Liar's Guide to True Love (14 page)

The next morning, more peach roses arrive, with another handwritten note.

“Hope my parents didn’t come on too strong. You’re a great date. K”

Sunday

Wedding Tip: At every wedding, there is always a bridesmaid, close friend or relative who is going through a divorce or some personal crisis. As happy as the bride may be on her Perfect Day, it’s not unusual for someone to partake a bit too much of the open bar and end up sobbing in the coat room—or worse, into the microphone or in the middle of the dance floor. That’s where a wedding planner comes in, to diffuse the situation before there’s a scene.

I start off this Sunday like I often do, with a leisurely cup of chai, a toasted bagel with cream cheese and the newspaper. My couple from last night is not in today’s wedding section (they weren’t chosen by
The Times,
and it’s a sore spot for the Bride especially). But it’s still fun to recognize the different venues where people chose to have their celebrations, and take note of any photographers credited for a particularly good photo. It is nice to see that
The Times
has raised their standards for the photos in the past few years. For a while there were a ton printed that looked so amateur—grooms’ foreheads cropped off, slightly out of focus faces—definitely not quality befitting
The New York Times.

Then I decide to do some work starting with looking through magazines for concepts for a bride from New Jersey who wants a turquoise theme for a wedding in January. Her idea is “so, so simple” she says. She wants everything to have an obvious turquoise tint—flowers, table settings, the bridesmaid dresses, even the martini bar. I have warned her against looking too mermaid-kitsch, but she insists, so I am doing my best to find classy concepts that she will be happy with. I have already done the internet searches for ideas, and really, as far as the World Wide Web has come, nothing compares to good old-fashioned magazines and pounding the pavement shopping. I’ve collected some items for a concept board—fabric swatches, photos, little “inspiration” items that contain just the right shade of blue-green. I even bought a few turquoise beads, but then decided they were too “earthy” for her suburban-sprawl style. I keep flipping through bridal magazines, going all the way back to the late 1990s for ideas. But nothing catches my attention, so I decide to catch up on my email. There are a few work-related ones, but I decide the personal replies come first today.

From Suzanne:

Shit. In all my excitement about Nick and the busy wedding season I had forgotten all my manners and never thanked Kevin for the flowers. Of course, I can’t just
call
him and thank him. It’s just never that simple with him.

Years ago he sent me a box of Godiva chocolates and some books that I had mentioned that I wanted to read. He had sent a note in the package. “Saw these and thought of you. Kevin.” It was a complete surprise, and was during that “grey” area when he was in Boston. We had officially broken up, after one of his rare visits to New York. I had taken his gifts as a sign that he was having second thoughts about whether or not we could make this distance thing work. I thought they must mean that he missed me, and I of course missed him. So I called him as soon as I got the delivery. He answered the phone on the first ring. Back then I didn’t know not to call during work hours, when he was in professional mode and using that formal tone of voice that no long-term girlfriend wants to hear. (The fact that I was just recently the
ex
long-term girlfriend is moot). The conversation had gone something like this:

“Hi, Cassandra, how are you?”

“Kev, I got the presents you sent. I love them. I can’t believe you remembered!”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I was in Barnes & Noble anyway getting a bunch of stuff. Hey, listen, I have a meeting…”

“Oh, okay. I’ll talk to you later then?” I asked, sounding so hopeful, and probably pathetic.

“Sure thing, sure thing. We’ll set something up.” Huh? I should have gotten a clue then.

“Kev, I miss you.” Clearly I had no clue.

“Okay, sounds good.” And he hung up.

I had felt so humiliated. It took tremendous willpower to keep myself from calling him, especially when most of me was willing him to call me. I waited for him to apologize for sounding curt, to tell me that he missed me. I didn’t hear from him for a month, and when I did it was as if nothing happened. Apparently to him, nothing did.

I reply to Suzanne:

I already know that I can’t just email him. Kevin is somewhat old fashioned and would think that was rude. I can’t blame him—he took the time to send flowers with a handwritten note “the night after.” The least I can do is pick up the phone. I can’t bring myself to tell Suzanne about seeing Kevin’s parents, and everything his mother said. It would send her over the top.

I’m startled out of my pondering by the sound of my phone ringing. It’s my mother and it is one of those times when I am glad to hear from her, to be able to put off the other phone calls I need to make. She often calls me on Sunday mornings, to see how my wedding was the night before. (Okay, who am I kidding, she likes to call me
every
morning). She gets a kick out of my descriptions of the often opulent details, especially when an event celebrates a couple’s ethnic heritage that she is unfamiliar with. Last night’s affair was more traditional American though, and she already knows all about Oheka Castle, so we are soon on to a favorite topic of hers—my love life.

“Do you remember Matthew Smythe? You went to high school together,” she says. “His mother started going to our church and she recognized me. She’s divorced now, poor thing, but that’s a whole other story. Anyway, Matthew is an investment banker in the city now. Doing
very
well, apparently, despite the economy.”

“Yes, Mom, I know. Everyone knows actually. At our last high school reunion he made sure to tell everyone just how well he’s doing.”

“Yes, well, there is nothing wrong with making money. He’s taking very good care of his mother you know. And he is single. I have his number in case you—”

“Mom, he was on the
Math Team
when we were in high school. And trust me, when I saw him a few years ago he hadn’t changed that much.”

“You used to be good with numbers yourself, as I recall,” she says in a I’m-your-mother-no-one-knows-you-better-because-I-knew-you-as-a-child voice. “When you were in fifth grade, you were already doing algebra equations at the junior high level.”

“Oh, and look what’s become of me now,” I respond drily.

“You always take things the wrong way. I’m very proud of you, darling. I just think it wouldn’t hurt to date someone a little more…serious. You haven’t had a real boyfriend since Kevin, you know, and well, that was years ago, honey.” She whispers “years ago” to make it less tragic sounding. Thank you for the reminder, Mom. “You don’t have that many years left you know, to play the field, as you kids like to call it. And I just don’t know what kind of men you meet at these weddings you do. So I don’t see any harm in giving Matthew Smythe a call. His mother seems like a delight. Do you want me to give her your number? Maybe he can call you. Or we can all go out to dinner in the city!” Her voice rises in excitement. “His mother would
love
to get out a bit more with the
divorce
and everything.” She whispers “divorce” so I know it must mean there was some sort of affair-with-the-secretary type scandal attached. “We could go see a show, even—”

Okay, this is too much. “Actually, Mom, I can’t.” I am loathe to tell her about Nick so early on. Even I know we aren’t exclusive. But I need to avoid going on a date chaperoned by
my mother.
“I’m seeing someone.”

“Oh? And were you going to tell me? Or were you just going to let me hear about it from someone else?”

I sigh. “It hasn’t been that long, mother. We’ve only been on one real date so far. He’s a friend of Kate’s.”

“One date? Well what do you know about him really then? That last boy that Kate introduced you to was a
musician.
You can still go out with Matthew Smythe.” It irritates me that she needs to use his first and last name, as if there are multiple Matthews that she is trying to set me up with in this one conversation.

“Nick is an architect, Mom, and a very nice guy. In fact, he designs eco-friendly spaces.”

“Architects don’t make much of a living, do they? Especially not eco-friendly ones, whatever that means.”

“He’s been at this for a few years, Mom. He does just fine. He even owns his own apartment in Soho.” Leave it to my mother to make me sound like a gold digger. When she begins to bring out the negative in me, it’s easy to recognize when it’s time to get off the phone.

When it’s time to get ready for my date with Nick, I start out by laying out my outfit. As famous as it is, Peter Luger’s is not what people think of as a typical New York City restaurant, maybe because it’s in Brooklyn. It’s a totally casual, family-type place—not big on ambiance, but the food is second to none. Jeans are perfectly appropriate, so I toss a dark pair of True Religions on the bed. A little color is great for summer, so I put down a silk satin, emerald green halter top next to it. In the shower, I think about the jewelry I will wear, my favorite part of any outfit. While I blow out my hair, I decide on simple oversized silver hoops that I bought off the street in the Village, and a David Yurman cocktail ring. A pair of metallic silver flip flops complete the outfit—oh, and ivory lace underneath it all, just in case.

I made sure to be on time, but Nick is already outside when I arrive. He kisses me hello on the cheek, and I get a whiff of that clean, just-showered smell, even in this summer heat. He looks casually sexy in a pair of jeans, dark grey Polo shirt and Converse sneakers. We head into the restaurant and are seated right away, near a couple of big parties of Brooklynite families out for Sunday dinner. Our order is a no brainer—the porterhouse for two, medium rare, with a side of mashed potatoes and creamed spinach. We spend the most time trying to settle on wine—he likes the more full-bodied reds, while I like the lighter ones. We decide on a merlot recommended by the waiter.

Ordering as a couple and eating family style feels natural with him, and I am not shy about the amount of steak I can eat, even when he says “you weren’t kidding about loving a good steak, were you?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t gnaw on the bone or anything.”

“Oh good, leave something for me.” He picks up the bone and raises one brow while he chews caveman style. It’s a good thing we aren’t in some trendy or stuffy restaurant, because I can’t help but laugh out loud, to the point that tears run down my cheeks. Nick starts laughing too, though more at me than at himself. A couple of tables start looking over, including an older couple who smiles at us. Kevin would never cause such a scene, even in good humor.

Nick asks, “So, I’ve gotta ask. Do you bring that big bag everywhere you go?”

I blush a little. “It comes in handy. I just never know what I’m going to need for my…clients. I guess I just got used to having everything I need on me all the time.”

“Tricks learned as a young ad exec, huh? What kind of stuff do you carry around for them?”

Uh oh. “Umm. Well, you never know in the cosmetics industry. Those clients always want to look their best. Sometimes they forget stuff for ummm…meetings. Like a lipstick, extra pantyhose.” I think he is buying this. This charade is pretty easy and I get a little more comfortable. “Once I had a client who really, really needed her hair done up for this big…presentation. She forgot to bring hairpins though, and thankfully I had my trusty bag, with pins galore.”

“I just can’t imagine someone taking their hair that seriously for a presentation,” he looks puzzled. “You’re right, the cosmetics industry is different I guess. Must be a drag to carry that around after them all the time.”

“It’s no big deal. It’s kind of a security blanket now.” I smile. “Love me, love my baggage.”

“I can handle baggage. Physical or emotional. As long as it’s carry-on size.”

We linger over dinner a little longer than our waiter seems to want us to. When we finally walk outside into the humid summer night, I have that feeling of excitement in my throat. Do we hail one cab or two? We are in Brooklyn, and it could make sense to share a cab and drop him off first. Is it too soon to invite him back to my place? Before I can debate this with myself, he takes my hand and gently pulls me toward him.

“I had a great time tonight,” he says softly. He gives me a soft kiss on the lips.

“What now?”

“How about a bottle of wine at my place?”

“Sounds perfect.”

We get into a cab, and he puts his arm around me. My hand is on his knee, and my head resting on his shoulder. At a glance we might look like we have been a couple for years, but I am nearly dizzy with that excitement you only get at the first flush of an uncertain romance. Nick is looking out the window, mostly, and has cleared his throat and swallowed a few times. I guess that he is experiencing that same nervous excitement. Then he turns his head toward me and I feel his breath on my hair. I am thankful that there is no traffic getting across the Williamsburg bridge and heading up First Avenue, so we arrive at my building quickly.

We get out of the cab, and I am practically skipping into my building to keep up with Nick’s long strides. That is, until we come to an abrupt halt in the lobby when I see Emma slouched in an armchair. She stands quickly and says, “Surprise! I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she continues when she sees I’m holding hands with Nick. “Robert just left for his business trip, so I thought I’d come and spend the week with you!”