“Just don’t think too long, dear,” she says. “You don’t want someone else to snatch this handsome young fellow up.” This is said with a laugh and a playful wink in Brandon’s direction, but I can tell my mother’s only half joking.
“Shall we order now?” she asks, signaling the waiter.
“Actually, I think I’m going to excuse myself,” I say. “I have a friend in the hospital, and it’s been a long night.” I’m not sure I can sit here much longer. Between Brandon’s total personality reversal and Mom’s shameless matchmaking, my head is reeling.
“Call me later?” Brandon says, touching his hand to my cheek as I stand up.
I bite my lip to keep from promising to call tonight, tomorrow night and every night thereafter, his touch bringing back a whole tirade of memories. Instead I turn and walk slowly away from the table, still not quite sure this whole conversation has been real.
Only the ring on my finger is proof it was. God, was it this heavy before? It suddenly feels like it’s weighing my whole hand down, pulling one side of my body lower than the other so I’m sure I look lopsided to all the tourist couples passing through the mall beside me.
I’m not really sure where I’m going, my feet aimlessly planting one in front of the other as I try to make sense of what just happened. I mean, could it really be true that Brandon realized what he was missing? Maybe. Isn’t that exactly what I’ve been hoping for these last six months, for him to come to his senses?
I can’t believe my mother called him. Wait, strike that, of course I can. This is just like her, to consider something like ditching me three months before our wedding for a cocktail waitress an insignificant detail in an otherwise fabulous relationship. Of course, if Brandon worked at Jiffy Lube, she’d be calling him a gigolo, but this is an Asherton were talking about. All those Asherton boys have to sow their wild oats a bit before settling down.
On the other hand, Brandon did look sincere. What if he really did just make a horrible mistake with Candi and he’s truly sorry now? Is it fair to throw away everything we had without giving him a chance?
We were so good together before Candi with an “i” came along. We both liked Thai food but not Japanese food, we both laughed at the same Friends reruns, we even had the same regular drink order at Starbucks, tall double brownie frappuccino with extra whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkled on top. Where else on earth am I going to find that kind of compatibility?
And then there’s the whole marriage dream I’d held onto for so long and only recently packed away. The one where there’s a big white wedding in a church with a real organ player and lots of big, white flowers and a reverend who actually looks like a reverend instead of the King of Rock and Roll. Then we move out to the suburbs, get a big stucco like Ella’s in Henderson. Brandon goes off to work while I join the Junior League and carpool little Kylie and Brandon Jr. to school. Even my mother’s happy in this dream, bragging to her friends about her daughter, Mrs. Brandon Davis Asherton the third. I’m not entirely put off by the idea of pulling this dream out of storage and trying it on for size again.
I find my feet have taken me all the way down the mall to the Godiva store. I look in the widow at the truffles and chocolate fingers calling to me, hoping maybe they have the answer. Oddly enough, though, as I look down at their chocolate gooeyness, I’m not hungry. Not even a little bit.
With a sigh, I sit down on a bench, aimlessly twirling the diamond ring on my left finger, thinking about the last conversation Brandon and I had before we broke up. The one where he told me he just wasn’t ready for this kind of commitment after all, and we were going to have to cancel the caterers and give up our reception hall reservations. I was so crushed I would have given anything to make him take me back.
I wonder if he was that crushed when he found Candi with an “i” had hit the road with his Rolex. I wonder if he ever gave her a ring. I wonder what he’d be doing today if she hadn’t left him. Getting her hair caught in his zipper again? Almost certainly he wouldn’t be having brunch with my mother right now, planning our honeymoon for all I know.
So, I guess the question is how badly do I want the Asherton pattern on my china? Bad enough to overlook a little Candi?
I watch the steady of stream of people walk by, some in T-shirts proclaiming, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” and other still in their cocktail dresses and rumpled suits from last night.
A tall brunette in a pleated mini and a cropped tank is walking a tiny Chihuahua dog like Paris Hilton’s on a rhinestone studded leash. She stops to look at a pair of shoes in the Louis Vuitton store window. The shoes are black with high heels, a gorgeous silver detail along the front, and a delicate thin strap in back. I can see why her eyes are glued to them, they’re beautiful. I look down at my orange Payless shoes with a sudden stab of longing. So engrossed in the Vuittons is the woman that she doesn’t even notice when her Chihuahua walks in a tiny circle, sniffs the tile, then squats down and does a little doggy log right there on the Forum floor. Ewwwwwww!
The brunette gives the shoes one final wistful look, then turns away from the window, tugging on her little log layer’s leash and leading him down the mall, oblivious to the perfect little pile of doggy doody in front of Louis Vuitton.
I wonder if I should tell someone? I look down the mall, but all I see are tourists. No janitorial staff in sight.
I’m about to go find the mall security office or something when a couple comes out of the Vuitton store. She’s wearing the same beautiful pair of shoes in the window, and he’s got that polo club look going on, complete with a soft, butter yellow sweater casually draped around his shoulders even though it’s eighty-five degrees outside. He’s got his hand on her arm and she’s looking up at him with the adoration of a women whose boyfriend just bought her $700 shoes.
Unfortunately, instead of admiring her beloved, she should be watching where she’s stepping.
“Hey, watch out-” I start, but it’s too late.
I cringe, the sight of Chihuahua doody on a shoe that beautiful almost too horrible to bear. And I think Miss Polo Club agrees with me. The poor thing looks like she’s about to cry.
The man looks down at the shoe. And then, I kid you not, he whips that yellow sweater off his shoulders and uses it to wipe the shoe off. Gross! But, I realize as I watch, kind of sweet. I mean, it takes quite a man to sacrifice his polo chic image just to salvage his girlfriend’s new Vuittons.
And she does look happy. Ecstatic really, especially for a woman who just stepped in dog crap. She gives him a big, sloppy kiss on the cheek as he throws the soiled sweater in the nearest trash bin. Then they walk down the mall hand in hand, her head kind of resting on his shoulder in a lovey way.
And suddenly I want that.
I dig into my purse and pull out my cell, punching in the number by memory. Brandon answers on the first ring. “Hello?”
“What would you do if I stepped in dog shit?”
“Excuse me?” I’ve obviously caught him completely off guard. Good. I want an honest answer out of him.
“If we were walking down the street and I stepped in dog shit, and it got all over my new shoes, what would you do?”
“Um. I don’t know. Show you where to scrape it off?”
I watch as the polo couple rounds the bend, still holding hands, and disappears into the crowd of shoppers. “Not good enough.”
“What? Mary, I’m not sure I understand what this is about.”
I take a deep breath, willing myself not to look at the ring still weighing my hand down.
“Listen, I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I really appreciate your telling my how much you missed me. I mean, I missed you too. A lot. So much I think I’ve gained about ten pounds trying to replace you with chocolate.”
“No, you haven’t gained-”
“And don’t try to be charming and say I haven’t, because I know it’s true. But that’s not really what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say
is that I’m sorry Candi ran off with your Rolex, and I’m sorry she dumped you for a bass player, because I know first hand how much it hurts to be dumped like that.”
“I’m so sorry, Mary, I-”
“Not that I’m tying to rub it in,” I say, forging ahead. “But I know the feeling. And it isn’t good. Which is why I don’t think you should make any rash decisions right now. Maybe you miss me, maybe you miss Candi, maybe you just miss football in Los Angeles, who knows? The point is, you’re not thinking clearly. And I honestly can’t accept a marriage proposal from someone who’s not thinking clearly. I personally know it takes at least six months after breaking up with someone to think clearly, because this is really the first time I’ve thought clearly about you since we broke up. Or to be exact, since you dumped me.”
“I said I was sorry about-”
“But the point is, I am thinking clearly now. And clearly you were never in love with me if you thought your life would be better with Candi. When you’re in love with someone, you can’t live without them, and you seem to be still breathing just fine. So whatever we had between us wasn’t real love.”
“Mary, I-”
“And for that matter, I’m breathing just fine too. To be honest, I think I was more in love with being in love than I was with you. I mean, you’re downright perfect, Brandon - you’re gorgeous, you’re sweet most of the time, the times when you’re not running off with cocktail waitresses, and, let’s face it, you’re an Asherton, which makes you a real catch in any woman’s book. But you’re just not the one for me.”
“But I can change-”
“I’m sorry, Brandon. I want someone who would clean the dog shit off the shoe for me. Someone who’s willing to make that kind of sacrifice. That’s true love.”
“I don’t understand, what-”
“To put this in terms you might understand - I’m just not ready for this kind of commitment.”
There. I said it. And, ohmigod, that feels so good! I feel… liberated. Yes, I do believe I actually feel liberated now.
I wait for Brandon to say something, having become suddenly silent on the other end. Finally he does. “Oh,” he says.
That’s it? Oh? What a dweeb.
“Brandon, is my mother still there?”
“Yeah. She’s ordering another iced tea.”
“Would you put her on please?”
“I, uh… okay,” he says with a resigned note in his voice.
I hear rustling as the phone is passed before my mother’s shrill voice comes on. “Mary?”
“As you may have just witnessed, I dumped Mr. Brandon Davis Asherton the third.”
“Yes, I heard. And, Mary, I think you’re being completely unreasonable.”
“Right, and it was completely reasonable of him to cancel the wedding so he could shack up with a cocktail waitress,” I say, laying the sarcasm on heavier than the two and a half carats shimmering on my left hand.
“Well, now you’re just being spiteful.”
“Spite is underrated.”
My mom sighs on the other end, and I can just picture the tiny frown that would be between her eyebrows if she hadn’t refreshed her Botox last week.
“Mom, what I wanted to tell you is that I have no date to Sam’s wedding.”
“What do you mean, ‘no date?’ What about the doctor?” she asks with genuine hope this time.
“Mom, do you really believe there’s a doctor?”
She pauses. “I believe there could be.”
Wow, I think that’s the nicest thing she’s said to me in weeks. She believes I could snare a doctor. Hunh. Well, who knows, maybe I could.
But sadly, I didn’t. “There’s no doctor. I will be attending Sam’s wedding…” I falter, shutting my eyes as I say it. “…alone.”
Stony silence.
“Mom, are you still there?”
“I could set you up with Effie Carrington’s nephew.”
“No. I’m going alone.”
“Or Bob Ellison’s grandson. He graduated from Stanford.
“Just set me a place at the kid’s table, okay?”
She sighs again. “Mary, I just don’t understand you.”
“That’s okay, I don’t understand you either. But I’ll still be there for brunch next week and we’ll frustrate ourselves trying, okay?”
Mom makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “Okay.”
“Oh, one more thing, Mom. Could you give Brandon a message for me?”
“Yes?”
“This time I’m keeping the ring.”
Chapter Twenty-five:
Kit, the Ace of Clubs
The door slowly opens, the exotic scents of expensive aftershave, strong vodka and Cuban cigars wafting out to hit my nostrils before he even steps into view. And then he does. His tall frame filling the doorway, his hair lit from behind like a halo as his pale blue eyes wink down at me, assessing me, taking stock from head to toe. A tiny smile plays at the corner of his lips, threatening to break into a full fledged grin as his eyes dance over the outfit I have chosen just for him. Low cut neckline, high cut hemline, and tight shimmery fabric in between. The smile breaks, crinkling his eyes at the corners, hitching one side of his mouth up into a rakish expression that reads like an open book. He wants me.
Without a word he pulls me to him, one big, warm hand landing possessively at my back, while the other tucks gently beneath my chin, tilting my eyes up, daring them to meet his. I do. And all the warnings fade into the background, my resolve hitting the floor faster than my shimmery dress as he undresses me with that slow, apprising look and a small nod of approval, so slight I might have imagined it. But I don’t imagine the way his body feels pressed flush with mine, his heart beating into my breast. Too fast. Too hard. Like it’s aching to get out, to touch me, to feel me, to know me. To love me.
His lips move toward mine as if in slow motion, each inch of air gobbled up is an eternity of anticipation. They linger over mine, hovering just close enough to whisper, not nearly close enough to quench the need pooling deep inside me. His breath is sweet and warm, and I drink it in, begging him to kiss me, to let me taste those soft, sweet lips teasing and torturing mine. He hears me. Lowers his mouth over mine in a slow, sensual kiss that’s so much more than two bodies meeting. It’s two souls, two long lost lovers uniting in a moment so sweet nothing on earth can ever compare.
At least, that’s how I imagine it will happen.
I’m sitting in my suite watching the clock above my TV tick the minutes by until my date with Vlad. It’s only six thirty-eight now, and I’m not sure if I can wait another half hour, each little rotation of that second hand taking an eternity. I’m wearing my shortest skirt, my highest stilettos and brand new lingerie. Just in case. Yes, I know I promised Ella that Vlad and I are taking things slowly. But I guess it’s the Girl Scout in me that says it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Ella doesn’t need to know I’m also wearing my diaphragm. What can I say? I’m weak.
My first real date with Vlad. How magnificent is that? I’m finally the Julia Roberts, the Meg Ryan, the cute, funny, lovable leading lady who will get her man in the end. I know not many other women ever make it into this role, and I’m relishing every second of it.
Every slow second, I amend, as I watch the clock tick off another minute. Six thirty-nine.
I feel like a kid anxiously waiting for her prom date to arrive as I bounce my heels up and down on the carpet. I spent the afternoon in David’s hospital room, watching reruns of The Price Is Right and The Brady Bunch while I told him about my date tonight. It was nice to get a male perspective on the whole thing. He agreed that Vlad asking me out was a good sign. He also agreed that the whole reading between the lines thing was bullshit. “Men don’t have any between the lines”, he said. “We say what we mean, and anything else you want to read into it is your funeral, honey.” Which was kind of reassuring because at least I’m not missing a whole novel between Vlad’s actions that I’m jus
t too illiterate to see. At any rate, he wished me luck and demanded every juicy detail afterwards. I’ll fill him in, but some details are just between Vlad and me.
I look back up at the clock. Six forty-five. Close enough. I grab my purse and head out the door. So, I’m a few minutes early. Whatever. If I have to wait any longer, I may just fantasize myself right into his bed again.
As I ride up to the twenty-eighth floor in silence, I wonder what a real date with Vlad will be like. Will he put his arm around my shoulder? Will he feel nervous and excited too? Or will it be like we’ve always been meant to do this? To be together, holding hands, lounging in his penthouse suite, sharing kisses in a dimly lit restaurant, dancing together at the Back Room until the wee hours of the morning. Fine, some of that we’ve done already, but this time it will mean so much more. This time the veneer of propriety will be gone, and it will be for real.
The elevator doors slide open, and I find myself almost as shaky as the last time I came up to Vlad’s suite. The only difference is this time I’ve been invited. I take a deep breath, tell myself to get a grip, and step out of the elevator. I blame it on the nerves that I don’t notice my heel catching in the runners until I trip out of the elevator, nearly falling flat on the paisley carpet. Thankfully, I catch myself on the plaster columns flanking the hall and avoid a full on face plant. However, my lovely stiletto, still lodged in the runner, seems to have taken the brunt of my weight. It’s tilting at a truly unhealthy angle. Damn.
I hobble over to a potted palm to inspect the injured shoe, hoping like hell I haven’t ruined another pair. Vlad will be disappointed, he always says I don’t take enough care with my shoes. I lean down to check the heel and, sadly, confirm my worst fears. It’s snapped clean off. Shit. And I really liked this pair too. I wonder if I have time to run back to my suite and change.
Just as I’m crouching down to see if there’s any possible way of salvaging the poor stiletto, I hear the door to Vlad’s suite open. Heel in hand, I take a step to greet him.
What Happens in Vegas Page 22