“You look like you’re twenty years old in that,” my mom said.
“Yeah, if you don’t look at my fifty-year-old face.”
“You’re fifty?” Cara, the bridal consultant, said with such incredulity that I wanted to hug her and buy the damn dress. “I thought you were in your thirties.” Bless her lying little heart.
If Jill was still concerned about me marrying Michael now and making so many life changes, she hid it well and got into the spirit of the day, moving from rack to rack, offering up various options. Ultimately we’d all picked out four dresses—the big puffy thing being my mother’s choice, of course—and I was the human mannequin.
“It’s a bit much, Mom. I know you love this style but this wedding is going to be more like a fancy cocktail party with a marriage ceremony thrown in. Did you pick out anything less frou-frou?”
“No,” she said. “But humor me and try them on anyway.” So I did, while Jill yawned and Sophie filed her nails.
Sophie’s and Jill’s choices ran more toward Nancy Reagan: elegant suits and conservative tea-length dresses. Mine leaned in the direction of Cher: a slinky black beaded dress with a silver shawl, a knee-length burgundy silk skirt and sequined top, a low-cut red evening gown with fringed jacket.
By the time I finished trying on the last option we were all worn out and I was no closer to buying a dress than I’d been when we walked in. I could only imagine what we looked like to Cara: three middle-aged women and a senior citizen, slouched in our chairs, bags under our eyes, hair disheveled. She wore a little half smile as she rehung the last of the dresses. “I’m going to go get you each a glass of wine,” she said, and we all perked up. “And then I’m going to bring one last dress for you to try on.” I groaned. “I know,” she said, “but I think it may be just what you’re looking for.” How could she know? She was twelve. But what was one more dress? Besides, I really wanted that wine.
We sat in exhausted silence, sipping our wine and nibbling on the cookies she’d brought, until Sophie said, “Pete talked to Patrick the other day and invited him to come to Danielle’s wedding.”
I stopped chewing. Patrick, here? At Danielle’s wedding? Patrick and Michael in the same room? “Why’d he do that?”
“He’s just so happy to be in touch with him. It’s like he has a new best friend.” She turned to Jill. “Patrick Harrison,” she said. “Remember him?”
“I do,” Jill said with raised eyebrows. “What rock did he crawl out from under?”
“The Internet,” I said.
“Well, well,” Jill said. “Things keep getting curiouser and curiouser.”
“Anyway,” Sophie said, “Pete wants to get together with him and they were talking and I think it just came out.” She shrugged. “I think he might come.”
I swallowed.
“Who’s Patrick?” my mother asked.
“Libby’s high school boyfriend,” Jill said. “Remember the guy with the long hair and the black leather that you and Daddy hated?”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” my mother said. “We never hated anyone Libby dated.”
Jill and Sophie and I laughed. “Well, okay, maybe ‘hate’ is extreme, but you weren’t crazy about his long hair,” I said. “Do you remember him?”
“Oh honey, I barely remember you. How could I remember someone you dated in high school?”
“Remember the Bradshaws?” Jill asked. I gave her a look but she kept going. “Remember when Libby went to a New Year’s Eve party at their house?”
“No, dear, I don’t remember. And I’m not going to tax my brain. But what’s the difference? It’s all ancient history.” She looked at me. “Have you kept in touch with him?”
“Just recently we got in touch through a website where people find their high school friends.”
“SearchForSchoolmates.com?” my mother asked.
I almost dropped my wineglass. “How do you know about that?”
“Do you think I sit around and knit all day?” she said. “I’m the technology queen of my book club. I’ve taught everyone how to use a computer. I’ve been on that website a number of times. Although as you can imagine there aren’t many of my classmates left.”
My mother on SearchForSchoolmates.com. Amazing. What if she was e-mailing old boyfriends?
“Who’d you find?” Sophie asked, clearly delighted with the idea.
“I found a girl I used to run around with, Sarah Posen.”
“Does she live here in Chicago?”
“No, in Michigan. Not too far, though. We’re going to try to get together soon. I’d love to see her. Haven’t laid eyes on her in about sixty years.”
“Technology is amazing, isn’t it?” Jill said.
“It is,” I said. “How would we have gotten in touch with these people years ago? It would have taken so much effort that no one would have ever bothered. Now it’s as simple as having a computer and an Internet connection, and you can get reacquainted with someone you haven’t seen in sixty years.”
“Or thirty,” Sophie said.
Cara came back with an elegant ankle-length crocheted tank dress and matching jacket in a shimmery bronze color. It was shot through with metallic shine and there were tiers of scalloped lace at the hem. We all nodded when we saw it, our heads bobbing, smiles on our faces. It was perfect. I had a wedding dress.
Twenty-seven
The next two weeks were a blur of activity. There were long stretches of time when I just spaced out, couldn’t think what I was doing or where I was going, and then I’d come to, because I had to pay attention to Michael’s details and all his various plans.
He decided to sell his condo and in two days had a contract with a coworker who’d often expressed interest in it. Why was everything happening so fast? First the Father Knows Best house and now this. It was as if Michael had a golden touch.
He wasn’t closing for eight weeks but he’d already started packing and bringing things to my house box by box—kitchen things, picture albums, books, things I had no room or use for. The boxes went straight to the basement for storage, stacked up like little condos in a corner.
He called an architect and we had meetings to discuss renovations on the new house, even though it wouldn’t be ours for two months. Everything was moving at warp speed and I went along, swept up in the whirlpool of activity.
I worked with Bea Rosatti on her wedding outfit, which was to be a fitted, knee-length dress with long sleeves and a V-neck, and a jacket with a ruffle down the front and on the sleeves. I’d sketched out several options for her and she’d surprised me by picking the most conservative one. But my elegant, dignified design morphed into something very Bea-like when she picked a silky, sparkly, watermelon-colored fabric that was like water to work with.
And during those weeks, the two weeks before Danielle’s wedding, Patrick and I exchanged e-mails about his upcoming trip to Chicago. He was excited to see Sophie and Pete again and to meet their daughters. He was happy he would be seeing me, which warmed my heart, and he was looking forward to meeting Michael. At least that’s what he said.
Michael was less than thrilled.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Why would Pete invite him? He hasn’t seen him since high school.”
“I suppose that’s why,” I said. “He’s happy to be in touch with him again.”
“If he wanted to be in touch with him so badly, why didn’t he make an effort all these years?”
Michael’s tone exasperated me. I had no desire to have a conversation about it so I left the room, went to my workroom and picked up Bea’s dress, cut out the facings, pinned them to the armholes. Pretty soon Michael was standing in the doorway. I pretended not to notice.
“He’s just coming because he wants to see you,” he said. I almost grinned. When I didn’t reply Michael said, “How do you feel about it?”
I looked up from my work, peering at him over my reading glasses. “I feel fine about it. It’ll be nice to see
him again so soon.”
“So soon?”
Oops. I’d forgotten that Michael didn’t know Patrick had come to Chicago to have lunch with me. It seemed so long ago now.
So I told him.
“You’re kidding,” he said when I’d finished.
“I’m not,” I said, concentrating on my pinning.
“Wait, let me get this straight. He flew, what, a thousand miles to have lunch with you.”
“That’s right.” Inside it gave me a little chill.
I could feel Michael’s eyes on me but I just continued my work, one pin after the other.
“What’s with this guy? Does he have his own plane?”
“He’s a little impulsive,” I said.
“A little?”
I stabbed my finger and a small red bubble rose up. “Ouch. Goddamn it.” I sucked on it and squelched the urge to tell Michael to shut up and get out. So what if Patrick was impulsive? What the hell did it matter? I put down the fabric, took off my glasses and looked at him, finger in my mouth.
“Let it go, Michael.” I said it as quietly as I could manage.
“I can’t,” he said. “I hate this guy and I don’t want him here.”
I laughed out loud. Not because I was amused but because Michael sounded like a ten-year-old instead of a man nearing sixty. I imagined him throwing himself to the floor, kicking his legs, face about to explode.
“You don’t even know him. And anyway, it’s not up to you. Pete invited him and he’s coming. He’s just a guy, Michael.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. “There’s no such thing as just a guy,” he said.
“You’re jealous,” I said.
“I’m not jealous. I just think the whole thing’s stupid.”
“Well, fine, think it’s stupid. It is what it is and you’re going to have to deal with it, and it would be nice if you’d act like a grown-up about it.” He stared, eyes blazing. I could see all the retorts bubbling up behind his lips, which were locked in a tight line, and braced myself.
He turned.
“I’m marrying you, Michael,” I said to his rigid back as he walked away. “I bought a dress!”
Twenty-eight
The day of Danielle’s wedding might have been ordered from a catalog titled Weather for All Occasions: Birthday Weather, Funeral Weather, Wedding Weather. The skies couldn’t have been bluer, the clouds puffier, the sunshine shinier. And the white church was dazzling with its stained-glass windows and spire reaching to the heavens. Everything was perfect. It was a fairy tale, that Cinderella wedding Michael and I were too old for.
“Psssst.” Tiffany’s delicate face peeked out the vestibule door. She was flushed, and I could see lots of lively purple behind her as the bridesmaids bustled around the room. She grinned and waved, and I heard giggling as she shut the door. Michael and I smiled at each other and headed into the church.
“Bride’s side or groom’s?” the usher asked. He was young and handsome, in a black tuxedo with a purple cummerbund and bow tie, dark hair gleaming with styling gel.
“Bride’s,” I said. He offered his arm and walked me down the aisle with Michael following. The organist played something soft and sleepy as we took our seats. I looked around at the expectant faces, scanning the pews for Patrick, but I didn’t see him. I worked to squash the disappointment bubbling up.
When the music stopped, the murmuring of voices ceased, processional music began, clothing rustled as people turned in anticipation. First came Sophie’s parents, looking vibrant and healthy, then Pete’s mom, frail but bright with pleasure. The groom’s mother and father came next and then Sophie, elegant in a champagne-colored suit with a peplum waist and ankle-length skirt.
The poofy purple confections came next, three bridesmaids with their respective groomsmen, and then Tiffany. Gone was the punked-out kid with spiky orange hair and pierced eyebrow. In her place was a graceful and composed young woman, her hair a conventional shade of dark blond, tucked behind her ears and swept off her face in soft waves. Aside from the swarm of earrings trailing up her left ear, she was understated. She made the dress look classic and lovely. No hint of a giant iris.
“The dresses are great,” Michael whispered, and I puffed up with pride.
The regal blast of trumpets sounded then: ba ba ba bum, ba ba ba bum … and Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” began. A little girl in a pink dress stood on the pew in front of us, craning her neck to see. Her eyes sparkled and she jiggled up and down, barely able to contain her excitement. I smiled at her and she clasped her little hands together, her mouth forming a perfect O.
Then the doors at the back of the church opened dramatically and Danielle and Pete stood silhouetted against the sunshine outside. They began their graceful walk down the aisle, Pete’s face aglow with pride.
How many years ago was it that Sophie walked down the aisle in that same dress? Too many to even comprehend, but I could see it as if it were yesterday, watching from the altar in my coveted spot as maid of honor. It brought a lump to my throat.
My dress had been baby blue with an appliquéd bodice, hyped as something I could wear again and again. Of course I never had. It had taken its place in my bridesmaid’s hall of fame. But Sophie’s dress had made the transition beautifully. It looked flawless on Danielle, as if it had been made for her. I hoped wearing it was an auspicious beginning, that her marriage would be as strong as her parents’.
As Danielle and Chris recited their vows I choked up again: “I will be yours in times of plenty and in times of want, in times of sickness and in times of health.… I promise to cherish and respect you, to care and protect you, to comfort and encourage you, and stay with you, for all eternity.”
What is it about weddings, I wondered, that makes us cry? The sweetness? The sentimentality? The failure rate?
All eternity? Whew, that was a long time.
* * *
By the time we got to the reception my tears were long forgotten. We’d had a couple of hours between the ceremony and the reception so I’d suggested to Michael that we stop for a drink.
“Don’t you think we’ll be drinking enough at the reception?” he’d said.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “And anyway, that’s hours from now. What else are we going to do? Go bowling?”
“Bowling,” he said. “Hmmm…”
I swatted at him. We stopped for a glass of wine.
Mark, Jill and my mother were sitting at a large round table with a lavender lace tablecloth and iris centerpiece when Michael and I arrived. Pete’s sister Stacy and her husband, Fletcher, were there as well. And there was one empty chair, which made my heart ache. I worked hard at swallowing the lump it brought. It was times like these that snuck up on me and threatened my footing. Sophie had told me she put Patrick in that seat and I wished he were there now. I wished someone was, just so it wouldn’t be so heartbreakingly vacant.
But no Patrick. Had he changed his mind?
A three-piece combo played chamber music as guests mingled and found their seats, and after a while the violinist took the microphone to announce the wedding party. They streamed in: the groom’s parents, Pete and Sophie, the bridesmaids and ushers. Tiffany was last with the groom’s brother, her new beau. They made a cute couple. He was a few years older than Tiffany, maybe seventeen or eighteen, tall and lanky, handsome in his tux, smiling from ear to ear. He guided them into a little twirl as they entered the room and Tiffany giggled, putting her hand to her mouth. I could see love in her eyes.
Then the big announcement: “And now,” drum roll, “for the very first time, I have the honor of introducing … Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Sanderson.” The bride and groom walked in, smiles illuminating their faces. Danielle blushed with all the attention but gazed adoringly at her new husband. I felt melancholy watching them. I would never be in their shoes again, getting married for the first time, feeling that new love, the promise it held.
Michael put his arm around me. “That’ll be u
s before long,” he murmured.
Not like that, I thought.
We were into our salads of roasted beets, arugula and blue cheese when I looked up and saw Patrick and Pete heading toward our table, and my spirits rose like Old Faithful. I put down my fork and swallowed, hard. Pete wore a delighted grin. “Here he is,” he said when they got to us. “Finally. Can you believe it?”
Patrick’s hair was a little longer than when I had last seen him. He looked so handsome it made my throat dry. His smile was wide as he caught my eye, and I felt a flush start at my chest and work its way up.
“Sorry, all,” he said. “My flight was delayed.”
He came right over and kissed my cheek. Michael sat up and stared, a lion sizing up its prey.
“Great to see you,” Patrick said, squeezing my shoulder. When he took his hand away I still felt its imprint. “You must be the famous fiancé,” he said to Michael, shaking his hand.
“Guilty as charged,” Michael said.
“You’re a lucky man.”
“Yes, I am.” He smiled. “Finally we meet,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” I was surprised by his words, his equanimity. No one would ever guess the snit he had been in about this man.
Patrick moved around the table, greeting everyone, charming them, including my mother.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” he told her.
“Well, that’s the nicest lie I’ve heard in a long time,” she said. “I can’t say the same for you, but that’s because I don’t remember you. It’s a wonder, though.”
He smiled. Then touched her arm. “I’m so sorry about your husband.” Her eyes shone with gratitude.
He kissed Jill and Stacy. Stacy grinned hugely. She’d had a crush on him when we were young. “Look at you,” she said. “Still handsome.”
“Look at you,” he said. “Pete’s little sis. Still gorgeous.” Stacy laughed loudly. She was at least forty pounds heavier than she’d been in high school.
“A bit bigger than the last time you saw me.”
“Who isn’t?” Patrick said. “You look great.” He shook Fletcher’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said, and then sat in the empty chair and everyone picked up their forks. Jill gave me a look across the table. Clearly he’d lived up to whatever expectations she’d had.
What More Could You Wish For Page 15
