Slightly Married

by Wendy Markham

  My heart overflows and I hug her. “You look beautiful, Mom. Come on, let’s go get Jack so you can meet everyone.”

  “We look like we just got into town with the circus,” Sara mutters as we head over.

  “What do you mean?”

  She gestures at the other guests. “They’re all in black.”

  Et tu, Sara? Et tu?

  “It’s a New York thing,” I tell her soothingly. “And you look great.”

  “I look gaudy.” She gestures at her lemon-yellow sundress. “And so does poor Joe. I made him wear that. I got one for him and one for your dad for Father’s Day last week.”

  It’s a Hawaiian shirt covered in turquoise hibiscus blossoms. My father’s is similar but his blossoms are orange.

  They are a pretty colorful crew, especially with little Joey’s loud shorts, Grandma in hot pink and Mary Beth in a pale lavender pantsuit.

  Being the bride, I’m all dressed in white—corny, I know. But I went shopping with Rachel a few weeks ago and found this crisp Ralph Lauren skirt and top that set off my new fake tan, which was Raphael’s engagement gift to me.

  “You’re giving me a tan?” I asked when he told me about it awhile back.

  He nodded vigorously. “You want that Palm Beach glow, Tracey.”

  He’s right. I do. Now that I have it, anyway.

  At first, though, I wasn’t crazy about the idea of stripping down to my underwear under bright lights in a little booth and being sprayed head to toe by a stranger with some kind of bronzing mist. But then Tiffany—she, of course, is the tanning technician—started explaining how she was contouring my thighs and stomach with strategic spraying, to make me look more toned—and you know what? She was right. It really does. I even got a touch-up last night after work.

  Now Jack’s eyes widen appreciatively when he sees me, and he greets me with a kiss and a fervent, “You look gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. So do you.” He’s in a dark suit and tie with a white dress shirt and polished wingtips. I love it when he’s all dressed up like this. It makes up for all the stinky socks and holey sweatpants.

  He warmly hugs all of my family and takes the doughnuts from my mom, saying, “Krispy Kremes! That’s the best thing anybody could bring to a party. I’m having one now.”

  Good old Jack.

  “We’re missing three,” my mother says apologetically. “Little Joey got hungry on the train.”

  Hungry?

  Little Joey was out of control on the train. Especially after my mother had pumped him full of sugar. By the time we reached our stop, he was literally hanging from the overhead luggage rack.

  Wilma comes bustling our way calling, “At last! Welcome!”

  “Are we late?” my father asks. “I thought we were early.”

  “Oh, no, no. I mean, it’s about time we’re finally getting to meet. I feel like you’re family already!” Wilma throws her arms around my mother: Chanel No. 5 meets Jean Nate.

  Mom looks instantly relieved. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “You, too. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “You, too.”

  “We brought doughnuts,” my grandmother speaks up, wanting to be noticed.

  “Krispy Kremes.” Jack holds them up.

  “Oh, we love those!” exclaims Wilma, promptly debunking the “health nut” accusation, though nary a cruller has crossed those frosted-pink lips in all the time I’ve known her.

  I introduce her to everyone, especially Grandma, who beams when Wilma tells her she and my mother could be sisters.

  “People say that all the time,” she claims.

  “Tracey!” I turn around to find Yvonne, Latisha and Brenda, all dressed becomingly—yes, in black.

  “Hi, guys!” I hug each of them, touched that they made the trek up here.

  There’s still a subtle level of unspoken tension between me and them at the office, and I really wasn’t sure they’d come, but here they are.

  I introduce them to my family and Wilma as “bridesmaids and dear friends.”

  “Now, whose mother are you, again?” I hear Grandma asking Yvonne.

  Uh-oh.

  “Nobody’s. Whose daughter are you, again?” Yvonne asks good-naturedly in return, and my grandmother titters girlishly.

  I watch the two of them—both aging, unnatural redheads in clingy clothes—head off to the bar together. How about that.

  Wilma has taken my parents under her wing, escorting them around the room making introductions.

  Jack is off greeting some of his cousins, who just got here.

  Joey and Sara have taken little Joey outside to “blow off some steam,” thank God.

  “So how long have you two worked with Tracey?” Mary Beth asks Brenda and Latisha as the four of us sip our Candelltinis.

  “We were there right from the start,” Brenda tells her, “back before she became a big shot with her own office.”

  She means to say it lightly—and maybe she even does—but for some reason, it stings.

  “I’m definitely not a big shot,” I protest.

  “You’re a bigger shot than the rest of us,” Latisha points out.

  “And,” Brenda adds, “we really miss you out in the cubes.”

  “The cubes?” my sister asks.

  “Tracey used to sit with us in the cubicles. Now she’s way off down the hall.”

  “Not that far,” I tell Latisha. “And anyway, we still eat lunch together—”

  “When you have time.”

  “When I have time,” I agree with Brenda. “And I know I haven’t had much time lately. They’ve been piling on the work since I got promoted.”

  “Tracey was so excited about that promotion,” my sister contributes. “And we were all so proud of her back home. My parents tell everyone about her.”

  I look at Mary Beth in surprise. “Ma and Pop tell people about me? What do they say?”

  “That you’re an executive in Manhattan.” May-an-hay-at-an. Mary Beth’s flat A’s are coming through loud and clear.

  “An executive?” I echo. “They actually say that?”

  She nods. “You’ve done better than anyone else in the family. They’re really proud of you. Dad is always telling people you made it in New York and ‘if you can make it there you’ll make it anywhere.’ You know how he loves Frank Sinatra.”

  “But…I thought New York was a problem for him and Ma. You know, that they were upset that I moved away.”

  “Only because they miss you like crazy. But trust me, they brag about you every chance they get.”

  “Wow.” I stare across the room at my parents, who are holding glasses of red wine and politely listening to Jack’s brother-in-law Bob, Kathleen’s husband, talking about something really boring.

  No, I can’t hear what he’s saying. I don’t have to. Everything Bob says is really boring.

  As he talks, the twins are busy with the nearby chocolate fountain. No, they’re not dipping the strawberries or butter cookies that are artfully arranged beside it. Ashley is, however, dipping her fingers, and Beatrice has cupped her hands beneath the trickling chocolate. Nice.

  Even from here, I can see that my parents are making note of this scene and deciding that the Candell grandchildren are spoiled brats.

  I can’t say I disagree.

  But then, I feel the same way about the Spadolini grandchild, who can currently be seen running amok through the lovely sweeping view beyond the window.

  “You know, I can’t believe they say good things about me living in New York and working in advertising,” I muse, turning away from my parents, back to my sister.

  “Why not?” Mary Beth asks.

  “Because they’ve never said it to me directly.”

  “They’re not like that.”

  “No, I know…I just…” I’m suddenly feeling really emotional. I’d love to go over there and give my parents a huge hug right now—and not just to spare them some painfully involved tale about peopl
e they’ve never met. Bob and Kathleen like to keep everyone apprised of their friends’ and neighbors’ lives in addition to their own.

  “You know, Tracey,” Brenda says, “I’m really happy for you—that you got promoted and everything.”

  I look up in surprise. I had forgotten all about her and Latisha being here. I notice now that their expressions have softened considerably.

  “Are you sure?” I can’t resist asking.

  “Is she sure about what?” Yvonne has rejoined us, having left my grandmother to flirt with the twentysomething studmuffin tending bar.

  Mental note: rescue studmuffin ASAP.

  “I just told her I’m happy about her promotion.”

  “We all are,” Yvonne agrees, “and we’re jealous as hell of your door, view and raise, but don’t mind us. We’ll get over it.”

  “The view isn’t that great,” I tell her, “and the raise doesn’t make much difference at all, after taxes.”

  “Whatever, we just feel like we’ve lost you, girlfriend,” Latisha says.

  “Why? I’m still around.”

  “Yeah, but now you know stuff that we don’t,” Brenda says.

  “Like who’s getting fired.”

  “Nobody’s getting fired,” I tell Latisha. “Not that I know of, anyway.”

  “You knew about Julie.”

  “I did not. You guys knew before I did.”

  “Yeah, right.” That’s Yvonne.

  “You said Adrian told you in advance that there were going to be layoffs on Choc-Chewy-O’s,” Latisha points out.

  “Hello?” That’s Mary Beth, answering her cell phone again. She listens for a minute, then excuses herself to go take the call.

  “Julie just thought you should have warned her she might lose her job,” Brenda tells me. “She felt really bad.”

  “But…” What I want to say is that I had no clue what Adrian was even talking about.

  Then I realize that if I did know, it still wouldn’t be my place to warn Julie. I mean, there’s going to be certain information I’m privy to on my level now, and it’s not a good idea to go spreading it around the office.

  And if my friends think I should be engaging in corporate espionage…well, they’re wrong.

  “Listen,” I say, “you guys have to understand that my job depends on my being professional and responsible, just like your jobs do. I’m trying really hard to do this right, and I’m completely overwhelmed with work and crazy Clients, and I feel like you guys haven’t been supportive at all lately. You’re pissed at me for something I didn’t even know anything about. And anyway, you would do the same thing in my shoes.”

  For a moment, there’s silence. I guess they’re not used to me sticking up for myself. Maybe they were expecting an apology and a promise to keep them apprised of future clandestine Blaire Barnett developments.

  “Tracey’s right,” Yvonne speaks up. “We’ve been a bunch of jealous assholes.”

  “I didn’t say that,” I protest.

  “You probably should have.” Brenda leans over to give me a squeeze. “I feel really bad.”

  “So do I.” Latisha shakes her head. “Girl, just you need to slap some sense into us sometimes.”

  “Tracey? Come here for a second and meet my cousin Anne.” That’s Jack, touching my arm.

  I excuse myself from my friends, feeling a whole lot better about everything.

  I meet Jack’s cousin Anne, then his old neighbors Clyde and JoEllen, his godfather, Ted, and, at long last, Reverend Devern—who is young, laid-back and cute, with a ponytail and an off-color sense of humor.

  “If you need anything at all, Tracey, remember, I’m not all that far away from Manhattan,” he says.

  “Thank you, Reverend Devern.”

  “Oh, call me Rev Dev.” He heads off to get another glass of wine.

  “I love him,” I tell Jack wistfully. “He’s so awesome and hip.”

  “Father Stefan is awesome and hip, too.”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really,” Jack agrees. “But he cares about us and he’ll do a great job on our wedding ceremony.”

  “I know. That reminds me…my parents want to go to early mass at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral tomorrow morning. I don’t suppose you want to come?”

  “Sure.”

  “Really? I thought you’d want to stay home in bed.”

  Jack pulls me close. “Only if you were there, too. I missed you last night. I’m really glad you didn’t move out.”

  “Me, too.” I grin, feeling head over heels, just as a bride should at her engagement party.

  Jack kisses me.

  “Hello, young lovers, wherever you are,” a voice trills, and we look up to see Raphael.

  “What the heck are you wearing?” I ask him.

  He looks down. “Green and yellow madras pants and a green argyle sweater vest over a pink Lacoste shirt, Tracey. Oh, and loafers, no socks.”

  “I know what you’re wearing,” I say patiently, “but why?”

  “To blend in with the country-estate crowd.” Raphael pulls both of us into a warm embrace. “I’m so happy for you two! Are you having fun tonight?”

  “Absolutely,” Jack tells him. “Where’s Donatello?”

  “He’s over there with Billy, getting us drinks.” Raphael gestures at the bar, where I see the bartender filling Billy’s glass with top-shelf single malt.

  Wilma wanted nothing but the best for this party, so I’m sure the Scotch will meet with Billy’s snobbish approval. I’m also sure it will be a different story when he gets to Brookside, but you know what? At this point, I really don’t care.

  “Where’s Kate?” I ask Raphael as Jack excuses himself to go greet someone.

  “She’s in the bathroom throwing up.”

  “Morning sickness again? I thought she was past that. Bummer.”

  “No, she’s just carsick. Billy drove a hundred miles an hour on the Saw Mill Parkway coming up here, and you know how curvy that is.”

  “Poor Kate. Do you think I should go see if she’s okay?”

  “No, stay away from her. She’s in a really bad mood. She just told me I look like someone’s halfwit caddy.”

  I look him over again. “I hate to say it, Raphael, but—”

  “Egad, who is that?” he screams, clapping his palms over his cheeks and gaping.

  I follow his gaze.

  “That,” I inform him, “is my grandmother.”

  “She’s too much, Tracey! I love her!”

  “So do I, actually,” I say. “Even if she is a little out there.”

  “I love her outfit! I always knew the culotte would come back.”

  “I honestly don’t think Grandma realizes the culotte ever left,” I tell him. “And anyway, she calls it a skort.”

  “Skort! Tracey, I have to meet her! Ooh, look…there’s a child!” he exclaims, clapping his palms over his cheeks and gaping all over again. “And we have matching pants! Oh my God, Tracey, is he precious or what?”

  I turn to see little Joey on the opposite end of the room, reaching up toward a burning votive candle.

  “That imp!” Raphael exclaims as Joey sprints away from Sara, a miniature torch runner with the flaming candle clutched high in his outthrust hand.

  He passes dangerously close to someone’s diaphanous skirt. Instant visions of Superbride to the rescue: I can just see myself tackling the woman to the ground and smothering her with a tablecloth.

  Raphael turns all the way around to watch the small Olympian dash outside with his parents in mad pursuit.

  “Who is he, I wonder?” he asks, mesmerized.

  “He’s my nephew.”

  “Tracey! Are you serious? I love your family. Especially that precious little guy!”

  All right, old ladies in hot-pink culottes have a certain charm. That, I can understand.

  But torch-bearing children are downright scary, no?

  “Since when are you so into kids, Raphael?”r />
  “Since I realized I want to be a daddy, Tracey.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes! But Donatello and I are having marital woes.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s the oldest story in the book—I want to start a family and my husband doesn’t think we should bring another child into the world,” Raphael laments. “I’m thinking I might just have to go ahead and do it anyway, and pretend it was an accident.”

  “Ooh, aren’t you the crafty little wife.”

  “I’m serious, Tracey.”

  All right, then, I have to ask: “You do know you can’t get pregnant, Raphael?”

  “Tracey! Of course I know that! I mean, I’ll mail in the preliminary adoption application we filled out a few weeks ago, before Donatello completely puts his foot down. I’ll pretend it got mixed in with the bills.”

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “But Tracey, I really want a baby, especially after going to Africa and finding out about all the thousands of children who need homes. I just ache to go back there and bring them all home with me.”

  “Okay, Angelina, keep me posted.”

  He sighs deeply.

  “Listen,” I say, “have you talked to Buckley today?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I told him to check with you or Kate about getting a ride up here for the party. I guess he must have decided to take the train after all.”

  He didn’t seem very keen on that idea, though, when I last talked to him. In fact, he was sounding very un-Buckley, now that I think about it. Kind of unenthusiastic about the party.

  I figured maybe he felt funny coming alone, which is why I suggested his hitching a ride with the others. He and Sonja are still broken up.

  I’m assuming she’s still in the wedding, though.

  I say assuming because she never called to say that she was dropping out of the bridesmaid lineup. She hasn’t called me, period. I haven’t heard a peep from her since the night she and Buckley broke up. It’s like she fell off the face of the earth.

  So, yeah, it’s a little awkward.

  Wilma sent her an invitation for the engagement party. I had her mail it care of Mae’s address, which Buckley gave me. But he has no idea whether Sonja is even living there; he hasn’t heard from her, either. For all either of us knows, she’s run off to Lebanon with her boss’s aunt Gwelda.