The Wedding Party (5 page)

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Y'know, I admit I regret the way I played it.”

“Played what?” she wanted to know.

“I wish I'd done what you did. Stayed out of the game altogether. Refused to hook up at all, with anyone. Just flat-ass refused to get together with anyone who wasn't absolutely perfect. Period.”

“That isn't what I did! There
wasn't
anyone…starting with you!”

“We don't have to sing the ‘Jake was a lousy husband' song again. We're all getting a little tired of that one. I was young, you were young, we were stupid.”

“
You
were stupid,” she said.

“Yeah, yeah. So what we have here is me, getting married all the time and never able to make it stick, and you, with an obvious fear of marriage—”

“I'm not afraid of marriage!”

“Oh, really?” he asked, eyebrows arched sharply.

“Not at all!”

“Afraid of commitment, then?”

“Don't be ridiculous! Dennis and I are totally committed.”

“Just afraid to take the next step and make it legal?
I mean, I can understand, it's only been, what, five years or so….”

“For your information, we're planning to get married, we just haven't—”

She stopped suddenly. She had no idea she was going to say that. Or what she was going to say next.

“Just haven't what, Charlie? Picked the century yet?”

She stared at him blankly for a moment. Her life flashed before her eyes. Well, maybe not her life, but certainly her day, and the way it had seemed to happen to her through a series of random disasters. April Fools'? Maybe she was the only fool.

“And that's why Stephie is all fucked up about marriage,” he said. “Because between the two of us we can't come up with one decent relationship. Know what I mean, Charlie? Admit it, you're as reluctant as I am impetuous. Huh?”

“You know what?” she said to him. “I had to coparent with you, but the baby has grown up. She's an adult, whether she likes it or not, and while she might need her parents, she has had plenty of time to adjust to the divorce. And I'll be damned if I'm going to talk about this whole thing with you for another quarter century! Leave me alone for a while, will you?”

She opened the door and got out of his car, the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders and dragging through muddy puddles behind her. His ability to insult and enrage her had not lessened in twenty-five years. She went to her car and retrieved her purse and
briefcase, locked the door and started walking. Stomping.

“Charlie, what the hell are you doing?” he called out of his opened window. She stomped on, muttering incoherently to herself. He could still, with such ease, provoke her into irrational behavior. Here she was, walking down the soft, muddy shoulder of an isolated two-lane road in the dark, in the rain. It was worse than irrational, it was suicidal. But right that moment it made more sense than sitting in the car with him.

“Charlie, this is stupid!” he yelled.

God, he was following her. In the car.

A car going in the opposite direction whizzed by. The splash off the tires provided a fine spray of mud to add to the rain, which had lessened to a heavy drizzle, but was not quite enough to wash the streaks of mud off her face and coat.

All the stuff she thought she had handled began to come back one at a time. The Samuelsons, Stephanie, Dennis and Dr. Malone, Peaches—and Jake, his timing as bad as ever.

“Charlie!” he yelled. “Hold up, will you? I need to ask you something. I need a favor.”

“In your dreams,” she muttered to herself. If I
am
afraid of commitment, she thought, Jake Dugan would be a good enough reason.

A flashing red light throbbed over her head and she turned to see that her ex-husband had attached his portable police beacon to the top of his car. He followed her at a safe distance, slowly, so that if a car approached from behind, she wouldn't be mowed down.
But then again, she wouldn't need this service if he hadn't shown up in the first place, which was the cause of her walking home in the mud and rain when she had a perfectly good cell phone in her purse.

She made the right turn into her neighborhood in ten minutes. She could have been faster if the weather had been decent. The flashing red light disappeared and Jake's headlights strafed the houses as he made a U-turn and departed. It was then that she realized she wore his blanket around her shoulders. She shrugged it off on the front walk and hung it over the wrought-iron entry gate.

She stepped into her house and stepped into sanity. The lights were dimmed, the table set, candles lit, fire in the hearth and two cups of something steaming sat on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. Dennis, having heard her come in, appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a dish towel. The sight of all this peaceful domesticity warmed the heart of the drowned rat and without stopping to consider the ramifications Charlene heard herself say, “Dennis, do you still want to get married?”

 

Stephanie moved a cherry around in her Coke with the straw, staring into the mix, daydreaming. She sat at the far end of the bar near the cash register, and when Grant was between customers, he spent a few minutes leaning across the bar talking to her.

This was how they'd met. She'd been at the bar with a couple of girlfriends and had flirted with the cute
bartender. That was two and a half, almost three years ago. It was a lot more romantic then than it was now.

A guy, carrying his drink, sauntered over and sat down beside her. “Tell me you're not waiting for someone,” he said to her.

“Okay. I'm not waiting for someone.”

He smiled. He wasn't bad-looking, with a nice shape to his face, curly hair and friendly brown eyes. A sharp dresser. He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Thank you, God.” He refocused on her face. “So, tell me your heart's desire and I'll bring it to your feet.”

I must be getting old, Stephanie thought. Bar talk used to be fun…and now it only sounds stupid.

“Hey, Freddy,” Grant said, slapping a cocktail napkin down in front of him. “You meet my girl?”

“Your girl?
Shit.
”

“Freddy, meet Stephanie. Stephanie, meet Fast Freddy.”

“Fred,” he corrected with a casual sneer directed at Grant. “Darlin', if you're mixed up with this guy, you're making a huge mistake. Let me take care of you.”

“What can I get for you, Freddy?” Grant asked. Grant had that look—narrowed eyes, forced smile, sunken cheeks. He was working on being polite. This was not a good sign for Stephanie. If Grant had appeared to actually like Fred, Stephanie might have shunned the man. But Grant's dislike provoked her into overt friendliness. It was all about the way things had been going lately. The squabbling. The complete
failure of compromise. The need to do something to perk things up, to get Grant's attention.

“I'm good,” Fred said, lifting his half-full glass. “Fix up the lady, here. My treat.”

“You think she buys drinks at my bar?” Grant asked with a mean laugh.

“You mean she's
really
your girl?” he asked, incredulous.

“Really. As in, we live together. Another Diet Coke, Steph?”

“No, thanks. So,” she said, turning her full attention and sweetest smile on Freddy. “How long have you two known each other?”

“From the Stone Age, man.” He sipped. “Like, high school.”

“Jeez, I thought I'd met all Grant's high-school pals,” she said.

“That should tell you something,” Grant said, turning away to serve other patrons.

“He's always been the jealous type. I get all the girls. But until this moment it meant nothing.”

She laughed at his absurdity. “These come-ons, Freddy. Stale. Old. Completely transparent.”

“I know. I'm thinking of getting a writer.”

“Ah, the Cyrano de Bergerac syndrome.”

“Spoken like a movie buff….”

“English teacher.”

“No kidding?” He seemed to relax into himself. “I'm a history major. I taught for two years. I really liked the kids, but the pay sucked.”

“So I've noticed.” She glanced at Grant and saw
him glowering. Her eyes went back to Fred. “What do you do now?”

“I'm a day trader. Stocks. Commodities.”

Her eyes actually lit up at the word
day,
but Freddy might have thought she was responding to
trader.
“Really? Sounds interesting. Tell me all about it.”

 

On the night Charlene and Dennis decided to get married, they changed a flat tire in the rain, traded their wet clothes for warm terry robes and then spent a quiet evening talking about the day's events over a light dinner of hot soup and cold salad. “You go first,” she said to him. He, somewhat reluctantly, told her about an auto accident that had taken two lives—a grandfather who might've had a coronary at the wheel and a nine-year-old boy who wasn't buckled in and upon whom the emergency team had exercised every gift modern medicine had to offer before they let him go. It was Dr. Malone's first fatality as a pediatric resident.

“Now you,” he said, and she skipped the Samuelsons and Stephanie's remarks and went straight to her mother's crisis. Tears threatened again. Charlene honestly didn't know if she was going to get through this without endless crying.

When she was finished, Dennis said, “You know, it could be a number of things—from the predictable old-age dementia to Alzheimer's. It could even be small strokes…or maybe she was just very tired or had other worries on her mind. Then again, maybe it
only appeared she was confused and lost when she was daydreaming.”

“Do you think it's possible?” she asked hopefully.

“I think she'd better see a doctor, a specialist. There's a good geriatrics doctor at St. Rose's. People like him. If you can get Lois to go, I can get her a quick appointment. He owes me.”

Dennis always made everything all right. No matter what the crisis, he could be counted on. “I would be so lost without you,” she said.

“So that was what had you crying? Worrying about your mother?”

“Yes. Silly, isn't it? I usually check things out before I overreact.”

“And were you so overwrought that you walked home from your car in the rain?”

She grimaced. Ah yes, there was something else she hadn't mentioned. “Jake was on his way here to ask me a favor,” she said. “He pulled up right behind me, moments after the tire went flat. It started to pour so I got in his car to sit it out. Then he asked me if I'd put on a little weight.”

Dennis couldn't help himself. He started to laugh.

“I wasn't amused,” she said.

“I don't imagine you were.” He had no trouble envisioning her as she jumped out of his car and, furious, walked the rest of the way in the rain. “Just tell me one thing. You didn't suggest we get married because Jake made you feel fat, did you?”

“No,” she said. “But by the time I got here, soaked and mad, I realized that the one thing in my life that
I have always been able to count on is you. And I'm stupid not to tie you down and get you off the market.”

“Charlene, I've been off the market for five years.”

“And I've been crazy to let you run around loose. Dennis? Do you think it's a bad idea? Because—”

He covered her hand with his. “I think it's probably about time.”

She sighed in relief. For some reason, all she wanted was to have this one part of her life settled. Mapped out, covered, secured. Done.

“Why don't you take a soak while I clean the dishes,” he said. “Then I'll start the bedroom fireplace and meet you in there.”

She had a moment's hesitation. “Dennis—”

“It's all right, Charlene,” he said, reading her mind. “We've both had rough days. I'm thinking along the lines of a little CNN before sleeping.”

By the time she got out of the bath, he had already nodded off on top of the comforter. At 5:00 a.m. she felt his lips touch her forehead as he prepared to leave for his early start in the emergency room. She could smell the coffee he'd made, and although he was clean shaven, there would be no evidence that he'd used the bathroom sink; Dennis was as immaculate as she. She couldn't have asked for a better night's sleep, all her worries and anxieties put to rest by the best companion of her life.

Yes, it was probably about time.

W
hen Charlene entered her office, Pam London was taken aback. “Wow,” she said, her mouth dropping open in surprise. “Look at you.”

“What?” Charlene asked, but she smiled because she knew what Pam saw. She'd seen it herself in the mirror that very morning.

“You look ravishing. You haven't looked this good since you got back from Mazatlan.”

“Ravishing?”

“My, my, yes.” Pam squinted a bit, studying Charlene's face. “What is it? New makeup?”

“Not exactly. Come into my office, will you?” Pam followed, notepad in hand, and shut the door behind her. “Dennis and I have decided to get married,” Charlene said, skipping any preamble.

Pam didn't make it very far into the spacious office before she sank into a deep and comfy leather chair. Speechless.

“This can't possibly be a surprise,” Charlene said.

“Can't it be…?”

Charlene, businesslike, began taking papers out of her briefcase and placing them in separate stacks on the desktop. “To the contrary. Some would even say
this is way overdue, that we should have done it years ago. After five years, it seems almost like a mere formality.” Indeed, on the very night they had made the decision, nothing special set it apart from any other night they spent together. Except maybe the changing of a tire in the rain, which Dennis accomplished while Charlene held the flashlight.

“I guess I thought—” Pam didn't finish.

“You thought we didn't need marriage?”

“Well…that's what you always said.”

“And it's still true. We don't
need
marriage, but wanting it is a different story. To make our commitment complete.”

“That's lovely.”

“You are the absolute first to know. I haven't even told Stephanie yet, or my mother. Lois thinks I'm completely hopeless, so she's going to flip, and Stephanie…Well, I haven't talked to her since yesterday.” And in thinking about that conversation some of the glow threatened to fade from Charlene's features. She would have to call Stephanie and tell her about her grandmother; they were very close. But as for the marriage plans, she could wait. In fact, Charlene was still smarting a little from Stephanie's words and didn't look forward to calling her at all. “But I wanted to tell you immediately,” Charlene said to Pam. “Because I'd like you to stand up for me, if you will.”

“If? Of course I will! But what about Stephanie and Lois? Won't they get their noses out of joint if I—”

“No, no, no,” Charlene insisted. “This is all going to work out fine. And I want you with me on this.
Like you've been with me on everything. I couldn't have built this practice without you, Pam.”

“I don't know what to say.”

“Say you will.”

“Of course,” she said, flattered. “When is this going to happen?”

“I don't know. In a few weeks. I have about four major crises to work out before I can think about the actual event, but once I get things under control, I'll make some arrangements. Something very small, very quiet, very quick.”

Pam smiled lazily. “Quick? Are you pregnant?”

“Ha-ha.”

“And you are doing this quickly because…?”

Charlene stopped shuffling papers, put her briefcase under her desk and took a seat. “Now that we've decided, we're anxious to have the formalities out of the way. But there is another matter that concerns me. My mother is experiencing some memory problems. Some confusion. I'd hate to call it dementia, but until she sees a doctor, I have no other terminology.”

“So the call from the grocer was the real McCoy,” Pam observed.

“I didn't want to admit it. I was hoping he was just overreacting, but she
was
confused. It's possible she really couldn't find her way home from the store and had to be rescued by a bag boy. I have no better explanation because she can't remember much about the incident.”

“My goodness, how scary,” Pam replied, as surprised now as Charlene had been yesterday.

She nodded. “I owe Mr. Fulbright an apology. And a debt of gratitude. I hope these aren't the early symptoms of Alzheimer's.”

“And that's why you're going to hurry and—”

“That's a factor, not a reason. My mom has a problem, and I don't know how serious it is, but before things get any worse, if they're destined to get worse, and while everyone in my family and in Dennis's family are all relatively healthy and alert, we're going to have a small, pleasant ceremony.”

“Well, this must be the right decision, it sure has worked wonders on you. You look positively radiant. How do you feel?”

Charlene folded her hands together on top of her desk. “I can't explain it, but if I'd known I was going to feel this great, I'd have accepted Dennis's proposal years ago. I've never felt so comfortable…so
serene.
I have total peace of mind.”

Pam leaned back into the folds of the chair, stretched her long legs out in front of her and admired Charlene's shimmer. “You're glowing. It's amazing.”

“I can feel it.”

“You and Dennis must have had some romantic night last night—the sparkles are still floating all around your aura.” Pam's eyes became moist. “I'm so happy for you, Char. No one deserves this more than you. I'd be honored to witness for you.”

Pam stood, dropped her notebook on the ottoman and moved toward Charlene. She opened her arms to embrace her, tears glittering in her eyes.

But Charlene didn't cry. She was a little embar
rassed by what Pam had said…and its contrast with the truth. There were no sparkles of romance glittering around her, but rather the warm glow of complete contentment. There had been no sex, no breathless passion in the wake of a profession of the truest love, but rather the intimate dialogue of close friends as they comforted each other after their terrible day.

But wasn't that what true love really was? Friendship and trust? Knowing the person you counted on was there? And being there for him?

So, Charlene asked herself, what exactly was she glowing about? She frowned over Pam's shoulder as she admitted to herself that it felt vaguely like relief.

Charlene patted Pam's back and said, “There, there.” Then she handed Pam a tissue and said, “High on my list of priorities, after a nice little wedding, is a week off. Not a honeymoon, but rather a vacation. Sometime later this spring possibly, after we've tied the knot, had Peaches to the doctor, cleared some time from our schedules and have things under control. We're talking about a cruise. Dennis and I have both been under so much pressure lately, I'm surprised we even have the energy to get married. To that end, I'd like to make a dent in the ‘pending' list and clear some time.”

“When are you going to tell Stephanie and your mom?”

“Well…”

“That's not much of an answer,” Pam said. “What's going on?”

“To tell the truth, I'm a little miffed at them both.
Peaches knows she has a problem that could be serious, and she told me to butt out. Said she was sorry to be losing it. Her exact words were, ‘I'm sorry that obviously I'm losing it.' Jesus. As for Stephanie, she doesn't stop talking about herself long enough to check and see if anyone else has a life. She's so self-absorbed….”

“She's twenty-five.”

“And spoiled and selfish. But I will have to speak to her about Peaches. You know how close those two are. And hopefully we will tell them both this weekend.”

“How do you suppose they'll react?” Pam said, a devilish flicker sparkling her eyes.

“Hmm. Peaches will probably be astonished and Stephanie will…Stephanie will probably be relieved that I'm not going to die an old-maid divorce lawyer.” She shook her head while Pam laughed. “So,” she went on, “I have a full calendar today, culminating with a meeting this evening here with Bradley himself of Bradley & Howe regarding the Omagi custody. I doubt I'll get home before ten. I'm due in court in an hour. Child Protective Services continue to harangue Leslie and Tom Batten, and I've filed an injunction to hold them off until we can have a hearing. Then I have a lunch and a meeting with Carl Dena regarding the transfer of one of his companies into his son's name, since his son's been managing it for about ten years anyway. Can you see to these items, please?” She passed a neatly printed list to Pam. “And will you please add one item?”

“Sure.”

“I ran into Jake last night. He wanted a favor, but we got sidetracked talking about Stephanie and he forgot to ask me. Will you give him a call? Ask him what he needs?”

“Sure.”

“And if it sounds like too much trouble, tell him you can't fit it on my calendar. I've already done plenty for him and I don't—”

“He probably just wants some simple legal thing for free, like a paper filed for a friend,” Pam said as she scribbled, not even looking up from her notebook. “If so, I can probably get it done without even bothering you.”

“Your discretion,” Charlene said dismissively. “I've got less than an hour to go over my notes for court, so let's get to work.”

“Gotcha. Coffee?”

“Hey, that would be great. I forgot to grab some as I passed the pot.”

“You have a lot on your mind. By the way, will you be living in your house or Dennis's?”

Charlene responded with a blank stare, her mouth slightly open. How could that have not even come up in the conversation that followed “Do you still want to get married?” “Um, my house, of course,” she said to Pam unconvincingly.

“You didn't even talk about it, did you?”

“You know, we talked about so many things….”

“Oh brother,” Pam said, heading for the coffeepot.

One of the things Pam London appreciated about working for Charlene Dugan was the quality of the work environment and the high measure of independence and responsibility Pam was afforded. She was an experienced paralegal, an executive assistant, and passed off secretarial work to office clericals and legal research to law clerks. Pam had helped build Phelps, Dugan & Dodge; she'd been with Charlene for sixteen years, beginning in the early, lean years.

Pam remembered with nostalgic fondness the old brick walk-up they started in, when they both were young and energetic, when Stephanie was just a bitty little thing with freckles. They couldn't afford a secretary so Lois, who was about to retire, helped out with typing and filing in the evenings and on the weekends.

They'd been through a lot since then, both professionally and personally. Pam had lost her mother to cancer and eventually moved back in with her father. She told herself she did it for him, but it was as much for herself. Meanwhile, Charlene finally moved out of her mother's house. Together they built a strong reputation in the legal community. The work was challenging, the pay excellent, the people were of the highest caliber and her days flew by.

Pam and Charlene were too busy to worry that they didn't have dates. And now, against all odds, Charlene was actually getting married.

It was 7:00 p.m. when the door to Charlene's office opened and she came marching out, briefcase in one hand, sheaf of papers to drop on Pam's desk in the
other, coat over her shoulders. And a scowl on her face. “Last-minute change of venue,” she said. “I'm going to Bradley & Howe.”

“When did this happen?” Pam asked.

“About ten minutes ago, when I called to confirm our meeting here. It's a sleazy trick. This guy is creating diversions, pretending the meeting was always scheduled for his office. What bullshit. I left a message for Sherry Omagi on her voice mail, but if she shows up here, tell her she can drive over to Bradley & Howe if she wants to, but it doesn't matter. I'll meet with the attorney whether she's there or not, and I'm not backing down.”

“Go get 'em, tiger.”

“You ever get through to Jake?”

“Oh, yeah. There's some woman he met…I think he said he met her in a bar…?”

“No,” Charlene said facetiously. “Jake? In a bar?”

“She's divorced, has a couple of kids by two exes, neither of whom share custody or pay child support. Now ex number one wants custody of child number one. And of course she's broke.”

“Does the ex have money?”

“Don't know that yet.”

“Well, I can't see a judge handing over a child with a lot of back support owed. Abuse?”

Pam shrugged. She didn't know the answer to that either. “He abandoned them…as did ex number two. I put her on your calendar for next week.”

“Why'd you do that?” Charlene asked.

“Because you just can't say no to Jake,” Pam returned, smiling gently.

“That's what you're for! You
can!
”