The Wedding Party (31 page)

“If you could lift your arm high over your head, miss?”

“Like this?” she asked, holding up her arm.

“Perfect. Still now, while I measure and pin.” Mrs. Rodriquez measured the girl's bust, scribbled the number, and with a mouthful of pins, began fitting the open side seams and underarms together, giving the robust bride a bit more room. “Ouch!” the girl cried out. And to Agatha's horror, she shoved little Mrs. Rodriquez backward. The seamstress might've fallen if she hadn't been pushed right into a rack of billowing gowns that cushioned her. “I
told
you to be careful!”

“That will do!” Agatha said sharply. She went to Mrs. Rodriquez, the sweetest little lady in the world, and inquired, “Are you all right, Mrs.?”

“Yes. Sure. But I try to be careful.”

“Of course. You can go home now. And don't worry, of course you will be paid.”

“Home? You're sending her
home?
”

“Go now,” Agatha told the seamstress. “Yes, she's going home. Miss, I have been doing this work for quite some time. Tensions surrounding even the simplest wedding tend to be enormous, and people naturally have their anxious moments, but I'm afraid you've toppled the cart. You will have to finish your event without our help. I'll be glad to give you the names and phone numbers of other alteration shops,
but Mrs. Rodriquez will no longer be able to help you. You've treated her quite horribly.”

“How
dare
you,” the bride sputtered. “The old cow stabbed me! What the hell do you expect?”

“I expect you to leave immediately or I shall call the bobbies and report an assault. Once they've made your acquaintance, they certainly won't doubt the probability.”

“Now, now,” the mother of the bride simpered. “I'm sure if we all calm down we can work this out, smooth over ruffled feathers, make this event as beautiful as all concerned.”

“It's doubtful, madam,” Agatha said, standing her ground. “I'm not in a particularly forgiving mood at the moment. And I don't think I'll be feeling better anytime soon.”

W
ithout really thinking too much about it, Charlene threw herself into preparations for a spectacularly erotic evening. It was the least she could do, and odd though it may be, something she hadn't done before. Not that she and Dennis weren't romantic. They were very romantic. Also very civilized.
Decorum
was a word that came to mind. Or tame.

She went first to her favorite lingerie shop where she purchased something small, silky, lacy and red. Something meant to be worn briefly, then tossed. Before she could sign the charge slip, she added a long red silk robe to the purchase; she didn't want to catch a chill.

Then she went to her famous gourmet grocer where she procured, from the deli chef, Dennis's favorite—chicken and pasta Alfredo, Caesar salad, Boston cream pie and a really nice bottle of Chardonnay.

Then home to set the table in china and crystal, silver and candles. This was going to be very special, and no one appreciated classy table appointments like Dennis. She found herself looking forward to this dinner, to time with him. He was, above all, a good date, a good friend. They had had many a pleasurable eve
ning together in the last five years, two to three times every week.

There was comfort for Charlene in routine. There always had been. Since childhood it had always produced grave anxiety in her when she didn't know what was going to happen next. A by-product, no doubt, of having an unreliable though desirable father.

But their comfortable routine would change, she thought as she placed the linen napkins beside the plates. They would be together, as Stephanie would put it, twenty-four-seven. Hmm.

She went to the master bedroom, laid out the red silk on the bed and drew a bath. As she soaked, relaxing into the bubbles and scents, she decided that they would live there. It was the only possible solution because Charlene couldn't give up this master bedroom and bath, and preferred her soft bed to Dennis's hard one. And the neighborhood was a good one; the property values were rising. Dennis would come around. He'd always been one to compromise if it made her happy…unlike Jake, who would argue with a million dollars.

Scat, Jake! Out out out! Not tonight, she admonished.

As the sun slowly sank, she warmed the Alfredo, put on some nice music, moved the Chardonnay and bucket to stand beside the place that Dennis would occupy at the table and placed the corkscrew there for him. Next she lit candles. The only electric light she was going to allow tonight was the small one over the stove. Otherwise, it would all be candlelight.

She went to the bedroom, threw off the terry robe and donned the red concoction. She looked in the mirror. Well, Dennis would probably not consider it ridiculous, but to her it seemed absurd. Those dimples in her thighs would not turn
her
on.

Once, twenty-five years ago, she had put on a candy striper's uniform for Jake and he had chased her around their little apartment all night long. It was possible Stephanie was conceived that night. It was the last night she'd done or donned anything so risqué.

The robe was an excellent idea, she decided, pulling it over the itsy-bitsy nightie with a single purpose.

At six-forty-five she made sure all the lights were off but that one, all the candles flickering from bedroom to dining room. She sat at the table, waiting. It was beautiful. Romantic. Meaningful.

Artificial.

Then she knew. In a split second she knew.
It was all wrong.

It was like falling from a forty-story building and having your life flash before your eyes, but for the first time she understood that it wasn't like a movie in fast-forward from birth to death, but rather a total life, seen all at once. Charlene at ten, waiting at the corner for her dad to come back and finally going home in the dark, disappointed; Charlene at seventeen, graduating from high school, Peaches alone in the commencement hall; Charlene at twenty, pregnant, standing over her father's casket; Charlene at thirty, getting her law degree, Peaches, Jake and Stephanie cheering; Charlene at forty, lonely, her child raised and gone,
drawing up a list of qualities she would like in the perfect man and seeing them produced before her very eyes in Dennis. Finally, Charlene at forty-five, sitting in red silk and candlelight in a desperate attempt to be saved by marriage, to break the family curse of single women hooked on fallible men.

Suddenly remembering something she had known all along, she realized what she had done. She had recreated, with stunning accuracy, the life she'd had with her father! The minute she saw the resemblance of Jake to her father, she divorced him. But kept him in her life, on her terms, at arm's length. How often had she slept with him over the twenty-five years? As often as her father had come home during her youth? The life she thought she was freeing herself from, she had embraced. Had she really wanted to change the legacy, she'd have allowed Jake to be the husband and father he wanted to be—present, devoted and faithful. The things he'd ended up being anyway.

And Dennis? The perfect man? Certainly, but not perfect for her. Not who she wanted, really, but who she thought she should want.

Oh God, what have I almost done? she asked herself.

She stood up abruptly, almost panicked enough to run. First she would get out of the red, then she'd turn on some lights, then—

But the doorbell rang and, before she could even consider not answering it until she'd changed her clothes and her mind, she heard his key in the lock. Busted.

Dennis came into the foyer and just stood there as if letting his eyes adjust to the dimness, looking stately and handsome in his cream cashmere sweater and tan pans.

He didn't say anything. Charlene couldn't tell if he saw her standing by the dining table. She took two steps and turned on the chandelier light. Now it was certain he saw her, in all her glory. And she could clearly see his face. All that was there was disappointment. He was sorry for her that she'd made this dreadful presentation. This wasn't what he was looking for at all. When he said he wanted to talk to her, “talk” was exactly what he meant.

“Oh, Dennis, I'm sorry,” she said, sinking into her chair. “This isn't what I want,” she said, waving a hand over the table. “It isn't what you want, either. I can tell.”

He walked slowly into the room. “Have you any idea what I want?” he asked. He stood behind the chair that was to have been his.

She gave a little embarrassed laugh and shook her head. “You want to live in your house,” she said. “And I want to live in mine. And I was going to make it my mission tonight to convince you we should live here.”

He pulled out the chair and sat down, but somehow they both knew he wasn't going to be staying for dinner. “Well, I admit, this is an interesting way of going about it. Do you think it would have worked?” he asked.

“That question should be to you, but never mind. Dennis, I don't want to get married. I'm sorry.”

He actually slid back in his chair, shocked. He hoped his face didn't show relief. “When did you come to this conclusion?” he asked.

“You won't believe this—moments ago. As you were ringing the bell, I was having a sudden epiphany. Like lightning. Like a blow torch. All at once, I realized…I'm totally crazy, but at least I understand.”

He thought for a second, then said, “It's probably not a good idea to think about things like weddings when you have other serious change in the family. Like illness. Or a fire. Or both.”

“You're right, of course. But that's not really what I mean. My realization went a lot deeper than that. I'm not talking about having some common sense for a change, though wouldn't that be nice? I'm talking about one of those moments people pay therapists thousands of dollars to experience.

“Do you remember that night?” she went on. “That miserable, rainy night that you waited here for me with hot chocolate and dinner? And I burst into the house, a drowned rat, and asked you if you still wanted to get married?”

He reached for the wine and began to wrestle with the cork. “It's seared in my memory for all time.”

“You'd understand perfectly if you knew what had gone on earlier in the day. Stephanie called to complain about Grant and she was threatening to leave him, after a little less than a year. In the course of all her bellyaching, she let fly that she didn't want to end
up like me! Less than two hours later my mother got lost in the grocery-store parking lot and I realized I didn't want to end up like
her!
And that if Stephanie did leave Grant, she was
exactly
like me! I left Jake in less than a year. But here's a little something I never shared with you—I let Jake come back just about as often as my mother let my father.”

His hands stopped manipulating the cork as his eyes snapped to her face.

“You didn't tell me every detail of your life before me, either,” she said. She knew the value of a well-placed lie.

“That explains Jake's constant resistance to me. He probably still loves you.”

“Only if he's completely stupid,” she said. “But, who do you suppose chased me down on my way home that fateful night that I proposed? Oh yes, himself. At which point he threw at me that I was probably the smart one, refusing to have a committed relationship…right after he asked me if I'd gained a little weight.” She shrugged lamely. “Didn't I just walk in the door and with one simple question change everyone's destiny?”

The cork popped like an exclamation point.

He poured himself a glass, then poured her one. “I wonder how many proposals actually come out of panic,” he said.

“You don't want to get married either, do you,” she said. It was not a question.

“Charlene, I've only seen you in passing the last four weeks. We haven't even had a conversation
about—” He took a breath. Without this wedding fiasco, there would be no Agatha. And Agatha was what made his heart beat. Gentleman to the end, he said, “That wasn't fair. No. In thinking about it, in looking at where we are in our lives, no. I don't.” He took a small sip of wine.

“When I think about you, I think of you as nearly perfect. You're handsome, have good taste, you're very smart, gentle but strong. You have the greatest hair in California.” He laughed. “But I need a break. Thinking space.”

“Is that so?” he asked, suspiciously calm.

“I have some things to figure out and I'm this close,” she said, demonstrating roughly an inch with thumb and index finger. “I'm sorry I hurt you.”

“We're breaking up, aren't we?” he asked.

“Maybe. Do you hate me for all this?”

He took another drink. It was good wine. He smiled his appreciation and said, “I may be at a similar place in my life. But I swear, no one's ever broken up with me in a red negligee.”

She leaned her chin on her hands and studied his handsome face. “Is this the craziest night of your life? We've gone from having a perfectly lovely relationship to having a terrible betrothal to breaking up altogether in the space of three or four weeks. Tell me something, Dennis. And tell me from your heart. If we could turn back the clock, go back to April first, would you want to?”

He pondered this for a moment, out of kindness. He wouldn't hurt her with all the truth, all the facts. There
was a big difference between needing “thinking space” and having been unfaithful with the wedding planner. “Truthfully? That perfectly lovely relationship must have been lacking a few things for us to end up here.”

“You must be right. Again.”

“I'm relieved you discovered this now, before the children came.”

She burst into laughter. He stood to leave.

“This is the most civilized breakup in the history of the world. I should have videotaped it for my clients. But then, that's you, Dennis. To the last cell, a perfect gentleman.” Jake had put his fist through the door and spent four days roaring drunk. “Would it be tacky to kiss you goodbye?”

He reached out a hand to pull her to her feet. “I'd be disappointed if you didn't.”

But the kiss, like the ending, was bereft of passion. A peck, nothing more.

“Fabulous wine, Charlene. You have a real gift.”

“Would you like to take it?”

“No, thank you. Put a cork in it. Enjoy it later.”

“You know, Dennis, once I got used to the idea, I started to really look forward to trying on wedding dresses. How silly is that?”

“Charlene, you may need me. There will be medical questions with Peaches. Don't hesitate. No matter what your thinking space produces, we'll always be good friends. I'm more than happy to help in any way I can.”

“Thank you.”

He let himself out and she sat back at the table. She blew out the candles and stared at the door. My mother and I, she thought, were so hooked on my father that we missed him when he was gone and ached for his return, even though he would hurt us again and again by leaving. And when I took stock of what I had with Jake, I left him at once. I wasn't going to put my daughter through that life. I wasn't going to repeat my mother's mistakes.