by Rita Lakin
The phone rings. I jump. Is it Jack, I hope? But my smile turns into a grimace—it’s Trixie, the wedding planner, wanting to take me out and show me wedding gowns.
I tell her I’m not sure I want to hire her, or anybody. She assures me this is just a dry run to show me how she works, no strings attached.
Yeah. Right. I shudder as I repeat this info to the girls.
Evvie says, “Why not? We need to keep up a happy face around here. Tell her you’re going.” She looks toward Ida, who nods her head. “We’ll all go.”
Wouldn’t you know it; Trixie (“call me Trix”) drives a Pepto-Bismol-pink Caddy convertible. She even provides scarves for those who don’t want their coifs blown away. I can’t believe I agreed to do this. Evvie and Ida busily tie their head scarves on, grinning, imagining this as a fun adventure. Maybe for them. Not me. I sneak my cell phone into my purse in hopes that Jack will call.
As we’re about to pull out, sure enough Hy and Sol are out in front of the building schmoozing. Darn it. They whistle at the sight of the obnoxious-colored car.
“Where are you broads off to?” tactful Hy wants to know.
Evvie calls out, “We’re shopping for wedding gowns.”
“Don’t answer them,” I say with disgust. As if they would be put off by that.
Hy cackles. “And where’s Jack, as if we couldn’t guess.”
Ida takes a run at an answer. “He took his suitcase out to a store to get matched luggage for the honeymoon.”
Trixie leaves the parking area with a squeal of tires. The guys’ cries of derision follow us down the road. “Yeah, sure. Shopping at midnight.”
“Idiots!” Ida calls back at them.
“My dears,” Trixie implores Ida and Evvie, sitting in the backseat, “talk sense to the bride-to-be. There are places to go. People to see. And time keeps ticking away and yet nothing is on the dotted line. I have the car companies waiting to hear your choice of a wedding vehicle. The flower arrangers need as much time as possible to gather their—”
Evvie quickly interrupts her. “‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.’”
Trixie looks confused.
Evvie smiles as Trixie eyes her through the front mirror.
“‘Old time is still a-flying,’” I add.
“‘And this same flower that smiles today … ’” Evvie laughs. We are playing old familiar memory games.
Even Ida looks baffled.
I finish with, “‘Tomorrow will be dying.’” I raise an imaginary cup in toast. “To the virgins.”
Ida gets annoyed. She hates being left out of things. “What virgins? What are you two raving on about?”
Evvie raises a cup also. “To the virgins. Poetry, Ida. Robert Herrick. Poetry.”
Trixie, I see, cannot be derailed. She turns to me and says, “And what about the music? Do you realize how far in advance you need to book a good wedding band?”
Evvie leans over my shoulder and winks at me. “‘Music hath charms to sooth the savage breast.’”
This is always a test to see who remembers the stuff we learned at school. Lose and you pay the winner a point. You’d think my having been a librarian might give me an edge. But Evvie is a voracious reader with a memory like a steel trap. I jump in. “‘To soften rocks, or mend a knotted oak.’”
Ida crosses her arms. She always does that when annoyed. “You two are really rude.”
Evvie gives her a little hug. “Yes, aren’t we?”
Suddenly Trixie swerves wildly. We all hang on for dear life. A car has just pulled away from the curb. “Parking spot,” she trills. She backs in. She pulls out. She misses the curb. She goes over the curb. She starts over and over again. The way she weaves in and out is enough to make one carsick. Finally she grinds to a stop and grabs her key out of the ignition and waves it on high. Proud of herself, she grins at us. “I have parking place karma. We’re here.”
Evvie pokes me to look at what Trixie accomplished. She’s parked about two feet away from the curb.
Trixie steps out of the Caddy and points to a huge glass window. The store sign reads, “Ye Olde Wedding Shoppe,” and the wedding gown in the window, against a background of red and white polka-dotted wallpaper, could have been made for Scarlett O’Hara.
Evvie whoops with laughter. I groan.
I try on a gown that turns me into a flapper from the 1920s. Lots of satin and lace, cut on the bias. The veil hangs just low enough to hide my eyes. And a snappy red garter perches above one knee. All I’m missing is a Camel cigarette in a long sleek ebony holder.
Evvie playfully selects outfits to model, too. She has a laughing fit looking at herself in the full-length mirror in an overstuffed rigid Victorian number, bustle and all.
Ida wants no part of our shenanigans. She sits opposite us and reads an old dog-eared issue of People magazine. She pretends not to watch us go from gown to gown, stepping up on the small platform to show ourselves off. But she does take a peek every so often and, of course, scowls.
Trixie has left us to our own devices as she busily yaps with the buxom, overly face-powdered fiftyish owner of the shop. Thank goodness, the one saleswoman is busy with a teenager with a suspiciously large belly and an unsmiling mother.
Evvie comments, “I bet old Trix brings all her customers here and then, dare I think it, she gets a kickback on what they buy.”
Ida, nodding at the other potential customer, adds to that. “The young ones come in all dewy-eyed about planning the best wedding in the world and don’t even look at the price tags.”
I glance at mine. A mere three thousand dollars. I feel guilty wasting Trixie’s time, but she’s clueless. I’ve never seen a woman smile so much over nothing. At least she sort of keeps my mind off waiting for my cell phone to ring.
“Hey, try this one,” Evvie says pushing another gown at me.
I shrug. When I come out of the dressing room, I’m in what I can only call a Bavarian beer hall waitress outfit. With lots of pink ribbons flying out of the skirts and a short round veil. As I twirl on the platform, Evvie pops out of the adjoining dressing room, wearing the identical garment. We break up laughing. This time even Ida smiles.
We do a silly little dance together on the platform. Evvie sings, “‘Love and marriage … Go together like a horse and carriage … ’”
This time we’ve caught the attention of Trixie and the manager, who now come toward us, still chatting away.
Evvie pokes me. “I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t we make it a double wedding?”
Ida drops her magazine at that, eyes wide.
Even I’m startled at the suggestion.
Evvie says, eyes glistening, “It would make Joe happy.”
Only I know why she’s teary-eyed—though I suspect Ida has guessed how ill Joe is, but says nothing.
Trixie and the owner come gushingly to our sides, having heard Evvie’s comment. Trixie is ecstatic as she looks us up and down. “Perfect. Wonderful, and with matching twin gowns.” They must be drooling at the thought of two credit cards with those great big numbers, three thousand and three thousand plus tax. She beams at us. “You both look adorable.”
Ida is trying not to choke.
Evvie starts for her dressing room. And I head toward mine. My sister says haughtily, “We’ll have to think about it.”
The owner looks crestfallen. But not our Trix. I’m sure we’ll spend the entire trip home with her driving us crazy, trying to talk us into buying those dreadful outfits.
Ida says good-bye to Evvie and me as we each head to our own apartments. We are both still chuckling at the wedding gown store caper.
Ida decides to stop at her mailbox on the way into her building. Suddenly, she spots Bella and Sophie turning right from the back of the building and heading toward her. Their arms are filled with brown paper bags from Jerry’s Deli. She recognizes the logo immediately—two huge smiley-faced bagels with a bright red heart between them.
Still annoyed with their
antics, she ducks behind the mailboxes out of their line of sight. Now what are they up to? she wonders. All those packages; are they planning a brunch party? Hardly. They never entertain. Sophie is too cheap and Bella is too terrified. Ida, on the other hand, being an expert cook, could give a party if she wanted to. Which she never does.
The two girls are giggling and bumping into each other playfully. When they get to the corner of the building, they look around, seemingly to make sure no one they know is outside. Again, Ida is irked by how odd they are acting.
They cross the courtyard together. Aha, they’re both going to Bella’s apartment. Ida longs to go upstairs, kick her shoes off, have a nice cup of tea, and watch Judge Judy. But this is irresistible. She has to know what those two are up to. She decides to wait a few minutes, then find out once and for all what they are hiding.
While she waits she peruses her mail. Why does she bother? All she gets are bills and flyers for things she doesn’t want. Years ago, when she first moved here, each time she opened the box her heart would flutter. Maybe one of her grandchildren would write. But she finally gave up hoping to ever hear from them, and eventually her friends stopped asking questions about her family that she would never answer.
She looks at her watch. Five minutes should be enough. Ida takes the staircase to the second floor. Since Bella lives right next to Evvie, she doesn’t want Evvie to happen to see her from her kitchen window, so she approaches from the farther side.
She grins. This ought to be fun.
She knocks. No answer. That doesn’t surprise her. She rings the bell. Nothing. She knows she is being watched through the peephole.
She puts her eye to the little metal circle. “I know you’re in there, so open up.”
More waiting, but she knows they’ll cave. She is stronger willed than the two of them put together.
The door finally opens. Bella stands there nervously. Sophie is right behind her, blocking Ida’s view.
“Yes?” Bella asks timorously.
Sophie is less tactful. “What do you want?”
Ida smiles sweetly. “I just happened to see you walk by with all those heavy bags from Jerry’s. I thought maybe you might have an extra bagel to share.” With that, Ida pushes her way inside.
The girls nervously turn to follow Ida as she looks into the kitchen. “Hmm. No bags in the kitchen?”
She turns toward the dining-living room area. Bella’s apartment always amuses Ida. Everything is painted or wallpapered in wishy-washy colors. Watery beiges, light whites, insipid grays. Just like the clothes she always wears. Sometimes she imagines Bella will fade into her wallpaper, never to be seen again.
Aha. Suddenly, Ida gets the picture. It wasn’t food in the bags, but stuff—now emptied out all over the off-white couch. Posters. Chimes. Crystals.
“What’s that awful smell?” She wrinkles her nose.
Sophie’s hands are on her hips. Petite Bella practically hides behind her generous girth. “Incense and it’s none of your darn business.”
Ida walks around the room. She picks up a hammer and looks at a poster with wild colors of a sky with many stars in it. That’s a surprise. “Redecorating, are you?”
Bella can’t help herself. She is near tears. Ida is amused. The poor darling’s home is under siege.
“We’re creating a meditation area,” Bella says waveringly. “And you should really go home.”
Ida keeps poking and sniffing among their things. “Since when does Jerry sell stuff like this? I don’t recall seeing rocks on the menu.”
She makes room for herself and sits down on the couch among the many brochures lying in a pile. She reads each one aloud: “Crystal Healing. Cleansing and Balancing. Focus Meditation. Tai Chi for Beginners. Journey Through Your Chakras. Hmm, I didn’t know the sacral chakra is for creativity and sexual expression. Just what we need to know at our age. Well, well. Fess up. Where did you get all this stuff?”
Bella can’t stand any more. She blurts, “We belong to a club.”
Sophie puts her hand over Bella’s mouth. “She doesn’t need to know.”
Ida shows not the least interest in leaving. She scans the pamphlets, humming a little tune to herself. “And where is that club and what’s it got to do with Jerry’s Deli?”
Bella pulls Sophie’s hand away. “I don’t care if she knows. I just want her to stop tormenting us.”
In an unusual show of aggressiveness, Bella plants herself directly in front of Ida. “We meet in the back room of Jerry’s. We have a guru who teaches us about better health. We learn how to get rid of stress. And right now that’s what you are. Stress.”
Ida is not perturbed. “You’re in my space.”
Startled, Bella lurches backwards, away from her.
Ida leans farther back into the couch. “A guru? Really? Just hearing about all this, I already feel relaxed. So what’s the name of your club?”
Like lightning, Sophie pulls Bella away, and faces her, nose to nose. “Not another word.”
The two of them turn and look daggers at Ida. She smiles. “I can wait. I have no pressing engagements.” Ida’s eye is caught by a receipt atop one of the purchases. “Twenty-one dollars for a long-distance call? Huh?”
Bella closes her eyes, defeated. She finally turns to Sophie. “You know she’s gonna blab to Gladdy and Evvie. Then they’ll be all over us. I can’t stand the pressure, so let’s just get it over with.”
Sophie shrugs. “It’s your funeral.”
Bella startles and waves her fingers at the air. “Ptui, ptui.”
Ida stares at her as if she’s crazy. “Stop that.”
Bella keeps waving. “But I have to chase the bad spirits away.” To Sophie, she says, “Don’t say things like that. It’s like having someone walk over your grave.”
Sophie shrugs as she heads for the kitchen. “You and your superstitions. I’m raiding the fridge. All those Jerry bags give me an appetite. Go confess your heart out. You’ll be sorry.”
Bella moves close to Ida, right back in “her space.” She puckers her lips and fairly spits the words out. “It’s called the Dead Husbands Club and we get to talk to our … our dead husbands. And that was a bill for three minutes. Not that I was able to say a word. So there!”
With that Ida jumps off the couch, almost knocking Bella over. Her composure is finally undone. “You what!”
Bella smiles calmly now. Confession is good for the soul.
Michelle sleeps late, Jack discovers—gratefully. It’s already nearing ten a.m. That gives him fewer hours of walking around a minefield with her. He stretches. Every muscle in his body aches from trying to relax in the armchair. He did drop off a few times, but any little sound woke him up again. A car alarm going off. Garbage trucks backing up. Conversation in the hallway.
He can’t wait for his turn to shower. On the other hand, he thinks about not bathing at all, just to avoid going into her bedroom—a double minefield. Then he laughs at himself. Does he expect her to climb in once he’s naked and lathered? Like he’s such a great catch? But he wouldn’t put it past her. And how would he feel? How would he react? Would he have to fight her off? Any man’s fantasy woman? He feels himself sweating. What an idiot he was to allow her to manipulate him into this. Gladdy was right about her ability to twist him around to do her bidding. He realizes he doesn’t know this woman at all.
Craving coffee, he digs around the well-equipped kitchen area and finds an open package. And in minutes he’s made his own full pot. There are even croissants in the fridge. Naturally. He warms one up in the microwave. As he butters the flaky delicacy, he recalls, with a pang, his recent dinner with Gladdy. Their evening of dinner at a French restaurant and a French movie, when he officially reinstated their engagement. Somehow it seems a long time ago.
The Miami newspaper is waiting outside the door to the suite and now he can enjoy Gladdy’s and his favorite pastime of the day. The morning coffee and the morning paper.
After a whil
e he hears shower sounds coming from her bedroom. He finds himself staring at her half-opened door. He sighs, bracing himself. For when she’ll come out.
But when she does she surprises Jack again. Instead of wearing some slinky robe, she’s already dressed for the day. Even casual in a white linen pantsuit and no makeup, she’s still gorgeous. And doesn’t she know it.
“Bonjour,” she says.
“And good morning to you,” Jack greets her.
She lifts her arms, stretching, causing her jacket to open and reveal another of her low-cut silk shirts. “I slept so well, knowing you were here to watch over me.”
She heads for the coffeepot and fills her cup. “How domestic of you to make coffee. You could have ordered room service.”
“No problem.”
She sits down next to him at the elegant dining room table and sips. “Good,” she says. She peers at one of the sections of the newspaper on the table. “Weather is supposed to be perfect. Balmy. What shall we do today?”
Jack is startled. “Do? We’re supposed to stay right here and stay safe.”
She pouts, gets up and walks to the balcony door. “I can’t stand being cooped up.”
“You don’t have much choice. And please don’t go out there.”
“You see too many of your violent American movies. Do you think he’s out there with a rifle trained on this particular window?”
“Michelle, we don’t know where he is or what he’s planning. I don’t want to take any chances. You’re my responsibility.”
“But I have to visit Colette.”
“You can talk to her on the phone. Hopefully the police will find him soon, now that we have a description. And hopefully, even if he changes his appearance, they’ll spot him anyway if he’s anywhere in this hotel or close by.”
She turns and grimaces. “There must be some way we can sneak out so he won’t see us. He can’t be everywhere. We can have a bellman bring your car around. After you get in, I sneak in and lie down on the backseat until we are far from the hotel.”
“Michelle. Not a good idea.”