It's Got A Ring To It (9 page)

“Well, it doesn’t really matter now, Mom.”

“But, I can’t wait to find out if Barbie is his wife. You guys have
so much in common, with him working the wedding circuit, too. He did say it
wasn’t just wedding photography, but special occasions. He might do headshots.
If you can’t get a husband out of it, at least you’ll have referrals and
possibly some great pictures to show. You’re such a pretty girl,
Laila
. I really do wish you’d start modeling again. You
used to be so cute in those catalogs and magazines. Why did you ever stop?”

“Uh, school. It was interfering with academics, Dad said.”

“Ooh, that really burns me up. Your father has always been by the
book. Never thinks about how your future was affected. You could be a celebrity
by now. There are so many good-for-nothings out there making it big off of
nothing but their looks. There could be a
Laila
perfume or clothing line by now. I could be retired, playing keno and bingo
whenever I want
.
”
She sighed with evident
frustration
at
my
poor dad, who only wanted me to graduate with honors. She
was
the social butterfly and he
was
the bookworm. To him an
education always made for better options and better backup plans. “Looks fade
.
”
H
e’d say, but I d
id
n’t know how he’d explain
M
om’s unwavering,
staggering, exquisite beauty. She still favors a young Priscilla
Presly
, post-marriage, pre-fat Elvis and botched plastic
surgery.

A doorbell sounded in the background.

“Oh, shoot. That must be the cable man. They tell you outrageous
hours, like ‘I’ll be there some time between twelve to five.’ Wastes my whole
day away. Did I tell you I’m getting
a
DVR? I just can’t keep missing my shows
because recording on that dang VCR is getting to be too much for me. Anyway,
Laila
, I’ll see you when you get here.
Gotta
go!” Echoing silence. Then, dial tone.

Saved by the doorbell. Normally, it takes at least ten to fifteen
minutes to get off the phone with her. We either say bye a gazillion times or
she ends up saying “one last thing” that takes about an hour to tell. At least
I was able to finish my grocery shopping. Although I did get evil eyes from
people upset that I bagged my groceries in the self-checkout while trying to
hold the cell phone at the same time. I couldn’t blame them though because I’m
usually the one glaring from that type of inconsideration.

As I pulled up to my shop, I was pleased to find that the sign had
been installed. In large pink letters, “The Sweet Tooth,” glowed happily at me.
My labor of love.
As a child, I drew and built
Play-
Doh
versions of my own candy shop. Instead of lemonade stands, I cracked open my
piggybank and used all my coins to buy candy at the corner store to be able to
have a candy stand. My parents thought it was so cute and encouraged my budding
entrepreneurial spirit. But, when my interest never wavered through middle
school and high school, they made a deal with me to fund my start
-
up costs for my first
business once I graduated from college. They kept their promise and took me to
file my formation documents that summer after graduation. I was ecstatic and
couldn’t wait to make it all a reality.

The whole summer, I spent my time selecting the candy I wanted to
sell, building a business plan, designing the interior and my logo, and
figuring out my prices. A couple months from the proposed opening date, my dad
gave me a heavy dose of business advice. “A great idea is nothing, if no one
knows about it or where to find it,” he’d said.

Those words put things in perspective for me. From that day on, I
continued putting the finishing touches on my products and the look of the
store, but my attention had been dramatically swayed to getting the word out.
So, I prepared flyers and sent postcards. Then, one morning as I was waiting
for my coffee at the
corner
shop
—located
in
the
same
plaza
as
my shop
—
the owner told me she was a member of
the local chamber of commerce and recommended it to me.

I took her advice and attended the next meeting, when they were
accepting new memberships. That was when I met Ethan, who was also looking to
join to network for his financial planning firm. We were both young with
startups, so we sort of gravitated toward each other. Listening to him talk
about his business with such passion and ambition only added to my motivation.
It didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes, either. I would’ve rather watched
paint dry, than be at the meeting. It was speech after boring speech, but Ethan
and I sat there chortling and making fun of the speakers with their penguin
suits and super-serious monotone voices. We couldn’t wait to get out of there.
Afterward, we exchanged phone numbers and often found excuses to meet up.
Anyone I could find that need
ed
financial advice, I’d call him. Sometimes,
in the middle of the night, he’d call with ideas about candy he thought I
should sell or marketing ideas. Not too long after, we submitted to our
attraction and fabricated a relationship out of our business partnership.

At first, business was at its best. Despite the floundering economy,
I’d stayed afloat. But it eventually caught up with me, indirectly. The plaza
where my business was located raised the rent to a price I couldn’t afford and
I assumed my customers wouldn’t follow me to a new location, so I closed my
doors.

Leave it to Facebook to help drag me out of my rut. About a year ago,
my customers found me on my dormant profile. The messages came pouring in,
asking what happened to The Sweet Tooth. Kids sent stories about their experiences.
Candy lovers, who missed the novelty candy, wrote to me. They missed the
business and wanted it back. Then, it occurred to me, I hadn’t just given up.
I’d given up
on them, me, my parents’ faith, my childhood
dream, and the possibility of passing the business to my future children
.

A few months later, I decided to relocate and start over
.
Just seeing
the sign up again, I felt hope return.
A welcomed second
chance.

I spent a few hours taking inventory, setting up a few display cases,
merchandizing, and cleaning up before calling it a day. Halfway to Mom’s, I
remembered that I’d left Lena’s planning bible at home. Everything she wanted
in a photographer was meticulously outlined in the book. She left no stone
unturned, from must-have shots to backgrounds and angles. I could’ve just taken
notes, but then nature called, so I quickly made the U-turn toward the house.

Mom asked me to be there by five, and it was only a quarter to. I had
a few minutes to use the bathroom, grab the book
,
and a couple snacks for the road.
Anything more than that and she’d surely hold it against me.
I knew she was likely whipping up some elaborate meal to impress the
photographer.
On
the off chance that she wasn’t,
I threw a granola bar and
a
noodle c
up
into my purse
just in case her cupboards were bare.
As I got
my keys out to lock up, the phone
rang and I dropped everything, trying to answer it.

“Damn it!” The
soup
cup fell
from my purse
and the
paper lid
ripped, leaving
dried peas and noodles all over the place. Faintly, I heard a voice saying,
hello. The phone must’ve landed on the talk button.

“Hello?” I answered, bending down to pick up the phone and my
scattered noodles.

“Hello? City and state please
,
” the familiar voice said.

Pulling the phone away from my face, I looked at the screen. I’d
called information when I was at the shop to get the phone number for the
florist Lena wanted to use. The phone must’ve redialed information. “Is this
information?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I dropped my phone and it must’ve redialed you by
accident. It was the last number I called earlier.”

Silence. I looked back at the screen, but the call time kept ticking.
There I was apologizing, and the rude operator
said nothing
.
Just as I started to disconnect, I heard the voice again.

“Is that you,
Laila
?” the man said.

I tentatively replied. “Yes.”

“
Laila
, it’s Ethan.”

And then, I dropped the phone
again.

TEN

He was
still there. I knew it, but I couldn’t decide whether or not to pick the phone
back up. Why was he calling me? The only explanation I could think of was the
man radar. They always seem to know when a woman’s happy, or at least on the
verge of being happy, in my case. I knew I was being given a second chance in
life, but I thought that was exclusive to the business. Could he want me back,
too? Did I want him back?

“Hello, Ethan.” I said, still unsure.

“
Laila
, I thought I lost you.” He said,
oblivious to the double
entendre
of his words. I didn’t want him to think he could just disappear for two years
and call randomly anytime he wanted.

“Why are you calling, Ethan?”

“I didn’t call you. Your purse called me, remember?”

And then, I did remember. He didn’t call me. He didn’t want me back.
Red with humiliation, I was thankful he couldn’t see me. “Oh yeah. I’m sorry
about that. Well, I’ll let you get back to work then.” Suddenly, curiosity got
the best of me. Why did my purse call him? I didn’t call any financial planning
firm. “Ethan, you work at information now? What happened to E.
Dently
Financial Planning?” I blurted
, and i
mmediately wish
ed
I could get my foot out of my mouth.

“Oh.” He hesitated. “A year and a half ago, I had to dissolve the
business. A lot of my clients were having hardships and I lost their
relationships.” His low abbreviated tone let me know that I was the last person
he ever wanted to know of his downturn. “So, I’m working as an operator
part-time until the economy gets better and I can rebuild.”

Who was this downtrodden guy
?
The Ethan I knew was an eternal optimist
when it came to business. There was no such thing as a setback, only new
challenges to a better business. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I offered.
Surprisingly, I meant it.

“So
,
Laila
, I heard that Lena’s getting married. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“How about you, did you find someone? Any kids?”

I knew he couldn’t resist rubbing it in. He had moved on and I was
still where he left me. Whether it was his ego, or not, I couldn’t tell. But
somehow, I knew he needed to know whether or not I’d moved on. He knew how
important marriage and kids were to me. The fact that he put a major hiccup in
my
plans,
didn’t occur to him
—
that my plans were attached to him.
That self-centered, audacious question, was typical of the man I knew. “No,” I
remarked indignantly.

“Oh?” The tone in his voice lightened. It was unmistakably, hopeful.
“We should get together. You know, catch up on old times.”

He was nonchalant and unapologetic, but it still wasn’t water under
the bridge for me. Frankly, I didn’t know if it ever would be. “Ethan, I can’t
do this. I’m sorry my phone redialed you and I’m sorry about your business, but
I just can’t. I’m glad you’re al
l
right, but we are not old friends on good
terms catching up after a long absence. You were my
fiancé
and you
cheated
on me. You took everything away from me, in case you forgot.”

“
Laila
, I know I screwed up. I’ve dialed
your number a million times and hung up. All I want is to apologize to you for
the way I hurt you. I’m sorry, for everything.”

My guard dropped
—
I
hadn’t expected an apology. When the tears started running, I realized I’d been
waiting for him to acknowledge the hurt he put me through. For only a moment, I
allowed the relief to set in.

“Thank you, Ethan. Good
-
bye.” Before he could say anything to ruin
it, I hung up. I’d been carrying him with me for years like a hovering rain
cloud and I finally felt free. Everything in me wanted to overanalyze it or
nitpick the sincerity, but I was determined to accept it for what it was,
closure. Gathering Lena’s book and my food, I locked up and left it there.

All I could do was just sit in the car and breathe. I hadn’t realized
it, but I’d been holding my breath—for the last two years. I’d been
hoping Ethan would remember the promises we’d made to each other and come
running back, full of remorse. I’d never been one to revel in others’
misfortune, but there was something inherently karmic about the fact that the
business that took priority over me, let him down. I was the one woman who
loved him inside and out, yet he chose the cheap thrills and hollow vows that
only a life of greed could dangle out front and fail to deliver. But, the
weight of his apology made me feel light and airy, elated. Then, the smile that
M
om always knew was
lurking beneath the gravel of pain decided to show itself. I laughed aloud. A
vibrant, rumbling, funny-to-the-gut, chuckle erupted from somewhere deep in my
soul, releasing me. I was tickled pink with joy that was caged by my own
self-inflicted wounds.

Floating so high on my cloud, I was tempted to flake on Mom. She had
a knack for pointing out the negative, and I didn’t want to be brought down.
But, thoughts of the diminishing time left until the wedding, kept me grounded.
I needed to get on track with my
maid of honor
duties.

My mind was still roaming as I curved through a second roundabout.
Mom and Dad lived on the edge of
Summerlin
, the most
affluent master-planned community in the county.
A little too
ritzy for my budget.
Really it
would
be cheeky to call the house merely a
home. With lush landscapes surrounding several thousand square feet of ruggedly
beautiful ledge stone siding, the gorgeous monstrosity was more akin to an
estate.

Before, I could even get out of the car, the front door opened and
Mom fluttered toward me in her zebra print moo-moo. A tumbleweed of teased
black hair
and
red lipstick—insignia of the drama queen, oozing with Hollywood glamour.
With her, it’s always a production. To her, someone is always watching
—
ever she is the
thespian since her debut as Blanche
DuBois
in the Las
Vegas Theatre in the Park rendition of
A
Streetcar Named Desire
.

Feeling playful, I sashayed toward her and swooped her into an
Oscar-worthy embrace, “Blanche!”

“As I’ve always said, you’ve missed your calling. Broadway’s waiting
for you.” She bragged on me. After all, I
was
her daughter and therefore perfect in
every way.

There was a champagne-colored Impala parked in front of the
neighbor’s house
, which
I figured belonged to the photographer. There wasn’t a person, car, or visitor
on the block, she didn’t know or make it her business to find out about. “Is
this the photographer’s car?” I asked for the sake of conversation and my own
sanity, trying to keep the visit moving along at a timely pace.

“Yes. He’s already here,” she confirmed. Gushing, she continued
,
“
H
e’s on time
and
professional. Just another thing I love about him.”

He’s a man, which automatically put him in
M
om’s good graces as she tried them on for
son-in-law size. I’d imagined the photographer in a sleek black Mercedes S-
C
lass. Something more
fitting of a flashy paparazzo
who
pick
ed
up seasoned women in the
post office in his spare time. Given the Impala, he could’ve either been a
middle-aged Mr. Mom on a break from all his domestic duties or the
distinguished gentleman with salt
-
and
-
pepper Sir Sean Connery hair. It didn’t
mesh. Mom knew my type
—
tall,
dark, and handsome. But what would she do to marry me off and get some
grandkids?

Suddenly I was overtaken with
curiosity
—and nervous. If it were just
photography that the mystery man had to offer, she would’ve gladly taken the
lead and jumped on the opportunity to take credit for yet another item on
Lena’s list. More than anything, she liked being in control
—
and holding it over our heads. But,
her willingness to let me handle “the details,” as she called them, made me
worry. She was up to no good for sure. By her own admission, he was allegedly
handsome and she would’ve tried to pawn me off on him had Barbie not been
waiting on the sidelines.
C
aution swept over me and I
began
walking on eggshells,
weary about who and what
awaited
on the inside.

The grand arched foyer of the house was flanked on either side by
mahogany-railed winding ivory marble staircases. Shimmering beneath the
hand-painted dome ceiling, hung a radiant crystal chandelier above
mosaic-tiled
floors. The
smell of fresh hydrangeas and tulips lured me in with a sweet welcome home.
The constant in my life.
Time stood still there. My childhood bedroom
was up the stairs to the right, untouched and filled to the brim with the
milestones of my life.
All four yearbooks chronicling my ups
and downs of becoming a woman.
The letterman jacket with patches from
cross-country and tennis, pins from the honor society, and my tennis badge that
read
,
“There’s no love
in tennis.”
My own wall of fame, featuring my trophies and
awards.
The shoulder pads that I wore to homecoming to give my b-cup an
extra boost—and give
Chrissy
Hamilton a run for
her money. More than anything else, the timeline of my life up until now, seen
through picture collages lining the walls. This house had been my safety net
and the reason I could always move forward without worry of falling back. If
life got to be too much, there was always somewhere for me to go.

Despite my reservations, it felt good to be home. By the looks of
things as I rounded the corner, I could tell Dad was in the den and Mom
was
exactly where I pictured her,
comfortably in her favorite chair, reveling in the latest tittle-tattle.
Only, not alone.
Looking curiously at the mystery guest and
then back at Mom expectantly, I waited for an introduction.

“
Laila
, this is the photographer I was
telling you about. Myles this is my daughter,
Laila
Smart. She’s the eldest.
Not
the one that’s getting married,” she expertly executed her meddlesome master
plan, oblivious to the dumbstruck look, locking our gaze.

My mouth malfunctioned and I couldn’t talk, but hers worked just
fine. She went on bragging about him being a war hero. Just a few of his many
great qualities that she continued to list. He was a photojournalist for the
Air Force and his photos had been featured in the New York Times, People, and
National Geographic. She might as well have been his publicist, the way she
raved about his accolades.

When she finally noticed that she was the only one talking, Mom
turned to see our faces. He must’ve been as shocked as I was
,
because both of our mouths
hung agape, waiting for the words that refused to come. Eventually, she
recognized the looks on our faces as recognition.

“You two know each other,” she stated as if she was the last to be
let in on an inside joke.

“Ah…no. I don’t think so,” he muttered, but the inflection in his
voice was more of a question. He didn’t look away. “Although, you do look
awfully familiar. Have we met?”

He could play coy all he wanted, but I was just waiting for the
lightbulb
to go on. “Not officially,” I said, with contempt
dripping from each word, like wax from a burning candle. Though, my reaction
seemed to make him even more confused. Scratching his head, he looked into the
distance, bewildered, scrolling through images to place me.

“I’d like to think I’d remember, but can’t manage to place you.”

As much as I should’ve scorned him, I couldn’t stay focused. My eyes
kept drifting toward his full lips,
which
continued to curl with perplexity. He
was
rough
around the
edges. Two days of stubble climbed his jagged jaw, but all I could see was the
smoke billowing from his steamy eyes. They were different, flecked with
silvery
dust
and jade
—
changing
with the whims of his mood. I was tempted to believe in the innate niceness
exuding from them, but I was cautious not be misled, again. “You are Myles
Donovan, Correct? The Myles Donovan that lives at 4316 Sparrow Lane?”

“I am,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Well, I don’t know if I’d say it’s a
pleasure
to meet you, but it is nice to put a face to a name.”

I’d definitely crossed Mom’s fine line between being direct and being
just plain tasteless. The disciplinarian kicked in. “Now that’s enough.
Laila
, I want you to apologize to Myles this minute. I
don’t know what’s going on between you two or how you know each other, but you
were raised with manners and that type of behavior will not stand in this
house.”

Without flinching, I
said
,
“Mom, why don’t you ask…Mr. Donovan, is it?” I added for dramatic
flair
, knowing very well
what his name was. “Ask Mr. Donovan what his phone number is.”