The voice is Coop’s, and I ignore it just as I ignore it when we stop for coffee and I put my arm around Bailey’s waist as we walk back to the car.
I even drop a kiss on her temple.
Big mistake, Coop says.
I know he’s right. There won’t be any kissing. Not on this trip. Not unless we have to do some convincing for Vainglorious Violet—and this is the first time I have ever even thought that word, vainglorious, in my entire life.
The kissing-touching thing is just practice.
The voice in my head snickers, I tell it to do us both a favor and shut the fuck up.
And, after a while, it does.
* * *
We don’t seem to run out of things to talk about.
We even talk football.
“It isn’t only whatever you called it,” I tell Bailey. “A bunch of guys beating each other into the dirt. Sure, it’s physical, but it’s also mental. A lot mental.”
She makes a scoffing sound.
I shake my head.
I explain a few simple plays. I describe the decisions a quarterback faces when he sees the defense lining up, the decisions the defense has to make in those same seconds.
She admits that maybe she’s misjudged the game and I tell her she has and when we watch a game together, she’ll see that it’s more like a chess game than she thought.
She laughs. “Uh huh. Except with four hundred pound chessmen,” she says.
I grin. “Three hundred pounds,” I say, “but who’s counting?”
The time passes quickly and before long, we reach Schenectady. It turns out to be something halfway between a city and a town, at least that’s how it strikes me. It’s old, some of it is handsome, some is tired looking, and some is emerging into twenty-first century life. I like what I see, but it turns out Bailey actually grew up just outside Schenectady in a place called Washingtonville.
She asks if I want a quick tour. I tell her that would be great—and it is. Seeing the turf that was once hers is kind of like seeing her when she was a kid.
The house she grew up in is a comfortable-looking white colonial with black shutters and a deep porch. There’s an old rocker just visible at one end; Bailey says she used to sit there for hours, her nose buried in a book, and I can tell she’s glad to see the chair is still there.
The elementary and middle schools are a couple of miles away; past them is the high school. We drive by the library—she also spent lots of time there, she says with a wistful smile. Then we head up Main Street and yeah, that’s really its name. Same as in far too many small American towns, there are several shuttered stores, but there are also signs of renewed economic life: a Thai restaurant, a crafts shop, what looks like a small art gallery. We agree that’s all good to see.
The inn is just outside the town. On the way, we pass a structure that looks like a badly decorated birthday cake.
It’s the country club, Bailey says. The scene of tomorrow’s big event.
The Wedding.
“You’ll hate it,” she assures me. “I mean, you cannot imagine how awful it will be.”
I shift gears as we start up a steep hill.
“Did I ever tell you about the O’Malley family get-togethers?”
She looks at me. “No. And believe me, Matthew, whatever you’re going to say—”.
“Matthew O’Malley,’” I say in my best Uncle Harry voice, “how old are you now? Ten? My, you’ve grown so big! Not as tall as your cousin David, of course, but at least you’re not a midget anymore. Too bad David couldn’t be here, but he’s at MIT on a teen science retreat.”
Bailey smiles. “Okay, So we all have horrible memories of weddings and family parties when we were kids, but—”
“Hello there, young man. Remember me? We haven’t seen each other in years. Your cousin David said to send you his best. He can’t be here. He’s at Oxford, starting his Fulbright scholarship. And what’s new with you, Matt. Anything?”
I get a giggle this time. “All right. Family gatherings can be tough, but—”
“It’s Matt, right? Haven’t seen you in—must be a decade. David sends his regards. Couldn’t get here. He’s giving a speech at TED tomorrow. TED. You know, that incredibly prestigious organization? He’s talking about sperm donations. Specifically his. He’s so brilliant that Cambridge is setting up a chair in his name. Well, actually, not a chair. A giant sperm bank. They want a thousand women with genius level IQs to bear his babies.”
Bailey roars with laughter. “You’re making that up.”
I grin. “Yeah, but it’s close enough to the truth. I hate these big family things. They’re like giant contests that are fun for everybody but the contestants.”
Bailey’s laugh turns into a sigh. “Violet loves them.”
“Violet’s in for a fall. Bride or not, you’ll be the star of the show.”
“Me in disguise, you mean.”
“The real you. No disguise. You were always who you are, honey. You just hid the truth from the world.”
Bailey gets a serious look on her face. “Matthew. I don’t know how to thank you. For everything. For all you’ve done—for all you’re doing. I can never repay you. For the clothes, yes. But for all the rest…”
“Hey.” I smile at her as we crest the hill. “Who knows? You might have to do the same for me some day. Nobody can ever predict when these little family dramas are going to rear their ugly heads.”
She laughs. So do I.
Little do I know the dangerous truth of what I thought was just a throwaway line.
* * *
At first glance, the inn is not my kind of place.
I am, as you know, into structural simplicity. Clean lines. High ceilings. Lots of wood, glass and light.
The inn is pure Victoriana. Turrets. Gables. Asymmetrical porches. It’s gingerbread at its worst…Until you take a second look and realize that maybe it’s gingerbread at its best.
Somebody built this place in the late eighteenth century and somebody in the twenty-first is taking very good care of it. It’s an antique, after all, and if you have any feeling for history, you’ve got to admire its out-of-date beauty.
Our suite—and Bailey’s right, it’s really just one big room—is on the third floor with a nice view of what turns out to be a leafy bend in the Mohawk River. We even have a little balcony overlooking the water. The room itself is handsome. Is it the inn’s idea of a bridal suite? A presidential suite? It doesn’t matter because it is, as I say, handsome, which is a nice bonus. The walls are covered in what seems to be pale yellow silk; there’s some kind of Oriental carpet underfoot; the furniture is big, suitable for the room’s dimensions. The expected sofa bed is big as well, and I’m sure I won’t have any problem fitting my six feet three inch self into it…
But it’s going to be a lot to ask when the real bed, all the way at the opposite end of the room, is so spectacular.
For openers, it’s enormous. Did the Victorians go in for king-size beds? I don’t care; I only know that this thing is huge. And it’s handsome. The mahogany headboard is a masterpiece of carved leaves and unicorns. The comforter is white and lush. Gold pillows dot the snowy landscape.
And it has a canopy hung with gold silk.
My PA makes a little oooh sound. I don’t blame her. It’s the kind of bed that deserves an oooh. It deserves even more—and, dammit, I am not going to think about that.
I turn away, drop our luggage next to a bureau that’s at least half a mile long, and make the pilgrimage to the bathroom. I definitely don’t want to see Victorian plumbing fixtures.
And, man, I don’t.
The bathroom is almost the size of Bailey’s apartment. It’s a sea of white. White marble floor and walls. White fixtures, including an enormous soaking tub. But don’t get me wrong. There’s also glass. Plenty of it. As in a standalone glass shower stall with multiple spray heads and a teak bench so that the ten or twenty people showering in the stall could sit down and take
a break while they waited for the other team to come onto the field.
Or so that one man and one woman could make love with all those sprays going and then try something a little slower, a little more inventive, on that bench…
“It’s time,” Bailey says from behind me.
I turn and look at her.
“Time for what?” I ask, a little hoarsely.
“The rehearsal dinner. It’s at six, remember?”
I can hardly remember my own name, but I nod and mumble Yes, right, and I tell Bailey I’ll just check out the coffee alcove the desk clerk mentioned—and yes, he’s the guy she knew in high school although at first, he didn’t recognize her and when he did, I could damn near see his wisdom teeth when his mouth dropped open.
Forget that. I tell her I’ll get coffee while she gets ready, and then I make my exit.
* * *
The dinner is at a restaurant in Troy, which turns out to be a smallish city just a few miles away.
My PA looks fantastic.
The blue silk dress. The butterfly shoes we bought at Saks. Her hair is loose. She has on a black silk jacket and I’m almost sorry to see it because it means I won’t have any reason to take off my own jacket and wrap her in it later tonight, when we’re on our way back to our room, and for some crazy reason the thought of me taking something off and her putting it on is a turn-on.
She’s quiet during our drive to the restaurant. I figure that she’s nervous, but when I glance over at her, her expression is calm.
“Hey,” I say.
She looks at me.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods.
“Have I told you how fantastic you look?”
She nods again.
“Because you do. Look fantastic—”
“I’m okay,” she says quietly. “Stop worrying about me.”
“I’m not worrying. I just want you to have a good time tonight. This shouldn’t only be about your cousin. It should be about you. Understand?”
I pull up in front of the restaurant. The place is lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Two kids in white jackets that make them look like ice cream salesmen trot towards us. One aims for my side of the car, the other for Bailey’s.
“Tonight isn’t really about Violet or me,” she says softly. “It’s about you, Matthew, and what a wonderful man you are.”
She leans over and presses her lips lightly to my cheek, and I swear, I can feel everything inside me melting. I want to take her in my arms. Hold her. Kiss her…
Good Humor Boy number one yanks the door open.
“Your keys, sir?” he says, his eyes shining at the prospect of getting his hands on my ’Vette.
I swallow hard, get out of the car and hand the boy the keys and a bill. His eyes get even shinier.
“Park somewhere safe,” I tell him. “No scratches when I get my car back and you’ll get a second fifty. And if I even suspect you went for a joy ride, you’ll be attending high school in Antarctica next semester. Got that?”
Bailey laughs as I walk around the car to her. She loops her arm through mine.
“So much for Mister Wonderful,” I say, because it’s safer than what I want to say, even if I’m not quite sure what that is.
She smiles up at me and before she can answer, a middle-aged woman shrieks. And gallops towards us.
“BAILEY!”
My PA takes a deep breath. “Showtime,” she whispers, and we’re off and running.
* * *
The shrieker is Bailey’s mother.
She also turns out to be a nice woman, once we get past the necessary maternal preliminaries.
“Why didn’t you stop by my condo? Why didn’t you call and let me know you were here? I was worried. After all, who knows how many car crashes happen each day? What did you do to yourself? Did you get a haircut? You look—different.” When she finally pauses for breath, she turns her attention to me. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your young man?”
“Mom. This is Mr. O’Malley, my—”
I stick out my hand. “Hello, Mrs. Abrams. I’m Matt O’Malley. Bailey’s told me a lot about you.”
Mom tilts her head to the side. She’s doing an appraisal, and I fight the urge to straighten my tie.
“Mr. O’Malley,” she says.
“Please. Call me Matt.”
“My daughter works for you, right?”
“She does.”
“And now long have you and she been—involved? Because I’m surprised she never mentioned it until a few days ago.”
There it is. A direct shot across the bow.
“Three months,” I say.
“Three weeks,” says Bailey.
I laugh. Or I say ha ha and hope it sounds like a laugh. “Time’s flown, hasn’t it, sweetheart?”
“Flown,” Bailey says, and adds her own version of a laugh.
Mrs. Abrams looks from one of us to the other. There’s no way to read what she’s thinking, but just when I start figuring we have flunked the first test, she smiles, steps up and takes my free arm.
“If I had a man who looks like you, Mr. O’Malley, I’d keep you a secret as long as possible. Why ask for competition?”
“It’s Matt. And there is no competition, Mrs. Abrams. How could there be, when your daughter is in my life?”
Bailey’s mom giggles. “It’s Rose,” she says, “and I can hardly wait to introduce you to the family.”
We head into the crowd.
It’s pretty clear people are surprised to see Bailey, or to see her looking like this, or maybe to see her with an attentive date. That’s the role I’m playing and believe me, it isn’t difficult. The truth is, I’m enjoying this. It’s kind of like me being the only person who knew there was a butterfly tucked inside a plain brown paper wrapper, and now everybody else knows it too. Okay, it’s a mixed metaphor, but you get my meaning.
Besides, people are greeting my PA with genuine warmth.
It’s good to see.
Bailey is dealing with it well, but she’s still nervous. I can tell because I’m holding her hand and it’s icy cold, plus she’s shaking. Not enough so you’d notice, but I can feel the tiny tremors going through her.
“You’re doing fine,” I whisper, leaning down and putting my mouth to her ear.
Bad move.
I end up inhaling her fragrance. Yes, lemon. What did she call it? Lemon verbena. Maybe. Or maybe it’s just Bailey. Whatever it is, I like the scent. I want to bury my nose in her hair and take the smell of her deep into my lungs.
I break stride only long enough to grab a flute of champagne from a tray and down it in one gulp. She does the same and quickly exchanges the empty flute for a full one.
“Easy,” I whisper.
She looks up at me. “Chester doesn’t approve of alcohol. This stuff is probably colored club soda. I just need something to do with my hands.”
Even here, with what looks like a million people around us, I have no difficulty thinking of other things she could do with her hands.
“Come on, you two,” Mama Rose says.
We could. Come. I certainly could, and I am sure I could make my gorgeous PA come right along with me…
Another tray-bearing server is slipping through the crowd. I grab a glass—red wine, this time, unless it’s Kool Aid—and drink half of it. Bailey does the same.
“Mr. O’Malley,” Mama Rose says. She gives a girlish giggle. “I mean, Matt. Say hello to Bailey’s Aunt Martha.”
I say hello to Aunt Martha. And to Cousin Janet. Cousin Billy. Uncle Saul. Uncle Jeffrey. A pair of twins. A trio of triplets. And that’s just the beginning. Mama Rose is already tugging us towards the next batch of relatives.
All of them do subtle double takes when they see Bailey. I don’t blame them. She’s left beautiful behind. Now, she’s spectacular. It isn’t only the way she looks. It’s also the way she’s handling herself. I can see the tension going out of her. She’s turning into t
he Bailey nobody but I seem to have known: funny, smart, at ease with the world.
The real woman has come out of hiding, and she’s getting stronger by the minute.
As for the relatives—after a while, I give up trying to remember names. There are so many people at this rehearsal dinner that it’s hard to imagine any of tomorrow night’s wedding guests have been left out.
Some have, but I won’t know that until tomorrow night.
As for the bride and groom—they have not yet put in an appearance, but the bride’s parents are front and center.
When I am introduced to them, Violet’s mother tells me that Elevator Boy—she refers to him as our darling Chester—paid for all the festivities.
“He owns a cleaning business,” she says proudly.
“A launderette,” my PA says, so sweetly that I wonder if s it’s possible to get a sugar high just from hearing those words. She smiles angelically as she snags a glass of something from a server. “You must be so happy for Violet.”
Violet’s father nods.
Violet’s mother isn’t quite as gullible. Her eyes narrow to slits. “Three launderettes,” she says.
“Oh, of course. Silly me. Chester owns three launderettes,” Bailey says, looking up at me with an expression of total innocence. “You know what a launderette is, don’t you, Matthew? It’s one of those places where you feed coins into a slot and then you get to wash your sheets in the same machine where somebody else just washed poopy diapers. Such an amazing invention!”
I almost choke on a mouthful of the red swill I’m drinking.
“Are you all right, sweetheart?” my PA-turned-Vixen asks.
Sweetheart? I nod and pat my lips with a paper napkin embossed with the names of the happy couple held in the beak of a golden dove.
I could swear the bird winks at me.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Bailey smiles. “Good. Because the night is young.”
Man. If this is just the start of the evening, what comes next? Is Bailey drinking too much? I doubt it. Sure, she’s had three drinks in maybe fifteen minutes, but she’s right about the bubbly stuff tasting nothing like champagne. The red stuff is definitely wine, but still, it’s only wine.
The F-Word: A Sexy Romantic Comedy Page 14