Manhattan Lullaby (7 page)

Even though the jig was up, Harry still pressed his point. “I have to know, Maxine. It's been driving me crazy. Did you sleep with him? Was it any good?”

“You're sick, Harry, really sick.” She turned and started to walk away from him, her emotions churning in much the same fashion as her stomach had the night before. Men!

“Maxine?” He caught up with her and took hold of her arm.

Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she turned to face him. “Harry, listen to me. I am not your wife anymore. Who I sleep with and who I don't sleep with is none of your business.”

Harry hung his head. She was right, of course. But the thought of her being with another man was something he found hard to swallow. All those years she had been his, only his. Now she was up for grabs, and he couldn't stand the idea. It was like seeing the first car you ever owned—the one you had worked after school and on weekends for two whole years to get—being driven down the street by another kid, a strange kid. It was just too much.

Seeing the look on his face, Maxine softened. Whoever said that divorce was harder on women? “Harry, look, if it makes you feel any better, I didn't sleep with him. It would have been too crowded. But you've got to let go of me, Harry.” She said it firmly like a schoolteacher trying to instill a lesson in a reluctant pupil. “We are divorced. It's over between us. You have a new wife and I have a new life. It's time you stopped thinking about the past, about us. I'm not your wife anymore.”

“I know that. I know who my wife is. I'm in love with Joyce. I'm married to Joyce. It's just that …”

“You can't go through life an emotional bigamist, Harry.”

Placed on the defensive, Harry struck back. “Don't flatter yourself. If you think I have any lingering feelings for you or our marriage, you're wrong. I'm glad we got divorced. And I'm very happy being married to Maxine, so there.”

“See what I mean?” said Maxine.

Chapter Six

A dozen ivory-colored candles flickered in the soft winter twilight, their flames reflecting in the well-buffed sheen of the gray and white marble fireplace and again in the Empire mirror that hung above it. The accumulated glow added a soft halo-like luster to the bunches of pink and white baby's-breath, which, captured in ribbons of white silk, lay casually along the rim of the mantel.

Below, a small scented log crackled cheerfully in the fireplace. And on either side of the hearth, like a pair of blazing parentheses, stood two enormous silver sconces, again with lit candles, which were surrounded at the base by a froth of silver leaves woven with baby's-breath and tiny out-of-season violets. It was a beautiful and tastefully understated setting for an early winter wedding, and Janie was very pleased.

In front of the fireplace and slightly to the left, the groom shifted nervously in his top hat and tails and glanced at the door from time to time as if anticipating the entrance of the bride.

The “father” of the groom, the man who had arranged for the wedding in the first place and who had paid the thousand-dollar fee without even blinking an eye, ran a finger around the neck of his tuxedo shirt in an effort to ease the starchy fabric away from his skin. He was sweating slightly, whether from the heat of the fire or from the stress of the situation was unclear even to him.

But as he waited for the ceremony to begin he realized that he hadn't counted on how much this wedding was going to remind him of his own wedding and what came after. He thought he'd gotten over all that by now, but maybe not. Maybe you never get over events that later lead to disaster. After all, did the survivors of the
Titanic
, the ones who had lost cherished members of their families, ever get over that? Weren't there maritime moments in their later lives when it all came back to them? Times when even the sight of salt water triggered a moment of déjà vu and they thought, “If only I had waited for the next ship”? Or did they all live in the Midwest?

And speaking of next ships, he looked over at the bride's “mother.” Lavinia Dodge didn't look bad for a woman in her early forties. In fact she was still one of the best-looking women he had ever seen, dressed or otherwise. Still, his feelings toward her were largely ambivalent. He had a typical case of approach and avoidance whenever he thought of her. Specifically, he liked the approach part but wanted to avoid the commitment. No way was he ready to sail on the S.S.
Lavinia
just yet.

Feeling his glance, Lavinia Dodge looked back and, tossing a cloud of red hair over one shoulder, gave him a knowing smile from beneath the veil of her saucy little cocktail hat. It looked like the bride and groom weren't the only ones who were going to be having a wedding night tonight.

A few moments later, a chord of music pierced the murmur of conversation and those assembled took their seats. Then the soft but powerful strains of the “Wedding March” broke into full peal and suddenly all eyes turned to the door. A second later the bride appeared, her dark eyes obscured by the long white veil that trailed from her ornate silver headpiece.

A soft and collective
aah
! erupted from the guests. And as the bride proceeded down the aisle, the light from the candles glittered off the tiny silver ornaments that adorned the netting of her veil. At first glance these looked like bows, but on closer inspection they turned out instead to be shaped like miniature dog biscuits, a last-minute effort by the bride's “mother,” who had sewn them on earlier that afternoon.

Finally, side by side at the altar, the bride and groom eyed each other nervously, the bride trembled slightly, and the nondenominational ceremony began.

“Do you, Tony, take Marilyn to be your mate?” asked Janie with all the solemnity the moment demanded.

In response, Tony licked the end of his nose.

Satisfied, Janie turned to the bride and said, “And do you, Marilyn, take Tony to be your mate?” The bride blinked a shy response beneath her veil.

“Then I now pronounce you to be married,” said Janie, and her words were greeted by a round of polite applause from the guests.

But, no matter how subdued, the sudden clapping startled the groom, who then kicked his owner sharply in the diaphragm with his powerful hind legs.

“
Oooofff
!” exclaimed Steve in surprise.

Observing the groom's behavior, the bride began to twist herself fiercely from side to side in an effort to get down.

“Marilyn! Stop that!” cried Lavinia Dodge in dismay. “You'll ruin your veil.”

But Marilyn, oblivious to her responsibilities to maintain both her decorum and her veil, managed with one flying leap to eject herself from the arms of her owner, landed with all four feet on the pale mauve Chinese carpet and proceeded hell-bent for leather up the aisle, her veil cascading behind her like a white net waterfall.

The groom, not to be outdone, took only a second longer to reach the floor. And with his top hat now slightly askew, he chased the bride happily down the hall toward the kitchen, yipping sharply with the excitement of the moment.

“Thatta boy, Tony! Go get her,” called Steve Curtis, watching his bichon frisé disappear after the Maltese terrier as thirty-two toe-nails gripped for traction on the polished wooden floors.

Lavinia, looking every bit the overprotective mother, followed the dogs out of the room. “Marilyn! Come back. Come to Mother,” she called to no avail.

Steve, who had entered a period of postnuptial aridity, had stopped fussing with his collar and was now ready to appreciate the funny side of things. Janie, on the other hand, wasn't sure whether to laugh or not.

“Sometimes these things happen,” she said helplessly. “You just never know how some dogs will react to a wedding.”

“Dogs and people too,” replied Steve, who started out laughing and ended on a more bitter note. “Of course, my wife waited until we'd been married a while before she decided to run out on me.”

“I'm sorry,” was all Janie could think of to say.

“Yeah, me too. But what the hell. That's life.” Steve shrugged his feigned indifference. “Nice ceremony. Real cute. Just hope it doesn't give the mother of the bride any ideas, eh?” A wide, appealing grin cut a swath of pearly white across his tanned face. Janie decided then that he was good-looking, in a depleted sort of way. Added to that, the temples of his black, swept-back hair were touched with gray, which made him seem more like a man entering his fifties than one in his late thirties. The total effect was that of a man who had suffered for some great cause, although since Janie knew that he had made his money in the construction business she thought that was doubtful.

She smiled back. “I'm glad you liked it. We get a lot of requests for these doggie weddings. In fact, it's become so popular we just can't keep up. Of course I don't usually do them myself anymore, but the woman who was supposed to be here tonight called and said she couldn't make it. And since I make it a policy never to let my customers down, here I am.”

“My luck must be changing.” Steve Curtis was one of those men who tests his charm on every woman he meets—a habit that had got him into plenty of hot water with his first wife as well as with Lavinia, and he now gave Janie the same appraising look he lavished on every woman under the age of fifty. The one that said,
Hey, baby, I like your superstructure
. Most women usually looked back with a tacit invitation that relayed the message that if that was the case, they wouldn't mind having their premises inspected. But Janie began to blush. Suddenly Steve felt he had just said dirty words to a virgin. He backed off. “I'm not surprised you do a lot of these weddings. Gives people a chance to get together, keeps the dream alive.”

Janie frowned. “Keeps the dream alive?”

“Yeah, you know, happily ever after? All that shit. That's what weddings are all about, isn't it?” But he didn't sound as though he believed it.

“I hope so,” replied Janie half to herself as she bent down and retrieved her purse.

“Say, you're not leaving, are you?” asked Steve in a moment of spontaneous familiarity. “You've gotta stick around for the reception.”

Janie looked at her watch. “I really shouldn't.”

“Come on,” he coaxed. “You can't come to a wedding and not have a glass of champagne and a piece of cake. Where's your sense of tradition?”

Janie thought for a moment. She really wasn't
that
pushed for time. And it would be rude to marry and run. Besides, there was something about Steve Curtis that said he couldn't take many more rejections, not even small ones. He had the look of an abandoned puppy in his eyes. “All right, I'll stay for the toast to the happy couple.”

“Great!” said Steve, suddenly feeling more jubilant than the occasion required. “Now, let me introduce you to some of the guests. Might be able to drum up some more wedding business for you. All these people here got cats or dogs. That's how I met most of them, through their pets.” And with that he guided her toward the fifteen or so people who had showed up for Tony and Marilyn's wedding.

An hour later, Janie had had three glasses of champagne and she had become aware of two things. First, the wedding cake had been cut and eaten and she was still there. And second, Lavinia Dodge was looking daggers at her from across the room.

“The mother of the bride keeps glaring at me,” she said, looking up at Steve, who was casually draped over the arm of her chair, with one hand resting proprietarily on the back of it and the other cradling a half-empty bottle of Dom Perignon.

He looked over at Lavinia and flashed her a smile. He was enjoying himself and he didn't give a damn if Lavinia was busy sharpening her claws. “I think she would like the floor to open up and for you to fall into the hole,” he said with amusement and then chugged back another mouthful of champagne.

Janie took another cautious look. “I guess she thinks I'm horning in on her territory. I should have realized you two were having a thing. What with your dogs getting married and all.”

Steve shook his head. “Yeah, we're having a thing all right. Only problem is, we're not having the same thing. I'm having a present and she's having delusions of a future.” He laughed at that, mostly for his own benefit. “But there's no way I'll ever get married again. Uh-uh. No way.” He shook his head a couple more times for emphasis.

“You didn't like being married?” Janie, with her own wedding only two days away, wanted to know how everybody felt about the matrimonial state so she could compare notes and reassure herself that all was going to be well. It wasn't that she had any serious doubts, of course. It was just that Bradley had been acting so bizarre lately. Their relationship seemed to be changing into something new. But what?

“Hey, don't get me wrong,” carried on Steve. “I loved being married. Greatest place in the world to be.”

Janie relaxed a little. That was good to hear, especially from someone who had been so obviously tempered by the candescence of his own uncoupling.

But Steve hadn't finished yet. “Only trouble was, my wife didn't like being married. Not to me anyway. 'Course, I guess she likes being married to
whatshisname
, all right.” He laughed bitterly. “She used the same pen to sign the divorce papers and the new marriage licence, she was in such a hurry to get rid of my name and become Mrs. Whatshisname.”

Janie sat up. Things were getting a little too close for comfort. And besides she didn't want to hear any more. She had come here to marry the dogs, not to hear a confession from the father of the groom. “Look, Steve, this is really none of my business. I just came here to do the ceremony and make sure the caterer did a good job.” She looked at her watch. “Well, would you look at the time! I really should be going.”

But Steve didn't hear her. “Did you know I got two kids? Boy twelve, and a girl eight. She lets me see them every third weekend. Ain't that nice? Every third weekend I get to spend time with two little strangers. Whatshisname even wants to adopt them. He must have a thing about changing the names of members of my family.” Champagne and pain were making him morose.