Slightly Engaged

by Wendy Markham

  “Not particularly. And I’ve never seen you eat a Funyun in your life.”

  “It’s my guilty pleasure.”

  “Really.” He stares at me for a long moment, as if wondering what else he doesn’t know about me, and I wonder if I just blew it. Maybe he’s rethinking the entire relationship.

  And maybe you’ve descended to the utter depths of paranoia, Tracey.

  Jack shrugs. “If I put another thing into my mouth at this point, I’ll explode. Just let me give you your present.”

  He’s already rooting around amidst the packages under the tree, which means my gift has been tucked away here all along, more or less hiding in plain sight.

  But how did he get it here? Was it stashed in his checked luggage? Did he have a coconspirator in the household so that he could ship it to Brookside in advance?

  I doubt that. Neither of my parents would be able to keep that kind of secret. Jack must have brought the gift with him in his luggage.

  “Where the heck is it?” he asks, shimmying under the tree on his belly, his voice muffled.

  “I hope it’s still there,” I call, wondering why I didn’t think to snoop around under the tree for a ring-size box with my name on it.

  I guess I didn’t think he’d be so blatant about it, that’s why. I figured nobody puts a highly personal, valuable gift under a very public Christmas tree.

  Which is why it probably isn’t highly personal or valuable, I remind myself. So don’t get your hopes up.

  As if they aren’t already.

  “I’ve never seen so many presents,” Jack comments from his distant location.

  There are hundreds of wrapped gifts under the tree now, and that’s in addition to the dozens of already-opened-ones we exchanged earlier with all the relatives.

  Thus, I am able to count among my possessions my very own Love’s Baby Soft gift set—who knew they still even made that stuff?—a Garth Brooks CD (?), a twelve-month subscription to Good Housekeeping and several polyester-blend sweaters, all size medium—which is too small.

  Some of my aunts and my grandmother even brought gifts for Jack. He, too, has a new collection of polyester-blend sweaters, all size medium—also too small.

  Mental note: go to The Wal-Mart at an off-hour to exchange sweaters for cash.

  Meanwhile, Jack is still hunting for my gift under the tree.

  I hope that’s because it’s such a small box that it got lost in the heap, but I’m starting to highly doubt that.

  “Why don’t you just open my gift first?” I ask, patting the envelope containing his gift certificate, which is in my back pocket.

  “Here it is!” he shimmies backward, dragging with him a…

  Huge box.

  Not major-appliance-huge.

  Not even small-appliance-huge.

  But huge enough not to hold my engagement ring, unless it’s the Hope Diamond.

  Unless…

  Do you think he put the small box into a bigger box, and then a bigger box, and then a bigger box, and then…

  Nah. Me neither.

  Alrighty then. I guess I’m not getting engaged for Christmas.

  I comfort myself with the knowledge that it doesn’t mean anything other than that Jack decided not to go for the obvious and propose on Christmas Eve, when I would be expecting it.

  He probably wants to surprise me.

  “Here you go,” he says excitedly, handing me the not-my-engagement-ring-box.

  The good thing is that it’s also the wrong-shape box to hold a Chia Pet, unless it’s uncommonly large, rectangular and no more than three inches tall.

  “Go ahead, Tracey, open it!”

  I rip into the paper, which is the obligatory green and red motif of Christmas trees or wreaths or holly; I don’t pause to take note of the pattern.

  Beyond the paper is a gift box from L.L. Bean.

  “L.L. Bean,” I say, because I have to say something.

  He grins. “I hope you like it.”

  “I know I will,” I assure him, wondering if it’s one of those wool sweaters that itch unless you wear a thick turtleneck underneath. Kate got me one a few years ago and I never wear it.

  But if that’s what Jack got me, I’ll wear it all the time, I promise myself as I lift the lid on the box. I’ll wear it, just like I filled the stupid Chia Pet with water even after I knew all hope was lost, because it’s the thought that counts.

  Inside the box, beneath a layer of tissue, is…

  “It’s a Gore-Tex Mountain Guide Parka,” Jack informs me excitedly.

  It sure is.

  And it’s bright orangy-yellow, or…

  “Alpine Gold,” as Jack says. “I hope it fits.”

  It does.

  I model it for him cheerfully, even as I wonder what possessed him to buy it. I mean…

  Well, I’m not a mountain guide.

  Does he want me to be a mountain guide? Does he think we should move somewhere and start a new alpine life together?

  “Check out the technical layering system,” Jack advises.

  I would, if I knew what that was, or where to look. Instead, I pretend to check it out, running my hands over the coat and its lining.

  “Pull up the hood,” he says, and adds, with impressive used-car-salesman savvy, “See how it’s ergonomically shaped?”

  Before I can reach for the hood, he’s pulling it up over my head.

  “It has these great mesh chest pockets for extra gear, see?” Jack asks, showing me.

  For a fleeting moment, I’m convinced he’s going to pull a diamond ring from the chest pocket. But it’s empty. Just waiting for all that extra gear I’ll be toting around, um, Manhattan.

  “Does it fit right?”

  “It fits perfectly.”

  “Good. I guessed at the size.”

  “What size did you get?”

  “It’s a large.”

  He guessed I was large. This is getting better by the moment.

  But he’s so earnest, so loving and kind, that I can’t be disappointed. And I’m not. Not really.

  At least it isn’t a Chia Pet.

  I muster enthusiasm and tell him, “This is a great coat,” because it is. For a mountain guide.

  “You’re always so cold” is his response as he pulls me close. “And you never have the right kind of coat. I wanted you to be warm for a change.”

  Okay, that really is sweet.

  I smile at him.

  I keep smiling even when he pats my head through the ergonomic hood, making me feel vaguely as if I should have a little keg-barrel around my neck, like an alpine dog.

  “It’s definitely a warm coat,” I tell Jack, who seems to be waiting for further glowing commentary.

  It is warm. Really warm.

  In fact, I’m beginning to perspire profusely, so I remove my new parka—did I mention it’s bright orangy-yellow?—and fold it back into the box.

  “Thank you,” I tell Jack again, after jutting out my lower lip to blow a cooling breeze on my sweaty bangs. “It’s really a great coat.”

  And I’m sure I’ll use it. At least, here in Brookside.

  I daresay it’s going to be a bit trickier to blend into the crowd scene in Manhattan, where tasteful black cashmere is as ubiquitous as bulky layers of bright-colored down are in my hometown.

  “I’m so glad you like it. I had to get you something that could be mail-ordered and shipped right to your parents’ house.”

  Well, he didn’t have to.

  He could have—

  Oh, never mind.

  “Your mother was in on it,” he informs me.

  Why, that little minx.

  “She got the package two weeks ago. I’m surprised she kept the secret.”

  Yeah, well, mothers are good at keeping boring secrets. It’s the ones involving diamond engagement rings that are a bit trickier.

  “My turn,” Jack announces expectantly.

  Okay, here’s the thing.

  I know
my parka cost him a pretty penny. Probably at least three hundred bucks, including shipping.

  And nobody ever said Christmas-gift expenditures have to be even. In fact, I was entirely prepared to give him this Caribbean vacation even knowing that I might not be getting a present of equal or greater carat value.

  But I suddenly feel a bit sheepish about my gift to him.

  Don’t you think it seems a little…excessive?

  Jack is waiting.

  My thoughts race wildly.

  Maybe I can take my chances and pluck a random gift from under the tree to give him.

  It just might work, if I could remove the gift tag without Jack noticing…and if I had a To: Jack From: Tracey replacement gift tag all set to swap for it…and if I could be sure the gift wouldn’t turn out to be, say, Aqua Velva.

  Okay, it just won’t work.

  There’s nothing to do but reach into my pocket and pull out the gift certificate.

  “Here you go,” I say unceremoniously, and put it into Jack’s hand.

  “Is this a letter?” he asks, looking down at the envelope.

  A letter?

  Why would I write him a letter?

  “Open it and you’ll see,” I say, trying not to feel frustrated.

  It’s just that this whole thing hasn’t gone as I envisioned it.

  Jack rips open the envelope—and in the process, somehow rips the gift certificate in half.

  I watch in dismay as he pieces it together and reads it.

  Then he looks up at me in shock. “You’re kidding.”

  Hmm, there’s an unexpected out.

  I debate taking it. I can agree that yes, I am indeed kidding. Isn’t this a great joke? Ha ha ha ha ha…

  I can then inform him that his real gift is still coming…

  But when?

  And what will it be?

  “Tracey?” he says. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “No,” I reluctantly tell him. “I’m not.”

  But oh, how I wish I were.

  “You got me…a Caribbean vacation?”

  I offer a shaky smile. “Uh-huh.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Oh my God,” I echo, realizing that those are tears in Jack’s eyes.

  Is he crying because he feels that his Mountain Guide Parka pales in comparison? Not that there’s anything pale about Alpine Gold, but—

  “I can’t believe you did this.”

  Frankly, I can’t either.

  “I love you,” he exclaims, and pulls me into his arms. “This is the best gift in the entire world.”

  With that, my misgivings and regrets evaporate. He loves me. I made him happy. Isn’t that what Christmas is all about?

  “I’m so glad you like it,” I say.

  “How could I not like it? When are we going?”

  “Next month. It’s not the greatest hotel in the world, but—”

  He interrupts me before I can finish my sentence with “at least there are no bugs.”

  “I’m sure it will be paradise,” Jack says, and kisses me.

  Then, hand in hand, we steal up the stairs.

  And in the end, the best Christmas gift of all is the sound of both my parents’ uninterrupted snoring as we tiptoe together past their door to my canopy bed.

  Part V

  Anguilla

  Chapter 16

  The weather when we depart JFK Airport early on a mid-January morning is dazzlingly sunny, with a brilliant blue cloudless sky above the deeper blue waters of the Atlantic, and brisk but not cold air.

  It’s the kind of day that happens maybe once in a typical winter, if you’re lucky. The kind of day when you actually want to get outside and breathe, knowing tomorrow the thick gray clouds and intermittent wet snow and dirty slush will once again shroud the city until spring.

  But I don’t mind missing this day in New York because we’re on our way to paradise, where the sun is even brighter, the sky is even bluer, the warm sea is shades of turquoise and the temperature is a good forty degrees higher.

  Or so I thought.

  Thanks to my trusty Xanax, I’m not even particularly dismayed when we hit some heavy cloud cover somewhere over the Southeast, resulting in major turbulence the farther down we go. In fact, I’m the one sitting here reading Glamour while Jack is cringing at every bump.

  “Any second now, we’ll come out of this,” I tell him. “Once we get out over the Caribbean.”

  “Should we be out over the Caribbean by now?”

  “I don’t think so. Look at the weather.”

  Another half hour passes, and I begin to accept that we must be out over the Caribbean—meaning, if this plane goes down, the lovely turquoise sea I mentioned earlier will become my watery grave.

  I keep thinking that if we could just reach Anguilla, where the sun always shines, we’ll be fine.

  In any case, either the Xanax has worn off by the time the pilot informs us that we have begun our descent to the island, or this is one hell of a storm-tossed landing.

  I clutch Jack’s hand as tightly as he clutches mine, trying not to hyperventilate, wondering why I’m being tossed around a scary charcoal tropical sky on a Friday morning when I could be safely typing some meaningless memo at my desk at Blair Barnett.

  Not that life in New York has been much of a picnic these last few weeks. On the heels of our flight home from Buffalo, Jack and I came down with the flu just in time to spend what would have been our New Year’s Eve bash feverish and taking turns rushing to the bathroom for three days. Being forced to cancel that party was the first in a string of recent disappointments.

  For one thing, in the wake of the holidays, I’m flat broke as always. For another, I still haven’t found the nerve—or, okay, the motivation—to approach Carol about promoting me into Mike’s old position. For yet another, I still haven’t lost the weight I’ve gained.

  And needless to say, Jack and I still aren’t engaged.

  I can’t help but hope that he’ll take advantage of this Caribbean getaway and propose at last, but it’s getting harder and harder to maintain optimism.

  Especially when it’s beginning to seem doubtful that we’ll even make it to Anguilla in one piece.

  “I’m afraid,” I tell Jack, on the verge of a panic attack as the plane jolts wildly from side to side.

  “It’s okay,” Jack tells me, looking as though he might require an airsickness bag at any moment. “Just more turbulence. I’m sure once we get below the clouds to the island, it’ll be fine.”

  The wheels touch down a split second later—hallelujah—but oddly, we still seem to be in the clouds.

  “I thought you said the other day that it never rains in Anguilla.” Jack stares out the rain-spattered windowpane at the tarmac.

  No, his tone isn’t accusatory, but I find myself bristling anyway.

  “I said there aren’t hurricanes in Anguilla.”

  Or did I? Well, that’s what I meant. I read about it in my Caribbean travel guide.

  Then again, maybe that wasn’t Anguilla. Maybe that was Aruba.

  “But it isn’t hurricane season anyway,” Jack points out.

  You could have fooled me, I think, gazing at the storm.

  Oh, well. I’m sure it’ll blow over by the time we reach our hotel and we’ll be lounging on the beach in no time with those dirty bananas I’ve been dreaming about.

  The line for customs is endless. I can’t help but notice Jack doesn’t declare a diamond ring, but it’s not as if it’s foreign produce so I have to conclude it might very well be in his luggage.

  At last, we find ourselves careening along winding island roads in a rattletrap open-air vehicle that seems to be a cross between a bus and a van.

  Finally, in what doesn’t seem like the nicest neighborhood in town, we skid to a stop in front of a three-story purple stucco building. The driver grins broadly and makes what sounds like an important declaration.

  “What did he say?” Jack asks me u
nder his breath, inexplicably assuming I must be fluent in the native dialect.

  “How should I know?” I murmur.

  The driver says whatever he’s saying once again, with increased urgency. Then he gestures for us to get out of the cab.

  Maybe he doubles as an EMT and just got an emergency call, so he can’t bring us to our destination.

  The only problem with that theory is that I would have noticed him getting an emergency call since my eyes were vigilantly fastened to him the entire trip, making sure he didn’t drive us off the road.

  To my surprise—and all right, dismay—I spot a sign on the purple building, one that reads: Sea Plantation.

  “Oh,” I say, “I think we’re here.”

  Reluctant to step out of the so-called shuttle into the deluge, I stare for a moment at the purple stucco building, wondering why it looks nothing like it did on the hotel’s Web site. Nor does it look like a plantation, and I can’t see—or hear, or smell—the sea.

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” I ask the driver, who erupts in what may be an enthusiastic confirmation of my hypothesis, but could just as easily be a string of profanity.

  Minutes later, Jack and I are straggling into the lobby with our waterlogged luggage.

  I use the term “lobby” loosely. It’s really more of a desk—as in, a regular metal work desk, not one of those tall, elegant hotel-lobby desks—in a small rectangle of a room.

  The woman who checks us in has dirt under her nails and a douchy attitude.

  “I can put you in a ground-floor room with two doubles,” she informs us as she scans her computer screen, looking bored.

  “We were supposed to have one king bed.”

  “We don’t have any rooms with kings. They’re all two doubles.”

  “But we only need one bed.”

  She looks up at me. “Don’t use the other one.”

  “We won’t.”

  So there!

  “And, uh, we’re supposed to have an ocean-view room.”

  “They’re all ocean view,” she says in her island-accented English that might be charming coming from someone with a soul.

  “Even the ground floor?” I find that hard to believe.

  Not that it would likely be possible to see the ocean even from the beach, given the fact that the island is currently shrouded in clouds. But something tells me that our hostess here is full of crap.