Dress Rehearsal

by Jennifer O'Connell

  From we’re meant to be to thanks for the wedding planner? Was this the same guy who wanted me get an eye patch? “Sure, no problem.”

  We found the Wedgewood Promenade dinnerware and Neil shrugged. “They’re nice, huh?”

  I took the dinner plate from Neil’s hand and turned it over, as if inspecting the china for imperfections. It was your basic wedding china, white with bands of platinum trimming the edges. Julie wasn’t going out a limb with that selection.

  “I guess, if you want something understated. But what about this one?” I placed the boring plate back onto its stand and reached for a bold blue and green pattern. “Now this Villeory and Boch is beautiful, and you can mix and match the patterns.” I picked up the dessert plate and held it up next to the dinner plate. “See, you have the swirling waves on the rim of the Costa pattern contrasted with the checkerboard trim of the Castell. It has a lot more pizzazz.”

  “I don’t know.” Neil shook his head, unconvinced, and picked up the Promenade plate again. “This is nice and simple.”

  “True. But I love the colors in these, they’re very Mediterranean.” I swept my hand in front of the impromptu place setting like a model on the Price Is Right.

  Neil hesitated and then shook his head. “No, the white is fine. That way they’ll go with everything.”

  “Sure, you’re right,” I halfheartedly agreed, reluctant to put down the plates. They really were beautiful.

  “Why don’t you get yourself the plates if you like them so much?” Neil asked, searching the shelf for the Tuscany stemware Julie picked out.

  “I don’t think so.” I guess I could live with plain white if I had to.

  Neil held up a tall bulbous wine glass and shrugged. “This is a wine glass all right.”

  “What about this one?” I showed him the glass I’d picked up. “See how it has a little wave going through it. That’s different.”

  “What’s with this wave thing you have going on? It matches the plates you picked out.”

  Neil was right. The stemware was practically made to go with the Villeroy and Boch setting I liked. How could Julie pick generic glasses and boring plates when she could pick something with a little flair? Here was the chance I’d been waiting for.

  “You know, if you don’t like the patterns Julie selected, we could choose new ones,” I suggested. I thought I saw the saleswoman glare at me from behind her granny glasses, her squinty eyes letting me know that I may be fooling Neil, but she was on to me.

  “No, this one is fine. It’s just a wine glass, right? Is that the silverware?” He pointed to the Weston spoon with its slight indent as the tip of the handle, the only hint of interest on the entire sterling silver handle.

  “Works for me.” He held up a fork for my appraisal.

  “Sure.” If you wanted to hold the most boring silver fork ever made.

  Neil scanned the rest of the page. “Do you really think we need to look at the sheets and towels?”

  The idea of looking at items designed for their joint showers and evenings in bed wasn’t exactly on my list of things to do tonight. “Probably not.”

  Neil agreed and we returned the registry to the sales woman, who seemed pleased that my mission had failed.

  Obviously my idea that we’d bond over flatware and table settings wasn’t working out.

  “Want to go get a drink?” I asked on our way to the escalator.

  “Didn’t you have client research to finish?”

  Oh yeah, that. “I was just finishing up when you got here, so there’s time for a drink, if you’re game.”

  Neil contemplated my offer. “Sure, there’s a bunch of guys from work meeting a few blocks away.”

  I hadn’t planned on making our date a group affair, but maybe it would be good to meet some of Neil’s friends.

  We walked four blocks until we reached the bar that Neil suggested, an after work haunt favored by the pin stripped suit crowd looking to escape the mazes of cubicles.

  Barnaby’s front window was illuminated by fluorescent blinking beer logos. A stool propped open the front door and I could hear the sounds of laughing, music and clinking beer bottles inside the basement bar.

  Neil obviously wasn’t out to impress me.

  I followed him down the cement steps and into a small room with low ceilings. The after work crowd was in full swing, ties hung slack around necks and shirt sleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up to elbows so that what were probably accountants and lawyers looked like fraternity guys ready to arm wrestle.

  We found a small round table and sat down. While we munched on the basket of popcorn and waited for the waitress to take our order, a group of guys walked into the bar and headed in our direction, slapping backs and cracking jokes on the way. Neil’s face lit up when he saw them.

  “Those are the guys I told you about,” he explained, standing up ready to greet them. “Grab those chairs over there and we’ll make some room.”

  Not only was he not trying to impress me, now he wanted me to lug four chairs across Barnaby’s sticky floor. Obviously a conversation about our destiny would have to take place another time. When we were alone. And when I wasn’t trying to suck popcorn kernels out of my teeth.

  Once Neil’s four co-workers sat down, I was relegated to the role of the agreeable nodder, the person who chirped in with an occasional uh huh and tipped her head to the side as if thoroughly engrossed in the prospects of a new first baseman for the Red Sox. Although Neil slid a cold bottle of beer in front of me every time a new round was ordered, I wasn’t exactly an active participant in the table’s conversation.

  Finally, I tapped Neil on the shoulder in a request for attention. “I’m going to go now.”

  There was no begging or even feigned disappointment at my departure - just a quick okay before he rejoined the speculation about a price increase for tickets to Fenway Park.

  Now, that did not go as I’d planned. When I asked if he’d like to have a drink, I was thinking something more along the lines of a quiet restaurant along the water, not a hole in the wall with Bruce Springsteen on the juke box lamenting the plight of the working man. Then again, who knew what would have happened if Neil’s work cronies hadn’t arrived. Maybe we could have had the conversation I was hoping for, the talk where we got beyond just reminiscing about what we were and got around to figuring out what we could be.

  Chapter 27

  “Please come out and meet Pietro,” I begged, my hands clapped together in prayer as if a superior being could get Maria to change her mind.

  “No,” Maria insisted.

  Only weeks after the contract was signed Vivian had managed to set up the photo shoot and book Pietro. Bradley Potter wanted to publish the book in October, when all the future June brides were in full planning mode, and with Pietro planning to spend the next six months in Europe, Vivian acted fast. I poured over my index cards with Maria, selecting cakes that reflected Lauren’s Luscious Licks best work, and then the staff got baking. In nine days they were able to complete thirty six cakes of all shapes and sizes. Because most of the cakes were going to be photographed whole, only the dozen cakes that we’d chosen to include with pictures of actual slices had any filling. And, luckily, because the cakes were being photographed and not eaten, it didn’t matter if they were stale when Pietro arrived.

  “But he wants to meet you and I want him to meet you. You did such an amazing job on the cakes.”

  Maria sniffed and continued scraping the off-set icing spatula along the side of a fourteen inch round cake. She’d moved on to our orders, as if today was just like any other day instead of one of Lauren’s Luscious Licks defining moments.

  “Please?”

  Maria pointed to Betty Friedan’s wise words posted above the butcher block bench. “I did my part, I created the cakes that no one will ever even eat. Now you do yours.”

  I gave up and left Maria alone with the cake and her philosophical musings.

  “Maria’s a littl
e tied up right now,” I explained to Pietro and his crew, relishing the fantasy of Maria secured to the oven with bungie cords, her fat little fingers working behind her back as she tried to break free. In my mind I took the bandana off her head and used it to muffle her screams – if I was going to fantasize, I may as well go all the way. “We have a lot of orders to fill.”

  Pietro frowned, but his team of stylists and assistants continued to strategically place lights and reflective shields around the set they’d created in the center of the boutique.

  When the white backdrop was in place, and the lights were up, Hector and Benita removed the first cake from the walk in cooler and assembled it on the silk-covered platform the stylist had designed.

  The cake, four tiers with a faux fondant finish in lavender Italian meringue buttercream icing, was dotted with hand sculpted violet blossoms in brilliant shades of amethyst. Bands of white fondant swags circled each tier, and were tied back with the delicate flowers.

  Finally, after an assistant went a few more rounds with the light meter, Pietro’s camera started clicking.

  By the third cake, a champagne-colored fondant iced design embellished with roses, sweet peas, fall leaves and burgundy grapes cascading down off-set oval tiers, I started to understand the bored look that models seem to have perfected. In a way, my cakes were just like those leggy, vacant models in magazines. Sure, they were beautiful and pleasing to look at, but they weren’t exactly accessible. The clothing and accessories models wore looked stunning set against exotic locales, but in real life, they’d look ridiculous. Like my cakes at a photo shoot.

  It was as if Pietro and his team were trying to make the cakes into something more than they were, like owners who dress up their poodles in evening gowns, feather hats, and fuchsia-polished toe nails. I watched as Maria’s creations were primped and positioned until Pietro found the ideal angle to capture their essence – his words, not mine.

  But with each cake, I started to think that maybe they weren’t meant to be admired from afar, or from a photograph. Lauren’s Luscious Licks was supposed to be about sharing scrumptious cakes, desserts that you couldn’t wait to eat and that, once eaten, left you satisfied. Like my first vanilla bean cheesecake, the fun was supposed to be in watching people eat the cake, not admiring it from afar like some unattainable standard.

  Even though I’d asked Julie if I could use it, I hadn’t included the almond cake with raspberry filling and chocolate ganache in the final group of cakes, even though it would have been beautiful with fresh raspberries, slivered almonds, and a wreath of variegated ivy for decoration. It felt too personal, especially now that Neil and I shared it.

  I’d decided to call Neil and ask him to meet me again once the flurry of activities surrounding the photo shoot died down. Our afternoon at Macy’s hadn’t turned out like I’d planned, but I couldn’t ignore the signs that I’d paid such close attention to in the past.

  “Do you need to get that?” Vivian asked, pointing to the phone.

  I shook my head and watched Pietro try to coax a mound of hydrangea to sit still without smudging the dotted Swiss icing. “Maria will get it.” Eventually. On the fourth ring she finally picked up.

  I listened, waiting for Maria to call me into the kitchen. Charlie had called the boutique five times this week, and every time Maria took a message she shoved it at me and shook her head. I knew her patience was wearing thin.

  I still thought about Charlie the way you remembered childhood ballet lessons – they sure were fun, and maybe if you’d stuck it out you could have learned some of the more graceful moves, but it wasn’t like you had any chance of being a prima ballerina. At least not without some serious sacrifice, boxes of bunion pads, and a couple bloodied toes. I was hoping he’d get the hint and stop calling. The last thing I wanted to do was face him and admit that I’d been wrong or confess that I’d overestimated myself on our first date.

  The photo shoot lasted almost ten hours, and by the time the crew was packed up and out the door, I was exhausted. Maria stayed late in the kitchen to dispose of the cakes, muttering what a waste it was to make a cake just for show. It was too late to call Neil, but I vowed to pick up where we’d left off at Barnaby’s. Even if it meant luring him to meet me under false pretenses. I mean, this was my future we were talking about, after all.

  When I left the boutique, I slipped my key from the keyhole and jiggled the doorknob to make sure it was locked. When I was convinced the bolt was secure, I turned to leave, and smacked squarely into a yellow and blue lattice striped tie.

  “Hey, stranger.”

  “Charlie, what are you doing here?” I bent to pick up the keys I’d dropped, but Charlie got to them first. He held the keys in his hand, in what seemed like a hostage situation intended to make me talk.

  “You haven’t returned my calls and I wanted to make sure you didn’t have some sort of icing emergency,” he smiled, trying to make light of my conspicuous avoidance. “I know how treacherous that whipped cream can get.”

  “Spring is one of our busiest seasons,” I stammered. “I really haven’t had time to call anyone.”

  “I know. I left a few messages with a woman named Maria, but she said I should stop by around seven and talk to you myself,”Charlie told me, and then grinned. “She was really sweet.”

  Yeah, real sweet.

  Charlie’s hand still clutched my keys. “And, besides, I’m not just anyone. I thought we were considering a joint venture.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. I just don’t think now is a good time to get involved. You understand, don’t you?” I smiled weakly, and avoided looking into his eyes.

  “No, not really.” Charlie wasn’t going to make this easy for me. “Is there a better time?”

  “It’s just that I’m not sure we want -”

  “The same thing,” he finished my sentence with horrifying accuracy. Charlie gave me a forgiving smile. “Yeah, I think I understand.”

  He held out my keys, dangling them from his finger, and I took the cool metal edges in my hand and squeezed tightly. “Thanks,”

  Charlie stepped back from the door and studied me for a minute before walking away. “You know, it’s too bad,” he called out, turning and walking backwards so he could face me. “You were a hell of a backgammon player.”

  He turned around again and never looked over his shoulder to see if I was still standing in the doorway.

  I dropped the keys in my purse and noticed the ridges left in my hand from the keys, deep indents outlined in red. I rubbed my hands together trying to make the impressions go away, but it would take some time before the marks would fade.

  I had a choice to make. Charlie or Neil. Uncertainty or a sure thing. There really wasn’t any choice at all. It was an obvious decision.

  The front windows of the boutique were dark, but back toward the kitchen a faint light shone through the small window in the swinging door, and I thought I saw the shadow of a face watching me.

  A taxi cab’s horn blew at two young girls crossing the street, and the swearing that followed grabbed my attention away from the boutique. The girls ran into Starbucks, leaving the cab driver stuck at a red light. When I looked back toward the kitchen, the shadow was gone.

  Chapter 28

  My unexpected run in with Charlie wasn’t exactly what I’d planned. In fact I was just hoping he’d give up and stop calling. But it was probably the best thing. Rip the Band-Aid off quickly. Even if it stung for a little while afterward. Still, the only thing that made me think of was the box of Barney Band-Aids sitting on Charlie’s bathroom shelf.

  Running into Neil at Macy’s was step one. Or maybe my surprise visit to Gamble Mansion was step one, but I definitely thought I’d have some time before I was forced to come up with my next move. When I dialed Neil’s cell phone, I had no idea he was in a cab racing out of the Sumner tunnel – a mere twenty minutes from the boutique’s front door. But, when I told him I had some concerns about the cake, Neil immediat
ely offered to swing by. He told me he had time to kill before meeting Julie, and two seconds later he was repeating the boutique’s address to the cab driver.

  “Why don’t you meet me at the swan boats instead,” I quickly suggested. “I’m looking at the gardens for a client.”

  Neil agreed and I took a deep breath before hanging up. This was it.

  I waited on a bench by the lagoon. When I saw Neil approaching, I quickly ran my tongue over my lips, hoping to make them glossy and luscious. Instead I tasted the mustard from my lunch.

  “You have a little on the corner, too,” Neil pointed out when he reached me, dabbing at his own lips to guide my hand.

  Nothing like a little French’s yellow mustard to turn glossy and luscious into just plain gross. Unless Neil fantasized about kissing a ball park frank, I wasn’t starting out on my best foot. I swiped at my mouth with the back of my hand. “Thanks.”

  Neil gave me a perfunctory hug and the familiar scent of Obsession cologne sent a wave of recognition through my body. It wasn’t desire, or even nostalgia, just my senses acknowledging his presence.

  I sat back down and Neil joined me, leaning against the arm of the bench so we faced each other. There was a good two feet between us.

  “God, I haven’t been here since the week before I moved, remember?”

  I did. We’d come down to the lagoon for one last ride on the boats. “That’s the last time I went for a ride, too.”

  Neil tipped his head to the side and smirked “Really? That was eight years ago.”

  “Really.” I nodded. “Does Julie know you’re here?”

  “Not yet. I called her when my plane landed, but she was still out with her mom dress shopping.”