drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms.

  My plane doesn’t crash.

  That’s the good news.

  The bad news: thanks to a hometown bridal registry mix-up, I’m now the proud owner of, among other things: twenty-seven place settings, four food processors and eight identical sets of striped twin sheets.

  “Good for you,” my aunt Aggie called from her table when I opened the first set. “Your uncle Mario and I have slept in twin beds for forty-three years of marriage.”

  “Actually, we don’t—I mean, we aren’t going to—have twin beds,” I told her as Cousin Joanie commandeered the package bow and started fastening it to the paper-plate bonnet she’s making. “But,” I added hastily, “these sheets will be great for our guest room!”

  Yes. The imaginary guest room with twin beds that’s just off the imaginary formal dining room where we’re going to store all this china.

  Now, ninety minutes and almost as many boxes and bows into this age-old bridal-shower gift ritual, the paper-plate bonnet is towering higher than the stacks of boxes on the table to my right—and I’m trying to figure out what to say to the third domed cake stand I’ve received—none of which were on my registry. Funny, the items people assume are crucial to establishing a household.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Antonelli,” I call graciously, holding it up so that everyone can see it and my mother can snap a picture, which she’s been doing for every gift. “Jack and I just love cake!”

  Yes, so I make three at a time. And have been so longing to display them on elaborate pedestal plates under etched glass!

  “Oh, and you included a recipe for your tomato-soup-mayonnaise chocolate cake,” I notice, blinking from the flashbulb.

  “Use it in good health,” Mrs. Antonelli calls back to me, and I assure her that I will. Tomato-soup-mayonnaise chocolate cake. Mmm, mmm healthy!

  To my left, Mary Beth is dutifully adding Cake Plate & recipe—Mrs. Antonelli to the massive list of gifts she’s keeping. That will come in handy when I sit down to write a hundred thank-you notes in my endless hours of spare time.

  To my right, my sisters-in-law are unwrapping the next box like a well-oiled assembly line. What, you thought the bride opens her own presents? Not here in Brookside, where local rituals abound.

  Here’s one: over my head is the clubhouse’s mounted beaver head—and it’s wearing a little white veil in honor of my shower.

  Here’s another: in front of me is a sea of expectant faces.

  No, not just because they’re dying to get a look at the next place setting or cake plate. They’re expectant because they’re playing bridal bingo, and they want to win, dammit.

  That was my cousin Donna’s idea. She handed out cards to all eighty guests, along with packets of M&Ms to use as markers. On each square is a random item a bride might typically receive for her shower: blender, toaster, towel set, etc.

  “They do it at all the showers now. It’ll be fun—you’ll see,” Donna said earlier, in response to my dubious expression.

  Not with this crowd. These women—many of whom are Most Precious Mother parishioners—take their bingo very seriously. At this point, most of the guests have only a couple of squares covered, and the plastic laundry basket full of fabulous wrapped prizes—which my sister picked up down at the dollar store—sits unclaimed.

  I lift the lid of the next box and peek inside.

  “Ooh,” I say, mustering excitement, “a food processor.”

  “Did you say garbage can?” Aunt Aggie calls hopefully, an M&M poised over her bingo card.

  “No—” I hold it up and smile for the camera “—food processor.”

  “What are you going to do with that?” Grandma asks with her usual tact. “That’s the third one you got!”

  Fourth, but who’s counting?

  “Thank you, Aunt Mary,” I say cheerfully, ever the courteous guest of honor. “Jack and I love…”

  To process food.

  Or something like that.

  My face hurts from this idiot-gaping grin, and I’m appreciative but really hope all this stuff can be exchanged.

  Mary Beth writes down Food Processor—Aunt Mary.

  Michaela hands me another box.

  I open the lid. “Ooh,” I say, “sheets!”

  “Did she say garbage can?” Aunt Aggie asks.

  No. Sheets. More sheets. Sheets galore.

  And another cake plate.

  One more place setting.

  Then, just to shake things up a little:

  A garbage disposal?

  “Bingo!” Aunt Aggie bellows.

  “That’s a garbage disposal, Aggie,” Grandma says, “not a garbage can.”

  “Well, who ever heard of a garbage can at a wedding shower?” Aunt Aggie replies. “That’s what I want to know.”

  Who ever heard of a garbage disposal at a wedding shower? That’s what I want to know. Did we register for this? No! I bet somebody’s regifting it. I can only hope it’s not used.

  “Give Aunt Aggie a prize,” I tell my niece Kelsey, whose job is to man the plastic laundry basket.

  “But it’s not a garbage can, Aunt Tracey.”

  “It’s close enough,” I mutter, and hold up the box. “Thank you, Snooky and Marie. Jack and I…”

  Love to dispose of our garbage?

  I mean, what am I supposed to say to this?

  I’m saved as I smile obligingly when Ma aims her camera in my direction.

  What I wouldn’t give to be back home on my couch in sweats right now, with a big box of Choc-Chewy-O’s and a good movie on TV. Better yet, a bad movie on TV.

  There’s really something to be said for the mundane rhythm of daily life.

  And this bride stuff is not all it’s cracked up to be, that’s for sure. It was fun in the beginning, but at this point I almost wish the wedding would hurry up and get here—and get over with.

  Almost?

  When the last gift has been opened and I’m posing in my paper-plate bonnet amid dozens of flashbulbs, I realize I’m more than ready to stop being the bride.

  I just want…

  I don’t know. Some serious Couch Time would be good. A conversation with Jack about s
omething other than the wedding would be good. A meal I don’t have to gobble on my feet, a Saturday morning to sleep in late, a day without a checklist…all good.

  I desperately want my life to get back to normal.

  But we still have a few more weeks left to go before normal can even become a speck on the Spadolini-Candell horizon.

  Have you ever tried to fit 267 assorted family and friends into twenty-five tables of eight?

  I’m no math whiz, but let me assure you, it cannot be done.

  As it turns out, the famous 2/3Modern Bride rule does not apply in Brookside, New York. In Brookside, we seem to have the 4/3 rule, where not only does everyone accept the invitation, but they RSVP with added-on dates and/or children. The words Adult Reception—or the absence of the words And Guest—means absolutely nothing to these people.

  “Ma, I didn’t invite Joanie with a date,” I explain for the gazillionth time when my mother calls to say, “Great news! Cousin Joanie has a new boyfriend and he’s going to come to the wedding!”

  “Tracey, she’s family!” Ma protests. “And this is her first love. We’re all so relieved she’s found someone. You’re going to tell her she can’t bring him?”

  Her tone makes it clear that I’ve already inflicted enough pain on poor Joanie, who is crushed that she doesn’t get to be the junior bridesmaid and only grudgingly agreed to hand out programs before the ceremony.

  “What’s one more guest?” Ma wants to know.

  “Ma, everyone is bringing at least one more guest. Bruce and Angie Cardolino are bringing their two kids and Michaela’s brother and his wife are bringing four.”

  “You were always invited to weddings when you were little. Don’t you remember waltzing balanced on Grandpa’s feet?”

  Yes. I do remember that, and I even grow momentarily misty at the recollection.

  Then I get over it and say, “I have no idea where we’re going to put all these people.”

  “Kids don’t take up much room and they eat like birds. It’ll be fine.”

  Yeah, but each of those birds still requires a chair and, according to the caterer, a fifty-dollar plate of food.

  What would Jesus do?

  Suck it up and spring for the extra guests, I suppose.