The Cinderella Pact (39 page)

“But there's the wedding. . . .”

“I may have to miss it,” I say. “Nola will take my place. She should be the maid of honor anyway.”

“Ah,” he says. “Nola.”

“I came here to help you,” I say as he leads me dangerously to the brightly lit room where other couples, including Nancy and Ron, are dancing. “Tell me what you've decided. Is it Olivia or Nola? And please be honest.”

He pauses and I don't dare look at him. If I do, I know it'll be I who will have to be honest with him and I cannot risk that right now.

“Interesting choice of words,” he says. “
I,
for one, am always honest.”

“I mean about”—I bite my lip, scared to say the words—“whom you love.”

“I can only love a woman who is honest with me, and that is not Nola. How can I truly love a woman who doesn't trust me enough to confide her deepest secret?”

Hesitantly I meet his gaze, which, in the warm light of the party, is piercing and yet full of longing. Desire surges through me. It's a force almost as strong as the fear that is gripping me at the same time. I had never known it was possible to so love another person.

Chip reaches out and strokes my cheek with tender affection. “It's OK.”

“You don't understand.” My heart is fluttering.

“I do. Better than you think.”

“I need to go.”

“Don't. I have to talk to you. I have to be with you.”

There is a murmur behind us as a group of women marches in, led by a large maid. One of the women I've never seen before, though I surmise that this regal brunette in a multicolored, body-hugging sequined gown must be Olivia. The other two I know all too well. Alicia and . . .

Oh, God. Lori DiGrigio.

“Where is she?” Lori is shouting.

“Don't worry about her,” Chip says. “She won't try anything as long as I'm here.”

“It's not Lori I'm worried about,” I say earnestly. “It's Olivia.”

“Olivia?” Chip stops dancing. “Do you really want to meet her?”

“I, uh . . . I.” No, I'd like to say. Not exactly. I'd like to do anything but.

“Then you will.” Turning to the three women he says, “Olivia? There's someone I'd like to introduce you to.”

Cautiously I allow my gaze to meet Lori's. Her mouth is gaping so wide her lips have disappeared and her body is swaying slightly. Her eyes seem to be swimming. The tall woman bends down to inquire if there is something the matter. The tall woman who is Olivia.

Except . . . why is the maid coming forward?

Chip reaches out and takes her hand. “Olivia. This is the woman I was telling you about. Um, she calls herself Belinda Apple.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Olivia says, her large moon-face breaking into a broad grin. “I read you every week.”

Thickly, I understand and feel both relieved, extraordinarily happy, and downright pissed.

“Olivia has been with our family since I was sixteen. Apparently she won't hear of leaving me, even though she hates Jersey. Now, that's true love, don't you think?”

I've been played.

I look up to see Chip laughing so hard that the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes are practically ruts. He's known all along. He knew from the get-go that I was Nola and Nola was Belinda, and he turned the tables on me. Here I fell for his scam and thought he was in love with Olivia.

Then it crosses my mind. What if he never loved me? What if he just wanted to out me as Belinda? And this was how he did it. For all I know this whole party was one elaborate ruse too. Did Lori know?

Suddenly, I am drowning in confusion. Everyone is staring at me. Chip is asking me something but I can't hear what he's saying.

Over by the stairs, I see Nigel waving his keys in rescue.

Flee,
a voice in my head urges.
Run. Run as fast as you can!

No. Not yet. First I have to know once and for all if Chip's declarations of love were real. Or if, like his game with Olivia, it was all a tease.

Summoning all my courage, I boldly throw my arms around his neck and plant on his lips the most fantastic kiss I can imagine. For eternity, the craziness around us disappears as he puts his arms around me and pulls me tight, not willing to let me go. I swear that if no man ever kisses me ever again, I will never care because I have been kissed like this.

“Don't go,” he says when we finally break apart. “Stay.”

“I can't,” I say, pushing back. “Not until you decide whether you can live with the truth, that I've been lying to you all this time. And if you can find it in your heart to love me, still.”

And then, not waiting for an answer, I run as fast as I can to the safety of Nigel.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Don't even ask me what happened next, because I don't remember. Well, not everything. Nigel kindly took me home, but when we pulled up to my apartment it occurred to me that Bitsy might be the type to lead a group back to my house where she would tell everyone that she knew all along that I was the real Belinda Apple and did they want to go upstairs and have a look for themselves?

“I have an idea,” Nigel suggested when he saw me staring at my house in utter terror. “How about we go back to my place? We'll order in Chinese and you can, you know, hang out as you Americans say. It so happens that I have wonderful tranquilizers at my fingertips.”

In case you are getting the idea that martinis and Chinese food in Nigel's artfully decorated loft led to something more, then you should know that for most of the evening I vented while Nigel drank and ate sparingly of his kung pao chicken.

Finally, tired and worn from listening to me recite for the seventeenth time, “ ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive,' ” and arguing over whether that was Shakespeare or Sir Walter Scott, Nigel popped me one of his Valiums, and I promptly passed out.

The next morning I slipped back home before dawn (still in my Ann Taylor, no less) and composed my resignation letter.

 
With a flourish, I pressed Send and shut down my computer, resolving not to check it again until the new year. Then I wrapped my Christmas gifts, threw my new clothes into a suitcase and Otis into a cat carrier, grabbed my bridesmaid's dress, and headed to my parents'—the haven of comfort food and uncomplicated living.

I was halfway there when I pulled a U-turn, came home, and yanked the line on my answering machine to spare myself Lori's angry calls.

Christmas passed without merit, as though Christ's birthday was insignificant compared to whether enough poinsettias had been ordered for the reception and whether the organist knew how to play “Whiter Shade of Pale” (a prank my cousins and I were planning to play on Eileen).

Throughout it all, I ate too many cookies and drank too much wine, sure signs that I was a nervous wreck. On Christmas Day, a day I'm normally up at first light, I slept in until my mother woke me at nine, insisting I go to church, where I sang “O Come All Ye Faithful” tepidly.

As each day progressed with no word from Chip, I felt more and more numb, as though I was going through the motions of living. For the most part it was an out-of-body experience. It was as though I was looking down on myself. There I was, trimming the tree. There I was, cooking roast beef for Christmas dinner. There was Eileen, opening her stocking and Mom opening her present (a bread maker) from Dad.

And there I was, smiling, raising toasts, dressing in my fantastic new wardrobe, and kissing people on the cheek, pretending everything was normal when inside I was certain that my soul had shriveled and died.

People complimented me on my new figure and said rather obnoxious things like how now that I've lost weight, maybe I might find a man like Eileen. I smiled and delivered my standard reply: “Hey, you never know!”
Fake it,
I told myself.
Fake it until it feels real.

My parents had no idea about the Belinda Apple debacle at the big Stanton holiday gala, much to my relief. The only people around me who knew were Nancy and Deb, who called me the day after to ask what had happened, since there were so many rumors flying around the party that no one could tell what was what. I begged off, explaining that I knew as much as they did.

And then today, the day before Eileen's wedding, when I am hanging up pine boughs in Barnard Hall, a miracle happens. Eileen's wedding planner, Helen Whittingham, engages me in a bit of gossip.

“Did you happen to hear about the big scene at the Stanton holiday ball?” Helen asks as she fastens a big red bow on a wreath over the fireplace.

“Uh, not much.” I pick up another bough and try to act preoccupied as though tying up boughs is one step down from neurosurgery.

“I was certain you would, seeing as how you're Belinda's closest friend here.”

“No. I'm afraid not.”

“Well, it was the most romantic thing ever.”

I give the string around the bough a good hard tug.

“Belinda Apple arrived at the party with Nigel Barnes and ended up in the arms of David Stanton.”

“Really?” Another hard tug. My heart is beating fast. I'm dying to hear more.

“Apparently it was love at first sight. David's mad for her. Isn't that a riot? A grown man in his thirties falling head over heels after one kiss.”

I grip the banister and catch my breath.

“Are you OK? I know, tying up those boughs is harder than people think.”

“No,” I squeak. “I'm fine. Just tired, from the holidays.”

“Yes,” says Helen, standing back to admire her work.

“So,” I manage, “what happened between the two of them?”

“Well, that's the mystery, isn't it? Belinda ran off and David can't find her. He even called me up this morning and asked if I'd seen her, but I told him that she'd dropped out as maid of honor and flown back to England.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He said what I expected him to say.” Helen pulls out a gold ribbon with a flourish. “He's taking the next flight to London to find her.”

 
Our very last fitting is that afternoon. We are doing this at the insistence of Eileen, who is on a mission to wed as a toothpick. Our cousins Angela and Maureen who are, as my mother likes to say, from “the hefty side” of the family, decline this last fitting on the premise that their dresses are just fine, thank you. Jim's sister Grace (as in under pressure) and Hope (as in let's hope Jim gets a real personality) are flying in from St. Louis and Oklahoma City, respectively, which means that the only two members in the wedding party in Chloe's shop are Eileen and me.

Disaster strikes as soon as Eileen steps into her dress and asks me to zip her up. I bring the zipper halfway up and it stops.

“What's wrong?” she asks in a panic. “What's wrong?”

“It's uh, stuck,” I say. Though, what I really mean is, “You've put on a few, Eileen.”

“Stuck?!”

Chloe, who has a roomful of two brides and a bazillion chattering bridesmaids and mothers next door, is so attuned to this horrified cry that she comes rushing in without being asked. “What do you mean, stuck?”

“Try it.” I step back and let Chloe exercise her expertise.

“Oh, my,” she says, careful not to force it. “I am glad you tried this on.”

“Why? Is it OK? It's not ruined or anything, is it?” Eileen's constant state of normalcy these days is Defcon 5. It's impossible that she is gaining weight.

A strange expression comes over Chloe's face. “May I ask you a delicate question?”

She doesn't even have to ask. I already know, and so does Eileen because she is blushing scarlet.

“Yes,” Eileen whispers. “Three months.”

I just start laughing. I can't help it. Perfect Eileen who has starved herself to get down to a size 0 for her wedding can't help gaining weight this time. This is why I love life. You come for the love, you stay for the irony.

Eileen whirls around on me. “Don't tell Mom!”

“What? You don't think she won't figure it out?”

“Not until after the wedding.”

“I got news for you. How old am I?”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

Think about it.

She lifts her eyes to the ceiling. “Thirty-five.”

“And how long have Mom and Dad been married?”

“Thirty-six years.”

“Do the math. Mom may have been a hundred and twenty-seven pounds when she got married, but she didn't get fat because of her desserts, as she likes to say. She got fat because of me.”

“Oh!” Eileen blinks. “Do you think . . .”

“Do I think you'll become a mother who serves up meatloaf and mashed potatoes every night? No. You don't have to worry. You'll be fine. You'll be your old self by this time next year. Only, you'll be a bit more busy.”