Slightly Engaged

by Wendy Markham

  Finally, shivering, I decide to wrap myself in the spread from the other bed. When I do, it smells like it’s been soaked in B.O.

  Ick.

  Now what?

  Too bad I didn’t listen to Jack and bring a sweatshirt.

  I bet he did, though.

  I go to the closet, flip on the light in there and close the door almost all the way so that I can rummage through his bag without waking him.

  I have to dig down beneath a stack of T-shirts and shorts before I find a hooded Old Navy sweatshirt. As I open it up to pull it on, something hard and heavy drops out onto my bare foot.

  It’s all I can do not to cry out in pain.

  Looking down, I see what it was.

  It’s all I can do not to cry out in glee.

  It’s a ring box, folks.

  That’s right.

  A ring box, not black velvet, as I have oft pictured in my dreams, but a ring box nonetheless. It’s that white faux-leather kind.

  At the rate things have been going, I’m half expecting to find it empty.

  But when I open the box, I find a beautiful diamond ring twinkling up at me.

  “Oh my God,” I gasp softly, overcome with emotion.

  It’s a marquis cut, set in white-gold with several baguettes on either side. It’s the kind of ring I would have picked out for myself, if he’d given me the opportunity…but he didn’t have to, because he knew.

  There’s no longer a doubt in my mind that we were meant to be together.

  I’m about to tug the ring from its satiny slot so that I can try it on when I realize that would be cheating.

  I want Jack to be the first—and only—one to put this on my finger.

  Now that I know it’s here, waiting for me, I can put it back into his bag and wait for him to give it to me.

  But was it folded into his sweatshirt, or what?

  Maybe it was just sitting on top of it, between the sweatshirt and the T-shirt above…?

  I rearrange the sweatshirt and ring box in his duffel bag a few times, trying to figure out how he would have had it packed.

  Wait a minute, why am I stressing? I mean, it’s not as though he had the bag booby-trapped, hoping to catch me snooping.

  Then again, maybe he did.

  I certainly would, if I were him and I knew me as well as he should by now.

  Finally, I give up and simply tuck the ring box into the folds of the sweatshirt. With any luck, he just tossed it all in and will have no clue that I went snooping. If he figures it out, I’ll just tell him I was cold and borrowed a sweatshirt.

  Except he’ll ask why I don’t have the sweatshirt on.

  And if I put it on now, he’ll know I was in his bag.

  It’s a catch-22 that I can’t possibly win, so there’s nothing to do but zip the bag closed, turn off the closet light and go back to bed.

  Naturally, I don’t sleep.

  I find myself lying restlessly awake, wondering when Jack is planning to give me the ring.

  Is that why he went out scouting restaurants? Was he looking for the perfect place to propose?

  I certainly shot that romantic plan full of holes with my oblivious alcohol-induced haze.

  Mental note: do not drink another drink for duration of trip.

  No, my teetotaling will make him suspicious.

  Mental note: drink one, and only one, dirty banana per day for duration of trip.

  That resolved, I move on to the next problem: ditching Gregory and Daniel.

  Why on earth did I have to make beach and dinner plans with them?

  Were they really that fabulous?

  There’s a possibility that their fabulousness was greatly exaggerated by my intoxication. After all that liquor, I would have been asking Mike’s wife, Dianne, to be my matron of honor.

  If she were here.

  And if I were already engaged.

  Oh, well, maybe it’ll rain.

  If it doesn’t rain, maybe Gregory and Daniel won’t show up.

  It doesn’t rain, and Gregory and Daniel not only show up, but they’re both wearing bona fide banana hammocks this time, along with wide straw beach hats, pink sunglasses—more like goggles, actually—and thick zinc sunblock on their noses. They’re also shirtless, and not as buff as one might think. I can see that their guts are pale squishy soft, both of them, even from a distance.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jack says when he spots them sashaying down the beach toward us. “Duck, Tracey. Maybe they won’t see us.”

  I pretend to duck, since I don’t have the heart to admit we’re a prearranged foursome for the day.

  Then the boyfriends are upon us, with kisses all around before they set up camp beneath an enormous pink-and-orange polka-dot umbrella.

  “Danielle, can you do me?” Gregory asks, laying out his towel and flopping down on his stomach.

  I’m paralyzed with horror until I see Daniel grab a tube of lotion and begin massaging it all over Gregory’s white, acne-riddled back.

  Relieved, I look over at Jack, and even with his eyes masked behind his black Daggers, see that he’s still pretty horrified. Especially when Gregory makes these icky purring noises in response to Daniel’s lotion-smoothing skills.

  “I just hate tan lines,” Gregory comments.

  I have to wonder A) how he expects to get a tan using that SPF 60 lotion and B) where he can possibly expect to have tan lines given that Speedo thong he’s wearing.

  “So do I. You know, it’s really too bad nude sunbathing is outlawed on Anguilla,” Daniel says, mostly to me and Jack.

  I murmur something like, “It is.”

  Jack mumbles something like, “Too bad.”

  Then we proceed to spend the rest of our Caribbean afternoon listening to Gregory and Daniel’s incessant chatter about their friends back in Jersey, their three dogs, their apartment, which they’re remodeling, and their jobs. One of them is a secretary at a travel agency, the other is a veterinarian’s assistant. Both perfectly respectable careers, but you’d think they were NASA scientists, the way they go on and on about their work-related adventures.

  Several times throughout the ordeal, I’m tempted to flag down the guy roaming the beach selling rum drinks, even with the massive hangover headache I’ve had all day. But I promised myself that I’d stay lucid, so as not to ruin my engagement moment when it finally comes.

  Which it might not, thanks to me and my big mouth.

  When the sun is sinking lower and Jack at last asks, “Ready to head back?” I open my mouth to say yes.

  But Daniel opens his mouth faster, informing us, “We made a dinner reservation at a great little place down the beach, you guys.”

  Jack smiles politely, already shaking the sand out of our towels. “That’ll be fun. Enjoy it.”

  “Honey, you’re coming with us,” Gregory protests. “Tracey! Didn’t you tell him about dinner tonight?”

  Jack is all, “Huh? What?”

  And I’m all, “Dinner? What dinner?”

  As in, I must have been smashed out of my mind last night and have no recollection whatsoever of dinner plans that were ostensibly made by me.

  “Oh, well, the reservation is for four, at eight,” Gregory says breezily. “It wasn’t easy to get it, but I gave the cute concierge a big fat tip.”

  “He probably would have rather had a big fat—”

  “Danielle!” Gregory pretends to be shocked. “You naughty, naughty girl!”

  The two of them dissolve in bawdy laughter.

  Jack looks at me.

  Again, I can’t see his eyes beyond the lenses of his black Daggers, but…

  Well, maybe that’s a good thing.

  Jack is silent as we walk back to the room.

  Ominously so.

  I don’t dare say anything.

  I keep thinking of the ring in the box in his duffel bag in the closet. When was he planning on giving it to me?

  Last night, probably.

  But wh
en that fell through, he must have decided tonight would be the night.

  “Maybe we can pretend we’re sick and blow off dinner,” I say hopefully as we step into the dim, air-conditioned interior.

  “And just not show up? Wouldn’t that be rude?”

  “No, we can call and tell them that we can’t make it.”

  “Call them where?”

  “You know, at their…hotel.” It occurs to me that I can’t remember which one it is. “Where did they say they were staying again?” I ask Jack.

  He shrugs. “I have no idea.”

  “But they told us last night, and I know they mentioned it again today.” I deposit my sandy beach bag on the rug and kick off my flip-flops. “What was it? The Beach-something, I think. Wasn’t it?”

  “Tracey, I have no idea. And anyway, it would be rude to blow them off after you’re the one who set up this whole dinner, don’t you think?”

  “I didn’t set up this dinner, Jack. They made the reservations.”

  “Apparently, it was your plan.”

  “I really don’t think so. I wouldn’t have done that.”

  “Why not? Come on, Tracey. You invited them to Raphael’s wedding! Why wouldn’t you invite them to dinner?”

  “I don’t remember doing it,” I say, and it’s a flat-out lie, but I can’t help it. I screwed up big time, and I’m desperate to fix it.

  “Maybe,” Jack says succinctly, “you were so wasted you forgot.”

  “I was not wasted!” I protest. “I was just having fun.”

  Lies, lies, lies. They’re all lies. Yet I can’t seem to keep them from spewing out.

  “Tracey, you passed out!” He tosses the room key on the dresser with a loud clink.

  “I went to bed. There’s a big difference between that and passing out.”

  “You’re right, there is a big difference, and you passed out. Trust me. I’m the one who had to keep trying to wake you up.”

  “Well, even if I did drink too much, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do on vacation? Drink dirty bananas and dance and have a good time?”

  “Sure it is.” He shrugs. “It’s fine. Whatever.”

  But it isn’t fine. He’s pissed off because I ruined his plans last night, and I don’t blame him. Only I can’t tell him that, because I’m not supposed to know.

  Now I guess we’re stuck having dinner with Gregory and Daniel.

  “Jack, there’s always tomorrow night,” I tell him.

  “I guess.”

  “Come on, don’t be mad. Let’s make the best of tonight, and then tomorrow night, we’ll go have a romantic dinner, just the two of us. I’ll go shopping and buy something decent to wear so that we can go somewhere nice. We can watch the sunset and have champagne…”

  Not that I’m trying to make plans for him, or anything.

  I mean, I’m sure he’s thought this through. I’m sure he knows exactly how he’s going to propose, now that it’s actually imminent.

  Oh my God! It’s actually imminent! I’m going to be getting engaged!

  I wonder how much it would cost to call and reserve the banquet facilities at Shorewood from here. Probably a lot. But I really can’t waste any time nailing down that October date.

  And I’ll need to start shopping for dresses right away.

  Only, I really should lose at least ten pounds first.

  Well, now I’ll finally have the incentive.

  At dinner, I’m tempted to order the fried-oyster appetizer, but instead go with the raw bar oysters on the half shell. The pasta in cream sauce entrée sounds delicious, but instead I stick with grilled fish. And instead of the fattening—and potent—piña coladas Jack and the boyfriends are drinking, I ask for a white-wine spritzer.

  They serve on island time around here, so the meal is leisurely, to say the least. The conversation flows freely, and Jack finally seems to have relaxed around Gregory and Daniel.

  By the time we’re finished with dessert—a reportedly luscious whipped cream, pineapple-and-coconut cake for the others, plain old fruit for me—it’s nearly midnight.

  “Should we go out for a nightcap?” Daniel suggests as we stroll into the balmy evening air.

  Jack looks at me. I can tell he doesn’t want to go.

  “Actually, I’m exhausted,” I say truthfully.

  Gregory makes a pouty face. “Then what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

  You know, I have to wonder how we’ve apparently become a tighter foursome than Abba. Was it something I said?

  Mental note: in future, do not profess love to total strangers within half hour of making their acquaintance.

  “I think we’re going to play it by ear,” Jack says casually.

  “Well, we should exchange cell-phone numbers so we can all meet for dinner again.” Gregory pulls out a business card and scribbles on the back, then hands it to Jack. “These are ours. What are yours?”

  “Oh, Tracey doesn’t have a cell phone, and mine doesn’t get service down here,” Jack says easily, pocketing the card. “We’ll just call you if we’re free, okay?”

  After hugs all around, we finally go our separate ways.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I ask Jack as we walk back down the deserted midnight beach toward our room.

  “No, it wasn’t,” he admits. “But tomorrow night, it’ll be just us.”

  “Right,” I say, tucking my hand into his.

  He smiles and stops me so that he can kiss me beneath the crescent moon, with the sound of the gentle waves lapping at the sugary shore.

  Ah. Paradise at last.

  Twenty-four hours from right now, I think contentedly, I’ll have that beautiful ring on my finger and Jack’s eloquent proposal ringing in my ears.

  Chapter 17

  “Then what happened?” Kate asks incredulously, wide-eyed over the forkful of pasta she’s about to pop into her mouth.

  We’ve been in the restaurant more than twenty minutes, and it’s taken me this long to work the conversation around from Kate’s daily drama report to my legitimate vacation drama, which is now a week old, but just as dramatic in retrospect.

  “Then Jack wound up having to contact the U.S. consul to recommend an emergency-care clinic,” I reminisce as I push my own lunch around on my plate.

  “What did they do for you?”

  “They sent us to this hot, crowded place where we had to wait for hours. The doctor said I was severely dehydrated and they hooked me up to an IV.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “I know. Then I had to stay overnight and we missed our flight home.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know.” I shake my head, feeling sorry for myself. “It was awful.”

  “Well, you can’t dwell on it. There are worse things that can happen, so just look at the bright side,” says Kate, who has been hospitalized for splinters. And less.

  “What bright side? Kate, I got deathly ill and ruined what was supposed to be the most important night of my life.”

  “Yeah, but you got to spend an extra day in Anguilla.”

  “Kate, I was so sick I just wanted to be home. And when we finally did get to leave, everything was booked and we had to take three connecting flights—one of them was through Denver.”

  “What’s wrong with Denver?”

  “It’s a little out of the way, don’t you think?” I ask, before she can tell me how darling the Rockies are.

  “I guess.” She reaches for the Parmesan cheese dispenser and dumps more on her pasta. “What about those guys you met?”

  “Gregory and Daniel? What about them?”

  “Are they coming to Raphael’s wedding?”

  “No, they’re history. Jack accidentally tossed their phone numbers before we left Anguilla.”

  “Accidentally?” She snickers. “Billy would never have even taken the card in the first place. So what did the doctor say was wrong with you in the end?”

  “Food poisoning, what else? It must have been the raw o
ysters I ate at dinner the night before.”

  She stops chewing abruptly.

  “What’s wrong, Kate?”

  She squirms a little. “Oh, gracious.”

  “What?”

  “Just the thought of raw oysters…”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Excuse me, Tracey…”

  I watch Kate bolt from the table and race through the restaurant toward the bathroom.

  While she’s gone, I toy with my food and relive the rest of last week’s ill-fated Caribbean vacation.

  Leave it to me to get thisclose to Jack’s proposal at last, and then screw it up royally with a spectacular forty-eight-hour diarrhea-fest.

  If I hadn’t eaten those tainted oysters—or perhaps it was that tainted fish—I would be engaged to Jack right now.

  But no. Instead of spending the flight—rather, flights—back to New York making wedding plans, I spent my time rushing back and forth to the tiny bathrooms as the remains of the food poisoning worked its way through my system.

  Even now, a week later, I’m still feeling a little weak and queasy.

  The good news is that I’ve lost eight pounds without trying. Which means I’ll be able to go wedding gown shopping any day now…

  Well, as soon as Jack gives me that ring.

  Which should be any day now.

  I keep waiting for him to suggest a fancy date night. Or even just a moonlit walk along the East River. Something, anything other than coming home hours late from the office every night, collapsing in front of the television and falling asleep minutes later.

  I know this is his busy Planning season at work, but still…

  It only takes a few minutes to get engaged.

  Okay, hours, if you do it right.

  I can’t help noticing he spent more time than that on the football playoff games last weekend.

  Kate returns to the table, looking green. “Good gracious, that was ugly,” she informs me, pushing her plate away as she sits down. Her Southern twang is always more pronounced when she’s being dramatic.

  “Maybe you have food poisoning,” I say sympathetically. “Or maybe you caught one of those twenty-four-hour—”