“So,” I say excitedly. “Let’s get these logistics figured out, Bobby.” I pour myself a glass of iced tea.
“Next Sunday would be perfect,” he offers. “Does that work for you?”
Sunday, Sunday… I quickly take a mental flip through my calendar and am ninety-nine percent confident I don’t have any time scheduled at The Cup and the Cake. And surprise proposal photos for Robin definitely beat that two-hour-long video online about new Photoshop techniques that I’ve been meaning to watch.
“So, it’s a surprise,” I say, “which means I’ll definitely need to be camped out somewhere, and somewhere good so I can get the expression on her face when you ask…”
***
“Okay, I think I’ve figured it out,” Claire says, setting down her can of Crush. She quickly writes something down on her pad of paper, then clicks her pen a few times. “Maybe this will work. I don’t know, but maybe.”
“Give it here,” I say. I motion for the paper, but Claire won’t accede. Her face is drawn into a pensive expression, and she’s back to writing again. “Aww, Claire.”
I take a bite of my panini and glance around the busy pier. The warm summer season is beginning to wind down, as is evident by the dwindling number of diners out on the pier and along the waterfront at noon. Usually the area is packed at this time, but since the cooler weather seems to be slowly creeping upon us, more and more diners are finding it cozier indoors.
Pushing up my large sunglasses—a bargain pair I found at a thrift store for two bucks!—I tilt my head back and close my eyes. The warmth of the sun still manages to feed my soul, in a way. It’s calming and comforting, both enveloping and releasing me, absolute peace and relaxation and—
“Em. Em. Emily,” Claire’s saying, vigorously tapping her pad of paper with the pen. “I really have got it now.”
I blink a few times and lean in over the table. “My dream man’s name is on this piece of paper?” I ask as I take another bite of panini.
“No,” she winces. “I’ve got it now, as in I think it’s best I have Conner give me a thorough list of guys he thinks are available. And guys who are a possible match for you. Then I’ll find one from there for sure!” She sets down her pen and mulls over the list. “I’ve jotted some ideas down; he can go through the list, too.”
“Conner hasn’t already given up his list?” The thought is entertaining. Conner playing matchmaker? I highly doubt it. He’s always telling Claire she needs to take it easy on Sophie ever since she’s been on the singles list.
He even had to calm her down at their own wedding when she got this wide-eyed look about her and begged Sophie to let her set up some former co-worker of Sophie’s from her old catering job with Sophie’s brother, John. Apparently Sophie and Claire think John’s gay, and apparently Claire thinks she can set him up with his dream dude chef. Conner quickly quashed the proposition, and back to the dance floor we all went.
“Conner’s given me some ideas,” Claire says somewhat hesitantly.
“Oh really?” I raise one eyebrow in questioning.
“Whatever. He’ll cooperate.”
I take another bite. “You keep up the hunt, Claire,” I say with a full mouth. “In the meantime, maybe you can get your matchmaking itch scratched with the John situation. What’s up with that, anyway?” I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Or did Conner close that operation entirely?” I grin, eager to hear how that gig’s been going.
“Conner and Sophie,” she says with a disappointed look. “I don’t see why they’re such flies in the ointment. John and Oliver would be perfect together.”
“Because they’re both gay?”
“Precisely! Oliver even told me, at Sophie’s grand opening, you know? Because she borrowed him from Katie’s Kitchen for extra help that crazy night and I got to chat with him and—”
“The point?”
Claire waves her hands about. “Anyway, we were chatting and Oliver told me—straight from the horse’s mouth—that he thought John was attractive and, hey,” she takes a drink of her soda, “maybe if John is gay he would find Oliver attractive too and then they’d be perfect together!”
“Perfect because they’re the only two gay guys you know?” I wipe my mouth again. “Naturally they should be together? Naturally they’re perfect for each other.”
“Yes!” She shakes her head laboriously and takes another drink. “But as great as it would be I really can’t busy myself with that kind of a set-up right now. I’ve never dealt in same-sex hookups before.” She folds her hands and purses her lips in a ruminative way. “It’d be tricky stuff. A whole new ballgame!”
I close my eyes and tilt my head back to relax in the sun once more.
“That would be a heavy project, know what I mean?” she says. “Yours is heavy, but that would be mega heavy.”
I sigh through a grin, then take one last bite of my panini. “Table it for a while, Claire.” I say in between pulls of my soda. “Not everyone needs an instant love connection or hookup. No need to marry everyone off.”
Then, from nowhere, or perhaps because I kind of set the stage for the question, Claire says, “What about Robin and Bobby?”
“What about them?” I ask a tad nervously. I dab at my mouth with the soiled napkin and stare down at the small remaining portion of my lunch.
“When are they ever going to tie the knot? Come on already! She’s preggers. Why not get married?” She gives a small, sweet smile.
I crumble my napkin and wad it into a ball, trying to put on my best “I have no secret to keep” face before I look up at Claire.
“Yeah, yeah,” she rambles on. “You’re all ‘who cares; it’s just a piece of paper,’ but those two are meant to be married. You know?” She looks at me expectantly as she finishes her soda.
Wearing my best clueless face, I say casually, “Maybe. Maybe not. Time will tell.”
“That’s how it always is with you, Em,” she says, sounding tired. She sinks into her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. She’s wearing a vintage Care Bears t-shirt and bright neon green ball earrings, both of which, paired with her posture and glum face, make her look like she’s a pre-teen pouting about something childish.
“I’ll have a talk with Bobby,” she then says, still looking a little glum. “I’ll work my magic a little. I mean, I have all those bridal magazines, the experience. It all just can’t go to waste, you know?”
Don’t say anything, Emily. Don’t say a word, I tell myself over and over again. The more Claire sits here all gloomy and childlike, the more I want to burst out laughing and tell her I know something she doesn’t. I know something that will wipe that despondent expression right off her face.
But I can’t. I don’t. I would never.
“Seriously, Claire. Please don’t harass Bobby. Please.” I gather our trash and sandwich baskets.
“Oh, I’m kidding. I won’t,” Claire waves off. “But he better ask her some time this century!”
“Well, I’ve got to run. Sophie needs me at the café in an hour, and I still need to go pick up some prints for the mag.”
“Thanks for the lunch,” Claire says as she pulls her car keys from the designer bag Jackie gave her as a wedding present. “You sure you don’t want a ride?” She jingles her keys in the air.
“Nope.” I toss the garbage into the can. “Going to enjoy the last days of summer and walk.”
“Walk?” she gasps. “It’s like twenty miles!”
I slip my patchwork bag across my chest and say with a smile, “We’ve really got to work on your perception of quantity, Claire. A few million people in Seattle… Twenty miles instead of two, maybe three, max.” I laugh.
Claire flutters her eyelashes and chucks her notepad and pen into her bag. “You have fun walking those miles, girl. I’m going to work on your love life.”
“You do that, Claire.” I playfully nudge my hip into hers as we make our way up the steep street leading away from the waterfront.
I toss aside Lara’s weathered copy of Pride and Prejudice. It’s already been a month since she loaned it to me. Wherever does time go? When I told her my book club had assigned the Jane Austen treasure, she was so ecstatic she practically shoved her copy at me. I wish I could be as enthusiastic as she, and judging from Lara’s reaction, I thought the book would be a really fun and easy read. Turns out that’s not the case. Don’t get me wrong, Jane’s a brilliant writer, and the story’s top notch, but I just can’t get into it. I can’t get a grip on the plot and characters, not enough to feel compelled to keep on reading.
Trouble is, my book club is meeting tomorrow to discuss it, and I’ve only managed to read half the book. It’s only the second assigned book since I’ve joined the club, and I would hate to look like a total flop so soon in the game. If they’d chosen a Bill Bryson or a Paul Theroux book, it’d be a different story.
Maybe I can finish it in time, though. If I ignore phone calls and emails, and steer clear of my camera and computer, I think I can pull it off. Besides, how entertaining can Lara’s cat Beebee be?
Tonight I’ve got to cat-sit for Lara since she’s going out of town on business, and since her boyfriend Nathan’s tagging along for the ride to go visit his parents or friends or something like that.
Even though I’d rather head out to a club or get a drink with Jackie, a quiet night in reading isn’t a bad idea. I can turn off my phone, too, which will be great because lately Claire’s been texting with a bunch of questions like: Brunette or blonde? Tall or average? Athletic or lean? 5 years younger too young? What about 7? Is a UDub sophomore too young?
Before I turn off my phone and catch a bus to Lara’s, I text back to Claire: What could I possibly have in common with an 18 yr old? U R crazy!!
***
“Hi there, Beebee,” I greet the meowing cat as I enter Lara’s spacious apartment. “How are you doing, sweetie?” I rub her between the ears as she winds her way around my ankles.
Before I make it two paces into the living room, I spot the lengthy note on the coffee table. It’s filled with Lara’s detailed instructions on how to care for Beebee, and it contains all necessary emergency numbers, including all of the girls’. I laugh out loud and set the note back down.
“It looks like tonight it’s you,” I point to Beebee, “me, and Ms. Austen. Come on.”
I meander into the kitchen to make sure Beebee’s dishes are filled, then when everything looks under control, I plonk down on Lara’s cushy couch and open up Pride and Prejudice.
“All right, Ms. Austen,” I mumble to myself as I wiggle my way into a comfortable position. I prop one hand behind my head as Beebee timidly steps near my legs, searching for her own comfy spot.
Before I’m two paragraphs in, a loud banging sounds at the door. Beebee springs from the couch as I jump up, my heart beginning to thump harder.
“My God!” I gasp. Pride and Prejudice falls to the floor, and I try to catch my breath.
The pounding at the door continues, and this time is accompanied by a harried, “Emmmmilyyyyy. You there?”
I clutch my hand to my heart, still trying to calm down. If I was about to fall asleep at my first few sentences back into the book, this surprise visit sure snapped me out of it.
“Emily! You in there? Emily!” the assailing screeching continues.
I swing open the front door, and there’s Jackie, wearing a pair of black skinny jeans, a black tank top, a hideous teal-sequined jacket with really tall shoulder pads, and equally tall silver and teal heels.
“Thank God!” Jackie exasperates.
“You nearly scared me to death, Jack.”
She races past, barreling through the living room. “Sorry.” She flashes me an apologetic face. “I have to pee like mad, and couldn’t wait a second more.”
She disappears around the corner. I hear the toilet lid clang open, and Jackie’s voice crisply shouts from a wide-open bathroom door, “What’s with your phone? Is it dead or something?”
I look down at my overnight bag that’s still by the front door.
“Oh, that,” I say. I give Beebee, who’s now comfortably seated back on the couch, a guilty look.
“You’ve got to get a more reliable phone, girlfriend,” Jackie shouts. The toilet flushes, and she yells over the water works, “Andrew just got us the new iPhones. They’re amazing. You need to get yourself one.”
I dig inside my bag and search for my phone, the old-fashioned kind that’s probably already on display in the Smithsonian.
Jackie appears behind me. “That ancient contraption of yours is probably about to die, anyhow.”
“Turned it off,” I say, my fingers grazing over it in my crammed bag. “Claire’s been driving me a little bonkers with her quest to find me a date. It’s been a game of Twenty Ludicrous Questions.”
Jackie removes her shiny jacket and throws it over the arm of the couch. “Oh!” she cries. “That!” She jumps onto the couch.
I decide against turning my phone back on, but set it on the coffee table. Maybe, like Pride and Prejudice, I’ll return to it.
“So,” Jackie says, patting a seat next to her. I oblige. “About that date.” She moves her eyebrows up and down, making googly eyes. “I think I found someone you’ll totally hit it off with.”
“Are you serious? Claire’s said this like a thousand times and so far has come up with nothing.” I hold up a finger. “Not that I mind not being set up.”
“Forget all that,” Jackie says with a wave of her hand. “This is promising. His name’s Rick, and he’s super hot. Super successful, too. Got the bucks.” She winks, mouth slightly parted, and makes a clicking sound with her tongue.
“Anything I should know about him negative-wise?” I ask.
“Like what?” She props her high-heeled feet on the coffee table and crosses her ankles.
“Is he married? A creeper? A pedophile?”
“You mean does he have a foot fetish?” She scrunches up her face. “Or does he get pedicures?”
I close my eyes and shake my head, sighing. “Is he a creeper, Jackie? First off, where’d you meet this guy?”
“So negative, so negative,” she scolds. “You’re always Miss Open-Minded anyway. What’s with the negativity about finding you a date?”
“Sorry. Guess I’m just disenchanted, shall we say, about Claire’s pre-pubescent prospects.”
Jackie makes another scrunched face. “Nothing like that. Rick is a nice guy, mid-thirties, so not old like everyone thinks my hubs is.” I give a short nod. “But not ‘pubescent’ like Claire’s finds.”
She reaches for her massive black bag, the Prada label boldly centered and shining at the top, and begins to dig about.
“Where’s Bella, by the way?” I ask, half-surprised that she isn’t stuffed inside the Prada.
“At home. With Andrew.”
“He’s home?” I’m shocked—shocked that he’s home and shocked that she’s not with him.
“Finally home, yup,” she says in an exaggerated breath. “Here!” She withdraws her new iPhone and begins to tap all over it. “I’ll give you Rick’s number, so you know when he calls. I’ve already given him your digits so be expecting a call from a very handsome and sexy and successful man. His name’s Rick!”
“I’ve got that.”
Jackie reads me the phone number, making fun of me when I write it down in my purse-sized address book, telling me that I’ve got to get with the times.
“He’s a really neat guy,” she says after she forcefully enters his number into my cell phone. “You two will probably really hit it off. He’s a photographer, too! How perfect is that, right?”
“A photographer?” I make a pleased face. “That’s cool.” Maybe this first blind date will turn out all right. “So when’s the date?”
Jackie returns my phone to the coffee table and, upon spotting my forgotten book on the floor, says, “Soon. He’s a smart guy, too. All booky.
” She picks up Pride and Prejudice and turns the cover to face me. “Like you. He’s probably even read,” she jerks the book back towards her view, “Jane Austen. Probably is part of a dorky book club like you.”
“Well,” I say, taking the book from her and setting it by the tabletop lamp behind me, “that’ll give us something to talk about on our date then, won’t it?”
“Totally!” she cries, kicking off her heels. She sharply sits up in her seat and tucks her legs underneath her.
“Thanks, Jack.” I nudge my head over at my phone. “I appreciate your help. I’m sure it’ll be an entertaining date.”
“You’re welcome,” she says cheerily. “And if it doesn’t turn out to be a serious relationship, at least you can have some fun, you know?”
“Exact—”
“Oh!” She jumps up and claps her hands together. “That’s another thing I rushed over for! Guess what?”
“Huh?”
“Robin!”
Oh no, I think. She knows about Bobby’s plan to propose? But how?
“Did you hear?” She grips my bracelet-clad wrist, her eyes growing larger by the second. “You won’t believe what happened to her this weekend.”
Surely Bobby didn’t propose this weekend. No, that’s set for next weekend. Next Sunday…
“What?” I ask a tad demurely.
“Brandon,” she says huskily. “The asshole.”
“What do you mean?” I’m both relieved that the cat wasn’t let out of the bag (and that I didn’t mess up the proposal date), and confused why Brandon’s a topic for conversation.
“You know how Robin said he’d written her, bugging her about wanting to meet Rose and all?”
When Girlfriends Take Chances Page 9
