by Wendy Wax
Although this was billed as a casual family meal, it takes place in the formal dining room, and we’re served by two maids in uniform.
“I know how nervous Spencer was,” Grace says after we’re seated. “Were you surprised?” This is my first clue that everyone in his family knew he was going to propose before I did.
“Definitely. In fact, it took me a little while to understand what was happening,” I admit.
“I wish you guys could have been there,” Spencer says. “But at least we have video.” He reaches for his iPhone. “I had Peter film it for posterity.” Peter is Spencer’s publicist/social media person. This explains how a statement, select clips of the performance, and the proposal appeared online and across all social media platforms within minutes of my acceptance.
He hits play and holds his iPhone up so we can view the screen and I’m relieved to see that it was shot over my shoulder so that the focus is on the cast performance and Spencer dropping down on one knee. I wonder briefly whether the angle was chosen to give me privacy or as a protective measure in case something went wrong or my answer wasn’t what he was expecting, but then I realize the reasons don’t really matter. What matters is his eagerness to make the proposal special and that he loves me enough to want to share the future with me. It’s not as if I’m unaware of his flair and larger-than-life personality—it’s that openness and enthusiasm that first attracted me. I’m not the first woman to choose a man who is in many ways her opposite.
They applaud when the video ends and Spencer stands and takes an exaggerated bow, which is something that has clearly played out within this family many times before.
“Well done, big brother!” Molly says as the first course is served. “This is so exciting. Which venues are you considering?”
Their eyes turn to me. “Oh well, we haven’t really talked about that yet,” I stammer.
“We could have it at the Harvard Club,” Nancy suggests as if it’s just occurred to her. “The facilities are so beautiful.”
“Or how about The Plaza?” Grace asks. “It’s a classic. I spent my wedding night at The Plaza.”
I try not to wince as I think about my recent tea there with Chris.
“Ooh, I know. What about the New York Public Library?” Molly asks. “We looked at it for our wedding. And Carrie Bradshaw chose it in Sex and the City. She was a writer, too.”
“Yes, but she didn’t actually get married there,” I point out. “Remember when Big just drove right by?” I don’t add that Carrie Bradshaw is a fictional character. Or that when Bree and I used to imagine our weddings, mine was always small and intimate.
“Oh, right.” She puts a forkful of salad in her mouth.
“By that line of reasoning we could have it at the Music Box.” This is the Broadway theater where The Music in Me is playing. “I could write a new song and have Brett choreograph it. Maybe the wedding party could perform it as we take the stage for the ceremony.” Spencer’s tone is teasing, but the reality is that while Spencer actually could appear in one of his musicals, I could not. “I don’t think I’m up for dancing up the aisle in a long white gown and heels.” Nor could I bear to have a crowd of people watch me try.
There’s no shortage of ideas, each one larger and splashier than the last. I’m grateful when the main course is served. As his rack of lamb is placed in front of him Spencer says, “As soon as I can clear my schedule we’re going down to the Outer Banks for a week, so that I can meet Lauren’s mother and see where she grew up. And Kendra’s already brought up the idea of having the wedding down there.”
“Oh, but that’s so . . .” Nancy stops herself just before her nose wrinkles. “I’ve certainly heard lovely things about the Outer Banks. I understand there are some very large, beautiful beach homes that can hold multiple families. But I don’t know how many of our friends or even family would be willing to travel down there. I guess it would depend on . . .” She cocks her head in my direction. “What date have you chosen, dear?”
The piece of lamb I’ve just put in my mouth doubles in size and threatens to choke me.
“We haven’t really discussed that yet,” Spencer says, and if my mouth weren’t still unpleasantly full of meat, I’d kiss him for not mentioning that he’s already tried to have this conversation. “There’s no need to pick a date right now, although as far as I’m concerned, the sooner, the better.” He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze and I think back to the discussion we did have about how to find a place to live that will work for both of us given that I prefer the Upper West Side and Spencer loves the West Village and that I need absolute quiet to work while Spencer’s work is often collaborative and noisy.
“Oh, of course. There’s no need to rush,” Nancy says. “There isn’t, is there?”
It takes me a moment to understand what she’s asking. When I do, I actually blush. Spencer rolls his eyes. “No, Mother. This is not a shotgun wedding. Though I wouldn’t be averse to a couple of rug rats of our own one day.”
I put down my fork. I just turned forty and while I’ve imagined menopause in the not-too-distant future, this is the first time I’ve let myself imagine having a child. Something I’d once dreamed of but more recently assumed was off the table. We eat for a few minutes in silence if you don’t count the stream of chatter from Matthew and Mariah or the number of times their utensils clatter to the floor.
“Do you have a dress style in mind?” Molly finally asks. “Vera Wang and Carolina Herrera have salons right here on Madison. God, I loved trying on wedding gowns. There is a certain exhaustion that sets in, but I was almost sorry when I fell in love with one and the search ended.”
“Yes, what a shame,” Mac teased. “But not nearly as big a shame as what they cost, given that you’re only going to wear it once.”
I sit up and realize this is a subject I can definitely weigh in on. “Actually, there’s a wedding dress in my family that’s been worn by three generations of Jameson women.”
“Really? How quaint.”
Spencer laughs at his mother. I love his laugh and the fact that he has no problem letting it loose even on his parents. “It’s not quaint. It’s brilliant. Is that the dress your mother’s wearing in the photo in your apartment?”
I nod as I think about the wedding picture of my mother and the father I never had a chance to know, which sits on my nightstand. Brianna looked beautiful in THE DRESS, too, only I was too hurt and angry to say so.
“But how can so many people wear the same dress?” Grace asks.
“Well, it gets altered slightly for each bride and the amazing thing is, it’s always looked perfect on whoever was wearing it,” I say. “It was originally designed for my great-grandmother’s cousin Lindy. Then my grandmother wore it. And so did her sister, my great-aunt Velda. Then my mother and some of her cousins.” I can feel the smile on my lips. “I used to dream of wearing it when I was a little girl. But until Spencer dropped to his knee the other night, I never really thought I would.” I meet Spencer’s eyes and feel a shimmer of exhilaration as I picture wearing it on our wedding day. My imagination tacks on a tremor of concern about my mother’s health that it refuses to let go of then adds another, more recurring worry. Maybe she’s having financial difficulty. She has refused to let me contribute financially even though I know that sometimes she only just gets by. The only things she’s never refused are the trips I’ve planned for us or an outright gift. I tend to buy her extravagant things that she would never buy for herself, so that she can either enjoy their frivolity or return them for a refund. “I’ll be trying it on while we’re down there.”
“Send pictures,” Molly says, enthused. “A vintage gown could be very cool.”
I don’t really listen to the rest of the conversation. Every day my shock at the surprise proposal lessens and my excitement at sharing the future with Spencer grows, but I haven’t been home in more tha
n a year. Now I’m going to have to go back and navigate the mess I’ve spent all these years trying to forget—with a fiancé in tow.
Dessert arrives. I consume the chocolate mousse without really tasting it while the conversation flows around me. I’m thinking about the trip back to Nags Head and wishing that I could rewrite the past and edit out all the mistakes I’ve made, like you can on a manuscript. And then there’s my mother’s request that we come as soon as we can, which probably means absolutely nothing, but has sent my imagination into overdrive.
As they say in my line of work, “the plot thickens.”
* * *
Bree
The Sandcastle
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Kendra asks.
We’re at her kitchen table with mugs of coffee and a plate of fresh muffins between us and I know that the all-nighters I’ve been pulling for the past week in an attempt to finally finish Heart of Gold are showing.
“I’m fine. Just a few too many late nights.” I shrug in an attempt to appear casual, but Kendra’s known me since I was five.
“You know you have nothing to prove to anyone.” She looks me in the eye and it’s all I can do not to respond, “Of course I do.” I have everything to prove to everyone, especially myself. Finishing before Lauren arrives is a nonnegotiable point of honor. I’d rather die than face her without a completed book to my name. “When do they arrive?”
“They’re flying into Norfolk Friday, April fifth. I expect them to be here mid to late afternoon.”
“Oh. Great.” Mostly because that means I have just over a week to force my characters to stop resisting my attempts to wrap up their story lines. I swallow back a semi-hysterical laugh, no doubt born of exhaustion, at the idea that the fault lies with anyone but me.
Kendra peels the paper off a chocolate chip muffin and pulls it apart. “I’m hoping you two can meet each other halfway and at least try to make peace.”
I want to say yes. I’d do almost anything for Kendra, but Lauren has never even come close to apologizing for appropriating Sandcastle Sunrise. She’s built a career off that book and she’s flaunted her success every chance she’s gotten. Now she’s coming down with her famous fiancé on some sort of victory tour. “I will if she will.”
Kendra sighs and sets the muffin down. “I know a little bit about the consequences of not repairing important relationships. And I can promise you it only leads to heartache and regret.” She’s looking right at me, but I’m not sure she’s talking about Lauren and me anymore. “Someone has to take the first step.”
I nod but I don’t promise. I’ve learned to accept who my parents are, but I will never be able to forget or forgive their total abdication and rejection. I once seriously considered Lauren my sister and assumed that relationship came with unconditional love, but I was wrong. There’s been way too much water under our emotional bridge for us to suddenly kiss and make up. Which is what we used to do when we were five.
“I’ll try to stay open,” I hedge, then get up and pour us each another cup of coffee. When I carry them back to the table I remember the customer who came in the store. “Speaking of Lauren, it was the weirdest thing.” I take a sip of coffee. “This man came in the other day and bought an entire set of Lauren’s books.”
“Hmmm.” An odd look steals into Kendra’s eyes. “Did he say why?”
“He just said that his wife had always been a fan.” I try to remember what it was about the man that had seemed familiar, but you can’t sit up night after night for days on end and expect your brain to fire on all cylinders. “He did seem curious about her. He asked if she ever came back to visit.”
“Oh.” Kendra’s tone is casual, but she’s started shredding the muffin into tiny pieces that lie scattered on her plate. “When was this?”
“It was right after book club ended, so that would have been last Wednesday. Just a couple of days after Lauren called to say she was engaged.”
“Is that right?” Her voice is so soft it’s almost as if she’s speaking to herself.
“Umm-hmmm. I didn’t think to ask where he was staying or if he was just passing through. I don’t even know if he walked over or drove.” Title Waves is just a block from the Manteo waterfront so lots of visitors simply wander in. I drain the remainder of my coffee in a few long swallows then stand and carry my mug to the sink. I need to get to the store, but the only place I’d really like to go is to my bed.
Kendra dumps the shredded muffin in the garbage and covers the ones we didn’t touch.
“Well, I guess you can’t really complain about a man doing something nice for his wife,” she says with a shrug. But when she puts her arms around me and pulls me into a hug, there’s an odd sort of tension in her arms.
“No,” I say as I head toward the kitchen door. There are a lot worse things a man can do than buy a gift for his wife. “No, you can’t.”
Nine
Bree
Manteo
“Mom!” Lily’s voice shouted up the stairs the next afternoon is loud and strident. “Nothing’s happening in the kitchen. What time is dinner?”
I look up from the computer screen and the accusing blinking cursor. It, too, has been shouting at me. Write something! Don’t just sit there! Stop staring at me and put some words on the page!
I’m used to “attitude” from Lily. After all, she’s sixteen and hormonal and certain the world revolves around her. My computer has never spoken to me like this before. It has always welcomed me, crooked a finger in my direction, and offered me an escape. But that was before I gave myself an actual deadline and began counting down words and pages that have to be completed in the time I have left.
I massage my temples in a futile attempt to make the pounding in my head go away. Then I run my fingers through hair that I haven’t looked at or thought about for days. I offer up a silent moment of gratitude that there’s no mirror up here.
“Dad’s out!” I yell back, and I’m careful not to think about where he’s been spending his evenings while I’ve been locked away up here. “Try the leftovers!”
“They’re gone! Finished them yesterday.” She gives up yelling and texts, We’re out of everything. The cupboard is bare!
There’s a stab of guilt. For a moment I consider getting up, getting dressed, and running to the grocery store. I’ve gone to great lengths to make sure my family, and especially my children, feel loved and cared for. In fact, it’s been my number one mission to be everything my parents weren’t. Which means being loving and most of all “present”—not just emotionally but physically.
Except Lily’s not a baby bird or a helpless child any longer and I have not abandoned her. She’s sixteen and has a driver’s license. She can take my car and drive to Food-a-Rama for groceries or stop for a sandwich at Subway or drive through McDonald’s. Or she can order a pizza. In fact, it occurs to me that she’s now capable of doing anything that I can do. And that I was not actually born with a cooking, cleaning, or laundry gene that no one else in this family possesses.
Busy here. Please pick up some groceries and something for dinner, I text back.
I picture the shock on her face and half expect to hear her pounding up the stairs to try to guilt or con me into coming down to solve her food emergency. But a few seconds later the front door slams. Feeling victorious I turn my thoughts back to the screen. Where Whitney, who has wanted nothing but Heath’s love since I created her, suddenly doesn’t seem so sure that she wants to marry him and move to Montana to help support his dream of becoming a park ranger. In fact, as I flip back and skim the stack of manuscript pages that I’ve printed out, I notice that although she’s still twenty-one she doesn’t really sound that young anymore. Somehow she’s evolved into someone who wants more than love, marriage, and children. And who may not want to walk away from her own dreams in order to help Heath fulfill his.
Shit.
I have no doubt other writers’ characters march across the page to the beat of their creator’s drum, becoming exactly who and what they’re expected to be. For about five seconds I wish I had someone who could tell me how to keep them in line and how I can counter this rebellion.
My head recommences its pounding as I berate myself for letting this happen. For having wasted fifteen years on one book that I can’t seem to finish and that will most likely never be published or read by anyone but me.
What is the point? Why do I even care anymore? My eyes blur with tears while I seriously consider quitting once and for all. Walking away and getting on with my real life. Only the idea of quitting is even more demoralizing than this manuscript that I’ve lost control of.
As usual I straddle the middle ground between quitting right now and forging ahead right now. I tell myself that I’m not really deflating like a balloon even though I can feel the air seeping out of my lungs and my body shrinking and folding in on itself. I tell myself I’m just tired. That if I lie down for a brief nap things will be clearer and more positive when I wake up.
I stumble over to the daybed, shove the books and papers off it, and curl up on my side in a distinctly fetal position. It’s a wonder I don’t stick my thumb in my mouth.
My last semiconscious thought is that I do know a writer who deals with these issues on a daily basis and that she could give me pointers on how to handle Whitney and tell me how to make myself finish this bloody manuscript.
That writer will be here soon. Only I’d cut out my tongue before I’d let her know that I needed her.
* * *
Kendra
The Sandcastle
It’s still dark, the sun not yet up, when my phone rings that Saturday morning. It takes me a while to find and answer it.