“Wouldn’t this person have expected that, or were they too stupid?” Lori asks.
Too stupid, I answer for her.
“Whoever they are, they better have used their own social security or taxpayer ID, because if they didn’t they’re going to be in a lot more trouble than just with us. They’ll have the IRS to answer to as well.”
The IRS!
“Right, Miss Devlin?” Krauss asks me.
“Huh?” I say. “Oh yeah. I don’t know. I don’t really pay attention to taxes.”
Krauss shakes his head ever so slightly.
“I’m not sure I have the authority to make that kind of inquiry,” Lori says nervously, looking to Krauss for guidance.
Krauss is about to reply, probably about to say damn straight you have that kind of authority, when Chip jumps in. “Perhaps you’re right, Lori. This is a job best left up to the publisher. I’ll ask personnel to cross-check the socials. Maybe the computer can do it in minutes.”
Devastation. That’s it. I’m sunk. I didn’t have a spouse with a number I could use. It’s mine all right. The computer will take one second to announce NOLA DEVLIN IS YOUR WOMAN!
“Gee,” Alicia says. “What’ll happen when you find the person?”
Krauss hisses again.
Chip shrugs. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. For now, my main interest is outing a skunk from the staff.”
Brilliant. Now I’m a skunk. Me with the $150 worth of Chanel I sprayed on in the bathroom.
“I totally agree,” says Lori. “By the way, now that you’re back in Jersey and in control of Sass!, David, are you going to continue the tradition your father and mother started years ago?”
“What tradition was that?”
Lori giggles as though how could he possibly not know. “Why, the annual holiday open house. Anybody who was anybody was invited. Your mother did such a fantastic job of decorating that gorgeous mansion. I swear, I haven’t seen a Christmas tree that big outside of Rockefeller Center.”
Chip shuffles his papers and shuts his file quietly. “That was my stepmother who did the decorating, not my mother. I was with her in California for the holidays. And now that my father is moving permanently to Manhattan, I don’t think he’d care.”
“Oh.” Lori, mortified for the umpteenth time, brushes invisible lint off her cashmere.
“On the other hand, it does sound like a good idea,” he adds, graciously. “Sure. Why not? And since you remember what it was like, Lori, I’ll put you in charge of drawing up the guest list and organizing the whole shebang. Unless . . . you have too much work with the double issue.”
“I don’t have any work at all,” she blurts, so thrilled to be picked as head of the prom committee she has no idea what she just admitted. “I’d love to. How many can I invite?”
“Well, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right. How about . . . four hundred?”
Four hundred! Is he nuts?
“But,” he adds, thoughtfully, “let’s change it from a Christmas party to a winter solstice gala or something to make it more inclusive.”
Yes, I’m sure the three pagans in Princeton will appreciate that.
Lori’s eyes are gleaming. “Winter solstice. That’s perfect because December twentieth falls on a Saturday this year.”
“I know,” says Chip.
“I’ll have to work very closely with you on this so that I don’t mess up any of the details,” Lori says. “I hope you won’t mind me contacting you at night on your off hours.”
“Better than at work.”
Lori flashes me a smile of victory.
This is just great. Wait until I tell Joel. Lori will probably be signing the invitations herself as Mrs. David Stanton III*—(*in future).
Chip gets up to go and stops at the door. “Just be sure you send an invite to Belinda Apple. You never know, she might just show.” And then, as if putting Lori in her place, he says, “And I’d like to see you in my office, Miss Devlin, ASAP.”
I feel Lori and Alicia’s stares burning through me as I take a left toward the publisher’s office instead of a right toward mine. Lori obviously wants to ask me what’s going on, but she doesn’t dare. She hasn’t yet calibrated my relationship with Chip.
Chip is standing at the window of his huge paneled office when I enter, knocking hesitantly on the door. He turns and smiles, motioning for me to close the door so we can be alone.
My heart is racing. I have no idea what to expect. I keep wishing I looked better. Oh, brother. Why did I have to wear pants with a Sharpie blotch today?
“It is so good to see you,” he says, still standing, his hand in his pocket like a Ralph Lauren ad.
“I only wish you saw me in a decent outfit,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been working overtime and I—”
“Nola,” he says softly. “You look fine. In fact, you look more than fine.”
I exhale. Then I go for it. “And while I’m apologizing, I should say I’m sorry for getting so plastered on margaritas. I hadn’t eaten all day and—”
“My fault. They were very strong. You didn’t know I made the first a double.”
“You didn’t!” I cover my mouth to laugh.
“I felt you needed some loosening up and took the liberty.”
“OK. Then I’m sending the bill for a bar of soap to you. Do you know how long it took me to scrub off Harley Jane Kozak’s autograph?”
Chip smiles. “Probably about as long as it took me to get your godawful rendition of ‘Forever Young’ out of my head.”
“It’s gone? Hold on.” I open my mouth to sing when Chip rushes over and covers it with his hand.
Suddenly we are inches apart. His hand is on the small of my back and he is bending toward me. It feels so good to be held by him, so close that I think he just might kiss me.
“Nola,” he whispers, “I, uh . . .”
There is a sound outside his door and we break away. Lori DiGrigio is enough of a fink to rat us out if she caught us. Which could be very bad if Chip is trying to establish himself as the publisher.
Worse, if he has decided to stay with Olivia.
“I think I should go,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Holiday issue and all that.”
“Right.” Chip steps back. “See you around, then.”
“Sure.”
I put my hand on the doorknob and it’s then that Chip says, “I wonder if you’ve been reading the e-mail that comes to Belinda’s box—I mean, now that you’ve taken over her position while she’s on leave.”
But all I do is smile and open the door. I know better than to give him the satisfaction of an answer.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“I still don’t understand how we’re supposed to size a dress for Belinda. I mean, can’t we ship it to her in England and she can get it fitted and then she can bring it with her?”
Eileen is chattering a mile a minute, proving indeed that nonstop talking can provide a strenuous workout. Perhaps I should take up incessant gossip.
This is her fifth fitting at Weddings by Chloe, and Chloe herself is wrestling with the size 5, soon to be size 4, Christos that really is an elegant dress. The embroidered bodice perfectly hugs Eileen’s torso so that she is a perfect princess rising out of a swirl of satin and tulle, its faint cream color highlighting the warmth of her red hair.
“Eileen, you’re stunning,” I have to say as Chloe and I both stand back to admire Eileen on the dais in front of the many mirrors.
My mother runs out of the dressing room in a bilious pale green mother-of-the-bride chiffon special screaming, “Let me see! Let me see!” Then, pulling out one of the disposable cameras she seems to carry at all times these days, clicks maniacally. “You and Jim are going to have so much fun looking at these years from now. Trust me, it’s the impromptu photos that are the best.”
Eileen twists and turns. “Do I really look good?”
“Like my Cinderella,” Mom
says, adding under a breath, “though a bit anorexic, if you ask me.”
My heart does a hiccup.
“So how are the bridesmaids dresses coming along?” I ask Chloe.
Chloe removes a pin from her mouth. “Such a disaster. Still no deliveries.”
“No deliveries?” Eileen whips around. “But it’s been four months.”
“There’s nothing we can do. It is completely out of my hands. Labor dispute, you know. Something about overtime for sewing sequins.” Chloe attempts to toss back her sprayed stiff blond-white hair. It doesn’t move.
“Such a shame,” I say with faux concern. “They were beautiful.”
Eileen stamps her tiny foot. “I have to have them. The wedding will be ruined otherwise.” My mother trips over the dais to comfort her, an act she performs several times a day lately. I don’t know what’s up with Eileen, but she certainly is acting like a brat, stamping her feet, throwing dishes, hanging up the phone on people. I wonder if all brides are like this or just my spoiled sister.
“Wait. I might have a solution.” Chloe disappears into her back office and returns holding a gown in a white garment bag. “One of my brides canceled last week, leaving me with a number of these. They are absolutely lovely. Georgio Hermano, all satin with a handsome square neck and V back with satin-covered buttons in an A-line. It is unusual to find a maid’s dress that so flatters nearly everyone’s figure as this one does.”
“What do you think, Nola?” Eileen asks.
I do my best disapproving frown. “I dunno, Eileen. Is this really what you had in mind?”
“It’s black!” my mother screeches. “You can’t have bridesmaids in black! It’ll look more like a funeral than a wedding.”
“I beg to differ,” Chloe says. “Black is a very au-courant color right now. Especially for an evening winter wedding. So glamorous, don’t you think? I mean, black really is the new white in weddings. And with Eileen’s radiant red hair, she’ll be stunning.”
Eileen gives the dress a second-chance glance.
Mom sticks out her lower lip. “Well, it’s still maudlin, if you ask me.”
“And you agree, Nola?” Eileen checks to make sure.
“I’m sorry,” I say pitifully. “I worry that black will make the bridesmaids awfully pale and deathly.”
That was the clincher. “I have to say it’s growing on me. And black was my second choice,” Eileen says.
“It was?” Mom says. “You never told me that.”
“I told Belinda.”
Lie. One-hundred-percent lie.
“And she approved,” Eileen concludes. “So it must be au courant.”
“Belinda Apple is a slut,” Mom says. “I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again.”
“Please! She’s my maid of honor.”
“Belinda Apple?” Chloe chimes, well experienced as she is in diffusing tension between mothers and daughters. “Personally, I love her. She’s an absolute gas. Though I understand she’s not writing her column anymore, at least not really, that she has a ghostwriter or something.”
I examine the toes of my boots and think about something boring, like this past Thanksgiving when Jim handed me a smiley-face sticker for eating only turkey, green beans, and a spoonful of pumpkin pie. (Oh, had he only known about my midnight trip to the leftovers in my refrigerator!)
“Mom, I don’t care what you say. I’m going with the black dress. After all, Belinda is famous. She knows. Chloe, can you get six by the wedding in the right sizes?”
Chloe flashes me a subtle smile. “Absolutely. As a matter of fact, the bride who canceled had six bridesmaids too.”
“Excellent!” Eileen claps like a little girl.
A-line. Square neck. Black. Every zaftig girl’s dream of a bridesmaid’s dress.
I couldn’t have chosen better myself, which, in fact, I did.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“This is the last one. I don’t know how you’re going to get it to Belinda but, hey, I’ve done my part. I nearly forgot about it, having sent out the others weeks ago. I hope that’s not a problem.”
Lori DiGrigio hands me a slim white envelope on which Miss Belinda Apple is scrawled in calligraphy.
I don’t have to open it to know what the letter is and, more importantly, know that I didn’t get one as well.
Lori stands by my desk waiting for this question: What about me? Did I get an invitation to David Stanton’s holiday open house? But I refuse to give her the satisfaction.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, slipping the envelope into my purse. “Though I haven’t spoken to Belinda in months. I don’t even know how to contact her.”
“I don’t really care, frankly. I’m too exhausted, and it’s only the beginning. I’ve been sooo busy lining up the caterers and the party planners. Do you know how many fresh pine garlands I’ve had to order? Forty-two. That’s how many doorways and mantel pieces and staircases we’ll have to adorn.”
It is positively killing her that I am not begging for details. Who’s invited? Who’s accepted? What’s the dress code?
Next to me, Joel tugs at his familiar brown cardigan and bends his head over a set of layout sheets. Then plugs his ears as Lori goes on and on about the guest list: the governor, U.S. Senator Frank Lautenberg, Christie Todd Whitman (whom Chip apparently used to call Aunt Chrissy as a child), even the Boss himself along with his wife, Mrs. Bruce Springsteen, a name I happen to write expertly, having scrawled it on most of my eighth-grade notebooks a zillion times.
There will also be no fewer than four Christmas trees, New Jersey homegrown, each at least twelve feet tall and trimmed with the famous Stanton heirloom ornaments dating back several centuries from when the family still lived in England. There will be a string quartet in one room and a brass quartet in another belting out “Joy to the World” as guests mingle over champagne and hot cider, wearing their diamond necklaces and those omnipresent Manolos.
“How come you’re so glum?” Lori pesters Joel.
“I hate Christmas.”
“Why?”
“Because every grown-up Jewish kid hates Christmas, do you mind? Isn’t it enough that as soon as I step outside, I’ll be blasted with Christmas lights all the drive home while I’m forced to listen to Christmas music on the radio and walk past stores with that fucking Santa Claus? Do I have to be subjected to it at work, too?”
“Well, if that’s your way of finding out if you’ve been invited, you’re not,” Lori says, though clearly Joel had no desire, interest, or even an inkling of curiosity about whether he was invited.
“And, I’m sorry, Nola . . .” Lori makes a pity face.
Here it comes. She just couldn’t resist, could she?
“But as much as we wanted to invite you, we just couldn’t find a way without having to invite the rest of the staff.”
“We?” I can’t help it. I take the bait.
“Yes. Dave and I. We’ve been working verrry closely. In fact, I’m having dinner with him at his house tonight, to go over plans.”
It hurts. It does, to think of the two of them acting like a married couple decorating “their” home, inviting “their” guests—one of whom is pointedly not me.
Keep it professional, Nola. Remember what Nancy says—that he’s the warm-up for the real thing.
Still, I have to ask. “Isn’t Olivia helping out?”
Lori wrinkles her nose. “Olivia? What would she have to do with the party planning?”
OK. Now I’m confused. Unfortunately, Joel steps in so I can’t pry.
“Better Stanton should work late and focus on mollifying advertisers than eat pizza with you,” Joel says. “Have you seen the circulation numbers for the holiday issue? The pits.”
This, I know, is a total lie as (a) circulation numbers are highly guarded secrets known only to our advertising department and Interpol and (b) the holiday issue isn’t even out yet. Still, it’s enough to shake up Lori so that she must go tottering off on h
er high heels to check.
“Why do you let her do that to you?” Joel says after Lori’s out of earshot.
“Do what?”
“Treat you like such a schlub. That woman thrives on making you a doormat and look at you. You’re gorgeous, thin like a willow, and you’re knocking off that column like an old pro.”
I smile placidly. “It’s not as hard as I thought it would be,” I lie.
Joel dismisses this. “Nah. You’re a natural. What I want to know is, why don’t you spruce yourself up some? You know, treat yourself to a new wardrobe. Show off your new figure. Then maybe Mr. Bigshot Publisher will take notice.”
That’s the thing about Joel. He’s flattery, flattery, flattery right up to the last line until he slams with the zinger. He should learn to edit himself.
Plus, I am not as thin as a willow. I am still a hefty girl, though I prefer the word zaftig. Zaftig connotes Mae West—my secret personal role model. All bosom, hips, and attitude. Yes, I’d do all right in life if I could get by as Mae West.
My phone rings. It’s Nancy sounding breathless. I eye my watch. Four p.m. Odd.
“How soon can you get to Trenton in this traffic?” she asks.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Everything, but that’s not why I’m calling. I’m about to do something very drastic and I either need to be talked out of it or be supported. Are you game?”
“Give me an hour.”
I find Nancy packing up her grand office. Pictures are down and leaning against the walls along with her framed diplomas and citations from various bar associations. Cardboard boxes are out and filled with folders. The fire in her gas fireplace (yes, it’s that fancy a law firm) is roaring full strength. Nancy herself is flushed red.
In our friendship that spans two decades, I have never seen Nancy so striking. Her auburn hair is long so that it falls to her shoulders with Pantene-like shine and bounce. Her jet black suit is tailored, making the most of her new waist and slimmer hips. A Diane Von Furstenberg scarf hides her post-fat wrinkles at her neck and her ears are decorated with stunning pearls. She looks years younger—a far, far cry from the harried woman in dusters—and I wish desperately that Ron were here to see her.
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