Enough. Back to reality, back to the present. My mother’s day.
The rabbi was explaining the significance behind the Jewish tradition of breaking the glass. “But that’s not exactly kosher, since we are on a public beach,” he joked.
Indeed, the wedding site was open for all eyes to see, and the music and pageantry had attracted many beachgoers’ attention. Some loitered at a respectful distance to watch the ceremony.
The rabbi went on to explain that in a new twist on the old tradition, Ernie and my mother would both don shoes and each break a glass wrapped in cloth on a wood platform. My mother had chosen a beautiful sea glass blue, while Ernie’s was more of the green beer bottle variety. She would then add her colored glass to a vase of sand and he would add his to a separate vase, and finally they would combine the two colors, layer by layer, in one large vase to show the blending of their two lives.
I noticed a new spectator lingering on the sidelines, down the beach. He was tall, with chiseled features and shoe-polish black hair. Wearing white pants with a red-and-white Hawaiian shirt, he looked just like Elvis in Blue Hawaii. At any moment, I expected a big movie camera to roll up beside him and for someone to yell “Cut!” He looked that much the part.
But instead, another man stepped up, skin as cocoa dark as Blue Hawaii Elvis’s was white. Either he was a pimp or he was crazy, decked out in a flamboyant white rhinestone jumpsuit and big dark shades.
And the unmistakable flip of a pompadour.
I turned to see if my mom or Ernie had noticed the uninvited guests in their strange choice of beach attire, but they were focused on pushing rings over each other’s knuckles.
I glanced at Dani. Her eyes widened, and I traced her gaze. A G.I.-Era Elvis had joined the ranks.
Dani always did like a guy in uniform.
“Oh, my God,” she mouthed at me.
I shrugged my shoulders, but my stomach was flipping like the pancakes from my Eighteen-Wheeler breakfast back in Chicago. I quickly glanced left and right.
“Why is there an army of Elvis impersonators at your mom’s wedding?” Dani said in a hushed tone.
“I think . . .”
Out from behind the G.I. stepped a perfect miniature replica with a dazzling grin, decked out in Elvis’s stunning peacock suit.
“I think they’re here for me,” I whispered.
A semicircle of Elvii was forming off to the far right. The wedding guests were beginning to take notice now. Vegas-Era Elvis, Gold Lamé Elvis—even a female Elvis in a sexy replica of the King’s black jumpsuit was present and accounted for. I stood on my tiptoes and craned my neck, trying to see if anyone else was coming up the lone stretch of beach behind them.
My mom and Ernie stomped on the glasses. Dani gave a yelp. Her tiny purse, tucked under her armpit, was vibrating.
“Mazel tov!” everyone yelled, including a few of the Elvii. I got separated from Dani in the melee of mazel, everyone throwing arms up and kissing and hugging.
“Dani! What’s it say?” I called, as the rabbi went in for the bear hug.
“Remind you!”
Her voice was drowned out when my cousin Miriam began singing a rousing rendition of the celebratory “Siman Tov,” and was rallying everyone to join in and clap along.
“Remind me what?”
Dani pushed through the crowd, her hand catching mine. “Behind you! The text says ‘Look behind you.’”
Behind me was the ocean.
And at the edge of it was a guy in a matchy-match suit.
“Laney, darling,” my mother called out.
“Mom, I just . . . I gotta . . .” I pushed my flower into her hand, “I love you, congrats, hold that thought.”
Noah had his suit jacket slung over one shoulder and his shirtsleeves rolled up. But his tie was intact, and he was tracing on the dark flat sand with the toe of his red Converse high-top sneaker.
The wind teased his dark curls, and his hand held that ever-present phone. Stepping back, he admired his handiwork: a large heart etched in the sand. The bubbling surf flirted dangerously close to it.
I ran to him as fast as my long silk dress would allow, my bare heels digging down deep in the sand. He caught me up in his strong arms, pressing me to him.
Over his shoulder, I saw his phone impale the sand where it dropped, and I felt my feet leave the ground as he swung me.
“I see you picked up a couple of souvenirs in Vegas,” I murmured. His neck smelled of limes and sunshine.
“Just a couple of good-luck charms,” he replied. The Elvii were strutting down the beach toward us.
“Oh, so now you believe in luck?” I chided. “What happened to strategy? And product placement?”
“I still believe in all that, too,” Noah said, gently setting me down. “And fate. And being in the right place at the right time.”
Reaching into the pocket of his suit pants, he pulled out something round and pressed it into my palm, keeping his hands cupped over mine.
“Blow on it and make a wish.”
“Another one of your magic tricks?”
“Go on.”
I pursed my lips and blew lightly on our hands. He peeled his away from mine. Resting on my palm was a clear plastic bubble, and inside was the biggest diamond solitaire ring I had ever seen . . . faceted from a material I knew well.
“It’s not for the mistakes,” he said, dropping to his knees so he could pop open the plastic case and present the eraser ring to me. “I know we can’t erase our pasts. But I thought it might come in handy when you start sketching the future. The highlights, the lowlights . . .”
The Elvii had gathered around the heart in the sand, surrounding us.
“I brought them all here as my witnesses—I’m not asking you to marry me just yet, Laney. But promise me you’ll lay over with me somewhere, sometime soon?”
“Where to?” I asked.
“Anywhere you want. You did promise to kiss me on the return flight, and I’m going to hold you to that.”
Noah
HOME
I twirled Laney around on the parquet dance floor under the huge tent overlooking the ocean to her guilty pleasure music: Billy Joel. “I picked this one,” I murmured in her ear. “For both of us.” The song was “You’re My Home,” and the lyrics were all that much sweeter as she sang them in my ear.
We continued slow dancing, long after the song had stopped and a rousing version of “Hot, Hot, Hot” began to play.
“Laney! Noah!” Dani squealed, “Conga line, come on!”
She had her fingers hooked into Tim’s belt loops, and a long, hot pink feather boa around her neck. Apparently the DJ had brought a lot of props for the party. Laney’s mom was leading the charge, with a sparkly tiara on her head, and Ernie was right behind, with huge plastic shades on.
The happy couple had been gracious enough to invite all of my bachelor party, the Elvii included, to join the merriment.
“Ess, ess, kindela,” Laney’s mom had said as the food came out. I assumed it was similar to my mother insisting “Mangia, mangia,” when I brought friends home.
“Because we don’t have enough food . . . said no Jewish mom ever,” Laney had teased, offering me a forkful of her mother and Ernie’s red velvet wedding cake. Its icing was a cinnamon butter cream—a sweet, decadent, and hot combination, just like the girl from seat 3B on Flight 1232.
“No feathers near this guy,” Laney called now.
She smiled up at me and added for my ears only, “Except my feathers, I hope?”
“Your feathers are perfect.”
I touched her waist where I knew her peacock feather tattoo was hiding, and then spun her around. Her dress perfectly displayed her fierce, flaming phoenix feathers as well. “I can’t believe you remembered that weird little fact about me.”
She tapped the
side of her head. “I’ve got your whole online dating profile right here. And I am keeping it all to myself. But perhaps a couple more rounds of Naughty Sleepover Q and A before I know everything . . . ?”
“I’m game,” I said, giving her a squeeze.
“Is that your Bluetooth in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?” she teased, as my trouser pocket vibrated against her thigh.
It was Bidwell.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you mind if I take this? It’s my final work call, promise.”
Laney gave my cheek a kiss and went off to join the conga line.
• • •
“I told you it was a no-brainer, Ridgewood.”
“Well, sir. Therein lies the problem, as I have a brain. And no one in his right mind would’ve accepted either choice. You should’ve picked some other two-bit Wop hack off the street to intimidate.”
“You left my daughter at the altar!”
“Yes, sir. I did. At the altar, and in the arms of a capable man. Remy loves her far more than I ever could. And she loves him. I’d say it worked out well.”
“Ambulance rentals, chartered planes . . . you’ve got a lot of nerve, Ridgewood,” Bidwell sputtered. “Not to mention, you hacked administrator accounts that triggered automatic sell-offs of stocks?”
“It’s called white hat hacking. Completely ethical. I exposed a weakness in your system. You should be thanking me. And Butler, too, while you’re at it, as he was the one who wrote the code to stop it.” Eventually.
“What do you want?”
“Give Butler a healthy severance package.”
“And . . . ?”
“And I’ll get out of your system.” My choice of words wasn’t lost on him.
I was done with his shady tactics and his marital manifestos. “I’ve dumped my Bidwell-Butler stocks and will use the profit to pay for the caterers and the reception hall. I take full responsibility for those June wedding incidentals . . . but I refuse to pay for her dress.”
Bidwell heaved a gusty sigh. For a high roller, even he knew when to fold. “Good luck, son.”
“I’ve got all the luck I need,” I said, and I threw my phone as far into the Pacific as I could hurl it.
Bidwell would never have the chance to call me “son” again.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and stood staring out at the ocean for a very long time.
Until I had the feeling I was being watched.
No, not exactly watched. I was being sketched.
I turned around to find Laney, sitting in the sand. Her bare feet were tucked under her dress, and, sure enough, her sketchbook was in her lap.
“When we last left our intrepid hero . . .” she said, not so much as glancing up, her hands moving fluidly across the page. I noticed she was wearing her eraser ring.
Grinning, I dropped to the sand next to her. “He had a spine of steel grafted into his superhero bod and told the villainous boss to kiss his apps.”
Laney applauded.
“But what happened to your ‘live to work, work to live’ motto?”
“Well, I think I’d like to help you out over at the Kitchen of Hope someday.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” she said, flashing me that thousand-watt smile and making me feel like a million bucks.
“And I’m thinking of working on a new app, using QR codes with GPS tracking that you can attach to things, like a dress, so they can always be found.” I winked. “Wanna be my beta?”
“Do you plan on losing me?” she asked, tossing her sketchpad into the sand. Reaching for my tie, she gently pulled me in for a kiss.
“Impossible,” I replied, echoing my first word to her aboard the airplane when she claimed the seat in my row. And now she had claim to the first-class spot in my heart.
Noah and Laney
request the pleasure of your company
for the First Annual Celebration of Hope,
hosting deserving individuals and families
from Kitchen of Hope
• • •
Six o’clock
Saturday, the eighth of June
Two thousand and thirteen
• • •
The Altman Building
135 West Eighteenth Street, Manhattan
Dinner, with boogying down immediately following
Turn the page for a special preview of Jessica Topper’s next Much “I Do” About Nothing novel
Courtship of the Cake
Available June 2015 from Berkley Sensation!
“Winner, winner, chicken dinner! I don’t know how do you do it, Danica James.”
“Easy,” I replied, handing the garment bag over the counter and into Bree’s waiting arms. “I say yes, spend money I don’t have on a dress I don’t want, sashay down the aisle in it, and then I donate it to you.”
“The only hard part to Dani being a bridesmaid,” Laney added, “is not showing up the bride. Otherwise, it’s a piece o’ cake, right, Dani?”
I watched as my best friend selected M&M’s from the candy dish Bree kept on the counter, using a vintage pewter salt spoon. Laney was just as picky about the brown M&M’s as David Lee Roth backstage at a Van Halen concert.
She had to go and mention cake, didn’t she?
I thumbed the tiny silver charm that hung at the hollow of my throat and wondered how the term cake came to mean “easy.”
Bree laughed. “See? And the hard part for me is not showing up as the bride!” The shop owner held up her hand, fingers splayed to emphasize not only the number, but her latest rock as well. “Let’s hope the fifth time’s the charm, ladies.”
Bree’s habit of “falling in marriage” earned her spots on the local news and was the impetus behind the former fashion model falling into Diamonds & Fairy Dust, her bridal attire consignment business. The tiny Cornelia Street store carried everything from your suburban strip mall off-the-rack dress to the custom couture Vera Wang, which hadn’t moved in the five years I’d known Bree. But once annually, she initiated Operation Fairy Dust, a dress drive for local high school girls in need, and accepted donations of gently used bridesmaid dresses to give away during prom season.
“It’s gorgeous, Dani.” She ran her hand over the ruched bodice and sweeping handkerchief skirt of the brilliant green gown. “We’ve still got a few schools in the area with prom approaching. You are going to make someone’s dream come true.”
Laney popped an M&M about the same hue as the dress in between my lips. “So what does she win?”
“Whatever it is, it had better be small enough to fit in my backpack. Unless it’s a car, which I would totally accept.” I laughed.
“According to my little black book of details, you have managed to donate a dress in every color of the rainbow. . . .”
“And don’t forget the ones she brought in that weren’t colors found in nature,” Laney reminded, turning to me. “Like that Creature from the Seafoam-Blue Lagoon dress my mother made you wear at her wedding.”
Bree laughed. “Earning the Rainbow Award is no easy feat. For that”—she rummaged under the counter and came up with the fluffiest rainbow Afro wig I had ever laid eyes on—“a picture on my Wall of Fame, if you will.”
“You want me to wear that? I don’t know where that thing’s been!” It looked like a relic from New York’s Studio 54 disco era.
“Trust me, it’s new. No one but you has achieved rainbow status,” Bree assured her with a grin. “You take ‘always a bridesmaid’ to a whole new level, Dani.”
Always a bridesmaid and never a bride worked just fine for me; marriage required commitment. Of course, so did insanity. Coincidence? I think not.
Laney just about choked on her last M&M as I stuffed my mass of blond curls under the synthetic skullcap and mugged for Bree’s
Polaroid. Then she threw on a wig from the nearby display so I wouldn’t have to go through the humiliation alone. Laney was good like that.
“How do I look?” she deadpanned. The long black Cleopatra wig was just shy of covering her poker-straight fiery red bangs.
“Ridiculous and lovely. Like Cher.” I plopped a nearby tiara on the crown of her head and we pressed cheeks together for one last photo.
“Yeah, you should talk, Rainbow Brite. I think you used to have leg warmers that matched that hair.”
Bree waved the developing print. “For your travels.” She traded me the photo for the Afro, placing the small square into my hands as the image appeared; eighteen years of best friendship rising to the surface and solidifying like magic.
“I’m going to miss your visits, Dani. This one, though”—she reached to smooth Laney’s fake bangs—“I have a feeling she’ll be back. Just as soon as that new man of hers proposes.”
“Hey, slow down there, Five Times’ the Charm.” Laney twined her own tresses with the long hanks of synthetic hair until it resembled a red-and-black candy cane. “Noah just finished paying off his non-wedding.” The lovebirds had recently celebrated his near miss with Bridezilla by throwing a huge charity event in place of the already-booked reception, and were still recovering. “We’re not in any hurry,” she assured, but her mossy eyes blinked bright with the possibility.
Bree winked, more for my benefit. “Have fun. Be safe.” Smiling, she moved on to help a customer.
Laney pouted and pulled off the wig. “I can’t believe you’re leaving, Dani—again. Just after I got you back. You tease.”
“It’s just for the summer, Hudson. Suck it up.”
Despite all we had in common, Laney’s homebody habits mostly confined her to the tristate area without complaint. My wanderlust since meeting Mick, on the other hand, had grown insatiable.
As had my sweet tooth.
“For someone who loves to live out of a duffel bag, you certainly held on to that dress from your sister’s wedding for a record length of time. I was getting ready to call the Guinness Book,” Laney ribbed knowingly.
Dictatorship of the Dress (9780698168305) Page 32