Authors: Eileen Cook
I was lurking near the bar trying to avoid the whole sleazy garter retrieval ritual. Complete with bump-and-grind music, my new brother-in-law loved his moment in the spotlight. He had already pulled a pair of handcuffs and a giant pair of granny panties out from under my sister’s gown much to the amusement of the crowd.
The tossing of the bouquet would come next. This may have been slightly fun in my early twenties when there was a pack of us out there laughing, but since I crested thirty I’ve noticed that it is far less fun to stand out there with a pack of lean and hungry women ready to fight to the death for that bouquet as if it contained life-saving pharmaceuticals and we were in the middle of a pandemic. Bouquet tossing for the single, over-thirty woman is a lose-lose event. Either:
1) You catch the bouquet and the rejoicing reaches levels equal that of winning an Olympic gold medal. People will greet the catching of used, slightly wilted flowers as if you had successfully captured and hog-tied a single man on the dance floor while a relative runs to grab a preacher and a shotgun.
2) You fail to catch the bouquet and everyone tries to comfort you in soft-spoken voices. They will treat the failure to secure the flowers on the same level as if you had received a diagnosis of a fatal and disfiguring medical condition. Disparagement of the winning bouquet catcher may also be bandied about.
I chose to opt out of the entire humiliating event and was tossing back the champagne as fast as the bartender could fill them up. My great-aunt Louise slammed her walker in the back of my knees, nearly tossing me to the ground.
“Pass me some of that champagne, will you?” Aunt Lou asked.
I held out a glass, and her hand shook with palsy as she reached for it. Sufficiently champagned, I hoped she would wander off to torture other relatives, but she stuck to my side.
“You’re one of Patricia’s girls, aren’t you?” Lou asked, squinting her eyes to give me a look.
“Yes. I’m Erin. Claire is my sister.”
“You’re the unmarried one, right?”
Great. This must be how I am known in the family. The unmarried one. They might as well hang a sign around my neck and parade me through the town, my shame known by all. Townspeople could pelt me with rotting fruit and veggies. The idea of independent happy single women was not a well-known concept in my family. I could become President of the United States and my family would still see me as a tragic unmarried figure.
“Yep, that’s me.” I took the bottle of champagne out of the bartender’s hand and filled up my own glass.
“So what’s wrong with you? Too picky?”
“You aren’t great at the small talk, are you?”
“Ah, there’s the problem: sarcasm. Men don’t like that.” She nodded wisely. Her tightly wound perm bounced.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Most likely it’s too late for you now. What is it they say? Once you’re over thirty you’ve got the same chance of getting married as you do being hit by lightning?”
“Actually, they determined that study was wrong.”
“Uh huh.” She watched one of my younger cousins catching the bouquet. “Maybe you should get a dog. Cats are bit cliché I think.”
“CONGA LINE!” the DJ yelled out. For the first time in my life I could imagine nothing I would rather be doing than the conga.
“This dance is my favorite. Gotta run.” I tossed back my champagne and headed out to the dance floor. A Gloria Estefan song pounded out. One of the groomsmen grabbed the back of my dress, his sweaty hands leaving oily looking smears on the satin around my waist. We began to snake through the reception ballroom. Shuffle, shuffle, kick, shuffle, shuffle, kick. The wedding photographer, channeling his inner paparazzi, shoved a camera in my face and snapped a shot. The flash shocked the groomsman hanging on to me. He yanked back, but neglected to let go of my dress. There was a loud ripping sound.
“Oh shit. I’m sorry,” the groomsman slurred.
I turned to find he had managed to rip the back of the skirt free of the bodice. There was a foot long tear. When he let go of the dress it hung down, like an open mouth exposing the tulle crinoline underneath.
“I’m really sorry.” He pressed the torn skirt to the bodice in case his hand sweat had magical dress healing properties. It may have come as a shock to him, but it didn’t work. Any hope he had of being a sweat Messiah had been crushed.
“It’s okay.” I stepped off the dance floor.
“You want me to help?”
“No, you keep dancing. I’m fine.” He gave me a morose kicked-puppy look and then lurched forward to catch up to the retreating line.
I shuffled out of the banquet room. No matter how much I wanted to run for it I knew that there was no way I could leave. We hadn’t even begun the ceremonial cake in face smashing.
The wedding cake was on a table just outside the banquet room. I gave it a critical look. Three tiers of light chiffon cake with layers of a tangy lemon curd. It was covered in a smooth fondant frosting. It was one of my best. I had made all three of my sisters’ wedding cakes. It would be better if my hobbies included physical activity like jogging or aerobics. At five foot nothing if I even looked at butter cream frosting my thighs plumped up faster than puff pastry. Tragically for me, I far prefer cooking to any activity that would expend calories. I could hope for a growth spurt, but eventually you have to just go ahead and invest in high heels and give up the wishful thinking.
I shuffled toward the front desk of the hotel. I had a dress solution in mind. Granted it was a short-term approach, but it wasn’t like I planned to wear this dress ever again.
“Excuse me,” I asked the clerk pulling her away from a riveting copy of
Us Weekly
. “Do you have a stapler I can borrow?”
She passed it over without looking up from the trials and tribulations of the celebrity train wreck du jour. I took a few steps to the side and hiked up my skirt, positioning the stapler with care. This is how injuries happen, lack of focus. I twisted around, trying to see what I was doing. I really needed to get back to yoga. I pushed the stapler closed and instead of the intended outcome, I felt the vampire bite of the open staple.
“Dammit!”
“Is everything okay?” A man said from behind me.
Contrary to popular belief, there is such a thing as a stupid question. If everything was all right would I be standing there with my skirt hiked up and a staple in my ass? I spun around and opened my mouth wide, prepared to bite his head off.
And what a head. He was tall and lean with thick blond hair. He was wearing wire-rimmed glasses that magnified bright blue eyes.
“Uh.” My mouth opened and closed, trying to chew on something intelligent to say. I held up the stapler as an explanation.
“I’m Jonathon Wright.”
“Erin Callighan.”
“I know. We both work at KYTZ.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure we’ve met.” How was it possible I missed this guy in the hallways? Sure a lot of people worked there, but the place wasn’t that big.
“I technically don’t work for the station. I work for Wolfson Media, who owns the station and a few other holdings.” He pointed toward my dress. “It appears you are having some kind of a fashion crisis.”
“It’s my sister’s wedding.” I held out the skirt as if I intended to curtsey. “My dress got ripped.”
“Must be some reception. Beats my legal society dinner by a mile.”
“I should be getting back. I just have to fix my dress.” I gestured vaguely at the tear.
“With a stapler?” Jonathon asked with one eyebrow up. “I have to get you extra points for being inventive. Let me help.” Jonathon dropped down to one knee like he might propose and slid his hand under the first layer of the skirt protecting my back and stapled the dress shut. I could feel the heat of his hand through the crinoline of the skirt.
Jonathon’s face blushed slightly. I love shy men. I also love gallant men and here at my feet I had one with both qualities. I reached out a hand to help him up. Screw the bouquet toss; it was quite possible I’d caught something better.
“Thanks. Just my luck to run into a skilled stapler tailor.”
“Lawyer actually. I’m Wolfson’s legal counsel. The dress tailor thing is more of a hobby.”
Oh God, he has a decent job too. Capable of conversation, handsome, gallant, and employed.
“I hope that holds so you can enjoy the wedding,” Jonathon said.
“Can I thank you by buying you a drink some night after work?” The words flew out of my mouth before I knew what happened.
He hesitated, looking down at his shoes. Oh God, he’s going to shoot me down. All this after I let him put his hands under my dress. He jammed his hands in his pocket and pulled out a card, then scribbled a number on the back.
“That’s my cell number.” He handed it to me, but didn’t let go right away. “I should warn you I own a stapler remover.” I felt a spark between us.
Jonathon and I spent the entire next night talking. Turns out we both love James Bond movies and never understand why everyone likes Woody Allen films. We both read mysteries and didn’t see what the big deal was with
The DaVinci Code
. We both love to travel; his favorite place was Thailand and mine was France. We talked about our jobs, politics, and what we wanted out of life. He loved current events and could actually hold an articulate conversation. We talked about everything.
Well, almost everything. Jonathon “forgot” to mention one key detail. He’s married.
Jonathon “forgot” to mention that he was married for nearly a month. Apparently, it was the kind of thing that kept slipping his mind. I had started to suspect something was up. He maintained he only had a cell phone and could only speak to me at certain times. We never went to his place; we ate at out-of-the-way places or better yet, ordered in, always at my place. I pretty much knew at some level that either he was in the witness protection agency or he was married. I could have asked around at work if I really wanted to know, but I didn’t want to get caught asking too many personal questions about management at the parent company. If I were honest with myself, I would have preferred if he were hiding out from the mafia after spilling the goods to the feds. No such luck. He was hiding from someone worse than the mafia: his wife.
I discovered Jonathon was married right after we slept together for the first time. I’d been poking through his wallet while he was in the shower. There, behind the flap that held his platinum AmEx card, and gym membership, was the typical family photo. Wife, daughter, and a dog that looked so perfect he could have rented it at the photo studio. I couldn’t look too closely at his wife in the photo. It seemed like she could feel my scrutiny. I sat on the end of my bed with my bathrobe wrapped tightly around me and waited for Jonathon to get out of the shower. I was sure he would have an explanation, some way to make the situation right.
He cried. He and his wife had grown apart. He never planned for any of this, when we ran into each other at the hotel it was pure chance. He was crazy about me. He knelt on the floor and held my legs. He felt terrible about the whole situation. It was tearing him apart. To be honest, I wasn’t feeling that great about it either. He hadn’t told me because he was afraid he would lose me. He knew we were soul mates, destined for each other. I held firm. It was over. I fled to Avita’s house and she let me cry on her shoulder and drink entirely too much red wine. She declared him to be a cad and not worth my time. I felt good about my decision. I have my standards. I wasn’t the kind of woman who dated married men.