I found my way to Sophie’s suite on the third floor. I could smell hair spray, lotions, and various lady soaps and perfumes as soon as the door was opened a crack. A blonde, petite woman wearing knee-to-shoulder Spanx opened the door and smiled expectantly at me.
“Um, hi? I’m Morgan. I’m supposed to help with the jewelry?”
For a moment her expression was blank, then she released a wide smile that revealed bright white teeth.
“Oh! Kristie’s been waiting for you,” she said as she led me inside.
The living room area in the suite looked like the backstage of a beauty pageant; if beauty pageant contestants drank mimosas and listened to country music. Garment bags and gowns hung from the tops of doors and curtain rods. Three hairdressers had stations set up: one in the dining area, one by the breakfast bar, and one by the TV. Each was working on a bridesmaid.
And the nine bridesmaids were everywhere. They were hurrying around, wrapped in towels, bathrobes, or just wearing what looked like steel-belted and spandex shapewear.
“I think she’s in the bedroom,” the blonde woman said. She took a big gulp of air and shouted, “Kriiiisteeee.”
No one answered. The woman waved her hand toward the hallway.
“You can go on back,” she said before walking away toward the kitchen, humming along to the music and swaying her hips playfully as she walked.
I stood there for a moment, looking around helplessly. Which is worse, I wondered, standing around awkwardly with a bunch of half-naked strangers or going into a hotel bedroom unannounced?
The bedroom was at the end of the hallway. The door stood open, but I didn’t hear any voices. I fixed my gaze firmly on the carpet and called out “Um, hello?” as I approached the doorway, sure there would be wedding lingerie or exposed body parts in the room, neither of which I wanted to see.
“Come on in!” It was Hannah. I never thought I’d be so relieved to hear her voice.
Hannah squealed and ran toward me when I came into the room. Her hair was in massive curlers pinned all over her head. She wore an oversized white T-shirt that spelled “Bride” in tiny applique crystals.
“Morgan! Thank you for coming,” she said, as she hugged me more ferociously than a woman of her tiny stature should be able to.
“All right, all right,” I said giving her a playful push away from me. “No hugging when you’re pantless!”
“You’re so mean!” Hannah said with a giggle.
“You look good,” I said. And I meant it. Her face was a little fuller and her eyes were more lively than they’d been a week ago at the restaurant.
“You look good too, sister,” she said. She stepped back and narrowed her eyes at me. “Look at you. Something’s different. You have a new man, don’t you?”
I felt my cheeks start to burn. And I was speechless.
The other girl in the room, a tall brunette wearing a fluffy terrycloth bathrobe, grinned at me. “Oh yeah she does! Busted!” she said. “I’m Kristie—the dumbass who busted her necklace.”
She handed me a plastic sandwich baggie containing the remnants of her necklace. I sat down on the floor, pulled up a photograph of the necklace prototype on my phone, opened my small tackle box of supplies, and got to work.
“Here, baby,” Hannah said, holding two drinks toward me. She had a mimosa in her right hand and a bellini in her left. She grinned widely. “Pick!”
I took the bellini as she helped herself to a big gulp from the mimosa. Is this what it’s like to be in a sorority, I wondered. So far, not bad.
“Spill it, woman,” Kristie said.
Hannah turned toward me and winked.
So I did.
“He’s really sweet and polite and smart. He’s tall… good in bed…”
Before I realized what was happening, the necklace was repaired, more bellini flutes were drained, and I’d shared more than I wanted to about my and Lee’s sex life.
Kristie flopped back on the bed, careful to keep her newly manicured fingertips high in the air.
“I just love it,” she said. “When you’re with someone new and the passion is just, just all-consuming.”
Hannah turned toward her and sighed. “Me too.”
“You and Clint—you still have the passion, don’t you?” Kristie asked.
My spine bristled at the sound of his name.
“Passion?” Hannah repeated. Then she smiled. “Yeah. We’ve got plenty of that.”
I smiled, too. I believed her—because I wanted to.
I decided to hang out and drink a coffee and let the bellinis wear off before I attempted the snowy drive back home to get ready for the ceremony and reception.
One of the hairdressers had come back to the bedroom to start doing Hannah’s hair. As the woman worked, Hannah sat, holding the tiara delicately, turning it and watching the light meet the crystals.
After months of intermittent crying and other meltdowns, Hannah was surprisingly serene on her wedding day.
“Look at her,” I said to Kristie. “She’s so calm. Usually brides tend to be, you know, a nervous wreck.”
Kristie tilted her head slightly as she looked at Hannah. “Really,” she said. “The last wedding I went to, the bride spent her wedding morning throwing up.”
“You mean Jamie?” Hannah asked. “That was morning sickness, remember?”
They both burst into laughter. Hannah’s hairdresser scolded her for moving too much.
When Hannah finally calmed down she looked in the mirror and then over at me. “I guess I was always freaking out because it’s so hard to make all those decisions. Now it’s done. It’s all decided, so I’m not worrying anymore. I’m just going to take the plunge.”
I looked down, trying to hide my expression as her words reverberated in my mind. Was it really all decided? For Clint, too? Maybe some people are only capable of a certain amount of matrimonial confidence. Maybe he would grow into it.
22.
I felt like I was in a celebrity entourage as Tommy, Sophie, Lee and I stepped out of Tommy’s massive SUV and handed it over to the valet. At night, the Edgewater Resort seemed even more romantically festive than when I was there earlier in the day.
Lee and I held hands as we followed a stream of dressed-up couples and families to the hotel’s ballroom where Hannah and Clint were having their ceremony and their reception.
As we entered the ballroom, a bell choir played Christmas music. Chairs were arranged in rows, with the front of the room set up for the ceremony. There was a raised platform with lavish poinsettia arrangements. The windows behind the platform were decorated with garland, candles, and wreaths.
When Hannah walked down the aisle, escorted by her dad, I couldn’t help but let out a little cooing sigh. Sophie must have heard me because she twisted around to wrinkle her nose at me. It’s not that Hannah’s appearance didn’t warrant the fuss—it was just really out of character for me to get so caught up in the fanfare.
I smiled and shrugged at Sophie. I couldn’t help it, I was rooting for Hannah. She was a beautiful bride. On top of that, our jewelry and hair accessories looked stunning on Hannah and on the rest of the bridal party.
The ceremony was short. It followed the usual script, complete with the audience playing their part and sniffling at the right moments. Hannah and Clint both appeared sincere and in love. When they were exchanging vows it was easy, even obvious, to conclude that Clint’s behavior last night was simply a hiccup—an anomaly.
Waiters in bow ties and vests quickly brought out round tables, dressed them with red and white cloths and candle centerpieces, and arranged the chairs around them. Then it was time for a cocktail hour while the bridal party was photographed.
“Did I tell you Hannah’s buying the rights to her photographs and all copies?” Sophie asked. “So we can put the pictures on our web site as part of the catalog.”
“Does she ever loosen up?” Tommy asked the group as he jerked his thumb toward Sophie. “It’s all
work all the time.
I gave Sophie some side eye. She rolled her eyes at me when Tommy wasn’t looking. Yep, he was as good as gone.
“Nothing wrong with a little strategizing over cocktails,” Lee said cheerfully.
He and Tommy headed off for another plate of appetizers.
Sophie and I watched the photographer arrange Hannah and Clint and her family members in two rows at the altar.
“Is that Hannah’s niece?” Sophie asked about a toddler in pigtails and a floor-length white lace dress. “She’s adorable.”
“I don’t know,” I said. Maybe it was just the alcohol, but to me, my voice sounded far away, a little bit weak.
“You ok?” Sophie asked me. She knew all about Clint’s unwelcome visit the previous night.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m ok with the Clint and me stuff. But not with the Clint and Hannah stuff. I’m, like, worried for her.”
“Really?”
“I don’t want her to go through the same crap I went through with him. She doesn’t deserve to get her heart ripped out,” I said. I sighed and watched them smiling for the photographer. “I don’t think he’s changed.”
“Maybe he hasn’t,” Sophie said. “People usually don’t change. But do you honestly think it would be your place to tell her not to marry him?”
“No.”
“No, that wouldn’t go over very well at all,” Sophie said. “Besides, you don’t know what will happen. Maybe they’ll be happy. Or maybe it won’t work out but it’ll still be something important for her to go through. I’m sure there’s a reason she’s going down this road.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” I took a deep breath.
Sophie held up her glass of vodka and club soda, “All we can do is wish them the best.”
I clinked her glass with mine. “To happiness—everyone’s happiness.”
After dinner, I was waiting in a long line to the ladies room when I recognized the tall, bony profile and severe bun of the woman in front of me. It was Dr. Stanley from my MFA interview.
Normally, this would be a time when I avoid eye contact and probably walk away, roaming the hotel until I found another restroom. But this was a wedding reception—we would most likely cross paths again. Also, I’d had enough mixed drinks to make my social anxiety miraculously, or maybe tragically, disappear.
“Hi Dr. Stanley,” I said.
The woman seemed to recognize me immediately when she turned toward me. “Oh hello,” she said. “So, how do you know the happy couple?”
“Uh, well, I designed the bridal party’s jewelry,” I said, skirting the reality of how I knew Clint.
She explained that her husband was a close colleague of Hannah’s father. Then she exhaled in surprisingly dramatic fashion.
“So I assume you’ve received your letter by now,” she said, wearing an expression so apologetic it bordered on patronizing. “You gave a really strong interview, but we had so many candidates and the wait-listers from last year got priority.”
I could feel every muscle in my face going slack. A burning sensation started creeping up my neck, toward my ears and face. Letter? Had I been sent a rejection letter already?
I didn’t know what to say. I probably wouldn’t even be able to put together a coherent sentence. So I just nodded and let Dr. Stanley do the talking.
She shook her head. “We had to turn away so many wonderful candidates. I’m really sorry. You can always try for next year.”
That must mean I didn’t even make the waiting list? I tried to give an understanding smile and nod. Dr. Stanley was next in line.
“Well, have a good night,” she said as she walked toward an open stall.
I managed to croak out a pitiful “You, too.”
There was no warning before the tears started streaming from my eyes. I kept my head down and pretended to look for something in my purse, praying a stall would become available so I could engage in some shameful bathroom bawling, and so I could get out of sight before Dr. Stanley saw me falling apart.
Before any helpful ladies could ask me if I was ok, another stall opened up. I walked in as quickly as I could, latched the door behind me, and started unrolling toilet paper, building it into a massive puffball. I sat down, buried my face in the mass of toilet paper, and engaged in a full-blown, shameless, half-drunk pity party.
I texted Sophie, telling her what had happened.
She replied with a simple, “I’m sorry. You’re a wonderful artist.” She agreed to cover for me; she would tell Lee not to worry that I was gone for such a long time, I was just stuck in the ladies room line from hell.
The restroom was busy and noisy enough that my choked sobs were drowned out by the sound of flushing, running water, and bathroom chitchat.
On my way back to the ballroom, I decided to take a detour in the hope that I might give my face some time to become less pink and puffy. I wandered down a narrow hallway off to the side of the ballroom. I walked slowly, staring blankly at the portraits on the wall. It was some sort of hotel staff hall of fame. Every employee who had more than thirty years with the Edgewater was rewarded with a gold pin and their picture on the wall.
Sloppy, clomping footsteps came up behind me. I hoped my face was at least slightly normal looking as I gathered some courage to say a cheerful hello or at least give a pleasant nod. When I looked up, there was the last person I wanted to see. Clint.
Here we go, I thought. He’d see that I’d been crying, ask me what was wrong, and probably want to talk about last night. Typical Clint, somehow always managing to show up when I’m at my most fragile.
“Hey Morgan,” he said cheerfully without slowing his brisk walking pace. “Thanks for coming.”
Then he was gone around the corner.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the place where he passed without stopping. Then I knew I was ready to go back to my date and my friends.
I had completely missed the cake cutting and by the time I returned, the dance floor was packed, the lights were dimmed, and the mirror ball was working its magic on the room.
I decided not to tell Lee right away. I had told myself I didn’t want to be a party pooper by talking about it. But there was a part of me that was simply embarrassed that I had been rejected. Lee and I met when I was a prospective student, like him. I had a little flicker of worry that he might see me as less accomplished without the advanced degree. But deep down I knew he wasn’t nearly so superficial.
Lee had saved a piece of cake for me. After I finished eating, he took my hand and led me onto the dance floor. First we danced to old disco music. Then there was the chicken dance. Then some slow songs came on. He held me and we swayed together for three songs in a row.
I didn’t see Dr. Stanley the rest of the night. I didn’t see Clint either.
After the reception, the four of us went out to a diner for midnight breakfast. At some point I’d forgotten to worry about my talk with Dr. Stanley. When I did think of it, all the barbs were gone.
And, by default, all the nagging questions I’d had about pursuing the Master of Fine Arts Degree were gone too. When I no longer had the option of going back to school, I suddenly realized how much time and energy I’d wasted worrying about how I would pay for my degree, whether it would be worth the effort and money, whether I would do well, and what would happen with Candy Blue while I was busy with school.
“Well. Guess who doesn’t have to go to school in the fall?”
Lee’s gaze snapped up from his plate to my face. He looked hesitant for a moment.
I shrugged and gave him my lopsided “oh well” smile. He smiled, wrapped an arm around me, and gave me a little squeeze. I took another sip of coffee before resting my head on his shoulder and allowing my heavy eyes to close for just a moment.
23.
Lee had brought me a fast food breakfast wrap, but I was too nervous to eat. And a greasy egg concoction was the last thing my GI system needed today. So it sat negle
cted on the console of my Jeep while we stomped through a foot of mid-January snow. We loaded plastic totes full of paints, palettes, brushes, wooden frames, jars for water, and silk scarves into the vehicle.
It was about a forty minute drive to the Unionville Township Community Center, where a chapter of Keystone Survivors in Pink would be meeting for a luncheon and a first-ever arts workshop.
When we arrived, Isabelle Jackson, the leader of the support group that I’d met at the Hilltop crafts festival, was already there. She was setting up tables and chairs. One table had sandwiches, fruit, macaroni salad, and tea.
“Thank you so much,” she said after we’d said hello and she and Lee shook hands. “Everyone’s really been looking forward to this. We’ve never done a hands-on project like this before. I think it’ll be a good bonding experience.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Something about working with your hands and focusing on visuals can really get people to relax, open up. You should have heard some of the conversations that happened in workshop when I was in college.”
Isabelle told me she had nine members of the support group confirm they’d be coming today. So Lee and I set up eleven stations just in case. Each workstation had one silk scarf, a wooden frame to hold the scarf straight for painting, a palette with paints, brushes, a jar of water, and paper towels.
Isabelle looked around the room with satisfaction. Then she shook her head. “This probably wasn’t cheap for you to set up.”
I waved my hand. “The business has been doing well. We want to give back.”
I paced around nervously, checking the supplies and straightening chairs and tables, until the first few members of the group arrived. The first women walked into the community center in a group of three, chatting and smiling. They were all at least ten years older than me. I felt my heart pound and I looked at Lee. Why had I wanted to do this? To stand up in front of a group of people and talk?
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