Wedding Girl

by Stacey Ballis

  “Yes, we did. A very nice man named Andy who owns a development company called Middlefork.”

  “Wonderful! How much did you get?” Bubbles asks pointedly.

  “Bubbles!” I say, a little taken aback, but also curious how the numbers finally shook out.

  My dad snorts as he laughs. “He upped it to five and a quarter million when we didn’t respond right away, Mom; ultimately seemed like a good offer.”

  Bubbles nods in agreement, and I try not to choke on my cake as the reality of the figure swirls in my head, still shocking even though I knew it was coming. I mean, don’t get me wrong; from what I hear from Ruth, the land alone is worth every bit of that amount, as outlandish as it seems. In Chicago, Lincoln Park is second only to the Gold Coast in pricing. The kind of homes that can be built on a three-and-a-half-lot parcel could go for as much as $4.5 to $6 million each, depending on square footage and amenities. And a huge single-family home on land that big recently sold for $14.5 million, so there is plenty of money to be made on the flip side.

  “And we’ve found a new place,” my mom says.

  “It’s a wonderful loft-type condo in Ukrainian Village,” my dad chimes in. “Two bedrooms, two and a half baths, and it’s on the top floor, so the roof is also ours. It’s all kitted out as a roof-deck, and we’ll get plenty of planter boxes up there for your mom to be able to maintain a little garden.”

  “That sounds amazing. When do you move?”

  “We close both places middle of next month, but we will rent our house back from him for a few months, so we can do some small renovations in the new place. The kitchen needs some new appliances, and we’ll want to build out the roof, get it all repainted. We’ll move out of our place sometime after the end of the summer.”

  “Mazel tov, my darlings. That is just wonderful,” Bubbles says.

  “There’s more,” my dad says, his eyes twinkling, and he looks at me with a face filled with love and excitement. And my heart stops. Maybe they are going to give me some of their windfall after all! It’s so much money, and their new place can’t be costing them that much. Maybe they are going to give me a big chunk of money, and I can pay off my debt totally. They will never have to know, and I won’t have to spend the next year answering endless questions about weddings to get the debacle completely behind me, so I can figure out what I’m supposed to be doing with my life.

  “We’re getting married!” my mom says, giggling like a schoolgirl, and the needle scratches straight across the record of delirious blissful salvation that is playing in my head.

  “What?” I squeak, the air leaving my lungs in a terribly rapid manner.

  “She’s going to make an honest man of me,” my dad says.

  “Well, it’s about fucking time,” Bubbles says.

  “Mom!” my dad says as we all begin to laugh.

  “Well, it is!” Bubbles says, completely calmly. “Congratulations, my children. I’m very glad you’re taking this step before I’m dead. I’ll get more champagne.” And with that, she stands, kisses my dad on his cheek, and takes my mom’s face in her hands. “Beautiful bride.” She grins and heads to the kitchen.

  “Are you okay, Sunshine?” my dad asks.

  “Of course I am. I’m delighted for you, just surprised.”

  “It’s not too soon?” my mom asks, a little trepidatiously.

  I laugh. “You’ve been together forty-three years. I don’t think you’re exactly rushing into things.”

  My mom laughs a little. “Not for us, pumpkin, for you. Because of the—”

  I hold my hand up. “I couldn’t be more thrilled for you both. What a wonderful, exciting new chapter. New house, new vows—it’s all wonderful, and I don’t want you to even think twice about it.”

  I get up and go over to hug them both, wishing my heart were actually feeling what my mouth just uttered.

  “Would you be okay helping me plan the wedding?” my mom asks with a bit of caution in her voice still.

  “I’d be honored.” I actually can’t think of anything I’d rather do less, but I consider the full inbox upstairs, all those wedding questions, the strangers I’m going to help for money, and I know that not to jump into this with my folks with an open heart would be the most petty, mean thing any loving daughter could do. So I’m going to swallow the icky feelings and disappointment, put on my big-girl pants, and help my mom plan the wedding of her dreams. And just hope that it isn’t some hippie-dippie barefoot thing with crocheted dresses and a Grateful Dead cover band.

  Behind me I hear a loud pop as Bubbles opens the bubbly, and our little family raises our glasses to the future.

  Man-Proof

  (1938)

  MYRNA LOY AS MIMI SWIFT: Explain it to her, Jimmy.

  FRANCHOT TONE AS JIMMY KILMARTIN: Well, it’s like this . . .

  NANA BRYANT AS MEG SWIFT: That’s enough, Jimmy. When anything starts, “Well, it’s like this,” you can’t explain it.

  “What are we going to do?” Ruth asks. She is driving me home after our dinner with Jean and Hanna. Which was just shy of intolerable.

  “We can’t do anything; it isn’t our business.”

  “The hell it isn’t! That little twinklepants is clearly gearing up to take Jean for quite a ride.”

  I’m hard-pressed to disagree. Hanna was beyond annoying. We knew she was young, but on top of that, she is also young for her age, putting on all sorts of baby talk voices, pouting when the waiter told her they were out of the lemon tart. Pretty, of course; amazing body, to be sure; but her personality was ridiculously grating. She never stopped talking, mostly about herself, and divulged mortifying graphic details about her sex life with Jean. She insisted on ordering the wine, claiming extensive knowledge, and chose a very expensive bottle. She ordered several appetizers for the table, none of which any of us particularly wanted, and ate one tiny bite of each before saying pointedly to Jean that she can eat anything she wants, just in moderation. And when the hugely inflated check came, she slid it over to Jean, said that “they” insisted on treating, in a manner that made it clear she wasn’t even considering reaching for her own wallet, and excused herself to the powder room.

  Jean had blithely opened her own purse and put down her credit card. When we tried to add ours, she said, no, of course not, it was their treat, seeming to ignore the fact that it was actually just her treat.

  “We can’t do anything; she’s in love.”

  “Yeah, look how well it worked out when we kept our mouths shut with you,” Ruth spits out.

  My heart sinks. “You never liked Dexter?”

  She reaches a hand over to squeeze mine quickly before returning it to the wheel of her BMW. “Not for a hot minute. He was too slick, too many excuses, too many promises that never materialized. We wanted him to be what you wanted him to be, but we had reservations, and obviously for a good reason. Don’t you wish we had said something? Intervened?”

  I think about this. About what my life might have been if they had warned me off, if I hadn’t stayed with him. I’d probably still be at S&S, being groomed to take over when Georg retired. Still keeping the long hours, still hanging out mostly with work people, still seeing my family only now and again, neglecting them all, especially Bubbles. My life now? There is plenty I hate. The massive public humiliation that will never be erased, that will follow me for as long as someone has access to Google. Having lost the condo and the promise of future equity, carrying a debt that never diminishes, living full-time with an octogenarian who is excellent company most of the time but still has all of the attendant quirks of the elderly.

  But my heart pauses a little bit.

  I might be broke and embarrassed, but there is good in my life too. Living with Bubbles, at this stage of her life. Whatever little annoyances there are, they are outweighed by the joys. The midnight Manhattans, cooking together, knowing that I�
��m keeping her in her home that she loves, our movie nights. I’ll always have these special memories. My work at Langer’s, which every day gets more and more fulfilling. Making a great three-dollar challah that graces Shabbat tables on Friday nights and reappears in the French toast on Saturday mornings for neighborhood families seems somehow more rewarding than perfecting some elegant dessert with twenty elements that’s assembled with tweezers and purchased for twenty dollars by people who are more concerned about how the picture of it looks on Instagram than what pleasure it might bring them.

  “I’m glad you didn’t say anything.”

  “Really?” Her voice drips with sarcasm.

  “Really,” I say, resigned. “Good or bad, and lord knows it ended badly, where I am now isn’t where I would have wound up if you guys had convinced me he was bad news, and for whatever reason, I do think I’m supposed to be where I am. Doing what I’m doing. Dexter was my mistake to make, my lesson to learn. And Hanna is Jean’s.”

  Ruth makes a harrumphing sound. “Fine. I won’t say anything. But if she starts making noises about moving in with or marrying that picketytwick, I’m putting my foot down.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m glad you’re feeling like you are where you are supposed to be. I wish it had happened differently, but I’m happy for you. You seem better.”

  “I’m getting there.”

  She pulls up in front of the house, leans over, and gives me a kiss good night, and as soon as I’m out of the car, she speeds off down the street. My best guess is that she is headed straight to one of the high-end hotel bars downtown. Ruth loves a hotel bar. The bartenders are skilled, there isn’t a loud scene, and she has a second sense for finding the visiting executive lesbians for a brief fling. She always says the out-of-town lesbian is the best, because no one has any unrealistic expectations.

  I head in and find Bubbles and Snatch cuddled up on the couch watching the news.

  “How was dinner?” she asks, patting the couch next to her as I kick off my shoes, and muting the TV.

  “Interesting,” I say, plopping down next to her. Snatch gets up and shifts, putting his butt against Bubbles and dropping his head into my lap with a snort. I scratch behind his ears and give her the lowdown.

  “Poor Jean. But you’re right; you can’t say anything. If she asks, if she solicits your opinion in a way that you believe is genuine and not just looking for pat affirmations, be kind but truthful. Start with the girl’s positive qualities, the things you see that make you understand Jean’s attraction, but then gently share your concerns. But don’t volunteer. That would be friendship suicide.”

  “Yeah, that is pretty much where Ruthie and I left it.”

  “And what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  She tilts her head at me and raises one elegant silvery eyebrow. “Don’t play possum with me, schnookie. I hear you up all night clickety-clacking on that laptop of yours. I assume you are doing the online dating? So, how is it going?”

  I laugh. “I’m not doing the online dating.” But I’m not ready to confess to WeddingGirl.com, since I would also have to confess to the wedding debt, and she won’t believe I’m just noodling around on the Internet. Then I think about Best Man. “But I do have sort of a pen pal.”

  I hadn’t heard from him since our round of almost-flirty emails except for one brief note to thank me for the movie recommendations. I replied that I was glad he had enjoyed them and recommended a couple more.

  I’d actually pretty much forgotten he existed. But then out of the blue I got this last night:

  WG—

  Mr. Blandings is indeed a very charming movie, and despite being a bit of predictable hooey, thoroughly enjoyable. I’m coming to the conclusion that I would watch Myrna Loy read out of a phonebook for two hours and find it delightful, and presume you feel the same about Cary Grant. It was the perfect thing for a quiet night in, so I thank you yet again.

  B

  PS My friends call me Jake.

  I confess Jake’s existence to Bubbles, who listens thoughtfully, then passes firm judgment.

  “You will meet him,” she says.

  “Maybe . . . I just . . .”

  “You will meet him,” she says again. “You will meet him, somewhere public, somewhere safe. And in person, you will give him your real name, your real details. You will tell him enough about your past that when he gets home to Snoogle you and sees the full picture, he’ll be sympathetic instead of judgmental.”

  I laugh. “Google, Bubbles. It’s Google.”

  “Google, Snoogle, Schmoogle. You knew what I meant. Maybe he’ll be a new friend. Maybe a new love. Maybe he’ll be an asshole, and you’ll never see him again. But you’ll meet him and find out.”

  “Bubbles, you’ve become quite the vulgarian in your old age.”

  “Pish. I always said that when I got into my eighties, I’d take up swearing. And possibly smoking. But when I saw the price of cigarettes these days, I figured I’d just do the swearing.”

  I shake my head. “So I have to meet him.”

  “You do.”

  “He hasn’t said he wants to meet me.”

  “He hasn’t stopped writing to you either. Or watching the movies you are telling him to watch. Boys can be slow on the uptake. But this is a good test. For you. For your life. My Sophie was always a ‘take the bull by the horns girl.’” She looks at me with love but also with honest concern. “I miss that girl a bit.”

  “She’s a little out of practice.”

  “Well, there is only one way to fix that.”

  Jake—

  So glad you liked Mr. Blandings, it is one of my personal favorites. And yes, Cary Grant could read out of a phone book to me for two hours and I would find it charming.

  WG

  PS My friends call me Sophie.

  I think about this for a moment. And then delete “Sophie.” And type in “Sunny.” In the brief time I was Sunshine, Sunny was the nickname my playmates called me. I can’t type “Sunshine.” I just can’t. But Sunny isn’t exactly a lie and still makes me feel somewhat protected.

  I hit Send and get out of my clothes and into my pajamas. I wash my face and brush my teeth, and hunker down into bed with my laptop to knock out some emails. They’ve been coming at a steady clip, and I’ve found that my response time is getting faster, especially with my ever-growing set of cut-and-paste answers. If I do an hour or two every night before bed, then I’m able to catch up on my days off, and so far, I’m keeping on top of things. It’s a lot, and somewhat mind-numbing, but by the end of this week I will be able to mail a bonus check of $2,000 to Visa, which is the first money I’ve sent that isn’t just paying interest, and it feels good to know that every email I answer takes a little tick off the principal.

  I’m five responses in when I see that Jake has replied.

  Sunny—

  If you are at the “reading the phone book” stage, then you really need to get out more!

  Jake

  I take a deep breath. This appears to be an opening. And I think about Bubbles being disappointed that my gumption has been in short supply of late. What the hell.

  Jake—

  Yes, that is probably true. I recently found out that there is a new old school Hungarian café in town, and they are doing a special Tokay tasting event next Thursday night that I thought I might attend. The wines are rare and interesting, and the pastry menu looks amazing. Café Nizza on Lincoln Ave. If you are around and free you might want to check it out.

  Sunny

  I’d seen a brief piece on the tasting in a Tasting Table newsletter and had been thinking of inviting the girls. But after the dinner with Jean and Hanna, I had changed my mind. I used to go to stuff like that by myself all the time, so I’d figured maybe I would go check it out alone or see if Bubbles wanted to co
me, but suddenly it seemed like a perfect opening to offer to Jake.

  Sunny—

  Just Googled, place looks fantastic. Not 100% sure of my Thursday schedule quite yet, at the moment it is open. If it stays that way, maybe I’ll see you there.

  Jake

  Jake—

  I’ll be the girl with the red carnation reading Jane Austen ;)

  S

  S—

  I’ll be the guy with the bad comb-over and enormous gut. (Just kidding!)

  J

  This makes me laugh, and I get back to answering emails. I feel good. It isn’t a date, not a real thing; he might not end up being available that night. But if he is, it seems a safe and casual way to connect in person. Just to see. And if nothing else, making the offer feels like the kind of thing the pre-Dexterbacle me would do.

  It’s a big night and I’m feeling very productive, having told three people to do various edible take-home gifts; two to skip expensive flowers in favor of potted succulents or flowers; three to not do an expensive open bar but instead to have wine, beer, sparkling water, and one signature cocktail; and six to suck it up and invite their future mothers-in-law to the bachelorette party. I’ve suggested to one woman that she ask her fiancé if perhaps they could take the lovely stones out of his mother’s ghastly engagement ring setting and reset them in something more her taste. I’ve gently told one bridezilla that she cannot ask her bridesmaids to lose weight, one that she can’t make hers change their haircuts, and a third that she can’t ask them to sign a contract promising not to sleep with any of the groomsmen. I’ve offered one mother of the bride with a nervous stomach some wisdom about the effective use of pre-wedding Imodium.