Better Than Your Dreams

by Dee Ernst

  Still, the Berman manse remained impressive. I’d been there on only a few occasions—holiday events, mostly—and had been quite taken by Dominique’s style and efficient housekeeping. My own efficient housekeeping showed up once a week in a little yellow minivan. Hers apparently showed up twice a week.

  I arrived early to the shower, mainly to keep Miranda company, but also, quite frankly, to watch Dominique at work. The woman was impressive. Any sort of event that required feeding more than six people put her in her true element—this woman could plan a party like no one else I knew.

  Ramon had done an amazing job with his holiday decorating. The tree in the family room glittered with tiny white lights, silver ornaments, and clusters of dried lavender tied in silken ribbon. Pearly gray garland cascaded down from a magnificent angel wearing the traditional Christmas robe of royal purple and silver. I imagined Tyler had a real blast helping hang all the ornaments.

  The rest of the house was just as beautifully and tastefully done—I was particularly impressed when I went into the first-floor guest bathroom, right off the foyer, and found a glass column filled with silver and lavender balls. And the gray bows around the spare toilet paper rolls were an extra-festive touch.

  Lily had driven with me. She had returned from Aruba the evening before, very tanned and with splash of purple dye in the front of her silver hair, obviously for the holidays. As she looked around, she murmured, “Look, I match,” then let her coat fall over a nearby chair, and marched into the living room, where she immediately grabbed the chair with the most commanding view. The living room, by the way, was massive, with a huge fireplace decked with holly and silver candles, with matching eight-foot sofas, wing chairs, ottomans, and occasional tables scattered throughout. In pale taupe with chocolate and hunter-green accents, it was comfortable and elegant without looking feminine at all.

  The girls had followed in Jessica’s car. Miranda looked nervous.

  “How many people did she invite?” she asked. I shrugged. I had kept out of this completely, other than spending a small fortune on a Calphalon cookware set, and talking Lauren and Jessica out of hiring a male stripper.

  Dominique was hanging up coats and playing kiss-kiss with the girls. Tyler came running in, a large truck in his hand. Upon seeing us he dropped to the floor, pushed on the top of the truck, then let go. It shot forward with considerable force and hit a fragile three-legged table standing innocently in the foyer, which promptly fell over, bringing the crystal vase full of white roses down with it. Tyler screamed with delight, threw his arms around my legs, and then tore out of sight. Dominique’s shoulders slumped, and she said a very bad word. But in French, so it sounded almost classy.

  “Let me,” I said, rushing forward. “Point me to a broom.” As I moved, I could feel the water from the vase seeping into the soles of my lovely red suede driving shoes. I followed her into the kitchen. As she reached into a large closet, she suddenly turned to me and began to sob loudly.

  “Ah, Dominique, it’s only a vase. I’ll take care of it, honestly.”

  “I think Brian’s cheating on me,” she blurted. She turned back to the closet and pulled out a broom and dustpan, which she handed to me, tears streaming down her face. “A salesperson. Younger.” She wiped away tears but continued to sob. “And skinnier.”

  I stared. Younger? And skinnier? True, Dominique was not her former size double zero, but still, who could possibly be younger and skinnier than her? A twelve-year-old anorexic?

  I hesitantly moved toward her. “Dominique?”

  She waved me away. “Go! That spilled water will ruin the floors.”

  “I’ll be right back,” I blurted, grabbing a roll of paper towels out of its tasteful brushed-chrome holder and taking it with me.

  Lauren had picked up the larger pieces of glass, and Jessica had salvaged the flowers. We threw down paper towels to absorb the water, and I carefully swept up the glass fragments. Miranda muttered something about Tyler and followed the sound of his shrieks.

  “Mona,” Lily called from the living room, “is everything all right?”

  “Yes, Aunt Lily,” I answered. Lauren and I went back into the kitchen, where Dominique was sitting on the floor in front of the broom closet, crying her heart out.

  “Mom?” Lauren said, staring.

  I knelt down next to Dominique. “Listen, I’m sorry, honestly, and if you don’t feel up to this, just let me know. We’ll send everyone away. In fact, if we start texting people now—”

  “No, I’m f-f-fine,” she said, struggling to stand. I stood with her, and she leaned against me for a second. I tried to put an arm around her shoulder, but she straightened up, then grabbed the broom and put it back, closing the closet door firmly. She inhaled deeply, then rubbed her eyes with both hands. “I’m fine.” She smiled at Lauren. “I’m fine. Thanks for helping. The broken glass goes in recycling, under the scrub sink. There’s another vase right behind you, top shelf, on the left.”

  Lauren put the broken glass away without a word, then pulled the vase from the cabinet.

  I leaned toward Dominique. “Are you sure? Honestly, there are a lot of people coming—”

  “Forty-six,” she said.

  “What? Forty-six people are coming to the shower? That’s almost as many people as are coming to the wedding!”

  She looked at her watch. “The caterer will be here in ten minutes. People will start showing up in half an hour. I need to fix my makeup. Can you handle this?”

  “Of course.”

  She hurried out of the kitchen.

  Lauren, filling the vase with water, immediately turned to me with raised eyebrows.

  “Nothing,” I muttered.

  “Liar.”

  “She thinks your father may be cheating on her. Don’t say a word.”

  Lauren shook her head and arranged the flowers. “Dad is kind of a jerk-wad.”

  “Lauren!”

  “Well, he is. He dumped you, got her pregnant because he wanted a son, moved her out here away from everything she loves so he could make the right impression on everyone, and now he’s doing exactly the same thing to her that he did to you.” She shook her head again. “Jerk-wad.”

  “Where is he? Do you know?”

  “With the new girlfriend?”

  “Lauren!”

  “Well, she told him to stay away from the house for the whole afternoon. Where else would he be?”

  Good heavens, the girl was probably right.

  The caterer took several minutes to bring in the food, set up the appetizers, and arrange a bar area in the eating nook in the kitchen. If I had been planning this little soirée, I would have put the bar directly in the middle of the living room, but, hey, that’s just me.

  Dominique came back downstairs, her face recomposed, and took charge. I went into the living room, where Lily, Miranda, and Jessica all looked at me with practiced innocence.

  “Lauren, you’ve never heard of discretion? You couldn’t wait, what, twenty minutes?” I sat down heavily. “Forty-six people.”

  “Forty-six people where, dear?” Lily asked.

  “Here. Today.”

  Miranda frowned. “Do I even know forty-six people?”

  Jessica rolled her eyes. “High school friends? Boston people? David’s cousins? Mom’s friends? Who knows, maybe Dominique has a friend. Seriously—you know forty-six people.”

  Miranda’s own cousins, I knew, were not in the mix. Marsha the Bitch had two children, both of whom fled home as soon as humanly possible, and as far as I knew, had not returned. My own sister, Grace, lived in Oregon on a commune with the same sitar player named Shadow she ran off with back when sitar players were sexy and a good catch. Her offspring, five sons, stayed close to the commune, three of them working with their father, who now made handcrafted string instruments that commanded thousands of dollars each. I had gotten to know all of the boys and even flew out to a few of their weddings, but I did not expect to see their wives here wit
h wrapped presents of towels and bake ware.

  Ben’s sister Marion, ten years older, had eight children, which was why he often chose not to spend any holidays with her, as that particular branch of the family had pretty much exploded with small children. I had met Marion—one of those tiny, frail-looking women who constantly complained about vague, annoying health issues, but who could put together a meal for seventy-five in an hour using just pantry ingredients.

  Tyler slunk in, obviously threatened to within an inch of his little life, and snuggled next to Jessica on the couch. She immediately pulled out her phone and started doing something on it that had the little boy in giggles. Lily had grabbed a plateful of cold appetizers from under the caterer’s nose and was examining them closely.

  “These look amazing,” she said. “Are these the same people you’re using, Miranda?”

  Miranda nodded and snatched what looked like crab salad nestled in a tiny green leaf of something. “Yes. Mom’s suggestion. Those people from Madison.”

  “I always forget about them,” Lily said. “Carmella said she had someone in mind, but I’m going to have her talk to these people when she gets here.”

  My head swiveled. “Gets here? Is she coming to the shower?”

  “Of course, Mona. After all, she’s going to be family, isn’t she?”

  I should have been paying more attention to all of this. I grabbed a green apple slice topped with Brie and mango chutney and thought dark thoughts.

  Phyllis arrived next, sadly without Rebecca. Rebecca was snowed in, in Amherst. Apparently even the most powerful Wiccans cannot control the weather.

  Marion arrived with three of her daughters. She looked like Ben—same dark hair and amazing eyes, but he got all the beauty. Poor woman. To grow up looking back at a younger brother as dazzling as Ben must have been hard, but I knew they were fairly close.

  There was a flurry of noise and laughter as two or three groups of Miranda’s friends arrived all at once. These young women all blended together in a whirl of short skirts, long hair, and very high heels. How did they walk anywhere? And phones—none of them had a purse, but they all held on to their phones as if they were their most glamorous accessory, which, in a way, I suppose they were.

  We had hit the halfway point, guestwise.

  Patricia and MarshaMarsha arrived with Anthony. I had tried to explain to Anthony that it really was all about the women, but he had spoken to Dominique directly and had been added to the list. Miranda, of course, was delighted—they were each other’s number one fan.

  A few women arrived whom I recognized from Brian’s office—among them his executive assistant and another I recognized from HR. They greeted me vaguely, as if I were someone they had met on a cruise rather than the woman who had been at Brian’s side for every work-related party, dinner, or event for years.

  A few more from the Cutler cousins, Miranda’s roommates from Boston, and someone who was introduced to me as David’s aunt on the Calhoun side—Ellen’s sister.

  Carmella was among the last to arrive, and she brought her sisters, Assunta (“Call me Suzi”) and Vincenza (“Enza, darling, pul-eeze”). The three of them were cut from the same cloth—beautiful, dark-haired, with curves that left little to the imagination. They turned heads completely as they entered, lots of gold flashing and breasts bobbing. They had matching tans, although I knew that Carmella had not been with them in Aruba. Had she stopped for a spray tan on her way to see Ben? Patricia, martini in hand, raised her eyebrows upon their entrance.

  “Good Lord, three of them?”

  I nodded as Lily embraced them. She had spent the last few days in a private villa in Aruba with the two other sisters, so of course there was much hugging and kissing. Lily introduced us, and I had to brace myself—they hugged and kissed me as well, welcoming me to the family before they drifted away, leaving me in a cloud of Shalimar.

  Patricia laid a hand on my arm. “Are you sure you’re not drinking?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t. I have to drive. Besides, Dominique could cave any minute, and if she does, someone is going to have to run this party.”

  Patricia raised an eyebrow again, but did not question me further. She knew she’d get the whole story behind that remark and was quite prepared to wait.

  I looked around. The crowd began in the living room and spread into the dining room and on through the family room. There was a separate cluster in the kitchen. Dominique was working the room like a pro, being the perfect hostess, not a single blond hair out of place. The mountain of gifts by the fireplace would take hours upon hours to go through. And there was hot food coming.

  We could all be here for days.

  Two hours later, a few token gifts had been opened.

  There had been a great deal of food eaten and various types of beverages consumed. We had played a few very inventive games, including Best Advice/Worst Advice, Name That Fictional Husband and Wife, and, my personal favorite, the team challenge Mother-Daughter What Would You Do?

  Anthony, who managed to find a nickname for anyone and everyone, immediately tagged Carmella and her sisters “Act Four, Scene One.” Anthony, being a very literary kind of guy, was alluding to the scene in Hamlet where the three witches made their appearance. Patricia chided him, claiming the reference was too obscure. He agreed, instantly renaming them Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria. Every time I looked over at one of them, however, I imagined all of them hunched over a bubbling cauldron.

  My daughter, Miranda, was overwhelmed. This was a girl who, for most of her life, expected that the earth would revolve around her every whim. A few months with David Cutler and she was humbled and grateful by everyone’s obvious good wishes. She did not spend all her time huddled with her sisters or gossiping with her friends. She talked to everyone—even David’s family, whom she had never met before. Miranda was by no means shy, but talking to strangers had always been hard for her.

  “Maybe Ben is right,” I said to MarshaMarsha.

  “Of course Ben is right,” she answered. “About what?”

  “Maybe they will live happily ever after. Maybe I’m totally wrong, and I should stop overthinking this.”

  She sighed. “Well, Mona, I wouldn’t want any of my boys to marry somebody they had only known for a few months. But I have to admit, these two seem really right for each other.”

  “Yes, they do, don’t they?” I was finding myself more and more accepting of them as a couple. How could I not? They were disgustingly adorable together. As a married couple—that still seemed fairly unacceptable, but the idea was creeping up on me.

  “Are the presents going to be opened?” she asked. “Because as it is, we’ll be here until Tuesday.”

  Jessica came up beside us. “No, it’s not about the gifts. She’ll open them at home with David.”

  MarshaMarsha made a face. “What about the bouquet?”

  “What bouquet?” Jess asked.

  “You know, made from all the trimmings?” MarshaMarsha explained. “All the bows and ribbons are saved and taped to a paper plate, and that’s the bouquet she uses during the rehearsal.”

  Jess looked stunned. “People do that? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of.” She raised her voice. “Hey, Miranda! Guess what?” She trotted over in obvious delight.

  I looked at MarshaMarsha. “Are we really that old?”

  She shook her head. “Apparently. When did that happen?”

  Aunt Lily still maintained control of the living room. In her immediate orbit were Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria, my ex-mother-in-law, the Cutler contingent, and Ellen’s sister.

  The dining room was filled with the twenty-something crowd. For a group of young women all so thin as to make my own stomach ache from hunger, they stayed close to the food and seemed to be in constant grazing mode.

  Brian’s coworkers were huddled in the kitchen with Dominique, where there was really no comfortable spot to sit, but it had the obvious advantage of being right next to the li
quor.

  I held the foyer with Anthony, MarshaMarsha, and Patricia. Patricia had obviously bribed one of the waiters, because although we were relatively removed from the crowd, there was a constant stream of food and drink coming our way.

  “Well, here’s a question,” Patricia said. “If she doesn’t open any gifts, how do we know when this is over?”

  Anthony frowned. “No clue. Let me see what I can find out.” He squared his shoulders and headed for the dining room.

  Dominique had been circulating like a pro. She spent several minutes with Phyllis, and things looked heated at one point, but Carmella said something to defuse the situation, and Dominique moved on.

  “I don’t normally enjoy this sort of thing,” Patricia said, “but this seems to call for lawn chairs and a cooler.”

  I nodded. “Dominique thinks Brian is cheating on her,” I said.

  “Oh, no,” MarshaMarsha said. “That’s terrible. And with Tyler so young!”

  “Where is the little beast, by the way?” Patricia asked.

  “Upstairs. She got a babysitter for the afternoon. She was crying on my shoulder earlier.”

  “Well, that’s rather cheeky,” Patricia said.

  I shrugged. “I feel bad for her.”

  “Of course you do,” MarshaMarsha said. “It’s not her fault Brian is a cad.”