Liar's Guide to True Love (17 page)

Saturday morning

The wedding is taking place at the Bride’s parents’ house in Darien, Connecticut. Emma and I get up early—too early for any normal person’s Saturday, to drive up to Connecticut and start getting everything set up. This will be a small affair, about eighty guests, with the ceremony and reception taking place right in the backyard. Of course, “backyard” is something of an understatement, since the grounds practically qualify for “estate” status. As if the regular landscaping weren’t meticulous enough, the parents of the bride had specially pruned shrubs, topiaries and flowers planted just for the occasion, practically re-doing their gardens in the process to be more Tuileries than English countryside.

Emma and I arrive and I introduce her as my assistant to the bride and groom. The bride is a little puzzled, since I’d been working with her alone for the past eight months. Emma doesn’t miss a beat when she says, “Cassandra just wanted to make sure your day goes perfectly, so she asked me along to make sure you’ll have everything you need.”

I am immediately glad about asking Emma along when she decides to help with the decorations. The original idea was to string Chinese paper lanterns in the trees scattered on the property. Some of the trees lost some branches in a recent summer storm, and Emma was able to use her designer’s eye to cover up the bare spots and still make everything look balanced and picturesque enough for photos. At one point she was even up in a tree herself, straightening a lantern to be “just right.” She speaks enthusiastically to some of the catering and floral staff helping out, and looks far more animated than she did just yesterday. She’s resourceful too. When the groom’s grandmother complained about the lack of shade where she was sitting, Emma somehow found a floral cane umbrella and presented it to the “grand dame” as a parasol, much to the grandmother’s delight.

The ceremony and reception go along beautifully, and I wonder if Emma still feels the nostalgia from her own wedding, if maybe this day makes her emotions soften a little toward her marriage by conjuring up memories of how happy she was on her wedding day. After the bride and groom have made their getaway, and we linger to say good-bye to the parents and help make sure all the vendors get cleared up, Emma comes to stand next to me, all energy and excitement once more. She hands me one of my own business cards with a name and phone number scribbled on the back. “You know the bride’s aunt, the one with the huge floral hat? She wants us to do her anniversary party on December 8
^th
. I’m working on some invitation designs for her and told her I’d bring some ideas for a meeting in two weeks—”

“What? Wait. She wants
us
to do a party? I’m not sure I’m even available on December 8
^th
. I’ll have to check. And the invitation? You’re designing something?” I am halfway into my Prada so that I can check my calendar.

“Relax, Cass. I didn’t commit you to anything. I told her I would have to check with
my boss
about the dates. And I don’t know what I’m charging for the invitation. It was a spur of the moment conversation. We’ll figure it out in two weeks. I’ll charge her something fair, or maybe just something nominal if you end up doing her party.” Her voice lowers. “It feels good to have something to design again, other than baby shower invites.”

I still feel uncertain about this turn of events. It was one thing to have her help me out for one wedding as a way to help her get a change of scenery from her usual life. Quite another for her to be inching her way into my business. “I can’t pay you, you know. To help out with events.”

Emma smiles, her dazzling, high school cheerleader smile. “What do you think of the name ‘Hanley Sisters Events’? Or maybe just ‘Hanley Events Planning’?”

Wedding Planning Tip: The happiest couples I’ve met are not the ones who agree on every detail. (No, the groom doesn’t normally care all that much about things like the color of the icing on the fifth tier of the cake.) The happiest ones are those who help each other get out of their comfort zone.

I don’t hear from Nick all weekend—I mean, what was I expecting if Nicole is back in his life? Certainly not candies and flowers after our almost-nightcap. He calls on Monday after a weekend of doing who knows what with who knows whom. He wants to see if I want to do anything this weekend, and I tell him I’m busy. I may have sounded a little cold, but it was the truth—I do have a wedding, but I just tell him “I have plans already” and don’t bother making anything up to elaborate. “Maybe during the week,” I say—leaving the door open if he’s really still interested, while relegating him to non-prime date nights. It’s one thing to be casually seeing a few people at the same time, I mean, who
hasn’t
done that? It’s another thing to be getting back with a long-term-almost-move-in-together-thought-she-was-the-one-ex-girlfriend, and trying to keep me on the side. I certainly don’t need to be on either side of that equation again. It’s possible that he thinks we are just friends. But then, what about all that kissing? Maybe he’s undecided about his ex. I certainly felt that way for about a year post-Kevin. I decide that I’ll still go out with Nick. I’ll just keep my guard up, that’s all.

I hear back from Nick later that day, when we text back and forth about what to do in New York in the summer. He suggests Bryant Park movie night. Nah, too boring, I type back. He replies right away: You’re right, more fun in groups. Will think of something else.

Text from Nick that evening: How about Trapeze School? Co-worker just went, sounds like a blast.

That certainly isn’t boring, I think to myself. I’m not a terribly athletic person. Actually, more like not athletic
at all
. Going to the gym is not the same thing as having any coordination. When I was a freshman in high school I was that cliché who fell on a track hurdle in front of the football team watching us run by. I didn’t even fall
over
it, I fell
on
it. More recently, Kate convinced me to go to one of those strip-tease classes where they teach you stripper moves in the name of aerobics. I did get a work out, but let’s just say no one would be tucking any dollars in my g-string. And did I mention that I’m afraid of heights?

Of course, all that being said, I remind myself that I am a person dedicated to self-improvement which includes trying new things, right? And since I’m no longer as anxious about impressing Nick, why not swing from a few bars?

I text him back: Sounds fun, let’s do it.

We decide on Wednesday night, and to meet at the school site along the Hudson River. I get dressed in my best-fitting pair of black Lululemon yoga pants that hug in all the right places, and a blue cap sleeve yoga T-shirt. For jewelry—small diamond stud earrings, just a half carat total weight—very sporty. I’m thinking I shouldn’t wear anything that dangles, but my new sterling silver Frank Gehry necklace is a must. Brilliant architect makes brilliant jewelry, what could be better for a date with
my
architect? In my Prada I pack a heather-grey sleeveless jersey dress that is so light it folds up into nothing, in case I feel compelled to change out of my workout gear. A pair of Havaianas finish off the outfit.

Our class consists of eight other people, all couples from what I can tell, whose ages vary from twenties to fifties. There is one woman there who reminds me of my mother—if she can do this, so can I. The instructors start us off slowly, explaining the basics, telling us to relax. They show us how to hold the crossbar to swing from our arms from one platform to the other. Nick goes before I do, and I take notice of how toned his slender arms and legs are. He never struck me as particularly muscular, thank goodness, but clearly he does not neglect the gym. He makes the swing look easy, and his grin afterwards clearly shows he is ready to learn something more advanced.

When my turn comes, my throat is so dry. It reminds me of the time I was managing my first
real
wedding—an event for a client who wasn’t a close friend or relative of mine. We could not locate the bride’s veil, which had been my responsibility to pick up from Bergdorf’s. The bride, the mother of the bride and all the bridesmaids just looked at me, waiting for me to say something, to pull it out from my suit pocket or something.

Holding the bar, getting ready to swing, I feel that same type of dread, where the air suddenly gets so hot around my face and neck, having nothing to do with the warm summer night. I close my eyes for a moment, and somehow my feet are no longer touching solid ground. Somehow they are in midair.
I
am in midair, and I feel a breeze against my face that sweeps my bangs off my forehead. I open my eyes, and just like that, the instructor catches me on the other side.

I’m surprised at how easy it is to get over my fear of heights on this occasion. I can keep my eyes open the entire time, can look down at the net without feeling queasy, and I can feel myself grinning like a kid at an amusement park. I even dare to try hanging off my knees, and on my fourth try, I complete a catch, where an instructor catches my arms and I let go of my own crossbar. Once I dismount and reach the ground where Nick is, the feeling is so exhilarating I throw my arms around his neck. “This was such a great idea!”

Nick wraps his arms around me and kisses me on the lips. At first I am startled—okay, definitely
not
just friends. And my pulse is racing even faster, if that’s possible. “You’re amazing, you know?” he says softly. “I don’t think I can let you go.”

I look straight into his eyes. “Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“There are no others.”

“Really?” I say softly. I’ll give him a chance to tell the truth. “No bar flirtations or ex-girlfriends suddenly reappearing?”

He tilts his head and looks a little puzzled, so I feel like I need to explain. “Kate and I saw you the other night. You were with your ex at the bar.”

He smiles. “She’s engaged. And not to me.”

I swallow. Hard. “Really?”

“Yeah, and actually I was surprised at how I felt about it, especially since it hasn’t been that long since we broke up. I’m really happy for her. She’s moving to California. I saw her the other night because she found some things of mine when she was cleaning out her apartment.” He swallows and looks down. “And actually, I think the reason I was so happy for her is because of you. Until I met you, I wasn’t sure if there would be someone out there for me after her.” Now it’s his turn to level his gaze at me. “What about you? Is there anyone else?”

“No.” I expect to get that sinking feeling that happens whenever I blurt out whatever it is I think my date wants to hear, even when I know it’s not true. But it doesn’t happen—could it be that Kevin is history and it just took the right guy to make me see that?

He grins. “Good.” We kiss again, for a long time, and then he whispers against my ear, “So is your sister still staying with you?”

We can’t seem to get to my building fast enough, even while I’m floating on cloud nine. My doorman gives me a wink and a nod, clearly recognizing Nick from the other night. Nick kisses my neck as I turn the lock to my apartment and flick on the lights. And then I realize—

Emma had cleared out her stuff all right. But I had left my work all over the living room. Mood boards, piles of bridal magazines, fabric samples on every surface. There are even two veils hanging over the bathroom door. “Ummm, it’s a little messy in here.” I try my hardest not to sound alarmed.

Nick looks up and seems to register the contents of what he’s looking at. “We’ve only been on a couple of dates, you know.” He is clearly joking—but also clearly confused why I would have all this stuff here.

“A friend of mine,” I stammer. “She’s getting married. But she lives in Seattle. I’m helping her.” This doesn’t
quite
explain just how much stuff there is here. And to me it is plainly obvious that there is more than one wedding being planned in this space.

“You’re a good friend,” he nods, looking at the two-foot-high stack of magazines leaning precariously against an end table. “You don’t think you’re taking this a little too seriously? It’s your
friend
’s wedding, right?” He chuckles a little uncomfortably.

Oh my God. He thinks I am one of those women who plans their weddings even before they have a boyfriend. Here I was, jealous over his engaged ex-girlfriend, and talking about feeling connected to him so soon after we just met. I rush around the apartment, trying to put everything away, or at least get it out of sight. I stack mood boards on top of one another, and grab up handfuls of fabric, knowing that I’ll need to re-sort everything later so that I don’t get my clients mixed up. “It is! She lives in Seattle,” I repeat, since it’s the only detail I can manage to conjure. “But she’s getting married here. Soon. So she really needed the help. She’s just really indecisive. She’s a really good friend.” I even sound like the liar I am. I throw a piece of teal satin on top of the magazine stack, as if that will erase them from Nick’s memory.

“So how about something to drink?” I ask. “Wine? Beer?”

“You know, you seem pretty busy. And it’s late. We both have to work tomorrow. So I’d better go.” He says it kindly, and gives me a peck on the lips. A very dry, very brief peck.

“Maybe we can meet for a coffee break in the morning?” I ask. At least I can plan for a spur-of-the-moment Starbucks in advance even though I can’t remember to put away my work. Do I sound desperate?

He smiles, and I just melt into it. “Sounds good. Ten o’clock?”

“I’ll meet you there,” I say, mentally preparing to be there ten minutes early so that he doesn’t see me arriving from the wrong direction.

I get dressed in a lightweight khaki pants suit, with gold filigree chandelier earrings, and a few delicate rings. I get to Starbucks at 9:45—plenty of time to secure a corner table and start sipping on a green tea latte. I don’t need too much caffeine today, and am feeling more like trying to be in tune with my calmer, Zen self after last night’s faux pas. As Nick walks in at 9:55 and gives me a peck on the cheek before going to order his Venti, I make a mental note to myself—he likes to be early.

I can’t take my eyes off of him, even though he is doing nothing more complicated than standing on line for his coffee. He is in his work clothes, wearing a light grey button-down shirt, open at the collar to show a white undershirt, tucked into black pants—no pleats on the front, thank goodness. He wears a silver watch with a black leather band—I always have to notice the accessories. I suppose it’s how he manages to always be five minutes early to our dates. He carries himself with a quiet confidence and is friendly with the baristas, whom I would gather he sees several times a day.

Over our coffee (and tea), Nick doesn’t mention last night and being scared off by my apparent matrimonial obsession. On the contrary, he mentions that he has a wedding to go to on the Fourth of July in Saratoga Springs. “They are making a whole long weekend out of it, since most people have to travel up there.” He rolls his eyes. “Bowling on Friday night, tennis the morning of the wedding, Saturday night wedding, then golfing on Sunday.”

“Sounds like they feel a need to provide entertainment, since most people would rather be on vacation over a long weekend.”

“Well I was thinking I could use some company during all those events. Do you want to come with me?”

I nearly spit out my tea. He’s asking me to go on a weekend trip with him? To share a hotel room? To a
wedding.
I am ecstatic of course, to think that he feels as much of a connection as I do to ask me to go with him. But that moment of euphoria is dashed immediately when I realize I am hosting a party—a party that I haven’t invited him to and therefore can’t tell him about.

“I would love to,” I say earnestly. “But I have to work.” This is the truth; I do need to work on some concepts and vendor research for some clients.

“Oh, I see.” He looks like he regrets asking me. I can’t say I blame him. Who wants to be turned down the first time they ask someone on a
serious
weekend trip?

“Besides, isn’t it too late to change your RSVP to ‘plus one’? Not that I’m an expert on wedding etiquette or anything.”

“Actually I RSVP’d so long ago. I was thinking optimistically that I’d meet someone by now.” He looks a little sheepish and suddenly tentative. “You really have to work? Over July Fourth weekend? If you don’t want to go, if it’s a little sudden—”

“No! I mean, yes, I do want to go. I just—can’t.” I can tell he is waiting for a little more explanation. Like some big project or something that is forcing overtime and holiday work. But I can’t bring myself to elaborate any more on what is already a big enough lie.

“Sure, it’s no big deal,” he says to close the topic. “Listen, I should get back to work. It’s been a pretty busy morning already.”

It’s only 10:10. Nick leaves and I decide to stay a few minutes longer to kick myself through email. I pull out my BlackBerry and send a message to the girls.

From Suzanne to all of us:

From Kate to all of us: