by Lauren Rico
Maggie nods miserably.
“It’s awful, right?”
“Well …” There’s just no way around it, the dress is hideous and I can’t find a single redeeming quality to point to. My non-response confirms her suspicions.
“I knew it! I was hoping it was just me being a brat about wanting my own special dress, but it’s not just me, is it?”
I take one last, long look from neckline to hem and make my way back up to her eyes. I shake my head no. No, it’s not just her. She puts a hand to her forehead and falls back onto their overstuffed denim blue couch with a puff of taffeta and crinoline.
“Holy crap! What am I going to do?” she whines.
“Is it possible that once she see you in it that she’ll realize that it’s …” oh, how to say this tactfully? “That it’s not a good fit for you?”
Maggie is shaking her head emphatically now. “No. No way. I can’t even let my mother see me in it. I mean, I can just hear my mother now, ‘Oh, Maggie, you look so beautiful! I just can’t believe my baby is going to be a married woman!’”
She puts her head in her hands.
“I am so fucked,” she mutters then looks up and we both burst out laughing at the same time.
Before I know what’s happening, she’s slid onto the braided rug on the floor, holding her stomach, and I’m howling so hard I’m crying. It takes us several minutes to regroup from our untoward display of wedding attire hysteria. Finally, Maggie sits up again, wiping at the tears on her cheeks.
“Seriously!” she wheezes. “What am I going to do? I cannot walk down the aisle looking like the Barbie birthday cake from when I turned six, Julia!”
It’s all I can do to keep myself from falling back into a fit of giggles over the thought of the birthday cake, so I bite my tongue and consider her plight. And then it comes to me.
“Trudy!” I declare excitedly.
“What? What about her?”
“Brett told me she sews everything, including her own clothes. I’ll bet she’d be able to whip that dress into something a little less …” I wave a hand at the garment as I search for an inoffensive adjective.
“Tacky? Fluffy? Garish?” Maggie offers.
“I was going to say dated,” I laugh. “But seriously, why don’t you ask her about it? I’ll bet she’d love to do it for you, Maggie.”
“That’s such a great idea,” she sighs in relief. “I’ll call her this afternoon.”
She hoists herself up off the floor with considerable effort. “You know, this damn thing weighs thirty-five pounds? I’m not kidding! It’s right on the shipping label. What bride wants to be thirty-five pounds heavier on her wedding day? Here, will you please unzip me so I can get out of this thing?”
I never had any friends, aside from Matthew. Maggie’s become my sounding board, my confidant, and a damn fine aunt to my son.
“Have you spoken with her?”
Her question interrupts my thoughts and, for a moment, I’m not sure what she’s talking about. “Spoken to who?”
“Uhhh … your child’s grandmother?” she teases.
“Oh, her,” I reply sheepishly, tugging the zipper the last inch. Maggie shrugs the dress off her shoulders and it falls to the floor with an audible thump.
“So. Much. Better,” she murmurs, closing her eyes in relief. “Sorry, go on …”
“Um, no. No I haven’t. She was very kind, but she was obviously stunned. It’s hard to say what her true feelings on the subject are. Unless, of course, you’re able to provide me with some insight into that ...” I fish.
She steps out of the pool of fabric and turns to face me in nothing but her bra and panties.
“I know she was pissed at hell that Brett didn’t give her a heads-up on that little tidbit. He’s been in the doghouse with her since you guys got back from the tour.”
“It’s not his fault. He was respecting my wishes. There was just no way around it …she may be Brett’s mother, but she’s also Jeremy’s mother.”
She’s still talking to me as she makes her way to the bedroom. “I get that. But now that it’s out there I think you should consider the implications and how you want to proceed with her.”
“What implications …exactly?”
She hops out of the bedroom again wearing a Journey T-Shirt and trying to get her other leg into her jeans.
“Like …do you want her to be David’s grandmother? You know, to have that relationship with him? And how will you feel if she’s not comfortable with that? And, if you don’t want her to have a relationship with your son, how will you tell her?”
“Good questions,” I admit thoughtfully. “I hadn’t really considered them.”
“Julia, you’ve had enough Mama Drama to last you a lifetime. Trudy’s an amazing woman …and the total opposite of Jeremy. But she’s a tough cookie. And she’ll tell you exactly what’s on her mind.”
“So I noticed!” I snort loudly, recalling our catastrophic run-in backstage at the Walton Concert. “Well,” I sigh after a long moment, “I actually would like David to know his grandmother … especially since he already has a relationship with Brett. It’d be awkward to have one without the other … but I’m not going to force myself, or my son, onto her. She has an open invitation to get to know us a little better, and she’ll either take me up on it, or she won’t.”
“Fair enough,” Maggie agrees with a nod that makes her black curls bounce. “If you think this is bad,” she says, pointing to the discarded wedding dress, “wait till you see the lampshade my mother used as a headpiece!”
Julia 23
“Julia!” Matthew bellows from his office.
I guess this is what they mean by ‘the honeymoon’s over.’ It’s hard to believe I was enjoying naked room service this time last week. My trip down the hall is about as far away from chocolate covered strawberries and blue showers as you can get.
“Did you need something, my love?” I ask sweetly, from the doorway. But his exasperated expression tells me sweet’s not going to cut it right now.
“Julia, David got into my filing cabinet. Again. Everything has been pulled up and out and shifted around, it’s a mess!”
This is only the thirty-eighth time we’ve had this conversation, and I’m not particularly interested in having it a thirty-ninth time.
“Matthew, you know he likes to pretend he’s working in there, like you. You thought it was cute a month ago,” I point out, appealing to his ‘daddy ego.’ But he doesn’t bite.
“Yeah, well, a month ago, there wasn’t grape jelly on my bank papers,” he snaps, waving the offending sticky documents at me.
“Why didn’t you lock the cabinet?”
“Why should I have to? It’s my office!”
I shrug. “Well, then, I guess you’d better lock the door to your office where your unsecured documents are stored, because our son can turn doorknobs now, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
He throws his hands up, turns around, and walks away shaking his head. I try, unsuccessfully, to stifle a giggle, and am punished with an Evil Eye over his shoulder.
It’s been an adjustment, having this tiny person running around the house. Since he’s been mobile, I’ve played more games of hide-and-seek with my cellphone than I can count. In fact, I’m still waiting to find it from the last time David got his sticky little fingers on it. I sigh and try my best to be more sympathetic.
“Matthew, you’re right, he’s been getting into a lot of things lately. But he’s at that curious stage when he wants to investigate everything. We just need to be more careful about what we leave lying around.”
No sooner are the words out of my mouth than he reaches into his top desk drawer and pulls out … Oh. No. He cannot be serious right now. The blade on the knife he’s holding must be six inches long. The thing looks like a prop out of a Vietnam War movie.
“What. Is. That?” I manage to ask in a horrified whisper.
My husband looks up smugly.
“This is what David might find next time he’s in my office, if we don’t teach him some boundaries. He’s old enough …”
“No,” I interrupt him flatly. “No.”
“No, what? No, we can’t teach him not to …”
I shake my head. “No, you can’t keep that thing in this house.”
His normally sexy lips turn up into an incredulous, condescending smirk.
“I’m sorry … I can’t keep it? What’s wrong with you? It’s just a little hunting knife.”
“You don’t hunt. And there’s nothing little about it.”
“Well, no,” concedes, “but still, don’t you think you’re overreacting just a little?”
Okay, Julia keep your cool. Take a breath. Count to five and Do. Not. Strangle. Your. Husband.
“Matthew, honey,” I grit out, “I get the sentimental value of the knife. And maybe, someday … a long, long time from now … you can share it with David. But I’m sorry, I’m just not comfortable having a weapon like that in the same house where our child plays.”
“It’s not a gun, Julia,” he scoffs, dismissing my concerns. “David isn’t going to accidentally stab himself to death …”
Okay, well, so much for keeping my cool. Clearly I’m not getting my point across, because Matthew still seems to be under the impression that he has a choice in this matter. Time for the big guns. The ‘Guilt’ guns.
“Oh? Are you sure about that, honey? Because, you know it happens all the time. I mean it’s not hard to imagine a scenario where something tragic happens! He runs with it and falls on top of it, it impales him,” I smack the back of one hand into the palm of the other as I paint the image for him. “Or, he runs with it and slips down the stairs, it impales him. Maybe he’s out by the pool with it …”
Matthew jumps to his feet, holding up his hands in surrender. “For God’s sake, please stop saying it’s going to impale him! That’s so not fair!”
All is fair in love and guilt and the sooner my dear husband realizes that, the better for both of us. But especially for him, because this is a battle I do not intend to lose.
“Julia, please, how about this … I’ll buy a lockbox for it. You know, the secure kind that people use to secure their handguns? Then I’ll keep it up high, in the very back of the closet.”
“Kids get into closets, Matthew …” I point out. “You don’t think an incredibly active, incredibly bright little boy will eventually find his way to something like that? To him, it looks like a big, shiny toy.”
“Toddlers don’t get things that are seven feet off the ground. I swear to you, I will buy a lockbox for it before we come back here next weekend. When he’s a little older, I’ll find someplace else for it. And you have my word, if David even catches sight of it, I’ll get rid of it.”
I sigh heavily. “Fine. But I’m going to hold you to that, Matthew Ayers. There’d better be a lockbox here by next weekend or I’ll turn right around and take David back to the city until you get one.”
He nods mutely, realizing at last that this is a game he will never win.
Julia 24
Later, after the dust has settled, I’m enjoying a cup of coffee as I sit at the long farm table, watching through the slider as a doe and fawn pick their way through the backyard, periodically stopping to munch on some mums. They’re a stark contrast to the mother/child scene playing out here in the kitchen as David contentedly mauls his macaroni and cheese. He flattens the sticky elbows against the tray of his high chair, using an airplane-shaped spoon. When he has sufficiently crushed them, he grabs a fistful of the gooey mess and stuffs it into his mouth. About a third of it stays in there.
“Sweetie, let Mommy help you …” I offer, reaching for the spoon.
“NO!” he screeches. “NO, Mammmmmaaa!”
I hold up my hands in surrender. Since this little boy came into the world, I’ve learned all about the art of picking my battles. Squashed mac and cheese I can deal with.
“Hey! What’s all the yelling about in here?” Matthew asks as he breezes into the kitchen, considerably more relaxed now that I’m off the warpath. He pours himself a mug of coffee from the carafe on the counter and comes to give me a kiss on the cheek. Then it’s David’s turn. Matthew sneaks up behind our son, still preoccupied with his dinner, and delivers a sloppy, sneak-attack raspberry on the back of his neck, making the boy chortle uncontrollably. When he stands up again, Matthew has macaroni stuck to his face.
“You have a little something …” I point out, gesturing to the spot on my face that reflects where the food is on his face.
He swipes at it with his hand and examines the rogue noodles before popping them into his mouth.
“Yummmmmmmm!” he says, picking another off of the highchair tray.
David’s belly laugh fills the kitchen. When I look at the two of them, I see father and son …which makes me think about Jeremy …which makes me think about Trudy.
“So, Maggie’s going to take the train out from the city tomorrow morning with Trudy. She’ll stay here and watch David while Trudy and I have a bite out,” I inform him, trying not to sound as unsure about the plan as I feel.
Matthew musses the top of David’s hair and comes to sit with me at the table.
“Yeah? That sounds nice. Where’re you going to take her?”
“That little cafe on Love Lane in Mattituck.”
He snorts.
“What? What can you possibly find amusing about that?” I challenge.
“Let me guess, you picked.”
“Yes. And …?”
“And, I’m just struck by the fact that you’re a nervous wreck about having this conversation with Trudy and, yet, you’re still thinking about pancakes.”
“What?”
He pokes me in the arm.
“You. Love. Pancakes. You especially love their lemon ricotta pancakes.”
I think about this for a second.
“Oh my God,” I groan and roll my eyes, smacking a hand to my forehead. “You’re right! What’s wrong with me?”
I’m horrified, he is laughing.
“Nothing! I just think it’s hilarious that even at this seminal moment in your life, you’re thinking about breakfast.”
I shake my head at him, starting to laugh at myself.
“Matthew, what do you think that is?”
He shrugs, still smiling.
“Honestly, Julia, I think it’s your comfort zone kicking in. Besides, if things don’t go well, the day won’t have been a total bust …”
I slap his hand playfully and am about to say something when the blaring sound of a foghorn filters into the bright, white kitchen from outside.
“Boat!” David yells proudly from the highchair.
“Yes, baby, very good!” I praise him and then turn to Matthew. “Can’t we do anything about that? The new foghorns on the ferry are so loud!”
“It’s already on the agenda for the next civic meeting. At the very least, we should be able to get a curfew, so there won’t be anymore of those midnight wakeup calls. I don’t think it’ll be an issue, honestly. The ferry company likes to be a good neighbor.’”
“I’d settle for having them be a quiet neighbor right now,” I grumble.
“Okay, so let’s square away the plan for the rest of the week,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket to consult his calendar. I reach for mine and realize it’s still missing, thanks to the redheaded imp sitting next to me. “Lunch with Trudy for you,” Matthew is reciting as he scrolls from date to date. “A date with Maggie for David. I’ve got a rehearsal for the Montauk Music Festival gig I’m doing, so I won’t be home till dinner. And then …?”
“And then we have a down day on Wednesday before we head back to the city Thursday. I gave Nat those two days off. And then Friday …”
“And then Friday is Mommy’s big night!” Matthew says excitedly, scooping up David from the highchair and spinning him around the kitchen.
“Matthe
w! Put him down before he throws up on you!” I warn him, already envisioning the gooey, orange mess.
“Mommy’s a worry wart!” Matthew informs David and delivers him back to his seat.
“More!” he demands, pounding his chubby fists on the tray. “More!”
“Finish your dinner first,” Matthew tells him. It seems to do the trick and peace is restored in the kitchen – at least for the moment. “As I was saying …your big night! Is everything ready?”
I roll my eyes and groan. “It’s a nightmare. I spoke with Lester Morgan this afternoon. The guest list is up to a hundred and fifty!”
Matthew waves away my alarm with a dismissive hand.
“Oh, come on now. You’ve played for audiences ten times that size!” he reminds me.
“Yeah, well, this feels different. God, it’s all about me, this time.”
“Julia! It’s supposed to be all about you. This is your first commercial release – it’s a very, very big deal!”
“I know,” I whine, “but all those people …they’ll be wanting me to sign their CD’s and they’ll want to talk with me and …well, you know playing for an audience is one thing. Interacting is another.”
He seems to consider this. “Yeah, I can see that. But still, it isn’t as if you’ll be alone. I’ll be there, Dr. Sam, Maggie, Brett …You’ll be among friends. Just go and play. The rest will take care of itself.”
“You think?”
I can hear the skepticism in my voice, and so can he. He stands up, faces me and reaches down, taking my face in both of his soft, warm hands.
“I know. If I had even an iota of doubt, I wouldn’t let you do it. I swear, Julia.”
I smile up at him and his amber eyes fill me with the confidence I’m lacking.
“You know I love you, right?” I murmur and watch as his smile makes his eyes crinkle.
“I do,” he says, leaning down and giving me a soft kiss on the mouth. “Now, where’s the rest of that macaroni and cheese?”
Julia 25