Measure of Love

by Melissa Ford

  It isn’t, but I’m too overwhelmed with confusion to admit it a second time, so I nod my head. Adam looks visibly relieved, as if his opponent has made a different move from the one he feared. He happily bounces his figurative chess knight two-squares-and-a-slide over. “Of course, I’m scared too. Anyone who is getting married who doesn’t have a healthy dose of fear probably isn’t realizing the enormity of what they’re undertaking. But it doesn’t really matter if I’m scared or not. I sort of look at it in the same way I would if I were terrified of flying but offered a free trip to Australia. I would just do it—fears or no fears. Because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I missed seeing Ayers Rock just because I was scared. Planes crash, Rachel, I know that. But I would rather die on the plane going over to Australia than live a long, boring life here, always wondering what that trip would have been like.”

  I allow a few tears to escape over my cheeks like runaway silver balls in a pinball machine, bouncing off my nose and upper lip on their way down to the final flipper of my napkin. I don’t even know why I’m crying. My brain feels as jumbled as the cellophane noodles on a nearby plate.

  “Maybe we can die together,” Adam says unhelpfully. “We’ll be one of those stories you read about in the paper where the elderly couple dies within minutes of each other, their hands entwined.” He slips his fingers through mine and rubs the tip of his finger against my rings. “All I know is that as painful as it would be to lose you, it would be a worse life to not be together at all. Even if all I got were a few more days with you, it would be better to go through that heartache if I got to have those days. That’s how much you mean to me, Rachel. And yes, I know what losing you feels like, and I’m still willing to go through that if I get this time now. I want more than just living together. I want that promise that comes with marriage. Don’t you?”

  I nod my head, not trusting myself to talk. Adam looks as if everything has been settled, all the tension he suspected at the beginning of the meal sucked away into the industrial vents of the restaurant kitchen. “Now that we’re finished with the divorce and death portion of our meal, let’s talk about the Table. What do you think about getting married here?”

  Adam is still looking at me with such tenderness, such commitment, that I feel like the subject of the Mona Lisa; as if I am hanging on the wall of the Louvre, and he is standing in front of me, drinking me in. How could I not trust this, how could I let my fears get the better of me when I can’t even put them into words? I know that I can’t have Adam carry the weight of our entire relationship, but maybe he can hold it a little while longer while I keep faking it until it becomes real for me too.

  “I think it would be great,” I stammer.

  Even though we haven’t even ordered yet much less tasted the food, Adam motions over the waiter who has been waiting discreetly a few feet away, waiting for our tete-a-tete to be finished before interrupting us with trivial details such as our appetizer selection.

  “We’re getting married,” Adam informs him, and the waiter arranges his face with the proper level of surprised delight.

  “That’s fantastic news,” the waiter who just met us exclaims. “Congratulations!”

  “What I mean is that we’d like to get married here, at the Table. Does that ever happen?”

  “Would it be a small wedding? This space isn’t really conducive to weddings per se since we don’t have separate rooms for the ceremony and dining. But have you been out to our other farm-to-table space, Pâturage? Right near Tarrytown? It’s gorgeous—it’s a working farm, and they do weddings there all the time.”

  “A farm sounds perfect,” Adam tells him. “My fiancée is a food writer—she loves farms. Do you think there’s any chance of getting the space this fall?

  “I’m not familiar with their private events calendar,” our waiter tells me with the most apologetic look on his face. “But before you leave tonight, I’ll give you the contact information of the person who handles the weddings, and you can speak to him.”

  I ignore the small warning sirens going off distantly inside my ears. I’ve never been to Pâturage, but I picture myself standing on a stone patio, staring out at the just harvested fields in a simple, crème-colored empire-waist dress (a style that Arianna absolutely forbids me to wear). Hand-beaded crème-color heels and a bouquet of red poppies, the thick stems encased in matching green ribbon. Adam comes up behind me, the rest of our guests remaining in the dining room, and we both look out at the field with the sun setting, his cheek resting against my shoulder as his arms wrap around me. My imaginary farm is gorgeous, and judging from the smiling faces of our guests through the windows, its imaginary food is incredible.

  I realize after a moment or two that while I’ve been in my daydream, the waiter has been staring expectantly at me. “Could you repeat the question?” I choke out.

  “Do you want a glass of wine?”

  “Actually, I think Rachel needs a moment or two. Could you just give us a minute?” Adam says, always taking care of me.

  The waiter steps away from the table gracefully and moves to help another couple order. Adam cocks his head to the side and crinkles that skin near his eyes. “What now, Ms. Goldman?”

  “Nothing,” I automatically answer despite my heart desperately jumping up and down in my chest to get my attention. “Everything is actually perfect.”

  Chapter Seven

  Like one of Pavlov’s dogs salivating to the sound of the dinner bell, my body automatically cringes when I hear my mother-in-law-to-be-again’s voice through my cell phone as I try to work on some interview questions for a book site that wants to talk to me pre-release. I’m behind on anything work-related because amid helping Lisbeth and Emily empty their moving boxes and set up their new New York apartment, Lisbeth decided that it would be the perfect time to put her landlord’s pet policy to work and bring home a dog from the shelter that she named “Puppy.” Puppy tacks on an additional hour to every ten minute task, requiring us to stop what we’re doing in order to drag him away from boxes of Emily’s books or take him on yet another walk of their new neighborhood. Adam dryly pointed out that just because one is allowed to have a dog in the apartment doesn’t mean that one needs to go out and get a dog in order to utilize that section of the rental agreement. But it didn’t matter—Puppy was here to stay.

  “I can’t believe we haven’t discussed this yet.” Anita launches straight into the conversation as if she has been shot out of a verbal cannon. I imagine her sailing through the air—human projectile. Because I had been just thinking about Puppy, trying not to still be upset over the fact that he chewed a hole in my sneakers when I left them by her front door, and because I usually am only half-paying attention to my mother-in-law-to-be-again on a good day (and less when I am working on interview questions), I assumed that she was calling to talk about the stupid dog; about her daughter’s idiotic love and how it affects the rest of us.

  “Yes,” I say because it feels like a safe response.

  “We obviously can’t have the wedding in the same location—that will just induce a horrible case of déjà vu for some of the elderly guests. It’s going to be hard enough to explain to them why they’re at your wedding again. I was thinking the Ritz. I made reservations for us to have dinner there this evening. Just the two girls.”

  My first wedding was at the Pierre. The trompe l’oeil murals were admittedly amazing, and Anita was correct that they added a unique touch to some of our wedding portraits. The Sylvia Weinstock wedding cake was incredible, all $12,000 of it. My Alexander McQueen wedding dress suffocated me all night and made it impossible to use the bathroom, but Anita told me it was worth it because everyone said that I looked like a princess. My own wedding is still to this day the most lavish wedding I ever attended, and it was so far from whom Adam and I were as a couple that it felt as if we were attending the wedding of strangers.I take
a deep breath, trying to clear my head and figure out how best to explain to Anita that I need this wedding to be a reflection of us and not my mother-in-law-to-be’s incredible taste. I need to get back control of my runaway wedding.

  “What? Wait. No, I can’t do dinner. The Ritz?” At that moment, I hear the telltale beep of my call waiting, and I pull back the phone to look at the caller. Lisbeth Goldman. I ignore it and return the phone to my ear so I can argue with her mother. How in the world did she know that we had been talking about locations last week? Did she have my purse bugged?

  “Sweetheart, I don’t want you to worry about it. Edward and I are paying for everything.”

  But that is exactly what I am worried about.

  She gets herself quickly off the phone after informing me that I should meet her in the lobby at six, suggesting that I might want to go a bit early and take a walk around Central Park for some exercise. I am so floored that it doesn’t even occur to me to call Adam and drag him out of the classroom so he can run interference between myself and his mother.

  At five to six, I find myself—indeed—schlepping through Central Park in a sensible black outfit as if I’m about to attend a funeral at the Ritz-Carleton. With every step, I rethink Adam’s comment from the restaurant that there is only room for two people in this marriage. Though Anita certainly has at least her foot dangling inside if not her whole leg and half her body.

  I cannot think of a location in the city that is less like my imaginary farm than the hotel. Instead of a charming pastoral setting, we’ll all be staring at what amounts to—despite the misleading price tag—industrial carpeting and beige walls. But I seemingly have no backbone when it comes to my mother-in-law. She tells me to march myself to the Ritz, and I march myself to the Ritz.

  The only time I eat at the Ritz is when Anita drags me there, which is thankfully not a frequent occurrence. The first time we met at the restaurant, I assumed the BLT Market would be a self-service place, a sandwich shop perhaps specializing in bacon-lettuce-tomato sandwiches. When I mentioned this to Anita as we sat down, she stiffly informed me that the BLT stood for Bistro Laurent Tourondel, only the most acclaimed French chef in all of Manhattan. I never point out to her that she says this about all restaurants and all chefs—wherever we’re eating at the moment is the best. Today, I don’t make the same mistake of joking about pork products and instead order the truffle-flavored gnocchi parisienne with duck and fennel meatballs. My eye avoids the price column on the menu.

  “I’m assuming you got Lisbeth’s call this morning,” Anita tells me as she snaps open her napkin.

  Lisbeth called twice, but I ignored her the second time too since I had been hunting through our apartment for my other shoe, late to meet up with her mother. Adam decided to go out for drinks with some friends after work since I wouldn’t be home anyway.

  “I have to call her back when I get home,” I admit.

  “Then you don’t know the big news?”

  Puppy has been returned to the shelter? They’re moving back to Chicago after all? They’ve finally tied her flighty behavior to the amount of ink fumes she inhales each year?

  “Emily and Lisbeth got engaged this morning.”

  I probably would have been less surprised if Anita had informed me that she was having an affair with Chef Tourondel, but I feel myself beaming wildly as I think about my sister-in-law-to-be-again walking down the aisle. New York passed the Marriage Equality Act in the middle of the summer, and I had been wondering if Emily and Lisbeth would tie the knot. And now—safety in numbers—this was the perfect thing to get me to stop dragging my feet with our nuptials. We’d plan our weddings at the same time, go dress shopping together, and be each other’s maids of honor. In the back of my head, Arianna’s face pops up, reminding me that she should have that sacred space. But the reality is that it has been weeks since Arianna truly connected beyond a few quick text messages and a phone call here and there.

  “That is fantastic news!” I say a shade too loudly for the BLT Market. Anita waves her hand, palm down, toward the table as if this action will somehow quiet me like twisting a stereo dial. “Why isn’t she joining us? We can plan both weddings at once.”

  Or, more accurately, Anita can plan Lisbeth’s wedding, and I can plan my own.

  “Are you kidding?” Anita sniffs. “You think my daughter will let me have a hand in her wedding? Knowing Lisbeth, she’s probably planning on eloping in some faraway place like Madagascar and only telling me five weeks after the ceremony. If not for you, Rachel, I would be cut out of my childrens’ weddings altogether. You truly don’t know how much this means to me.”

  I can practically hear my relief and excitement screeching to a halt. Leave it to Anita to appeal to my sense of guilt. It hardly seems fair. Mothers of the bride should have their hands in the details, conspire with their daughters to fulfill whatever fairytale wedding dream they have in their head (even one that involves lemurs on an African island nation). Mothers of the groom are supposed to shut up and wear beige. But my own mother is too rational and sensible to get sucked into the romance of wedding planning, and my husband-to-be’s mother doesn’t want to intrude in her daughter’s relationship. Which leaves me with the worst of both worlds—a wedding that is running away from my control being led by someone other than my mother, a person with whom I feel fairly comfortable putting my foot down firmly. I stare up at the picture of figs above us.

  I seriously can’t believe Lisbeth would do this to me—leave me to deal with her mother while she gets to plan her own wedding in peace. When I call her back to offer congratulations, I’ll point out that she has to let her mother in to an extent and take the pressure off me. I will get Anita a different wedding to help plan if it’s the last thing I do.

  I take a deep breath. “I wouldn’t be sure about that. I know Lisbeth is going to want your help.”

  “Lisbeth hasn’t wanted my help for years! She wouldn’t even let me go apartment shopping with her. Adam got to go out to Chicago to help her pack her things.”

  I try to imagine Anita knee deep in brown packing boxes and clear tape. “I am certain that she’s going to let you plan her wedding, Anita,” I say firmly. My eyes are on the prize—a simple farm-to-table wedding instead of another suffocating dress. “Actually, I’m not sure Adam and I want to go with the Ritz. We came up with a great spot for a wedding, and we’re just waiting to hear back about dates from the event planner at the space.”

  “Where is it? Four Seasons?” Anita asks.

  “Actually, a place near Tarrytown. Pâturage.”

  I can feel myself cringe inside as Anita furrows her brow, and I hope that my face doesn’t reflect that from the outside. “Tarrytown? Over the Tappan Zee? Why would you want to do it out there?”

  “They actually also have a restaurant in the city that Adam and I went to last week. The Obamas have dined there,” I say, knowing full well how Anita responds to name-dropping. “They also have this country location that they use for weddings. The food is amazing, and you know how important the food is to me. Probably more important than even the location.”

  “I know how you like food,” Anita says. I put down my fork self-consciously. “I wonder how we’ll get everyone out there. There will just be so many people coming from the city. We don’t want to make it inconvenient for them, considering that this is a second wedding.”

  “That’s another thing,” I start, boldly. “Adam and I talked about keeping it more mid-sized this time. Just close family and friends rather than a huge affair like the first wedding.” I don’t add that this is one of Adam’s suggestions to make me more comfortable this time around thinking it is memories of our insane first wedding that is making me nervous.

  “That just won’t do, Rachel.” Anita gives a curt laugh that tells me she isn’t amused at all. “You and Adam may not feel like following social obl
igations, but Edward and I have people we just have to invite. They invited us to their children’s weddings.”

  “But they were invited the first time around,” I point out weakly.

  “Rachel, your wedding is going to be announced on the front page of the New York Times wedding section. I am not going to get out of inviting our friends. They truly won’t understand if they’re not invited.”

  This doesn’t seem like the time to tell her about Adam’s suggestion to forego the New York Times announcement.

  “I’ll check with the event planner on how many people Pâturage can hold,” I tell her.

  “Yes, do that. And I’ll check with the Four Seasons about their space. I just thought the Ritz was perfect because it’s simple.”

  I’m not sure how Anita defines simple, but there is nothing simple about a wedding at the Ritz. Nothing simple about the endless decisions the space would hold, nor how to fill the room so it doesn’t feel as if we’re getting married in an empty cavern. But the only answer is to take a cue from her daughter and close the proverbial door a bit.

  “It all sounds good,” I tell her, lying through my teeth. And Anita beams, as if I have told her that she has gotten the highest marks in the class.

  ANITA, OF COURSE, is right. Not about the eloping, but about the fact that Lisbeth has no intention of letting her mother help with the wedding. After I finally get a hold of my sister-in-law-to-be-again the next day and congratulate her, asking for all the details, I launch into Operation Distraction, making my case that Lisbeth should let her mother help in order to get my wedding off the hook.

  “No chance,” Lisbeth laughs. “Can you imagine what type of monstrosity she’d plan? No, Emily and I are going for simple, understated, elegant. And we’ve already picked the Four Seasons.”