The four of us have been working at Blaire Barnett together for a few years now. Well, actually, Yvonne—who is well past retirement age—has been there a few decades, working as Adrian’s secretary. Before that—well before that, I’m sure—she was a Rockette. She still has a dancer’s lithe body and has been known to demonstrate a few kickline moves when pressed…and smashed.
I slide into the fourth chair at our regular table before hanging my bag over the back. The chair would tip over without me in it to counterbalance the weight in the black leather tote. It’s jammed with stuff—some of it work related, but most of it wedding related.
Modern Bride
alone is like lugging a brick doorstop around on your shoulder.
“I’m so glad you guys didn’t leave,” I tell the three of them.
“No, you’re so lucky we didn’t leave.” Brenda checks her watch. “I’ve got fifteen minutes, tops, to hang out, and Paulie said the baby is already sound asleep. I missed his bedtime nursing for the second night in a row—last night was my cousin’s baby shower and I didn’t get home till eleven. Poor little Jordan’s going to wonder where his mommy is.”
“I hate to say it,” I tell her, “but Carol and Adrian are still at the office now, making a gazillion changes to the campaign, and we have to present it again on Thursday…You’re probably all going to be working late all week.”
“Paulie might as well grow a tit,” is Yvonne’s predictably dry take on the situation before she downs the last swallow in her martini glass. She doesn’t go for “girlie drinks” like margaritas and cosmopolitan.
“Well, Susan knows I’ve got to leave early tomorrow for Keera’s teacher conference,” Latisha says firmly. She’s fiercely devoted to Keera, the now-teenage daughter she raised as a single mother before she met and married her husband, Derek. They have a child together, too, a boy Latisha the New York Yankees fanatic named after her favorite player, Bernie Williams.
Latisha has her hands full these days. Poor Keera was just diagnosed with dyslexia. Latisha has been absorbed with trying to get the right services for her while constantly doing battle with Bernie, who is a terrible two now.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I wouldn’t count on Susan letting you go early,” I tell her reluctantly. “Adrian’s on the warpath and everyone’s going to be going nuts. It’s going to be all hands on deck until the Client approves this thing.”
Is it my imagination, or is there suddenly tension in the air?
I can’t help but suddenly find myself all too aware that I’m now privy to information that isn’t readily available to the three of them, with their administrative jobs and joint cubicles down the hall.
They must be aware of it, too. But trust me, when I was promoted last month, nobody was more thrilled for me than they were.
Well, maybe Jack was—since he not only loves me but gets to reap the salary benefits.
But these three were the ones who encouraged me to ask for a promotion, and they were the ones who took me to Tequila Murray’s to celebrate the moment it came through.
Just as they insisted on taking me out tonight after Brenda shared the big news about me and Jack. I haven’t seen the others yet, thanks to the ongoing Client meeting from hell, and it was a little disappointing that I didn’t get to tell them in person. I didn’t even have time to ask Brenda to save the news for me to share—let alone time to revel in her thrilled reaction.
But I was touched when I returned to my office at last to find a bunch of congratulatory e-mails from the girls and orders to meet them here for happy hour.
“Well, anyway, I’m really sorry I’m so late,” I say apologetically, reaching for a broken-off tortilla chip from the nearly empty basket on the table and dredging it through what’s left of the salsa. “If I’d have known I was going to be stuck there this late, I would have said we should celebrate another night.”
“It’s okay…Here, we ordered you your raspberry margarita.” Brenda hands it over. “Actually we ordered one when we first got here, but we had to drink that. This is your freebie second. It’s a little melted.”
It’s pure liquid, but who cares? I take a sip and the tepid tequila burns its way down to my empty stomach. Pure heaven after a hellacious day in Account Exec Land.
“Come on, come on, give it over.” Latisha snaps her fingers and beckons for me to show her my left ring finger. “Let’s see what Jack did.”
I grin and thrust out my hand, wiggling my fingers and admiring the way the marquis-cut diamond catches the red and green neon light reflecting from the Tequila Murray’s Semi-Kosher Mexican Restaurant sign in the nearby window.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm. Look at you!” is Latisha’s satisfyingly appreciative response. “Girlfriend, that is some serious bling.”
Yvonne lifts a raspberry-colored eyebrow—tinted to match her raspberry-colored hair, which just so happens to match my melted raspberry margarita—to indicate her approval.
“Did I not tell you it was go-aw-jus?” Brenda asks in her Jersey accent, which always becomes more pronounced after a margarita or two.
“You even got a manicure,” Yvonne observes, knowing my fingernails are usually a mess.
“Don’t look too closely.” I withdraw my hand. “I did it myself last night. And I messed up a few nails trying to type while they were wet.”
“Typing?” Latisha shakes her cornrows in dismay. “Please don’t say you were working on a Sunday night.”
“I wasn’t working, I was online looking up wedding stuff.” I reach into the black tote bag and rifle around for the manila folder that
doesn’t
contain statistics geared toward constipated barbecue-goers.
“When are you going shopping for your dress?” Brenda asks. “Because I can come with you, if you want.”
“I already found my dress.” I pull out a dog-eared, months-old clipping from
Modern Bride
. “What do you think?”
Two agree that it’s beautiful, the other—guess who?—declares it go-aw-jus.
“The ad lists stores that carry it and there’s one on Madison, so I’m going to go up there as soon as I can and order it so it’ll be in on time.”
I’m about to tell them that I’ve also picked out the bridesmaids’ dresses—navy velvet sheaths—but first, I have to officially ask them to be in the wedding.
Before I can do that, Brenda asks, “Did you set a date yet?”
“Honey, she set a date last year,” Yvonne comments.
Which is true.
Still…
“Jack and I are thinking the third Saturday in October would be good.”
Rather, I’m certain the third Saturday in October is when we’re getting married, because I called Shorewood on the sly yesterday. I didn’t even give my name, because I don’t want the news of my engagement to leak back to my family through the small-town grapevine.
Although the banquet manager, Charles, wasn’t in, the waitress who answered the phone checked the book for me and said it looked like the date had been booked by someone else then crossed out. I was supposed to call Charles back today to check, but of course, I never had time.
So, yes, I’m fairly certain that we’re getting married on the third Saturday in October.
I tried to discuss the details with Jack a few times yesterday, but got nowhere. Still in the basking mode, he kept asking why we had to worry about details now.
Let me tell you, it’s a relief to be able to discuss the details with someone, even if it isn’t the actual groom.
“This is where I want to have the wedding,” I say, passing around a photo I printed off Shorewood’s Web site last night. “It’s a country club up in my hometown, right on the lake.”
“Lake Tahoe?” Yvonne asks cluelessly.
“No. Lake Erie,” I say. “Lake Tahoe is out West somewhere. California. Anyway—”
“It’s in Nevada,” Latisha cuts in. “I know because Derek wanted us to elope there at one point.”
“No, it’s in California,” Yvonne rasps, holding somebody’s margarita straw like a cigarette. I can tell she’s itching for a smoke. Who isn’t at this point?
Brenda starts to protest. “No, it’s in—”
“California!” Yvonne cuts in. “I was there once, a long time ago, and the only time I was ever in Nevada was when I was a showgirl in Vegas.”
“You were a showgirl in Vegas?” Brenda asks incredulously. “I thought you were a showgirl in New York. A Rockette.”
“Well, I was a showgirl in Vegas, too. Just for a few months,” she adds ominously, and I gather that stint didn’t have a happy ending.
“Well, you were also in Nevada more than once,” Latisha informs her, “because that’s where Lake Tahoe is.”
“Maybe it’s in both states,” Brenda interjects. “Like the Grand Canyon.”
“The Grand Canyon isn’t in California and Nevada!” I protest, wondering why we’re talking about western geography in the first place. I use it to segue neatly into eastern geography with, “Getting back to Lake Erie, though—”
“No, I know, the Grand Canyon’s in Arizona and Utah,” Brenda cuts in. “Jeez, I’m not as dumb as I look. What I meant was, it’s in two states, and maybe Lake Tahoe—”
“I don’t know…is the Grand Canyon really in Utah?” Latisha asks. “I’m trying to picture it on the map. I don’t think it’s in Utah.”
“Paulie went out there to hike the canyon a few years ago with his buddies right before we got married,” Brenda says, “and I know he said they were going to Utah because I remember I told him not to let those polygamists out there give him any ideas.”
“Oh, for the love of God.” Yvonne pulls out a cigarette and her lighter and heads for the door.
“What?” Brenda asks with an innocent little frown.
“Come on, baby girl…” Latisha shakes her head. “Do you really think Utah is swarming with polygamists who want to brainwash a bunch of hiking cops from New York?”
Who cares about any of this?
is what I want to scream.
“Speaking of New York cops, Paulie’s on the night shift, so I’ve got to get home.” Brenda throws down a couple of twenties and pushes her chair back. “That covers me and my share of Tracey’s.”
“Thanks,” I say, “but you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” Brenda stands over me and gives me a big squeeze. “This is your engagement celebration, remember?”
Yeah.
Only I forgot.
“Hey, wait, Brenda—”
She turns around, en route to the door. “Yeah?”
“I want you to be a bridesmaid. Will you?”
She grins broadly. “Of co-awse. It would be an hon-ah.”
Left alone at the table with temporarily abandoned Yvonne’s coat and purse and Latisha, I hastily add, “You, too. Will you be my bridesmaid?”
“Hell, yes,” she says, and hugs me hard.
I catch her checking her watch as she releases my shoulders.
“You should go,” I say, checking my own. “It’s getting late. Go tuck your kids in.”
“Ha, you think Keera lets me do that these days?” She shakes her head. “I’ve been hangin’ out here until it’s safe to go home. Which it isn’t until I know Bernie’s in bed and sound asleep. Because if he’s still awake and he hears me come in, he gets all wound up and he’s awake for another two hours, wanting to climb all over me.”
“Jack is kind of the same way,” I say with a sly smirk.
“Yeah, that won’t last.”
“What do you mean?”
“Once you’re married, everything gets to be old hat. And I mean
everything.
Trust me on that.”
“You mean…?”
“I do.” Latisha shakes her head. “Me and Derek used to have some big ol’ sparks goin’ on, morning, noon and especially night. Now all I want to do when I get into bed at night is sleep.”
She reaches out and pats my engagement ring. “But don’t worry, those days are way down the road for you. You just have fun planning your wedding.”
With that, she’s gone, and I’m left wondering when the fun is going to begin.
4
M
y cell phone rings as I’m striding down Lexington Avenue on Wednesday afternoon, headed to Sushi Lucy’s for lunch.
I bet my next paycheck that it’s Carol, wondering where I am. Everyone’s going crazy getting ready to present to McMurray-White again tomorrow.
I snuck away while Carol was on the phone with the Client, who have made it abundantly clear that they don’t believe we Account people need meals, sleep or natural light.
Checking caller ID, I see that it’s not Carol; it’s Will McCraw.
I was just kidding about my next paycheck—you knew that, right?
“Tracey, how’s it going?”
Yes, I answer the call. I’ve been waiting for this moment for years now.
“Funny you should ask that, Will, because it’s going particularly well, as a matter of fact. I—”
“That’s great. I just wanted to call and thank you for the Valentine—”
Yes, I sent him a Valentine, but it’s not what you think. It was a funny Shoebox one and I only sent it as an excuse to tuck in my new Tracey Spadolini, Account Executive, business card. Which apparently he didn’t notice, because he says nothing about the promotion.
“—and I couldn’t wait to tell you I got a lead in a European touring-company production of
La Cage Aux Folles!”
Will starring as a gay man?
“Wow, I’d love to see that,” I say truthfully. “Listen, I have news—”
But he’s talking over me—“Yeah, it’s going to be great”—at least, that’s what I think he said. It might have actually been “I’m going to be great,” knowing Will, but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.
“I’m sure it will be,” I say, “and I’ve got something to—”
“I leave for Transylvania next week—”
“Will, I have to tell—wait, did you say
Transylvania?
”
“Right.”
Huh. I didn’t even realize Transylvania is a real place. Had I known it was a real place, I would imagine it filled with dark, brooding types and, yes, vampires—not musical-theater buffs. You learn something new every day.
“Will,” I jump in, realizing there’s been a lull, “I’m engaged.”
Dead silence.
“Hello?” That explains the lull; we must have gotten disconnected.
Nope. He’s still on the line.
“That’s great,” he says slowly, for once having been struck momentarily speechless. Ah, life is good. “Congratulations.”