by Anne Wagener
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi,” he says.
He takes in the table of gifts, the decorations, and the glittering ring on her hand. “This is a wedding shower?”
The next table over, Charlie sets down his scallop. A crumb of bacon lingers on his lower lip, and he licks it off in slow motion. My minion ovaries giggle excitedly, and I shush them so I can focus.
“You’re getting married.” Blaine blinks at her through the glasses. “You go back to L.A. last year without telling me, and now you’re engaged.”
The sexual tension crackles in the air between them. They look to be on the verge of an intense, anger-fueled make-out session. His head is tipped right, hers left, like they’re preparing to kiss from feet apart.
Blaine is all shades of red: pink polo, burning cheeks. I feel sorry for him. Maybe he’s as earnest as his Facebook profile would lead one to believe. He got sucked into the Holly tornado like the rest of us, all spinning around her in a fit of confused rage and debris. Yummy debris, at least. I stress-eat another truffle, having detached the caramel from my tooth with a subtle fingernail swipe.
Charlie wipes his hands on a cocktail napkin and steps to Holly’s side. Blaine extends a hand, a gesture that Charlie doesn’t reciprocate.
Charlie turns to Holly. “You invited Blaine?”
Holly shakes her head, her cheeks flushing deeper. “No! I didn’t!”
“We’re getting married,” Charlie says after a pause tense enough to tight-rope across. “So help yourself to a fig tart, and kindly get the eff out.”
Blaine holds up his hands as if a gun is being pointed in his direction. “Hey, friend, I mean no disrespect. I got the strangest call from Nora Fillmore, and she happened to mention that Holly was having a party tonight. That’s all.”
Charlie cocks an eyebrow that says, Likely story. Holly frowns in confusion, and I can see her scanning through the invite list. I silently curse Susan and her vigilante ways—no doubt she had way too much fun pretending to be Nora the Nose.
They all stare at one another for a pregnant pause, and at last Charlie leads Holly by the elbow to the edge of the deck, where they appear to have a heated conversation. Blaine waits, leaning on one of the tables. A flickering candle centerpiece casts light and shadow alternately across his face. The light flashes reveal a miserable expression.
Not sure what to do but feeling as if I should do something, I snatch a tray and approach him. “Bacon-wrapped scallop?”
He shakes his head at me. “Vegan.”
“Oh. How about a caramel truffle?”
“I can’t eat anything here.” He looks wistfully after Holly as he slumps farther onto the table. “It’s all out of reach,” he says, more to himself than to me.
Not even his pink polo can make him look chipper. His eyes are watery, and I imagine his internal quote-jukebox scanning for some optimistic track it can’t find. His fingers spin a commemorative fountain pen in slow circles on the tabletop.
Poor pink-polo-shirted vegan man. If I found out Scott were getting married, I’m sure I’d feel devastated. And even though part of me considers Blaine a mortal enemy for possibly cheating with Holly, the other part of me feels sorry for everyone wrapped up in this mess. We, the helpless scallops bound by a loop of bona fide crazy-bacon.
Blaine watches Holly for another moment before slipping the pen into his shirt pocket and disappearing into the crowd.
When I find Holly and Charlie again with my gaze, Lena is guiding them back toward the party with a knowing smile, as if they were trying to sneak off for a snog. If I didn’t know better, I’d be convinced by her facade. They have their arms by their sides like petulant children.
The next hour stretches on—gift opening, more food, more bubbly. I stand to the left of the couple like an attendant, jotting down who’s gifted what and disposing of the trash in a gold bin (trash bags, like themes, are—guess what?—trashy). I sporadically cast my eyes across the crowd for Blaine, but he appears to have fled the scene. Charlie looks pained every time he hands me balls of discarded silver wrapping paper. I bear the humiliation by focusing on a freckle I never noticed, on the very corner of his eyelid.
At nine thirty, Lena asks for the Wish Card baskets, which I’d all but forgotten. I track down the basket while Lena reconvenes the guests, who are starting to blur together in a sea of oversize hats and expensive perfumes. She explains that Holly and Charlie will take turns reading the wishes, memories, and advice aloud, then guess who wrote what.
Holly clears her throat and sets her glass on a side table. “‘To the beautiful bride and groom: Eat, drink, be merry, and drink some more.’” She smiles thinly. “Let’s see, Uncle Rex?” He raises his glass in affirmation, spilling a bit in the process. He must have escaped from Anna. She appears a second later by his side and guides him away again.
Holly hands Charlie the basket. He picks a card and begins reading. “‘I know you remember—it was an August night like this one. We were down by the pond, and you—’” His eyes continue reading where his mouth stopped. All the color has gone out of Holly’s face and seems to rush into Charlie’s.
I press my fingers to my mouth. Blaine, you saucy, saucy Republican! If Susan were here, she’d be clenching her fist by her side and drawing it toward herself in a silent yessss!
Charlie sets down the card and exits stage left, past clumps of tittering guests and into the side yard toward the driveway.
Lena takes charge, smoothing over the situation with a politician’s grace. “Cousin Frank, was that you? You’re such a joker. Friends, stay a little while longer. There’s a lot more champagne to drink! Thank you all so very much for joining us!”
Holly silently reads the remainder of the card’s handwritten contents. She looks around for Blaine, who’s probably off to post lovelorn quotes on his Facebook profile. Then she gets up from her chair and walks over to my side. “Could you cover for me? I’m going to go inside.” All traces of her queenly attitude have disappeared; she looks exhausted. She begins the ascent to the upper deck, and we’re left with a brideless, groomless shower.
I pick up the gold bin in the guise of taking the trash away, secretly heading in search of Charlie. But a second later, I’m blockaded by Lena. “Where do you think you’re going?”
I lift up the trash can: proof that I have a task.
She shakes her head. “I need you on closet-check duty. Anna is otherwise occupied.”
I frown. “But—”
She smiles almost sweetly and says, “Would you like to get paid for this evening or not?”
I blink at her. I didn’t realize Holly would tell Lena I’m a hired bridesmaid, but there appear to be no secrets between mother and daughter. I feel like I’m five and my allowance is being revoked for bad behavior. I look down at the glittery heels, which seem to have lost some of their luster.
“Well?” Lena’s voice is full of entitlement. She looks down at me from her six-foot stature and dares me to disagree. I’m being silently filibustered. I want to fight her, but I don’t have the energy or the flexibility to reject the money.
As I climb the steps to the upper deck, I keep an eye out for Charlie while wondering what in tarnation people have to closet-check on a hot summer night. But when I open the door to the ample guest closet, I find shelves of silky shawls, planet-sized hats, handbags, umbrellas with bejeweled hilts like swords, sweaters you drape over your shoulders but never wear: the detritus of the rich. Occasionally, my services are also requested to accompany the elderly down the front steps as the valet retrieves their cars.
Finally, all the guests are gone. It feels like a year has passed since I arrived. As I walk back through the foyer, Anna appears, looking as worn out as I feel.
“Did you see what happened?” I whisper to her.
She shakes h
er head. “They give me the Uncle Rex to dispose of.”
“He died?”
“No, but he gets time-out. I put him in there.”
She points to an alcove where Uncle Rex is draped over a chaise half his size. Aha! I knew those things were reserved exclusively for punishment.
I lean close, looking behind me, but the hall is empty save the Adonis statue and his friends. “Did you see Charlie leave?”
“No, he is here.”
“Where?” I look toward Adonis again, half-expecting to find Charlie striking a pose next to one of the statues.
“You should go home and get rest,” Anna says, her tone graver than usual.
“Where is he? Please tell me.”
She shakes her head. “He is in Ms. Holly’s room.”
Twenty-Seven
I’m muddling through another slow Friday afternoon at work when my cell phone rings.
“Found him.” Susan’s voice is breathless. “He’s doing the registry. Alone.”
“Where and when?”
“Tysons. ASAP.”
“I’ll call you right back.” I snap the phone shut.
Ever since the bridal shower debacle, Susan had been pursuing Operation Charlie/Holly Breakup with an almost ferocious intensity. According to her, the next step is catching Charlie in a Holly-less moment and making him open up about what’s really going on.
After the shower, I almost quit the gig. My mind kept hopscotching between the sense memory of Charlie’s fingertips on mine and the gut punch of Anna’s words: “He is in Ms. Holly’s room.” But earlier this week, Susan bought me coffee and talked me back into it. “I’ll let you quit if you can honestly tell me you think he’s going into this marriage with his whole heart,” she said, her curls a-quiver.
Preparing for my next mission, I glance down the office hallway and, noting the coast is clear, open a new IM window.
PiperB: I need to make a quick escape. Repeat: a very quick escape.
AlexH: I’ll distract the ManscapedBeast. Wait for my signal.
Thirty seconds pass before the IM window flashes again.
AlexH: Green light. If you’re stopped, deploy code words “supply mission.”
PiperB: Affirmative. Over and out.
I shift my work bag onto my shoulder and make a dash through the cubicle maze until I can see the sun glinting on the front glass doors. Sweet, sweet escape. The fresh air is intoxicating. My eyes ache from the prolonged dosage of fluorescent light. My temples throb; my stomach growls. But there’s no time for sustenance.
I put Susan on speakerphone as I back out of my parking spot. “I’m heading out now. Where in Tysons?”
“Oh, thank God. Macy’s. The mall.”
“Didn’t they already do a registry for the shower?”
“Holly’s making him do a separate one for the wedding.”
“How’d you find him?” I exit the parking lot and head north toward the Beltway. Given Susan’s less than kosher methods employed thus far in the Charlie/Holly wedding saga, I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
“He put me in charge of choosing wedding music, so I called with an update. An update I was strategically waiting to disperse.”
“Well played.”
“Thanks. He’s suspicious of how nice I’m being about the wedding, but I’ve earned back a mite of trust. All it took was a few friendly questions to find his whereabouts. And it sounds like he needs serious help with the registry.”
I smile sadly. Free-spirited Charlie, picking out matching registry items—the thought of it makes me ill. I rub my eyes. “Where’s Holly? Wouldn’t she know that kind of stuff?”
“She said she’s not feeling well, so she sent him to the Sip and Scan event with a list.”
“Wait, where is he again—sip what?”
“It’s this thing they do at Macy’s. They give you mixed drinks and send you frolicking through the store with a registry scanner. It’s all very posh and yuppie.” I swear I can hear her roll her eyes.
I check the dashboard clock, calculating my drive time, then doubling that number for rush hour. Yes, three thirty counts as rush hour. “Okay. I’m en route, but it might take me forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Based on his level of department store disorientation, he’ll probably be wandering around Macy’s for the foreseeable future. He asked me whether a duvet goes on a credenza.”
“Oh, Charlie.”
“Remember what we talked about last night—you play good cop. Ask open-ended questions, but proceed with extreme caution and sensitivity. Nothing accusatory that’ll make him go on the defensive. Maybe if he takes a step back and talks about everything, he’ll realize how ridiculous this whole situation is. If all else fails, activate Plan B.”
Plan B consists of stalking Blaine and convincing him to crash the wedding, Graduate style. I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that.
“I’m on my way.”
I spend the next fifty-one minutes in bumper-to-bumper traffic, imagining Charlie squatting to examine pricy vacuums as if they’re creatures from another world. Giving inquisitive looks to citrus juicers, cake-pop makers, egg separators, and toaster sets that allow you to stamp shapes into your toast. Because it would be an outrage to legally wed without the right set of mini-appliances, a bathroom color scheme, and a way to carve words of endearment into toast.
I picture him running his fingers along glittering Waterford crystal and Lenox dinnerware. Holly must have been feeling pretty sick to entrust him with picking out the china. Or is “sick” code for sneaking around, snogging a certain vegan?
Once I find a parking spot at Tysons, it takes another ten minutes to walk to the Macy’s entrance. I’m parked in the far corner of the top parking deck, where I had to wedge my car between two double-parked Smart cars. Wulfie was not amused.
As I scan the aisles for Charlie, I contemplate what to say. Flocks of brides and grooms with registry scanners make it difficult to see where I’m going. I consider posting a sign. “Lost: Charlie Bell. Long-waisted hipster boy. Last seen in a band-no-one-knows T-shirt. Grand Canyon dimples. If found, call—”
A constant beeping fills the foreground as hip electronica plays in the background. I stop at a drink table and swill the pink liquid from two martini glasses.
I make my way to the front of the store as a woman with a Macy’s name tag holds out a drink with about as much enthusiasm as a bathroom attendant. She’s so tall, slender, and emotionless, I almost mistook her for a mannequin.
“Welcome to Sip and Scan. Name?”
Her bangs hang over her eyes, so it’s difficult to tell if she’s looking at me or the TV screen that’s playing music videos behind me.
“Oh!” I shake my head. “I’m—I’m here for—”
She brushes away the bangs and considers me with a deadweight stare. “I get it. You’re single and bitter, so you’re making all of your happily married friends restock your kitchen appliances.”
Ouch. “Actually—”
“Name?” she repeats, grabbing a pink clipboard and folding over the top page.
A slow simmer starts in my gut. I really don’t care for her tone. And what’s wrong with single people signing up for registries? I wonder if I could set up one for rent and groceries.
Zen. Be equal parts Zen and crafty, because you need information from her. “I’m looking for my fiancé. He got here before I did, and I can’t find him anywhere. Could you tell me if he returned his scanner yet?”
The woman gives my blank ring finger an emphatic gaze.
I hold my hand up in acknowledgment. “It’s being polished and sized.”
“Whatever. Name?”
“I’m Pi— Holly. Holly Garbo.”
She runs an alarmingly long fingernail down the page. “Groom’s na
me?”
“Charlie Bell.”
“Oh, too bad. You just missed him. He returned his scanner a few minutes ago.”
“Which direction did he go?”
Her suspicious look returns. “How am I supposed to know?”
I bolt back into the fray. He could have left through any one of the six store exits, in which case it’s a lost cause. The Tysons parking lots and decks are a suburban Siberia. My best hope is that he’s gone farther into the mall. I run toward the store exit, nearly missing the perfume display and jostling at least one mannequin as I escape into the mall corridor.
The mission almost ends right there (hellooooo, Dippin’ Dots!) when I see a familiar head of disheveled hair heading under a purple awning. A few moments later, I’m triathlon-panting, but I’m close enough to read the name above the awning: Bebe de Luxe. A peek into the front of the store reveals a large display of strollers.
Holy monkey.
A wave of nausea crests inside me. Maybe it’s not what it seems. I can think of a million reasons why he’d be here. Shower gift for a friend, some strange bachelor party tradition that involves breast pumps, a sudden urge to read the Eight Little Monkeys book. Who knows? He’s a quirky guy.
I enter under the purple awning and scan the store. There he is, wandering into aisle three: cribs and bedding. I wave away the overeager salesperson, who says, “It’s a great day to be a baby!”
A friend in college once had a pregnancy scare; our plan was to go to the mall and get her a relaxation pedicure, but we kept running into all these misbehaving children. Toddlers in the food court, throwing milkshakes on the ground. Babies screaming in the parking lot. Two-year-olds knocking down display items or pooing themselves in Bath & Body Works, adding Eau de Shittus to the otherwise pleasant Warm Vanilla Sugar and Midnight Pomegranate scents. Really, children are like gremlins. You feed them after midnight, they flip their shit. Literally.
Anyway, when did having a baby become so complicated? All the accessories. And maybe it’s just me, but the accessory names really irk me. The term Pack’N Play makes my skin crawl. Say it like it is, for God’s sake. Why not call it Mommy’s Sanity Cage or Glorified Poop Station?