by Wendy Wax
“You would do that.”
“Um-hmmm, it’ll give me something to do, considering how stuck I am with my own book and the fact that my career is currently in free fall.” She looks as surprised as I am at the admission. “Did I really just say that out loud?”
I nod.
“Holy shit.”
“What’s going on?”
“Oh, lots of things you’ll find out about once Heart of Gold is published.”
Despite the fact that she’s in the middle of talking about her own problems I get a shiver of excitement at the assumption that my novel will actually be published. “Like?”
“A slump in sales. Writing in a genre that’s not as hot as it was. The constant pressure to produce something even better than what you did before. Only it can’t be too different because the Queen of Beach Reads is not expected to write dark or allow things to end badly.”
I wait because I still recognize her pregnant pauses.
“Oh, and they’re planning to bring out an anniversary edition of Sandcastle Sunrise to help boost sales. They want to do a big launch at your store when it’s released next June.”
My own pause is equally pregnant. “When were you planning to tell me about that?”
“I was supposed to tell you while we were there but I couldn’t do it. I knew it would upset you and I . . . Well, for the first time it seemed like maybe we didn’t hate each other so much anymore. And then, of course, there were a few other things going on.”
I can’t help but smile at the understatement.
“Oh, and Say Yes to the Dress is interested in having me on the show.”
“Seriously? You’re going to be on Say Yes to the Dress?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Oh my God. I love that show. It’s one of the few programs Lily and I still binge-watch together. Even though I always feel slightly disloyal to THE DRESS while I’m doing it.”
“Yes, well. Trove wants me to do the show, choose a dress, and wear it in my wedding on the real beach where Sandcastle Sunrise is set, to kick off the launch of the anniversary edition.”
We just look at each other.
Our past, in all its messiness, passes before my eyes. If Lauren’s face is any indication she’s doing a quick stroll down memory lane, too.
“So,” she says. “In my experience good book news and bad book news call for champagne. And dessert.”
We drink an entire bottle of Dom Pérignon and share a huge slice of Peanut Butter Chocolate Lava Cake. When I ask for what might be the hundredth time whether she really liked Heart of Gold, she takes my phone, holds it up, and videos herself saying, “I, Lauren Jameson aka Lauren James, do solemnly swear that I have read Heart of Gold by Brianna Williams and have found it to be wonderful.”
I replay the video too many times to count and am grinning like a loon when she asks if I’m ready to go.
“Yes. And I don’t even care where we’re going,” I say as we get up from the table. “I’m just going to follow you around all day smiling.”
“There may be statutes against that,” she says even though she’s smiling, too. “Try not to look too happy. Everyone will know you’re from out of town.”
Thirty-six
Lauren
We’ve both got a good buzz on as I lead her through the park to Strawberry Fields, the first stop on what was originally conceived as a look-at-everything-you’ve-been-missing tour but that I’m now envisioning as a sincere attempt to share not only my favorite places, but my life.
We stand in front of a simple round black-and-white mosaic with the word IMAGINE set in its center. Fresh flowers left by fans are strewn across it and a hush hangs over the space and not just because it’s a designated quiet zone, which seems an oddly hopeless request here in New York.
I point up through the trees to the Dakota, where John Lennon and Yoko Ono lived, and where he was shot, then to my building a few blocks away from it.
“I come here all the time. Sometimes I sit for hours just staring at that one word. It’s like a command, you know?”
The ringtone on my cell phone breaks the silence. Surprised to see Spencer’s photo on my screen, I answer.
“How are things going?” he asks.
“Good. Great, really.” I glance over at Bree.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I just got a text from Daria, Brett’s friend at Kleinfeld’s.”
“Oh.”
“She had a last-minute cancellation and has a two-and-a-half-hour window open if you can make it.”
“Oh, but . . .” I look down at my jeans and sneakers. My hair’s pulled back into a ponytail and I don’t remember putting on much more than mascara and lipstick. “I’m not really dressed for it.”
“Well, since you were going to fly in there under the radar, maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
“Right. I was just going to walk Bree through the park and the neighborhood . . .”
“Call me crazy, but I was thinking this might be a bit of divine intervention. Unless you think she’d hate having to go with you to try on wedding gowns?”
I glance at Bree, who has already confessed her love of the show. I reach for her hand and practically yank her out of the park. “Tell Daria we’re on our way.”
* * *
“Don’t let me forget to take plenty of pictures at Kleinfeld’s to text to Lily,” Bree says as we pile into a taxi. “There’s no way she’ll ignore those.”
“What’s going on?”
“Lily blames both of us for Clay’s behavior. She’s gotten so touchy. Like a tinder keg waiting to go off. I’m not sure what will happen if things don’t work out with Clay.” She sighs. “She’s not responding to my texts, and I’ve tried to call her, too, but she won’t pick up.”
I flush at the similarity of Lily’s and my reaction to our mothers. Only I’m not sixteen. “Have you talked to Clay?”
“We’ve texted. He claims everything’s fine. But he always says that. And I’m afraid it’s just because he’s not paying attention.”
“Well, you’ll be home tomorrow. Hopefully, you can sort it all out then.”
When there’s no response, I look up. Bree’s staring down at her hands. I fill the silence with, “Title Waves seems to be doing well—that’s not easy in today’s world. And clearly all of your customers worship you.” I flash back to their excitement over Bree’s accomplishment. They’ve always believed in her and her writing talent while I required proof.
“There are a lot more people who worship you,” Bree points out in a tone surprisingly lacking in envy.
“Less than there used to be. And mostly from afar.”
“Spencer looks pretty up close and personal to me,” she says.
“That’s true.”
“And he’s clearly in love with you.”
“He does have remarkably good taste, doesn’t he?”
“Ha!” she retorts.
“Ha, yourself!”
* * *
“I can’t believe we’re really here.” Bree is out of the taxi and accosting a passerby—not always the best idea in the Big Apple—begging her to take a photo of us in front of Kleinfeld before I’m all the way out onto the sidewalk.
We pose with our arms around each other directly in front of the double glass entry between two canopied display windows. “Please make sure you can read the Kleinfeld signs!”
We smile big smiles as the stranger, who is also a tourist and therefore doesn’t disappear with the camera or tell Bree where she can shove the signs, complies.
As eager as Bree is to get inside, she thanks the woman profusely then scrolls through the photos and texts the best to Lily. Her smile wavers slightly when there’s not an immediate response.
“Don’t worry.” I link my arm through hers. “I’m sure you’ll hear back.
”
Daria, who has the long-limbed grace of the dancer she is and a truly beautiful smile, is waiting for us in the elegantly appointed lobby with its spotlit silver signage, marble-topped reception desk, and Corinthian columns, all of which Bree photographs.
“I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.” She leads us through the dress-filled sales floor to a large, equally elegant dressing room. “Spencer gave me some input on what you might like and I’ve pulled a few things to get us started. But I want you to tell me if you have any other styles or specific designers you’d like to see.”
She opens the door and we get our first glimpse of the gowns she’s selected. Some are sleeveless, several are strapless; their shapes, shades of white and cream, and decorative details differ but each has a simple, classic, sophisticated elegance.
“Oh,” Bree breathes, holding up her phone to photograph them. “They’re so beautiful.”
“They are, aren’t they?” I’ve never even imagined wearing anything other than THE DRESS and I’m feeling slightly guilty at how much I like these.
“Your fiancé has stellar taste,” Daria says. “Now that I’ve seen you and your reaction I’d like to pull a few more gowns. Would you like some champagne?”
I stand for a moment after she’s gone, contemplating the gowns. I’m trying to shove away the images of my mother helping me into THE DRESS at the Sandcastle and everything that followed, when Bree steps up beside me.
“I believe THE DRESS will forgive us.” She runs her fingers down the creamy satin of a strapless Audrey Hepburn–worthy sheath. “It would be criminal not to try these on. And even worse not to enjoy it.”
“Agreed,” I say, laying my hand on top of Bree’s as if we’re making a pact. “This is an exploratory mission. We need to make the most of it.”
Daria returns with two more breathtaking gowns. When the champagne arrives she asks Bree to pour then helps me into the first dress. The halter neck leaves the back open to just below my waist, after which it skims over my hips before widening.
“I wouldn’t have thought to ask for a mermaid silhouette,” I admit as I twirl in front of the mirror.
“I know,” Bree says as she snaps a photo. “But I love how it hugs your body and emphasizes your curves.”
The next is a strapless ball gown with a drop waist and a taffeta skirt.
“Oh my God. I love those long white gloves with that dress,” Bree says. “And that tiara!”
She snaps another photo and pours more champagne.
I try on a one-shoulder bell-shaped gown embellished with crystals, a high-necked halter, and a short-sleeved lace number with a high-low hem.
“Ohhhh . . .” Bree sighs when I stand in front of her in the long satin sheath with the slit up one side. “I know I should be jealous that you look so great in everything, but . . . I can’t because . . . you look so great in everything.”
“You do,” Daria says as she helps me step out of the sheath and into an A-line with off-the-shoulder long sleeves of illusion lace. “Excuse me for a minute. I need to take a call.”
When she leaves Bree pours the last of the champagne. A mischievous look I haven’t seen in years comes over her face.
“How many times would you say we watched Pretty Woman?” Bree asks.
“At least a thousand,” I say, even though I’m pretty sure that’s a conservative estimate.
“This is not Rodeo Drive and Daria couldn’t be more helpful,” Bree says. “But the whole time we’ve been here there’s this line that keeps going through my head.”
We grin at each other. In unison and without hesitation we say, “Big mistake. Huuuuge. I have to go shopping.”
I reach for my phone. “Hey, Siri,” I say. “Play ‘Pretty Woman.’”
Bree grabs a wooden hanger and taps it against a clothing rod in time to the song’s opening drum licks.
Ray Orbison’s voice fills the dressing room. We automatically bob our heads.
Bree puts down her “drumstick” and grabs the empty champagne bottle while I throw imaginary dressing room curtains aside and twirl and strut—as much as you can in a designer wedding gown and heels.
She holds the bottle to her lips and then to mine as we sing our hearts out. In this moment we’re sixteen again moving in tandem, bumping hips, raising our arms over our heads as we fall into the dance moves we choreographed a lifetime ago.
Bree’s smile is ready and her laughter is light. Our interactions have been so few and so fraught for so long that I’ve forgotten this side of her. Or perhaps I’d just blocked it so I could bear to be without her.
“Merccccyyyyy!” We both lean into our “microphone” to give the word extra emphasis then prance in a circle, belting out the lyrics with everything we’ve got.
We’re doing a final twirl, pretending to drum the last song licks when the dressing room door opens. Daria slips inside. “Nice choreography.” She smiles. “You two have some moves.”
We laugh and take mock bows.
“Just wanted to make sure I could dance in this gown,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “You know, at the reception.”
“Yeah,” she laughs. “I can understand that.”
“It looked highly danceable to me,” Bree adds with an almost straight face.
“Definitely danceable,” I agree. “I really appreciate you making this happen today,” I say as Daria helps me out of the off-the-shoulder gown. “There are so many great choices. I’m going to need to give this all some thought.”
Bree and I are still smiling when we climb into a cab for the ride back to the Upper West Side.
THE DRESS and my mother arise in my mind. As if she’s following my train of thought—and at this point maybe she is—Bree says, “You do know that your parents are dating, right?”
My parents. “Are they really?” I can’t quite picture it. “It’s so weird to think of them that way. As a couple, I mean.”
Bree sighs. “You need to speak to her, Lauren. My parents abandoned me and to this day they’ve never asked to be forgiven or even realize they’ve done anything to be forgiven for.” She pauses, but only, it turns out, to take a breath. “Kendra has always put you first your entire life. She loves you unconditionally. She did what she did to try to protect you and Jake and his family. Think how hard that must have been when it seems pretty clear she loved him. Has probably always loved him. And could certainly have used his help and support—both financially and emotionally. Now when you finally have a chance to have both of your parents in your life are you really going to turn your back on your mother?”
Not too long ago (possibly even before brunch this morning) I might have labeled Bree’s comments a tirade, but her concern is apparent and there’s no doubting her sincerity.
Has Bree always been nicer than I am? More forgiving? “I hear you,” I say finally. “But I keep thinking about how different my life would have been if my father had been a part of it.”
“But he is now,” Bree says. “And so is your mother.” She draws a breath and I realize how carefully she’s choosing her words. “I don’t want to spoil what’s been a really great day, but at least from where I’m sitting it doesn’t look as if your life turned out so badly.”
When I don’t argue she continues, “I was just thinking. Maybe the Queen of Beach Reads could change direction if she wanted to. Reinvent herself. Or write something entirely different under another name. Like Stephen King, or Dean Koontz, or Agatha Christie, or . . . Lemony Snicket.”
I manage to stop before the automatic knee-jerk protest. Bree’s right. There are plenty of ways to change course if I want to. I can even afford to take a break to figure it out if I choose. I feel a burst of excitement and relief at the possibility. Why have I been so afraid of even considering a change? “That’s not entirely crazy.”
“Gee, than
ks.”
We smile at each other. Genuine smiles. With nothing hidden or held back.
I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have someone who’s known me so long and so well and who’s there to support me. I’ve given up so much more than I let myself realize.
* * *
Back on the Upper West Side I have the cabdriver drop us off in front of my favorite ice cream place, Emack & Bolio’s. Although I lobby for their famous ice cream pizza, we end up with ice cream cones that we lick as we amble over to Riverside Drive so that I can show Bree my favorite view out over the Henry Hudson Parkway to the Hudson River itself.
It’s late in the afternoon when the sky begins to darken. Rain clouds appear in the distance.
“We could walk down to Columbus Circle and the Time Warner Center. Or I could see if there’s a recital at Juilliard.” I take out my cell phone prepared to Google.
“I think I’ve gone as far as I’m going today,” Bree replies. “I’m whipped, but God, I can’t believe you live right in the center of everything.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty great.”
“I only had the vaguest idea of what I gave up by not coming to New York with you like we planned,” she says softly. “And once I’d made the decision I guess I didn’t want to know.”
“Sometimes evasion and denial are our best defenses,” I say, thinking about my reaction to my mother and my initial reluctance to acknowledge Bree’s talent and hard work. “Let’s go home and chill. If we get hungry later we can order in.”
Back at my place we settle on the couch. My limbs are loose. My jaw aches pleasantly and I realize we’ve been talking and laughing for the better part of a day, which is something you can’t do with everyone.
Later I order a pizza from Patsy’s and it doesn’t occur to me to ask what Bree wants on it. We ate our first slices of pepperoni with extra cheese and sausage when we were about six years old and it remained our favorite through college.
When our pizza arrives, we carry it and a bottle of wine to the living room and set them on the coffee table. We continue to talk while I pour wine in glasses and she puts pizza slices on paper plates.