“Speaking of your mom, did you call that guy Simon back?”
“I told you. I have nothing to say to him,” Kay snaps.
“I thought, at first, maybe the woman was your daughter, but when I saw her, I knew she had to be his wife. Did you have an affair with him?”
“Ashley! You have a filthy mind.”
“What? You’re saying it’s this deep, dark secret. I assume it’s ugly, or it wouldn’t be such a big deal. I watched 90210; I’m not completely naive.”
She stills her hands and sits down. “You thought I had a daughter? Out of wedlock?”
“It crossed my mind,” I admit. “I mean, the guy seemed so nice. I have to say I couldn’t imagine it after I met him, but you were so freaked out about it. And him going on television frightened the heck out of you. So what else could it be? Had to be something ugly, so I let my mind take a little walk through the possibilities.”
Kay’s mouth is still dangling. Apparently I’ve really shocked her. But am I alone here? I doubt it. The world thinks the worst. We’ve lived through a decade of Friends, after all, where friends sleep with each other’s boyfriends, and everyone’s all hunky-dory with it. Yeah, that can happen.
“It’s nothing like that! Did you tell anyone what you thought?”
“Of course not. I just prayed you’d work it out with him and get over it. You might as well tell me. I can watch it on television if I want.”
She stares at me for a long time, and I think it’s about to come out. But no, Kay silences herself and plops a ceramic hot dog on the foyer shelf. People are so strange about their sins. I mean, let it go, you know. It’s not like whatever happened is a way of life for her. She’s confessed it. She’s moved on . . . Well, maybe she hasn’t, but she should.
“I’m taking Rhett for a walk. You know, it might be something more sinister than I’m thinking. What if you murdered his first wife and buried her under the house?” I wink at her while I grab Rhett’s leash. “Or what if you were once a nurse and checked his wife into an institution, then overmedicated her with laudanum?”
“Ashley!”
See? By the time I get through with her, Kay will forgive herself for whatever horrendous thing she did at fourteen. Sheesh, talk about a leash. More like a ball and chain. It was thirty years ago. I hadn’t even put skirts on my head and belted out Donna Summer songs in the mirror yet. Could anything possibly be worse than that?
24
Today’s the day my in-laws arrive. Future in-laws. My Scarlett wedding gown is in the closet. It’s next to the gown that I’m actually wearing, but I think none of this needs to be mentioned. If Emily’s deluded enough to think I’m dressing like a nineteenth-century belle, that’s her issue, ya know? I focus on the road and Kevin’s old-man mobile, the Dodge. Why he suddenly has to get a conscience and drive a sedan is beyond me, but maybe I’ll mature one day too. Stranger things have happened. I can pick up Emily and Elaine Novak at the airport without borrowing my mother’s Buick, so life is good. Except that I’m lamenting his really garbage stereo system. David Crowder sounds tinny, and that just ain’t right. To me, it’s almost blasphemous.
The airport is packed, as it usually is, and I know I have to schlep to baggage claim, since meeting your future mother-in-law at the curb isn’t exactly proper manners. Even in California. And we’ve taken casual to a new level. I believe most states still call it rudeness.
When I arrive, Mrs. Novak and Emily are sitting on two designer bags. I’ll admit, I was expecting a trunk or two. (You know that scene in Titanic on the English docks?) Mrs. Novak is truly a beautiful woman with bobbed blonde hair and big blue eyes. Her skin is nearly flawless, without any lines or years of anguish apparent.
In contrast, my mother looks like a mother: gray hair she doesn’t dye, gentle lines around her eyes and mouth from laughing, and naturally, that wrinkle line in the forehead (from my brother, Dave, of course.) Kevin’s mother looks like an aged beauty queen grown up—like the Grandma Barbie. She and Emily look so much alike, but the tension between them is obvious. This is not a love match.
“Ashley, dear.” Mrs. Novak comes forward, looking as though she’s going to give me a hug, but she stops short. “Slacks? We’re having our sample meal today, aren’t we, Emily?” She looks toward her daughter. I’m thinking, What exactly would they have me do now that I’m in slacks, which she finds ill-appropriate? Am I supposed to run home and change to please her? Or smack her with the facts: I could show up in jeans and not a waiter would bat his eye.
“We’re scheduled for noon, so we should get movin’.” Emily looks at her watch and pulls her suitcase behind her. I go for Mrs. Novak’s bag, and she doesn’t make a move to stop me, so I roll it and lead them to the car. Elaine shakes her head at the sight of Kevin’s vehicle. Apparently she hasn’t gotten over the fact that he’s gone domestic. Ick, something we agree on.
“How was your flight?” I ask, ignoring the slacks conversation. I mean, Shelli Segal, ladies! Have some respect! I could have worn the low-rise jean, thong-sticking-out style. So I’d say they should count their blessings. Not really, but sheesh! This is the twenty-first century. Dresses are optional last time I checked. Same with corsets.
“The flight was fine for commercial. Now, Ashley, dear, Emily has spoken to me about the Gone with the Wind theme, and I must say, it seems . . . well, it seems a little hokey, darling. I know many of you Yankees have elaborate images of our Southern lifestyle, but a Scarlett gown seems over the top, if you don’t mind my saying so.” Elaine is not getting into the car but is looking me straight in the eye. “I just want to save you unnecessary embarrassment. And, dear, Vivien Leigh was a very small woman.” She glances at my waist and raises her eyebrows, which causes the most peculiar movement of her face. I stare, fascinated, for a moment. I can’t help it. It’s like her entire face is attached to her eyebrows, and she can’t move one section at a time. “I’ll support you, if that’s what you truly want. But I don’t think it is.” Translation: If you want to make a complete idiot of yourself, that’s your business. But you will not involve my family, you petty, white-trash vermin.
My eyes are like quarters, and I have to remind myself to blink. Looking at Emily, I can see that she has, indeed, led her mother to believe I am to blame for the Confederate theme. Judging by Emily’s lack of ability to look at me, I’d say Mrs. Novak is also inclined to believe she’ll be expected to wear a hoop skirt. But here’s the thing: Emily is terrified. Her hands are actually shaking. I look back at Mrs. Novak, and she’s gaily chattering on like I am gathering her words of wisdom for the pearls they are.
The car is suddenly feeling very small. I can’t corner Emily in front of her mother, though quite frankly, I’m very tempted. I mean, how many times am I supposed to hear that I’d look like a cow in Scarlett’s dress?
“The luncheon is in Palo Alto, Ashley. Will we make it on time?” Emily asks.
“We’ve got plenty of time, Emily. Why don’t you tell your mother about all my Southern wedding plans while we’re driving?” Now that wasn’t nice.
“How is it you’re off work today, Ashley?” Emily asks, ignoring me.
“How is it I have a job at all?” would be a better question. “I’m going in late after we’re finished, and I started at five this morning.”
“I never will understand people working themselves to the bone. With my husband, it was one thing. He was saving lives, but women should know their places, Ashley. You should be taking accounting lessons and learning how to manage a household.”
I start to giggle. “I can’t even manage my closet!” Okay, wrong thing to say.
Mental note: Allow Mrs. Novak’s domestic dreams for me to give her comfort. Like a strong cup of Earl Grey for her tender palate. Hide the double-espresso power for now.
Mrs. Novak is still rambling, and I pick up her conversation midstream. “There is plenty of time for more worldly efforts when your children are raised. Golf, travel—”
> “The pursuit of the perfect Michael Kors bag,” I add.
“You have a hearty sense of humor, my dear. I’m sure that’s one of the things Kevin finds attractive about you, but coming home to a messy house will not bring him laughter in the future. A wife should take pride in her home.”
“I work; therefore, I hire out.” Again. Not the point to insert humor. I’m a slow learner. “I didn’t take you for the housewife type, Mrs. Novak.” This blissful domesticity thing throws me. After all, the golf course and scrubbing toilets do not mesh for me.
“A home manager is not a housewife, Ashley. She is someone who manages the business of home and the social calendar so that her husband can be more successful at his profession. That makes you a team, and it bonds a marriage, besides making you a sought-after guest at all Junior League functions.”
I’m sure this is true on some level, but I am so not going to be vacuuming in my pearls, okay? Kevin’s house is covered in models: airplane models, boat models, space models. I’m thinking home organization for him would be about carefully dusting and arranging his hobby, maybe? Or perhaps she means I should add the ceiling fan with a propeller for his personal enjoyment. Not sure if I should clarify. Oh, why not?
“Emily, did you approve of the cake design we made?” I ask, thinking if she says one thing negative, her cover on the Southern thing is over!
“It was a lovely choice, Ashley.”
“What type of cake did you order? And a groom’s cake? There will be one, true?”
“Mother, we’re Southern. Of course I took care of it. No groom’s cake? I declare. Ashley just picked the style. We’ll be tryin’ samples of the different cakes today.”
I have been with these women for five minutes, and I am completely exhausted. No one says what they actually mean. Everything is like a big matrix waiting to trap you in its lair if the wrong words escape. I see why these people need Mensa. It’s to translate what they’re actually saying to one another.
My phone trills, and yeah, I’m thankful for it. “Hello, Ashley Stockingdale.”
“Hey, baby, did you show my mom the earrings? Let’s skip this wedding and go straight for the honeymoon. What do you say?”
“Yes, your mother is right here, and so is your sister. Their flight was right on time.”
“Did you ask them to put all their efforts into the honeymoon suite? Sprinkle some rose petals, and get out.” Kevin growls.
“Yes, you shouldn’t worry. We’ve got the groom’s cake all taken care of. I know how important that is to you.”
“Isn’t he sweet to worry about that?” Mrs. Novak says to Emily.
“Are you going to pop out of this groom’s cake?”
“Kevin!”
He starts to laugh. “I’m sorry. I just thought since you are spending quality time with the Novak family, why couldn’t I play too? I mean, letting you have all the fun is hardly fair.”
“How’s Philadelphia?”
“I haven’t seen much of it, actually. The hospital is nice.”
“But does their cafeteria serve espresso? Is there a even a Starbucks nearby?”
“My parents said they’d buy us a place here instead. They were actually happy, because real estate is cheaper. My dad said it was a solid, growing real-estate market.”
“No, thank you,” I say politely through my teeth. What I want to say, of course, is If you let your parents lay down one cent for our home, I will crush you like an aluminum can after a picnic. But I think I’m Southern after all, or at least on my way to becoming a Novak? Scary thought. Maybe I should keep my name. “I’d rather discuss that in person after we talk about the job.”
“She says, ‘Before seeing what we can actually afford on our own.’”
“We’re a doctor and a lawyer.”
“Correction: a resident, and if you join me here, an unemployed California lawyer in Pennsylvania jurisdiction. That translates into a bad, one-bedroom apartment in the hood with a filthy bathroom that I will force you to scrub for denying me my parents’ money. Scrubbing bubbles, Ash. I’ve endured a lot for this down payment, baby, and you’re going to get a taste of it today. Take the money and run.”
“Are you just trying to depress me?”
“There’s way fewer golf courses here, so my parents would have less reason to visit.”
He’s throwing me a bone. A very small bone. “Is there a Junior League?”
“You know, I bet there is!” Kevin says, overly enthusiastic. “And if you choose what’s behind box number three, there’s probably a debutante ball for our future daughter too.” He laughs. “If I find you a home within walking distance of a Starbucks, are you willing to talk about this? I’m sure there’ll be a real roasting company too.”
When he says ‘talk,’ my stomach just does a double axel. I am the luckiest woman in the world, and I know it. And something about making sacrifices in marriage comes back to haunt me. Now where did I hear that? “We’ll talk,” I agree. Sheesh, take me by the hair back to your cave.
“I gotta run. The chief of surgery is back. Grin and bear it with my Novak homies. If you get tripped up, remember, yes, you are the normal one. I’m praying.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and Ashley?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you with a passion I can’t begin to describe.” Click.
How does he do that? He makes his mother worth it, does he not?
“I’ll have to speak with my son about calling on cell phones in the midst of other important conversations,” Mrs. Novak says. For a brief moment, I hear Mother screech at Norman Bates, but I’m back now.
“We’re here,” I say without inflection. Elaine Novak gracefully exits the car, ankles together like Lady Di. I’m expecting the princess wave for the doorman.
“I’ll just run in and powder my nose.” Mrs. Novak enters the elegant lobby and disappears, and Emily exhales.
“Thank you for not tellin’ her.” She places a palm on the wall to steady herself.
“Why did you have that dress made? You knew no one would approve. Least of all me, and since it gives y’all countless opportunities to describe me as gargantuan, I’m beginning to think you take pleasure in tearing me down.”
Emily stares at the ladies’ room door. “I wanted my parents to be the laughingstock of Atlanta. I knew Kevin wouldn’t mind, his friends would think it hilarious, and I thought you loved all things Gone with the Wind, so I thought I’d get away with it. I didn’t know you were going to get into this Vera Wang thing.”
Remember that poem: “If a child lives with hostility, they learn to fight”?
Granted, I’d change it to “They learn to exhibit passive-aggressive behaviors rather than fight,” but DSM-IV criteria doesn’t really lend itself to poetry.
“You would have ruined my wedding to get back at your mother?” I’m a little incredulous. “Revenge is mine, sayeth the Lord, and all that.”
“It would have been nice, Ashley. Just not my mother’s version of nice.”
It’s at this moment that I notice that Emily is wearing pants. Her mother’s diss to my slacks was most likely aimed at Emily too.
“The ruffles? The ruffles aren’t anyone’s idea of nice, Emily. I’m telling you right now, if you do anything more to thwart this wedding or tell me how I’m fat or dumb or not a Southerner, I will tell your mother this was all your doing, and Kevin will back me up. Got it?”
“Maybe I went a little overboard. I watched Gone with the Wind again and got that idea. With the parasols. I thought it might be a little soap-operish, but over the top doesn’t usually seem to bothah you. You have a flair for the dramatic.”
I point at her chest. “You are banned from watching that movie, do you understand me? Or you’ll be eating barbecue at Twelve Oaks on the day of my wedding.”
Emily nods. “My brothah already talked to me about it. No Gone with the Wind. I understand.”
Mrs. Novak opens the ladies’ room d
oor. “Emily, you didn’t tell them we were here yet?”
“We were talking, Mrs. Novak. I’ll let them know,” I say.
“We have an appointment. Novaks keep their appointments.”
“Most people keep their appointments, Elaine. We’re just a few minutes late. They’ll understand.” Chill.
I see her lips press together at my utter defiance. But dang, she is a piece of work.
“Emily, announce us.” Mrs. Novak tugs at her suit jacket. Once again, it’s a St. John knit. I have never seen her in anything else. Variety is apparently not the spice of the country club life.
Emily scampers off to find the catering manager, and I’m just stunned by Mrs. Novak’s sharp tones and her icy gaze toward her daughter.
“Emily has done a wonderful job with the wedding. She’s left no stone unturned. Even helped find my wedding gown.”
“It’s time she did something. She’s twenty-five years old, unmarried, underemployed, and pretending to be in the wedding business for someone inept at doing for herself.” Elaine catches herself. “No offense, dear.”
If my jaw dropped down any farther, I would drool on myself. “I’m not inept, Elaine, just busy, actually.”
“It’s clear you were raised to do for yourself. She was raised to do for other people, Ashley, and though she tries, it’s painful at times.”
Painful like this conversation, maybe? Sheesh, by the end of this day, I’m going to need a Starbucks in my bedroom.
25
I’m not big on wedding buffets. No matter how elegant the spread, it always comes down to a giant gathering at the pig trough for guests. Plus, buffets are always served on diminutive plates, so guests have to limp back like Oliver Twist: “May I have s’more, please?”
“A buffet is a perfectly acceptable choice for weddings,” Elaine is carping as she daintily sips her soup. “It hardly seems reasonable to ask for all the extra waitstaff necessary for a sit-down meal. In the South, this is reserved for very formal occasions.”
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