The Sleeping Beauty Proposal

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  Luckily, we do find a table by the window, where I wait while Nick orders us two coffees. I decide it’s not just his Mediterranean magnetism, as Todd calls it, that attracts people to Nick. It’s his overall demeanor. He is one of those naturally friendly people who talk to total strangers as if they’ve known them for years.

  Like the girl behind the counter, for instance. Something he’s said has her giggling, and it appears as if she’s throwing in a chocolate croissant for free. (Oh, goody.) Sure, his good looks help. The longish wavy dark hair.The masculine jawline and trim physique. The shoulders out to there.

  Nor does it hurt that he just stuffed a wad of cash in the tip jar. Hugh never would have done that.

  Hugh boycotts tip jars. In his opinion, tip jars put the slack in slacker. “Mere mendicants,” he used to say. "That’s what we’re becoming. A society of lazy mendicants.”

  “Can I tempt you?” Nick slips the croissant onto a napkin and slides it to me. It is bursting with dark chocolate. My very favorite, next to almond.

  “I couldn’t. Too fattening.” Such a hypocrite. The cream and sugar in my coffee is worth at least two pains au chocolat.

  “Come on.You know you want it.” He breaks off a corner and pops it into his mouth. “Man, is that good. Dark chocolate. Pastry. How can you say no?”

  Trans fats, Hugh would point out.

  “A real date wouldn’t eat a chocolate croissant,” I observe. "She’d demur. Until . . . later.”

  He raises an eyebrow. "Later?”

  “Until after we got to know each other better.You don’t want to pig out in front of a guy before he sees you naked for the first time. A girl’s got to create the image that she’s almost, well, divine, a goddess who has no need of mortal food.”

  “I see.” He sips his coffee, mulling this over.“I’ve never thought of that but, looking back on my previous dates, I guess you’re right.”

  How long have Nick’s women had to wait before they could eat, is what I want to know. My guess is not more than a night.

  “So,” he says,“I’ve bought you a coffee.We have the table.The next step is for me to take your hand, don’t you think?”

  A flutter ripples through me as I extend my hand with its newly done nails. “You learn fast.”

  “I have a good teacher.”

  Instead of chastely touching hands, we link fingers. Oh, God. We have just linked fingers and Nick is grinning that grin of his. I know it’s an act.We’re putting on a show for his date.

  Still.

  “Now,” he says, “what should we talk about? Our hopes? Our dreams?... Hugh?”

  Quick. Think of something, Genie. Anything but Hugh. “I know. How about the house?”

  “The house?” He squints. “What house?”

  “The house you and Todd are working on. I was at the gym this morning and ran into a woman I knew from high school. She’s a real estate agent now and she said Cecily is finally putting the house on the market. She wants to sell it fast so she can go to California and be with her boy toy.”

  Nick doesn’t let go of my hand. In fact, he absently strokes it with his other, his fingertips gently caressing my wrist. Clearly, he is an innately sensual man.

  “Boy toy, huh? I knew she was eager to go to California, but Cecily never mentioned a boy toy.”

  “But you did know about her selling the house.” I am trying very hard not to seem as if I’m at all excited by what he’s doing with his hand.

  “Of course.We’ve been in deep negotiations about me buying it for weeks now.”

  “Buying it?” He can’t, I think, yanking my hand back and mulling over what he means by deep negotiations. “How come?”

  “Excellent investment. Plus, I can finish the downstairs bathroom and kitchen while I continue to live upstairs.”

  “I didn’t know that’s where you lived.”

  "Yeah. I moved in when we started the project, part of a deal I cut with Cecily to keep her costs down.What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know if Todd mentioned this,” I start, worried that I might sound like my brother’s spoiled baby sister, “but I want to buy it, too. It’s my dream house. I love its location, the fireplace, that it has a backyard big enough for a garden. I have visions of planting roses all along the front. Big red roses. Mr. Lincolns.”

  “Roses,” he repeats, smiling. “You really must love it then.”

  “I do.You could even say I feel sort of desperate.”

  “Then how come Todd said Hugh wouldn’t go for it?”

  “Todd doesn’t know squat. If I want the house”—here comes another whopper of a lie—“Hugh will agree. Sight unseen. He totally trusts my judgment.”

  Nick brushes a few crumbs off the table. “Well, then why haven’t you two made Cecily an offer?”

  Good question. So good that I don’t have a decent answer to it. “To tell you the truth, not enough money.”

  “Got that right. Cecily’s looking for cash. A half a million at that. She’s out of her mind.”

  “Who’s she going to sell to? Drug dealers?”

  “Fine by her. As long as the house is off her hands and she can go to California without waiting a month to close.”

  Cecily the real estate flipper. Poor Todd, having to work with her all these months.What a nightmare.

  “We have to think of something,” he says. “We can’t let that house fall into the hands of some wise guy or a gun runner.”

  "Okay. Let’s think. Let’s resolve not to leave this place until we have a solution.”

  Nick and I drink our coffee in mutual silence and wrack our brains. A half a million is a lot. No matter how happy Mom and Dad are to have me married, they’ll never go for it. For one thing, Lucy would have a fit.

  Finally, he says, “How much cash can you scrape up? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  "Right now, about twenty grand if I close out a couple of CDs. However, I might be able to get as much as three hundred thousand dollars. That’s what my parents gave Lucy and Jason when they got married—not that I’m assured of the same.” Not that I’m really getting married.

  A glimmer of shock passes across his face as Nick lets out a low whistle. “How do I know you’re not a crack dealer?”

  “You don’t. How about you? How much can you scrape up?”

  He twirls the napkin on the table, hesitating. “About a hundred grand less.”

  “So, we’re both drug dealers, since I don’t know too many carpenters who’ve been able to sock away two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “I keep my expenses down.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Genie,” he says, looking up. “What would you say if I suggested we split it?”

  “The house?”

  “Hugh would probably hate the arrangement. But from what I hear, Hugh wouldn’t live in a two-family on Peabody anyway. So it could be strictly an investment while you two live somewhere else. If you put in three and I put in two, Cecily gets her cash.We could turn it into two condos. I’d finish the downstairs, no charge, and I’d take out a loan to make up the difference. It’d be doable.”

  Yes, I want to say, but there’s no way I could plunk down that much money and still live in my apartment. My parents would never understand that. What am I saying? My parents won’t understand when I tell them Hugh broke up with me weeks ago.

  “The thing is,” I venture, “I’d have to live there. I can’t afford to live somewhere else and also own a home.”

  “You?” Nick asks. “Or you two?”

  “Do you care?”

  He’s about to answer when something over my shoulder suddenly grabs his attention. “She’s here.”

  “Who’s here?”

  “Cecily Blake.”

  "The Cecily Blake?”

  "On the up escalator.”

  I turn around and sure enough there’s a woman who meets Todd’s every description. Impossibly tall, rather thin, with a pout that seems permanent. Cecily Blake
in a crisp black shirt and white pants accessorized by clunky jewelry is going up while staring down at us like a buzzard on roadkill.There’s no doubt about it—she’s pissed Nick is with another woman.

  “Shouldn’t I kiss you now?” Nick asks.

  Spinning around, I say, "Kiss me?”

  “So she’ll seethe with jealousy.” He starts to lean in my direction and stops. “Wait. What’s your preference? Do you like the first kiss to be one of those prim pecks or should I go for more? I know, you don’t have to tell me. No tongue.”

  A surge of emotion wells inside me, though I can’t tell if it’s because Nick is talking about kissing or that I’ve just realized he has a bigger advantage than I do in getting the house.

  “Cecily Blake is your date? Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  “I’ll explain later.” In one fluid move, he plants his lips on mine. It is neither a pristine peck nor a sloppy fumble. It is an absolutely perfect kiss. Soft. Full. Entrancing. The contrast between this kiss and Steve’s pass is stunning. Steve’s kiss I barely tolerated; this kiss I don’t ever want to end.

  Nick seems to be enjoying it, too, since he gently cups the back of my head, bringing me closer to him.

  Which is when I see Reverend Whitmore at the window holding up my pink bag and gaping in horror.

  "Crap!” I gasp, pulling away and getting up to go. "Crap. Crap. Crap.”

  “Was it that bad?” Nick looks hurt.

  “No. Not at all.”

  For a moment, our eyes meet and something so powerful comes over me that I have to turn to the window, even though that’s where Reverend Whitmore is standing.

  “It’s my friend. He’s got my bag.” I give a finger wave to my “friend,” who is still frowning. “If I don’t run now, it’ll be too late.”

  “Sure,” says Nick, rapidly writing something on a napkin. “Here’s my home phone number. Call me if you have any more ideas about the house.” He hands it to me. “Or if you just want to pick up where we left off.”

  Tucking the number into my purse as if it’s a treasure, I say, “I don’t know about that. I’m engaged, remember?”

  “I remember. My question is for how long? If that kiss is any indication, I’d say not very.”

  Wow, he’s bold. “You might be surprised.”

  “I might be,” he says, sitting back and folding his arms confidently. “Fortunately, I’m a very patient man.”

  That’s good because, unfortunately, I’m a very impatient woman.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The good news is that Reverend Whitmore is discreet enough not to mention me kissing a man who is not my fiancé. The bad news is that when I turn to look back at the window and our table, I find that Nick is still there, though all his attention is focused on Cecily.

  Oh, well. C’est la vie!

  I have no right to be jealous. After all, it wasn’t a real date we were on.We were just pretending, that line about him being a patient man probably nothing more than his usual flirtation modus operandi.

  Besides, even if Nick is developing feelings for me—and I’m not claiming he is—it would be a stupid move, strategically, for him to blow off Cecily now. He wants the house and what better way to get it than through seduction.

  Which is excellent motivation for me to take action, too, by driving over to my parents’ right now before I chicken out. Granted, it won’t be easy sitting them down and asking them for—gulp—three hundred thousand dollars. A handout this huge completely grates against my nature as an independent woman. I’ve always prided myself on being able to get by on my own without Mommy and Daddy there to catch me when I fall.

  Then again, it is three hundred thousand dollars we’re talking about, a windfall that could tilt the scales in favor of my future happiness. In which case, my independence can sit down and shut up for a Saturday afternoon.

  Mom is in the kitchen repotting a plant in the sink when I come in, soaked and determined.

  “What a rainy-day surprise!” she exclaims, rinsing off her hands. “I’m so glad you stopped by, Genie. I drew up a rough invitation list.Take a look.”

  There are far more people here than we planned. “I thought we were keeping it to under a hundred guests.”

  “I tried and just can’t. Once you invite the relatives from my side and the relatives from your father’s side, we’re already up to seventy. And that’s not including Hugh’s people. Do you have that list yet?”

  “Not yet,” I say, flipping through the names.Why is Mom inviting my former high school principal?

  "Well, you’ll have to get that to me soon. Also, Hugh’s parents. Honestly, I can’t believe we’ve gotten this far into the wedding planning and we haven’t even contacted them. It’s incredibly rude. It’s practically scandalous.”

  This I’ve got covered, thanks to Patty. From my purse, I pull out an address for Susanna and Trevor Spencer c/o Giorgio Hermani, Paloma, Italia. Never mind that Giorgio Hermani is Patty’s uncle George, who, being a former con artist and internationally acclaimed circus star, has agreed to answer all correspondence sent to him as though he really were an uptight British couple.

  “No phone?” Mom says.

  “Guess they’re really roughing it.” I point to Patty’s name on the invitation list. “Why is she crossed out?”

  “Oh, dear.You don’t really want to invite that woman, do you? She’s so loud.”

  “I have to. She’s my only bridesmaid.”

  “No!” Mom grips the kitchen counter as if she’s suffering a mild myocardial infarction. “Why?”

  We have been over this every day, that Patty is going to be my maid of honor, that Lucy will be my matron of honor, and that that will be it as far as attendants are concerned.And yet, every day my mother acts equally shocked and put out, as if we need to get a pass from the warden to spring Patty from the penitentiary along with a pardon from the president to spare her the electric chair.

  “Would it make you feel better if I tell you she’s engaged?” I say.

  “Some man is actually marrying her?”

  Well, no, not a real man, I want to say. "She’s got a huge diamond to prove it.”

  “Does Todd know?”

  “I don’t know. Why?” What would Todd care if Patty got married?

  The wrinkles from my mother’s forehead have instantly disappeared. The heart attack is gone. She is back to being in the bloom of health. “Yes, that does make me feel better, as a matter of fact.” And with that she takes out a pencil and erases the line over my best friend’s name. "She’s not so bad, really.”

  "Really?”

  "She’s very bright and hardworking, objectively. Almost principled, in a kind of honorable Don Corleone kind of way, wouldn’t you say?”

  To my mother, all Italians must subscribe to the code of the underworld as outlined in The Godfather parts I through III. “Your words. Not mine.Where’s Dad?”

  “In the den.Wimbledon is on.”

  Forget it. The timing is too lousy. Wimbledon is once a year and Dad does not want to be disturbed for one minute of it. I’ll come back later.

  You can’t think like that, Genie.You’re always finding excuses not to live out your dreams. Act now.

  My inner voice is right. It is now or never. “Mom,” I say, marching to the den. “I need to ask you and Dad a big favor. I hope it won’t be too much of a burden.”

  She trots after me asking all sorts of questions, most of which have to do with the wedding. “Do you need to change the date? Expand the guest list? If you don’t want to invite Aunt Elda, I completely understand.That woman is so unpredictable.”

  Dad is half asleep, his mouth open as women’s tennis plays on the screen in front of him. “Oh, good,” Mom says. “It’s the Russian. He can’t stand her.”

  I turn off the TV and Dad jolts to attention. "Hey. I was watching that!”

  “Sorry, Dad, but this is important.” Pulling up the leather hassock, I sit at his feet—the significa
nce of my supplication not lost on either of us. “Look. I don’t know where to begin, so I’ll come right out and say it. I want to buy a house and the twenty thousand dollars I have saved is not enough. Could you please help me?”

  Mom sucks in a sharp breath. Dad sits up and rubs his face to rouse himself awake. Then he grips and ungrips the armrests before asking me where I suddenly got this urge to buy a house.

  “It’s the house Todd’s been working on in Watertown, the two-family by the golf course. It’s a fantastic investment, ask him. The neighborhood is stable. It’s on a dead-end street in a pretty good school district. Practicalities aside, I absolutely love it and if I don’t make an offer by tomorrow it’ll be gone.”

  Dad glances up at Mom, who is biting her tongue, I can tell.

  “You’ve talked this over with Hugh, I suppose,” he says.

  Okay. This is the hard part. I don’t mind lying about being engaged to prove a point, but I’m pretty sure lying to get three hundred thousand dollars is a felony.

  “No. Hugh has no idea.”

  Mom exhales the breath she’d been holding. “Then why are you asking us? You’re jumping the gun here, Genie.You’re almost a married couple.You can’t go around making unilateral decisions as if you were still a single woman.”

  There’s something about the word unilateral that sets me off. Maybe it’s from all those stupid diplomacy courses I took in college when I thought, wrongly, that I wanted to major in international relations and work in the State Department. Unilateral sounds so one-sided. So selfish.

  “My decision’s not unilateral, Mom. It’s smart.”

  “Say, Nance,” Dad says. “Would you mind getting me a Coke with ice? I’m dying of thirst.”

  This, of course, is code for Scram, Nancy. Mom presses her lips together, shakes her head in disapproval, and stomps off to the kitchen.

  When she’s safely out of earshot, he says, “Why haven’t you talked to Hugh about this?”

  “I haven’t been able to reach him. He’s all over Europe.”