“Okay, now you can congratulate me,”
I prompted.
“Congratulations.” Connor gave me a hearty pat on the back. “You are officially no longer a hostess. Which brings me to my next point: What are you doing this weekend?”
I stared at him, trying to gauge his intent. Was he asking me out?
“I’ll get the new manager to cover Friday night here, and you and I can ditch this hole-in-the-wall and go celebrate your new design career.” He looked at me expectantly.
He was asking me out. But…
“But you’re not interested in me that way,” I insisted.
“Not when you’re engaged and working in my restaurant, no. But now that you’re single and quitting, it’s a whole other ball game.” He waited a few seconds while I considered this. “Or not.”
Apparently, today was National Whiplash Karmic Reversal Day and no one had marked my calendar.
Also by Beth Kendrick
My Favorite Mistake
Exes and Ohs
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
DOWNTOWN PRESS, published by Pocket Books
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Beth Macias
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-1650-7
ISBN-10: 1-4165-1650-6
DOWNTOWN PRESS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Designed by Jaime Putorti
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
For Barbara,
for everything
Many thanks to:
Designer Kelly Nishimoto, who explained how to make a corset, where to shop in West Hollywood, and what, exactly, makes haute couture so haute.
All the friends who told me hilarious and horrifying stories about trying to make it in the Industry. You know who you are, chicas!
My editor, Amy Pierpont, who believes in me and challenges me and keeps me supplied with scary books about serial killers.
Chandra Years, best RWA roommate ever.
My husband, Larry, who makes a mean eighteen-dollar martini.
Susan Mallery, my fellow crazy dog lady.
Plus Megan McKeever, Irene Goodman, Anne Dowling, Kresley “Party Girl” Cole, Catherine Johnson, Meg Higgins, and the Pocket Books Art Department.
1
I knew what was coming as soon as he handed me the teddy bear. White and fluffy, clutching a little red satin heart, this was the harbinger of Kevin’s marriage proposal. No matter how I wanted to deny it, I knew, deep in the pit of my stomach, that the moment of truth had finally arrived.
“I have a surprise for you,” he murmured, sitting down next to me on the inn’s lace-canopied bed and pressing the bear into my hands.
“Oh…” I conjured up a shaky smile and tried to gaze at the bear with a reasonable facsimile of adoring, childlike whimsy. “It’s so…cute.”
“I’m glad you like it, but there’s more,” he said, his eyes gleaming with intensity. “This bear has a secret.”
Oh no. “Oh yeah?”
“Look closely.”
It could not have been more obvious that the red satin heart had been gutted and resewn; from the garish pink thread and large, uneven stitches, I’d say he did the handiwork himself. But in a desperate bid to buy some time, I feigned bewilderment, turning the bear upside down and examining the manufacturer’s tag, the back of the head, the red-lined ears.
“Aw, sweetie.” My voice came out thin and scratchy. “It’s adorable. Listen, do you want to go grab some dinner at that little café we saw down the street?”
“In a minute.” He turned the bear back over and placed my fingers on the red heart. “Look at this.”
“It…it looks like…”
“There’s something in there.” His face lit up as he squeezed my hand. “Something special.”
“Let me go grab my nail scissors.” I jerked free and dashed into the hotel room’s tiny bathroom. After splashing some cold water on my face, I caught my reflection in the mirror above the sink—a wild-eyed, ashen-faced woman who’d just lived through a car crash or a bank robbery. I couldn’t let Kevin see me like this. He’d be devastated.
But when I emerged from the bathroom, manicure scissors in hand, he didn’t seem to notice my distress. He just smiled and thrust the bear back into my arms. “Open it.”
Each severed stitch brought me closer to the inevitable. Snip. Snip. Remember to exhale.
I could feel his hot breath in my ear, accelerating each time another stitch gave way.
Snip. Snip. The room started to spin.
Snip. The heart burst open, spilling polyurethane stuffing and a diamond ring into my lap. Before I had time to put together an appropriate response, he dropped to one knee and slipped the ring onto my finger. “Rebecca June Davis, I love you and I’ll love you forever. Will you marry me?”
I looked at his face, bathed in hope and pride. I looked at our suitcases by the door, already unpacked since we were going to be at the bed-and-breakfast for three more days. And then I looked at the ring, already on my finger, and said the only thing I could say: “Um. Yes?”
2
Holy shit.” My sister Claire called from Los Angeles the instant she heard the news. “He did what?”
“He took me to a bed-and-breakfast in Sedona, sat me down and gave me a teddy bear with a ring hidden in the—”
“Gag. That ain’t right. Do you hear me? That ain’t right.”
“I hear you but, you know, it’s Kevin.”
My boyfriend—scratch that, my fiancé—had given me a stuffed animal for every major celebratory occasion since we’d started dating my junior year of college. Birthdays, anniversaries, Christmases…my closet was a veritable menagerie of plush penguins, lions, frogs, and of course, bears. Which would have been winsome had I been the kind of girl whose hobbies involved Disney collectibles or Barbies still sealed in their original boxes. But I wasn’t. And I never had been. My interests lay more along the lines of flipping through Australian Vogue, fabric shopping, and ransacking flea markets for vintage Dior pajamas. I suppose he kept hoping that, given sufficient exposure to Gund, I would start oohing and ahhing over the sorts of things he thought females should ooh and ahh over, but so far, nothing doing.
“Let me tell you a little story,” Claire said. “I once dated a guy who had no money but was really fun and good-looking—this was when I was still young enough to have the luxury of dating poor people, you understand. When Valentine’s Day rolled around, would you like to know what Mr. Perfect brought over to my apartment?”
I sighed. “A teddy bear?”
“A teddy bear holding a CD. And would you like to know what was on this CD?”
I smiled for the first time all day. “Michael Bolton songs?”
“Worse. It was a recording of him. Singing Billy Joel’s ‘She’s Always a Woman.’ ”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. And you know what I did?”
We said it in unison: “Dumped his sorry ass.”
Which was what Claire had done to all her boyfriends until Andrew King came along. Because, along with looks, charm, and social connections out the ying yang, he did have lots of money.
“Life is short,” my sister informed me. “I don’t have time to date Cheesy McCheester, mayor of Cheeseville.”
“So what are you saying? That I shouldn’t have said yes?” Part of me wanted to tell her about the despair that had been welling up inside of me since I saw that ring shoved onto my finger—the crying jags in the shower, the loss of appetite. (The special “celebrity weddings” issue of People had induced hyperventilation. I’d had to rummage through the kitchen drawers for an actual brown paper bag.) “Because now that you bring it up, I have to tell you, I’m having a few—”
She cut me off. “I’m willing to let it slide this one time, but only because it’s Kevin, a.k.a. Old Faithful.”
“Yeah.” My shoulders slumped. “I guess.”
After years of dithering aimlessly through adolescence and early adulthood and then moving back in with my parents after college (oh, the shame!), I still didn’t know exactly what I wanted out of life. But I knew what I did not want: to get married to Kevin.
The problem was, I had no concrete reason for this. He didn’t cheat on me, didn’t beat me, didn’t stay out all night gambling away his rent money at the craps table. He was perfect husband material who wanted kids and already had significant retirement savings. He had purpose and direction in life, and everyone agreed I was lucky to have someone like him to steer me along the path toward suburban prosperity.
“But do you really think I’m ready to get married?” I asked.
“Of course you’re ready to get married. What else are you going to do with your life?”
“Well…what about my design career? Phoenix isn’t exactly the next Milan.”
“Oh please,” she scoffed. “If you were going to do something with your sewing, you would’ve done it by now.”
I set my jaw and reminded myself that Claire could not possibly appreciate the endless hours of research, instruction, and practice I’d endured in order to start making my own design patterns. “It is more than ‘sewing.’ My cutting and seams are practically up to couture standards.”
“I know. That’s why I decided to let you make my wedding dress.”
“Let me? You begged me!” And she’d been a pain in the ass about it, too, constantly changing her mind and demanding first an empire waist, then an A-line silhouette, before finally settling on a simple strapless sheath.
“Fine. Whatever. I’m just saying, don’t blame Kevin because you’re too scared to strike out on your own. We had this exact same conversation when you decided to go to Arizona State instead of the Rhode Island School of Design, remember?”
“Okay, that was about scholarship money, but this…”
“This is about a ring in a teddy bear. I hear what you’re saying, but I still don’t see you getting on a plane to New York or Los Angeles. I’ve told you a million times you should come stay with me out here, but it’s one excuse after another. At least now you have someone to take care of you.”
“But…”
“And as long as we’re talking weddings, do me a favor and don’t start planning yours until I’m done with mine.”
“Don’t worry. We haven’t even set a date yet.” Although Kevin was already poring over the calendar, circling Saturdays in June and July.
“Good. Because in just six short days, I’ll be walking down the aisle at the Beverly Hills Hotel and I don’t want anyone thinking about anything except how perfectly perfect my wedding is.”
“ ‘Perfectly perfect’?”
“That’s right. The cake, the flowers, the vows, the canapés—they’re all going to be perfect. Everything. All day long. Perfect.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t you think you’re setting your expectations a little high?”
“Nope. I just know what I want. You’ve heard of Bridezilla? I make Bridezilla look like Shirley fucking Temple. And it’s not like I’m expecting Mom and Dad to foot the bill—Andrew loves to spoil me and who am I to deny him? So you just make sure my dress looks perfect and don’t start worrying about your own wedding till next month. Oh, and congratulations or whatever.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said dryly.
“Hey, you want warm fuzzies, call Gayle. She got my share of the Care Bear DNA.”
Gayle, our oldest sister, now had several fancy degrees and a dark-paneled office to go along with her occupation (psychotherapist), but she had always been the mediator of our family—a good listener, a good communicator, endlessly supportive.
Which was why it was odd that I hadn’t heard from her yet about my newly engaged status.
“Maybe I will call Gayle,” I said.
“Fine, but first put Mom on the phone. She e-mailed me a photo of her dress for the rehearsal dinner and it’s mauve. Mauve! If I’ve told her once, I’ve told her a million times, mauve is not the same as lavender! Why is it so hard for you people to get your act together? I don’t ask for much, but…”
I put the phone down and headed off to find my mother. Let her deal with Mauve Watch 2006. I had problems of my own to tackle.
“We’re buying a house,” Kevin announced.
I choked on my final sip of white wine and signaled the bartender at Park Wines for a refill.
“Becca? Are you all right?” Kevin placed a hand on my shoulder, then turned to the approaching bartender. “She needs a glass of water.”
“I’m okay,” I croaked. “Really. No water needed.” I scanned the list of tonight’s offering and decided. “I’ll try a glass of the Johannesburg Riesling, please. And keep ’em coming.”
Kevin frowned. “I don’t think you’ll like the Riesling. It’s too sweet; you prefer drier wines. Why don’t you stick with what you already know you like?” He nodded to the bartender. “She’ll have another glass of the Fumé Blanc. Thanks.”
I smiled sweetly until the bartender was out of earshot, then whirled back to Kevin. “Darling. I’ve already had the blanc. I want to try something new.”
“But I’m telling you that you won’t like something new,” he explained patiently. “You’ll say it’s too sweet and then you’ll have wasted seven bucks. Just have the blanc again.”
“I don’t want the blanc again. I want to try something new.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “Why are you being like this?”
“Like what?”
“Difficult. Contrary. Are you upset about something?”
This was it: the perfect lead-in to tell him how I really felt. I could slip free of the paralyzing dread brought on by my new diamond ring. Taking a deep breath, I put down my wineglass. “Yes, actually, I am a bit upset.”
He sat back on his barstool and stacked his hands under his chin with indulgent, almost paternal concern. “What’s going on?”
I glanced down at the ring. “Here’s the thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“I just…sometimes I just feel like I’m not…ready.”
“For what?”
I flung out my arms. “For any of this! A ring, a husband, and now a house?”
He nodded. “You’re surprised about the house.”
“Of course! A house is huge! That’s like a thirty-year financial commitment! And that’s nothing compared to the commitment of getting mar—”
He jumped right in to solve my problems and, in so doing, cut me off before I could get to the biggest one of all. “Don’t worry, I’ve got everything figured out. You know I wouldn’t risk our financial future if we weren’t ready. One of the guys in my office is married to a mortgage broker and I’ve already sat down with her—”
The choking started up again. “You already spoke to a mortgage broker? When?”
“A few months ago. I didn’t want to tell you until after I’d given you the ring. I like to do things in the right order. But now that we’re engaged…” He leaned over and gave me a quick kiss. “Surprise, sweetie. I love you.”
“But you…you…”
“And that’s not all.”
“It’
s not? Where the hell is that wine?” I demanded, just a tad louder than I’d intended.
“Your blanc.” The bartender materialized right on cue. I snatched the stemmed glass from him and gulped.
“See?” Kevin seemed pleased. “You like it. I told you to stick with the blanc.”
I fought the urge to start screeching and tearing my hair out. “Just tell me the rest of your news, okay?”
“Okay. I met with this mortgage broker and she pulled my credit rating—which, of course, was excellent—and she said that, given the disparity in our income, we could probably qualify for a home loan with just my salary.”
I flushed. “You know the boutique gig is just temporary. As soon as I can find something better in my field, I’ll be making more, but there’s not much work in fashion design locally so—”
“I know, sweetie, don’t feel bad.” He patted my hand. “Besides, we’re better off budgeting with just my income because once we have kids…” His grin widened.
I chugged the rest of the wine. “Yeah?”
“Well, you’ll be home with them, right?” He shifted in his seat, his grin wilting. “We’ve talked about this. It’s part of the ten-year plan.”
Oh God. Again with the Kevin Bradley Ten-Year Plan, a plan I’d agreed to three years ago when I was fresh out of college and had even less direction in life than I did now. Wedding, house, kids, careers—he’d plotted it all out in black and white with absolute confidence. He’d made it sound so simple; we’d never have to struggle. I’d always gone along with the idea of staying home to raise our two children (who would be spaced precisely four years apart, as recommended by the child development textbooks Kevin had consulted), but suddenly, the idea of giving up my miserable job—a retail peon at a third-rate boutique where the owner kept reneging on her promise to start stocking my designs—made me want to impale myself on my pinking shears.
And he’d saved the best for last. “…so I put a down payment on a plot of land. I want you to come look at it tomorrow.”
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