I nearly dropped the sponge when I heard that.
“When we get to New Bern? But you’ve spent the better part of the last three days telling me, in pretty clear language, that you have no intention of going to New Bern now or ever. The phrase ‘over my dead body’ comes to mind.”
“Well, that was different. That’s when we were talking about me. Now we’re talking about you. And Garrett. And the woman who will likely be the mother of my great-grandchildren. I don’t want to fly off to Connecticut now any more than I did this morning, but when your family needs you, sacrifices must be made. You’re a mother, you should know that.”
I am and I do.
“When do you want to leave?”
“The sooner the better,” she said, drying the last mug and putting it back in the cupboard. “Tomorrow, I think. Can you get my suitcase down from the top shelf of the closet? And Petunia’s carrier. We need to start packing.”
11
Liza Burgess
Already deep into the semester, my final semester before graduation, the last thing I had time to do was meet Aunt Abigail for lunch, so why do it?
Because once Abigail has made up her mind that she wants you to do something, even something as seemingly innocuous as lunch, she can be a bit insistent. Insistent in the way a hurricane insists on blowing or a volcano insists on erupting. Basically, she’s a force of nature. Resistance is pointless. Not that I’m exactly a shrinking violet myself. I’ve thwarted Abigail’s plans on plenty of occasions, sometimes just to prove I could.
But finally, after her twenty-second phone call insisting that we must get together to discuss wedding plans, I decided it would be easier to bow to the inevitable than to keep wasting time arguing about it. Besides, lunching on gulf shrimp and hand-crafted fettuccini with Abigail at ‘21’ beats eating microwaved ramen noodles in my apartment any day of the week.
It’s still winter, still freezing cold, still months away from June, the date Garrett and I set for the wedding, but as I tromped in my black snow boots down the icy stairwell to the subway, I couldn’t help but think about the wedding, and that made me nervous.
I know there are girls who start planning their weddings while they’re still in grade school, but I was never one of them. Everything about this feels new to me—and not in a good way. New in the way that new leather shoes feel, stiff and uncomfortable, maybe even a little painful.
Hearing myself say yes to Garrett’s repeated proposal was a shock. It didn’t turn out like I’d planned.
When I opened the door to my apartment, it was a surprise to see him standing there. I think he’d decided that I was going to say no and, that being the case, it would be better to get it over with than endure more days of waiting, only to be refused in the end.
He looked miserable. I couldn’t bear to see him so sad.
And so I said yes. The second I did, Garrett’s face just lit up. He was so happy. Beyond happy. Elated. Enraptured. Ecstatic. It was amazing, even a little daunting, to see the effect my answer had on him. Maybe that sounds strange, but the idea that someone’s happiness or unhappiness could rest upon one little word from me was scary.
I mean, why should he be so happy to marry me? There’s nothing so very special about me. Sooner or later, he’s bound to figure that out.
Garrett’s face went from miserable to exultant in less time than it takes to change your mind, and all because I said yes. I am happy that I made him happy, but in a month or a year or ten years, when he knows me better, couldn’t he change his mind just as quickly as he did his expression? The idea of being responsible for someone else’s happiness isn’t any more comfortable than the idea of being responsible for someone else’s misery.
Maybe, if I’d had a little more time to get used to the idea, to mull it around in my mind, to practice wearing my engagement ring in secret, sneaking into the closet or the bathroom a few minutes a day, to accustom myself to the feel of this weight on my hand, maybe I could get used to the idea. But I hadn’t had time.
Garrett looked miserable and I couldn’t bear it, so I said yes.
Then there was a kiss and that frightening look of joy on Garrett’s face. And with the word still hanging in the air, surprising and too near, Garrett grabbed his phone, hit number two on his list of contacts (mine occupying position number one), and called Evelyn to tell her the happy news.
Except Evelyn wasn’t happy. I knew it. Garrett keeps the volume on his phone turned up pretty loud. And though the comment wasn’t directed to me and the sound quality was tinny, I could hear the doubt in her voice.
Well, Evelyn knows me. More than anyone else, maybe even more than Garrett, she knows my past and my fears, the grudges I hold on to, the ones I’ve let go, and the ones I wish I could let go. So I’m not really surprised by her reaction. Evelyn may be like a mother to me, but her first loyalty is to Garrett. It has to be. And knowing me like she does, of course she has doubts about this engagement. How could she not?
But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
She’s called me—or tried to call me—a bunch of times. I haven’t picked up when I’ve seen her number on the caller ID and I haven’t returned any of her messages. I’m not trying to be mean. I know I should call her, but I just can’t.
I already knew what she’d say. She’d say she was sorry, and that she didn’t mean what she said. And that’s why I can’t bring myself to talk to her, because I don’t want to hear things that aren’t true. Not from Evelyn. She did mean what she said that night. She wasn’t trying to be cruel; she was just being honest. Evelyn has never been anything less than honest with me. That’s one of the things I love about her. No matter what she said to Garrett that night, no matter how much it hurt, it’d hurt twenty times more to hear her say that she didn’t mean what she said and know it was a lie. I can’t face that. Not right now.
Eventually, I’ll have to call her. I’ve meant to do it before now. A couple of times I’ve even picked up the phone, but…Every day that passes, every message she leaves just makes me feel worse and more awkward and awful. I’ll call her. Soon.
Once we told Evelyn about our engagement, we had to tell Abigail too. Her reaction was one hundred eighty degrees the opposite of Evelyn’s. She was beyond thrilled, and in a way, her delighted response to our announcement was more upsetting than Evelyn’s cautious one.
She immediately started pushing the way she does, demanding clarification on our nonexistent plans. Garrett had said something about June to his mom. So when Abigail asked me for a date I said, “June, I guess,” because Garrett had said so first. With classes, and paintings, and graduation to worry about, June was about as far in the future as I could project, a date that seemed distant enough to give me some space to breathe.
After calling the families, Garrett took me out to dinner at Roma’s, a little Italian place near my apartment. We’ve gone there a few times before, so it felt familiar and normal. After a couple of glasses of Chianti I didn’t feel as nervous about the whole wedding thing.
I knew my roommates would be home by ten, so after dinner, Garrett and I stood in the foyer and kissed good night for a long time, until I remembered my eight o’clock class in the morning.
I said good night and walked up the stairs slowly, feeling good, feeling the wine, feeling the memory of Garrett’s lips on mine, feeling like maybe everything would be all right after all. But when I got to the top of the stairs I twisted the diamond of my ring around to the palm side of my hand where Zoe and the others wouldn’t be able to see it. I didn’t want to have to talk to them about it. Not yet.
When the alarm rang at seven twenty the next day, the metallic buzz alerting me to the fact that I’d drunk too much wine the night before, I left the diamond where it was, hidden on the interior of my hand. That’s where it’s been ever since.
June is so far off. I don’t need any distractions right now, especially since I’m still working with Dr. Williams on the article. I want to make
sure it’s letter perfect.
I’m also taking her graduate art history seminar. I had to get special permission to sign up. I want to make sure I do a really good job with the two papers Professor Williams has assigned. I don’t want her to think she made a mistake letting me in the class. I’m also working on my senior project, my last painting as a student and my entry into the senior art show.
This year, the show will be a juried exhibition and the judges will be a mix of faculty, museum curators, and some of the most prominent art critics in New York. The best piece will be purchased for the school gallery’s permanent collection. Everybody is buzzing about that. That kind of thing can really jump-start an artist’s career. The competition will be fierce. I’m definitely a long shot to win but, hey, somebody’s got to. Why not me?
I’ve had plenty to think about besides getting married. In fact, other than occasional, sweet phone calls from Garrett, who knows how hard I’m working and doesn’t want to distract me, or the frequent, pestering ones from Abigail, who knows how hard I’m working and could give a rip if she’s distracting me, I’ve hardly thought about the wedding.
A couple of times, while I’ve been sketching, I’ve looked down to see my left hand holding the paper, caught a glimpse of the diamond peeking out from underneath my fingers, and thought, “Oh! That’s right! I’m engaged!” It’s still kind of hard to believe.
But I suppose Abigail is right. I’ve got to make a few decisions about the wedding. If I do, then maybe she’ll get off my back and let me get back to work.
The subway ride from the college to the restaurant takes about twenty minutes. I was so lost in my thoughts that I almost missed my stop and had to jump from the train to the platform just as the doors were closing. I was supposed to meet Abigail at noon, but it was a few minutes past when I arrived at the restaurant.
I’ve eaten at ‘21’ a few times, always with Abigail. The food is great, but it’s too expensive for college students. Abigail has been coming here for years, so they know her. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when the maître d’ greeted me by name and said that my aunt was waiting.
What did surprise me was that he didn’t lead me to Abigail’s usual table. Instead, I followed him down a corridor to a private dining room hung with a series of huge pen-and-ink drawings of orchids in silver frames, starkly elegant against black silk wallpaper and painted white woodwork. There were more orchids, dozens of them, placed on the side tables and on the white-clothed dining table set with sterling and crystal. Abigail was waiting for me, and she wasn’t alone.
With her were four incredibly attractive and stylish-looking people, all dressed in shades of black, gray, and white, as though they came with the dining room, a package deal. They got to their feet when I entered the room and began applauding, beaming at me as if I’d just won some sort of prize.
“Liza! There you are, darling!” Abigail, smiling even wider than the others, got up from the table. “You’re late. But that’s all right. You’re here now.”
“Sorry,” I said and then whispered in her ear as she hugged me, “Who are all these people?”
“Oh,” Abigail said, as if surprised by the question, “didn’t I tell you? This is your bridal design team: Byron, Leslie, Camille, and Karin. Collectively they are known as Best Laid Planners, the finest wedding-planning firm on the eastern seaboard.”
Best Laid Planners? What was she talking about?
I may not have given much thought to what kind of wedding I wanted, but it definitely didn’t involve hiring a four-person “bridal design team”—whatever that meant.
“Abigail, I don’t need…I mean…you really shouldn’t have…”
“Oh, you don’t need to thank me, darling! It’s my pleasure. After all, you’re my only niece and you’ll only be married once,” she said, raising an eyebrow and turning her head slightly, so she was addressing Byron, Leslie, Camille, and Karin, “so we want to get it right the first time, don’t we? Because the first time will be the only time, do you hear me, Liza?”
Abigail chuckled. The team, bright-eyed and still beaming, joined in on cue.
The beautiful blonde wearing a simple black suit and cream-colored silk blouse, the one Abigail introduced as Leslie, stepped forward. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Spaulding, we’re going to make sure that Liza’s special day is absolutely perfect in every detail. With such a short engagement, it won’t be easy. For most society weddings we have at least a year’s lead time, often closer to two.”
Society wedding?
I turned to see if there was someone else standing behind me, because I was sure she couldn’t be talking about me. I’m nobody’s idea of society.
“However”—Leslie smiled and tossed her head, causing a silken hank of hair to fall neatly over one shoulder—“if this were easy, then you wouldn’t need us, would you?” She laughed a low, musical laugh, soothing, like a tune played on an oboe.
Byron, a tall, slim man in his mid-forties wearing an expensive and expensively tailored charcoal gray pinstripe suit with a snowy white shirt and a light gray silk tie that was an almost perfect match to his thick head of prematurely gray hair, stepped forward. He was quite possibly the best-dressed man I have ever seen in my life.
“Liza,” he said in a kind voice that sounded faintly British but wasn’t, “you’re looking a little shell-shocked. Don’t worry about a thing, my dear. Normally, of course, we’d have our initial meeting at our offices, but in the interest of saving you travel time, we decided to meet here. We’ve brought everything we need,” he said with a sweep of his arm, gesturing toward a large pile of black and gray boxes, portfolios, and files that were stacked in the corner.
“Your aunt has explained how busy you are with your studies and that you don’t have time to deal with the endless details involved in coordinating a wedding. That’s why we’re here, to handle all those details for you.
“I’ll be in charge of clothing—your dress, going-away outfit, bridal lingerie, and honeymoon wardrobe—as well as invitation design and all the floral and lighting design at the church and the reception. Of course, the final selection will be up to you and Garrett, but I’ll be consulting on your choice of wedding bands. Leslie will be in charge of catering, music, the photographic and video team, as well as transportation coordination and hotel accommodations. Camille will be in charge of hair, makeup, and spa treatments for the entire bridal party. And Karin will handle whatever is left over: contracts, reservations, invitation printing and mailing, choosing and coordinating rentals, helping with the bachelor and bachelorette parties and any bridal showers. Karin is the best bridesmaid wrangler in the industry,” he said proudly.
Bridesmaid wrangler? That’s a job? Is he serious?
I stared at Abigail and then at Byron, waiting for someone to break into laughter and tell me it was all a joke, but everyone just kept smiling and nodding as if there was nothing unusual about this conversation. There have been very few times in my life when I was completely at a loss for words, but this was one of them.
“So, as you can see, everything is under control. We do need some input from you, but after today, other than showing up for a few fittings, all you’ll have to do is focus on your studies until the big day.” He smiled brightly and then pulled out an upholstered chair and nodded to indicate I should sit.
I did, too stunned to do anything else. The others did the same. Abigail took the chair next to mine, squeezing my hand affectionately as if everything was just too wonderful for words.
Byron pulled an enormous black portfolio off the pile in the corner, unzipped it, and started laying eight-by-ten photographs of bridal gowns on the table, convening a meeting whose agenda seemed clear to everybody but me. Byron glanced at his watch, a shining, sculptural timepiece I’d seen advertised in the pages of Gentlemen’s Quarterly. “Let’s get started. We’ve got a lot of decisions to make today. If we stay on task, we should be able to finish in five or six hours.”
Five or s
ix hours? Spent doing what?
“Now, Liza, there are any number of places we can begin when planning a wedding, but I’ve found that the selection of the gown often dictates the tone of the event, gives everyone a clearer picture of what we should be reaching for. Obviously, we could waste time traipsing around to every bridal shop in town, but we have personal relationships with all the important designers in New York. What we’ll do this afternoon is look at these photographs and choose a designer, and then I’ll have Karin call the showroom and they’ll send over a rack of actual gowns for you to try on after lunch.” Byron smiled at me. “Does that sound all right to you?”
Finally! Someone was actually asking what I thought of all this, and what I thought was that this whole thing was crazy.
Abigail meant well. During one of our twenty-two phone conversations, I’d told her I didn’t have time to fool around with a big wedding and that she should just go ahead and deal with it. Obviously, she’d taken me at my word, but this…? This was nuts!
I was sure Garrett would feel the same way. We both had pretty simple taste, neither of us the glamorous type. We were just as happy eating spaghetti and drinking the house Chianti at Roma Bistro as we were eating lobster and sipping champagne at the Carlyle Club, maybe happier, as recent events had proven. I was sure that Garrett didn’t want a “society” wedding any more than I did, even if it was designed by the most prominent wedding planners on the eastern seaboard.
I looked at Abigail, then at Byron, and held up my hand. “Well, actually, it doesn’t sound all right to me. Not at all. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Abbie, but, I’m just not sure…” I stumbled over my words, trying to find a way to put a stop to this without upsetting Abigail. “It’s just that…I don’t think that Garrett would…”
Byron nodded sympathetically. “I know, my dear. He should have been here by now, but I really don’t think we should wait any longer, do you, Abigail?”
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