Daniel dropped his eyes and blushed momentarily before turning to a mirror alongside Jake, who was frowning at his reflection.
“I look like an undertaker,” Jake said.
Josh's cell phone rang again and, judging from his side of the conversation, it was Sheila.
“Don't worry. I think we're done here . . . Yes, we all found tuxes . . . Mine? It's real sharp. It has tails . . . No, tails. Not quails. Why would I have quails? Where are you? I can hear that you're outside. I mean, where are you going now?”
The door to the showroom burst open and Sheila walked in, still talking on her cell phone. “I'm here. I ditched Mother,” she said, walking toward us. “She managed to somehow set a display on fire at the flower shop. Don't ask. I didn't even want to know how she did it. So I sent her home.” She stood in front of us, still holding her phone to her ear, and said, “Oh, you guys look so good! I think I'm gonna cry. Josh, your pants need hemming.”
Sheila dropped to her knees and began fussing with Josh's pant legs, cursing when her cell phone slid from between her ear and shoulder.
“Sheila, breathe,” Josh ordered, pulling her up by her shoulders.
Jake leaned toward my ear and said, “She's losing it.”
I almost had to agree. While Daniel retrieved Sheila's cell phone and flipped it shut to disconnect the call, Josh began speaking to her in a calm, soothing voice about how everything was under control. Now that we had our tuxedos, all we had to do was get them altered, walk through the rehearsal for the wedding, attend the rehearsal dinner, then show up for the actual ceremony.
“I'll make sure nothing goes wrong, Sheila,” he assured her. “All I need for you to do is relax and enjoy yourself. From here on out, it's a piece of cake.”
“The cake!” Sheila shrieked. She grabbed her phone from Daniel and began punching in numbers.
“Bad choice of words, man,” Jake said to Josh.
After Sheila checked on the cake, which we learned was the third time that day, Josh dropped five thousand dollars on our tuxedos. I wondered how much it would've cost if we'd taken the hats the manager offered, too. We visited a tailor on our way home, leaving our tuxedos to be altered. Sheila went that far with us, then left for the florist with Daniel before he and I could talk.
I was equally frustrated in my attempt to meet with my nephew, who sent a short e-mail to explain that his family would be on a trip until the day before the wedding, when I knew I'd be too busy to see him.
A few nights later, I got a call from Gretchen, who'd just checked in at the Hampton Inn.
“I'm fine,” she said when I asked how she and the baby were feeling. “I'm not thrilled about this forties theme wedding, though. Do you know what women wore in the 1940s, Blaine?”
“Not really. What?”
“Very fitted waists, that's what. Fabric was rationed then, so all the women wore these tiny outfits and dresses.”
“As I learned a few days ago, that's because they were tiny people back then. So what are you wearing during the ceremony?”
“Sheila's only stipulation for her bridal party was for us to wear purple dresses in the dreaded forties style,” Gretchen explained. “I briefly considered showing up in a purple zoot suit, but knew that wouldn't go over too well. My assistant found a fabulous vintage shop in the garment district, and they had a purple dress that I bought. I had to have it let out a lot, though, which is so embarrassing. But it has these cute little sleeves that cover my upper arms. As it is, I'll look like an eggplant.”
“I think Josh said that Jake is your escort. He thinks he looks like an undertaker, so you'll be a great match.”
“Whatever. I found a shawl to wear, and I think we'll be carrying flowers, so maybe people won't notice my stomach,” Gretchen said.
“We'll find out tomorrow at the rehearsal,” I said. “Are you bored? Do you want me to come keep you company?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I'm going right to bed. I mean, thanks, but I' mâ”
“Going to bed,” I finished for her, wondering why she sounded so flustered.
When several different cars started driving through the security post at the end of the driveway the next day, the reporters began to suspect that the wedding day was drawing near. While Adam greeted his guests as they arrived for the rehearsal, Jeremy and I stood on the front steps with a pair of binoculars, watching the security team as they tried to push the reporters back.
“They're relentless,” Jeremy observed. “They just don't give up. Uh-oh.”
“What?” I asked.
“They're all on cell phones. I suspect they're calling for reinforcements. I'm going to call the security company and make sure we can handle it if more reporters show up today. Just in case.”
“I wonder where Lola Listeria is,” I mused. “Everywhere I go, I expect her to jump out at me with that shocking red hair. But I haven't even seen her hanging around the entrance to this place.”
“Maybe the
Manhattan Star-Gazette
doesn't have a big enough budget to send her here,” Jeremy said. “Judging from the way she fabricates stories, she doesn't actually go to the events she writes about.”
“Maybe,” I said, feeling a twinge of anxiety. I would've preferred to have the enemy where I could see her.
When Jeremy went inside, I walked around to the back of the house, where Adam was directing people to park their cars on a side lawn. Jake waved to me as he got out of his car and walked around to the trunk. He unlocked it, and Sheila and Josh crawled out.
“Good grief,” I said to them. “Don't you think that's a bit drastic?”
“It was kind of fun,” Josh said.
“Like sneaking into a drive-in,” Sheila said with a laugh. Gretchen arrived next and enveloped me in her arms after she parked her rental car. “Is it over yet?”
“Sorry,” I said. “Not yet.”
“You look great,” she said.
“I've been sleeping a lot better,” I said, realizing that it was true. It had been a while since the Daniel voice-over kept me awake at night. Maybe because the real Daniel and I were talking again.
Gretchen drew back from me, and my eyes quickly scanned her body. She was wearing a blue Scotch plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of faded blue jeans. The outfit cleverly concealed her stomach, and I was certain nobody would suspect that she was pregnant.
Gretchen must have noticed my scrutiny, because she said in a low voice, “Blaine, I'm not even four months pregnant. I may think I look puffy, but I doubt anyone else will.”
“You're right. I'm just being paranoid,” I said.
“I know we agreed not to let the cat out of the bag until after Sheila's wedding, but you're making me think you don't want anyone to ever know about it. Are you ashamed or something?” she asked huffily.
“No,” I said immediately. “That's not it at all. Your stomach may not be showing, but your hormones sure are. Let's go inside, okay?”
Just as I put my arm around her shoulders to lead her inside, another car pulled up the driveway and off to the side lawn. We watched as Nora and William Meyers got out of their car and waved to us. Sheila's friend from high school, Patricia Hunt, emerged from the backseat and strode toward me with outstretched arms.
“Blaine Dunhill, is that you?” she shrieked, and before I knew it, my face was smothered in big, frizzy brown hair. She hadn't changed at all since high school. Her heart-shaped face was obscured by a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. She still wore beat-up Converse All Stars and a cardigan sweater over her denim overalls. Patricia released me and continued, “I haven't seen you in years! You look amazing. Is this your wife? Hi, I'm Patti.”
Gretchen shook Patti's hand and said, “Hello, I'm Gretchen Schmidt. I'm a lesbian.”
“You are? Well, I guess you two aren't married, huh?” Patti said and broke into a gale of laughter, punctuated at the end with a loud snort. “I'm going to find Sheila. I'll see you both later,” she said and walked briskly to the house.
Gretchen gave me a dry look and said, “This is why I hate weddings, Blaine. I don't ever want to have to do this again.”
Sheila's parents, Nora and William, walked over and I introduced them to Gretchen. “Nora's a concert violinist,” I said to Gretchen. “And William is an architect.”
“Oh, Blaine. You flatter me,” Nora said, and one of her hands fluttered up to her mouth. “I haven't performed professionally in ages. I'm just a teacher now, giving private lessons.”
William put his arm around his wife, drew her close to his strong Nordic frame, and said, “Don't let Nora fool you. She still does guest performances with the Minneapolis Symphony Orchestra now and then.”
Nora glanced up at her husband and rolled her eyes, one of her trademark self-deprecating gestures.
“Why don't we go inside? Everyone's here, so I'm sure they want to get the rehearsal under way,” I said. “Wait a minute. Daniel's not here yet.”
William Meyers smacked his forehead and said, “
Uff da!
I completely forgot.” He hurried to the car, fished his keys out of his pocket, and unlocked the trunk.
“I was beginning to feel like a spare tire,” Daniel said as he crawled out of the trunk and dusted himself off before giving Gretchen a hug. He smiled at me over her shoulder and we exchanged a little eye play.
“Isn't it funny?” Nora Meyers asked me. “It's just like when Cressida Porterhouse hired T-Bone Reynolds to kidnap Angus Remington. He was locked in that trunk for weeks.”
“It was only two days in soap time,” Daniel said. “Good thing he'd left that box of Fiberforth bars in the trunk. Shall we go rehearse?”
The wedding party gathered under the main tent in the large field behind Adam's house, and the minister guided us through the steps we'd take during the actual ceremony. Afterward, we socialized with cocktails inside Adam's house.
Later that night, we reconvened for the rehearsal dinner. We drove five miles out of the city to the Fanny Hill Inn. Sheila and Josh had rented the whole facility for the evening to ensure their privacy. A few of the reporters followed and leaped out at us as we went inside, but the rest of the night was quiet and relaxed. Josh's parents had flown in that afternoon, as well as both his and Sheila's grandparents, who all joined us.
Faizah Harris, Sheila's friend, fellow Metropole model, and maid of honor, had also arrived from Paris. She shared my table at dinner, along with Sheila, Josh, Daniel, and Gretchen. Faizah, in addition to traveling the globe because of her modeling career, was in her third year at Columbia University's school of law.
“I'm just cashing in on my good genes so I can go to law school,” Faizah explained to Daniel, who had asked about her career plans. “The minute my looks start to fade, I'm going to hang out my shingle. Or maybe go into politics. Pass Faizah the salt, baby. Thanks. Of course, being an African-American, my looks won't fade for a long time to come.” Nobody said anything, and Faizah looked around the table for a reaction. Finally, she cut into her veal and said, “I throw out a perfectly good generalization, and nobody even challenges me on it. Then again, I am in the whitest state in America.”
“Actually,” Gretchen said, “I think South Dakota currently holds that title. Or is it North Dakota? I get the two mixed up.”
“No. You want to know the whitest place in the U.S.? Maine,” Faizah said emphatically. “I grew up in this little town in Maine. Not even on most of the state maps. Faizah grew up with her own title:
The Black Girl.
I even listed that as my nickname in my senior yearbook in high school. My mother wasn't amused. And you want shock? Try growing up thinking other African-Americans are like the people on
The Cosby Show,
then move to Harlem at eighteen. Talk about a rude awakening. Anyway, I can't wait to get into politics. I'm going to run for mayor of New York City someday.”
“You've got my vote,” Daniel said, and Faizah smiled.
“No offense, but with a gift of gab like yours, you'd be a perfect politician,” Gretchen said.
“Gretchen!” Sheila gasped, her Nordic heritage obviously kicking in and fearing conflict.
“It's all right, honey. I'll be the first to admit Faizah's got a big mouth,” Faizah assured Sheila. She turned to Gretchen and said, “I like you. You're honest. Tell me, if it's not too personal, are you voting for Hillary?”
When Gretchen told Faizah that the First Lady did indeed have her vote, the topic at the table turned to politics. Although Daniel was one of the most politically aware people I knew, he stayed out of the conversation, his focus mainly on Faizah and Gretchen as they tag-teamed Sheila and Josh during a heated debate regarding the Senate race. I wondered what he was thinking as his gaze volleyed between the two women and when we'd have time alone to talk about us. Both of us had been too busy; he with his family and the open curiosity of the other guests about his burgeoning fame, and I with running errands left and right for the bride and groom. As well as keeping tabs on Lillith Allure and assembling my thoughts on paper for the men's line.
When the political discussion waned, Gretchen speared a stalk of broccoli and gesticulated with it as she said, “Speaking of the approaching elections, now that your returns have all been filed, I need to tell you about something.” I froze, afraid that she was about to tell the table about our baby. My fears were put to rest when she said, “I won't go into all the technicalities, but whenever there's an election, the stock market tends to go haywire. Most likely, stocks will plummet. I'm going to take a look at your portfolios and start moving a lot of numbers so you'll all be covered. I just wanted to warn you ahead of time, and I hope you'll trust that I know what I'm doing.”