Romance Is My Day Job

by Patience Bloom

  My father and I slow-danced, with me more rigid than usual because I felt so much emotion. I wanted to have fun, but the moment was far too painful for me. We barely hugged or acknowledged each other unless my brother was in the room, and then all eyes went to Patrick. Now my dad was paying attention to me, even though it was someone else’s idea.

  I put my head on my dad’s shoulder, the way I used to when we’d hug. All of a sudden, I thought I’d start weeping. My father was holding me, really dancing with me, as if he might have wanted to be there.

  “Maybe someday we can dance at my wedding,” I whispered in his ear, not knowing how he’d react to such a bold statement.

  “I’d like that,” he whispered back.

  Seven years later, that memory is still vivid. I keep remembering it through the wedding planning, like when I go to put his address on the save-the-date card.

  Maybe he’ll remember that moment when he sees the announcement, that the little girl he once carried around, took hiking, ran the track with, grocery shopped with, cried with in post-divorce hell, sat in an audience to watch in every bad play—she found someone, that “pure gold” he told me to seek in a husband when I reached the age of having serious boyfriends.

  Today, I have to deal with the father I have. The one who cancels at the last minute after making plans to see me in New York. The one who barely acknowledged my getting a master’s degree or moving to New York. The one who doesn’t answer e-mails or letters and stipulates that shared DNA doesn’t mean we need to do anything more than send the occasional card once a year. And this is the father who defends his wife after she sends nasty and abusive letters to me.

  If I follow that “high road” I’m supposed to take, I have to facilitate a meeting between Sam and my father. Smith family reunion. August. Only a month away. I think about A Little Princess, the girl who makes the best of a bad situation, and I know I can do this.

  • • •

  You’d think bridal planning would create euphoria in a relationship. For me and Sam, not so much. In fact, he becomes weirdly distant soon after putting the ring on my finger. Maybe it’s the pregnancy scare or the fact that he’s been married before. Or he could be having second thoughts. Sam isn’t the type to get engaged without careful consideration.

  I keep asking if anything’s wrong, and he says no. I take this at face value. Normally, I would freak at the first whiff of boy-weirdness, but then I remember several things:

  1. He’d make a huge fool of himself if he bailed on me.

  2. He has nowhere to go except maybe to his dad’s.

  3. Everyone would pity me, which I’m okay with.

  4. This whole love thing has been pure gravy and if he left, I’d survive (though it would still suck).

  5. I do feel that he loves me.

  With these five points, I keep planning our wedding. He shows little interest in this either, except to veto ideas.

  “Maybe we could just go to city hall,” I suggest to Sam one night. Seriously, that’s such a “me” thing to do. It would alleviate stress. No Ativan needed. No huge expenses, because weddings, as I’m discovering, are a huge racket. Everything costs way more than it should. Plus, at city hall, no people would see me hyperventilating as I take my vows.

  Sam looks up from his book, searches my face, and smiles. “I think you might want a more memorable wedding.”

  Because he says this, I’m reassured that he’ll go through with the wedding. Sam is money-conscious. Why would he want an expensive wedding just to jilt me?

  “Okay,” I say. “You’re right.” Imagine, me agreeing to a real wedding because it’s insurance against his bailing. It’s sort of true, too, what he says. I do want a party. This is a huge event for me. As difficult as it might be, a bigger wedding would be unforgettable. I deserve this. Seriously, I will never go through this again.

  I decide to take Sam’s aloofness in stride . . . no matter how bad it gets.

  • • •

  I’ve watched hundreds of movies about weddings. Many of my married friends stressed about “location” when they got hitched, like saying you have to “book the cathedral a year in advance.” I find this hysterical. I mean, how can all the places be booked so far in advance? Can’t you find a nice patch of grass and get married there? No, because it’s booked until infinity.

  So the first bit of wedding stress I experience is over the location, since it’s clear I won’t be marrying Sam anywhere good. I do a little research on the Web, trying to find a few places with the following criteria:

  I can walk there.

  It’s not that expensive.

  It doesn’t look like a fast-food wedding chapel.

  The first two do not exist. No matter what, if you’re the bride, you’ll be hauling shit, which means you need a car. And to avoid the fast-food venue, you need to max out a couple of credit cards, which is reality. Sam and I visit one place near where we live, and the guy can spend only a few minutes with us. The view is lovely, of the uptown area and its environs, but the banquet hall has a few strange corners and a vibe of faded glory. Pass.

  I don’t want to consider leaving Manhattan for my wedding. Anywhere outside of Manhattan is cheaper, but I am one of those annoying New Yorkers who rarely ventures away from her borough. I’m running out of options. It’s summer; I’m a sweating bride-to-be and desperate for answers. Where do I even begin my search?

  This is where my mother secretly intervenes. And she meddles the old-fashioned way, by mentioning my search to friends, relatives, anyone who will listen. “My daughter is having a wedding. Where should I put on this big party?” And that’s how she pitches it, as a big party. Bonnie Gene Smith, hostess with the mostest, wants a big shebang. She doesn’t exactly ask for help, but she’s the kind of person people want to please.

  Enter Uncle Bob, the husband of my mother’s sister, graduate of Yale, passionate about politics and family, and another powerhouse in my family. Though he suffers from muscular dystrophy, there is no stopping him from planning massive family events from his scooter. He congregates and facilitates, can get anywhere, can argue you into considering wild conspiracy theories, talks to managers about turning down the “damn music” in restaurants, and can converse into the wee hours, telling harrowing tales of his coming-of-age and the pit of scum that is DC politics. I love watching him in action. He gets riled up about a variety of causes and breaks his back to create an occasion.

  Uncle Bob makes a few phone calls and charms the event planner at the Yale Club. We have no affiliation with the club, which is why it’s appalling that we have an appointment with their event planner. I chalk it up to Uncle Bob’s skills of persuasion.

  My mother and I go to meet Dari, a lovely smiling brunette, who ushers us into her office.

  She hands us a packet of information and we review it. I do my initial gulping over the price, but it’s more reasonable than many places in Manhattan. We could do this. I’m inviting no one, though.

  I look over at Mom.

  She nods. “We can do this.”

  “Are there any special requests you have, like themes for your wedding?” Dari asks.

  I’m not sure what pills I’m on. Maybe it’s just stress or the heat. I lean forward and declare, “I want a Duran Duran–themed wedding.”

  “Of course. All Rhodes lead to Nick,” Dari responds without missing a beat.

  My venue search is over.

  • • •

  The Smith reunion in August, a mere five months before my wedding, is sort of like the one I attended when I first moved to New York City. This time, there’s the additional tension between me and my father and the big engagement bomb I just dropped.

  Swimsuits on hand, Sam and I enter the Connecticut lake house and see the Smiths sitting at a long table, eating hot dogs and hamburgers. We’re a little late to the event, which I blam
e on poor map-reading skills. Late is better than never, though I feel all eyes on us. Wearing his signature tan hat—one that covers the head and has a significant brim—to protect him from the sun, my father is eating Greek yogurt.

  No one gets up for a minute as we exchange greetings. I can feel the unease, as in, who is this strange person I’ve brought with me? And what’s the deal with Patience and her father? Or . . . they were just talking about us and our entrance stopped them in their tracks. Or I’m just paranoid and overly sensitive.

  Sam and I go around and I make the introductions. My cousin Mike is the first to offer to grill us some burgers, which breaks the ice. We settle in and chat amiably with my relatives. I know at some point, my father will approach Sam to engage him in conversation properly. He does this on the short boat ride around the lake, an outing I avoid because I hate being trapped on a boat unless I’m the one manning it. Six of my relatives board the vessel, and from the dock, I watch everyone and toy with the idea of jumping in the lake.

  Just by the way they start talking to each other, I can tell my father likes him. As he leans in, my father’s expression is light, almost content. He hasn’t looked at me that way in a long time. This is okay. At least, in this small way, I can see he feels I made a good choice. The boat leaves and around the lake it goes.

  To burn off some stress, I whip off my shorts and shirt (I’m wearing a bathing suit) and jump into the lake. Once the boat returns, Sam does the same. Other cousins and their children follow. For a while, I feel like a kid, frolicking in the water, scared of encountering mud and eels. I swim and swim, noticing members of my family hanging out on the bank. They are fun, nice people to spend time with. I vow to make the trip to see them more often.

  I see my father is angling to leave after a couple of hours. He has to get home before dark since his eyesight isn’t what it used to be. Because he’s leaving quickly, I’m not sure how to play saying good-bye. It seems weird for me to come out of the water, sopping wet in my bathing suit, so I stay in to see how he’ll handle that. He’ll either lean down from the dock to give me a kiss on the cheek or just nod a good-bye and leave. I’m ready for anything.

  He makes his approach, awkward and rickety, the picture of discomfort. I know he’d rather just run and put this whole moment behind him.

  He says his good-byes to family on the dock, then leans down and shakes my hand, like I’m an acquaintance and not the girl he ran up and down mountains with. This is so not like the ending of A Little Princess, where the daughter and father finally reunite. A few years ago, this handshake might have made me cry and spend many hours in the therapist’s office. This time, I just chuckle.

  I have this eerie feeling this is the last time I’ll see him.

  Once he drives away, the cloud lifts. Sam and I relax and play with the cousins, their children, and various pets.

  “Sam’s sexy,” my cousin Leigh whispers to me, smiling.

  Her husband, Jason, comes up thirty seconds later. “He’s hot, isn’t he? If you don’t marry him, I will.”

  They are so awesome. I will invite all these Smiths to my wedding. Especially when my uncle Will, my father’s brother, asks me in that laid-back Smith voice, “So what kind of date do you have for this wedding?” He pulls out his iPhone.

  “January sixteenth.”

  He smiles as he notes it in his calendar. “Great. You’re locked in.” I get that rush of paternal warmth from Uncle Will that I’ve been missing all day.

  We say good-bye after eight hours of reunioning. Even though seeing my father wasn’t a heartfelt affair, my relatives are genuinely caring and welcoming. I want them with me at my wedding, family strife be damned.

  • • •

  “What about this one?” I ask Mom, knowing deep down I can’t wear this short, sequined, tired-hooker dress to my own wedding. But we’re in Bergdorf’s. If it comes from here, it must be proper (and crazy expensive).

  Mom winces. She likes the drapey Eileen Fisher dresses. I like gaudy showgirl dresses that I should never wear in public. It’s my wedding, right?

  I put back the tired-hooker dress, and we saunter around all the departments in the store. Nothing. All high-end fashion or too bridal. This choice is going to be terrible. For me, there’s a short window of time since I hate shopping for clothes. What would a forty-two-year-old bride wear? A big white pantsuit. Oh God. Not me!

  “Okay. I have a proposition: Macy’s and then maybe some Soho boutique. There has to be a dress,” I say. It’s already September now. The save-the-date cards have been sent—even one to my father and that woman.

  I hear that dresses are the next urgent item after the venue since they take forever to make. Why is that, unless you need beading? My grandmother whipped up a dress in minutes. I don’t need the marshmallow puff. Just a fun, simple bridal gown for a middle-aged bride. Doesn’t have to be white or complicated.

  My mother, the queen of fashion in our family, seems at a loss. For once, she’s stumped. If it’s not a black pantsuit, she’s in the wrong galaxy. She is statuesque—with great showgirl legs—and I’m shorter and curvaceous. Shopping for me is hell.

  We race down to Macy’s and I know I could easily have a panic attack. There are swarms and swarms of people in Macy’s at any given moment. Luckily, the bridal boutique is practically empty.

  And out comes Tanya, the sassy historical romance writer from the local Romance Writers of America chapter who taught me all the romance rules more than ten years ago. This must be the work of divinity. I remember her so well out of everyone I’ve met since then. Now she’s going to help me with my wedding dress? She’s exactly the same, with her nicely kept shoulder-length ash-blond hair, mischievous eyes, and quick wit.

  I know she doesn’t recognize me, so I reintroduce myself. Her eyes light up.

  “You’re right! I remember you. Well, congratulations!” she says, then goes into her bridal-dress spiel.

  Even though I’m sure she still has no idea who I am, I listen and hang on her every word. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m going to get my marshmallow bridal dress from this woman and no one else. It’s fate.

  Mom follows, stunning me with her reticence. Usually, she has an opinion, and it’s humbling that she’s letting me make the decisions. Or maybe she hasn’t the foggiest idea what to do. We’re navigating virgin territory, but we dive in, loading up on bridal gowns, ones I think might not be too Casper-ish on me and other, less hideous garments. I take one huge taffeta meringue just for fun.

  Mom sits on a couch, a difficult thing for her to do. She crosses her legs, as if tamping down her own energy, which would otherwise compel her to scurry around the store. She waits and watches as I go from rack to rack.

  The first, second, and third “ivory” meringues make me look like one of those old-fashioned ghosts in Poltergeist, like a dead lady looking to find her way back to this century. I can already hear the guests remarking, “Why is she so pale? She must be nervous.”

  That does it. No white. Not even freaking “ivory,” which everyone recommends. But I turn to see Mom’s reaction. She nods her agreement: White and ivory suck.

  “Maybe I need to wear a real color,” I say to Mom and Tanya.

  “Let’s look at the bridesmaid dresses,” Tanya answers.

  We go through dress after dress, all perfectly fine but not bridal enough for me. It seems hopeless, that shapeless ivory pantsuit a whisper away, when I see it.

  The dress.

  A long, sleeveless, strapless, nearly backless black gown with a fitted bodice and less fitted skirt. It calls out to me. I love the shape, especially with how it would fit to my curves and hide a few fat deposits.

  The attendant finds my size and sets me up in the dressing room. My senses are heightened, sort of like what happens to humans when they become vampires. I notice the soft light in the boutique, the cool air c
onditioner relieving the intense heat from outside. Magic begins.

  With the errant thought that now Tanya has seen me in my underpants, I slip off my clothes and just as quickly put myself in the gown. Then I see myself in the large mirror and gasp.

  This is the dress.

  It rests against my body like a beloved blanket, snug and comforting. The black complements my skin, bringing out my paleness in a better way, highlighting the red hair. Though I know I can’t wear a black wedding dress.

  “It comes in dark blue,” Tanya says.

  “Perfect!” Just like the blue dress I wore to the winter formal where I first danced with Sam. In this gown, I am astonishingly beautiful, the gorgeous goddess I’m meant to be, always intended to be.

  With some trepidation, I step out into the waiting area. If my mother doesn’t like it, well, what can I do? It’s my day, right?

  But the moment my mother sees me, she doesn’t wince. She eyes me with curiosity, as if thinking, Huh, I can work with this.

  There’s no crying. No big hugs over this milestone. But I’m filled with pleasure when the saleswoman puts a veil over my head . . . and my mother gasps.

  Later on Facebook, I post: I said Yes to the Dress!

  • • •

  Having the dress doesn’t alleviate the tension at home. Sam and I are still close, but there’s a distance between us. I try to let the tension slide because I overreact anyway. Weeks pass with my trying to adopt a bright, sunny, wifely attitude. We continue our separate agendas (agendae?). Our marriage is only a few months away, and we might be disintegrating as a couple. Sam wouldn’t dare leave me, would he? I would recover, but he’s changed my life so drastically in a few short months. I want to keep up this fun time he’s shown me.

  As I peer around my studio, a small space that has housed me for seven years, the place I swore to die in, I try to imagine what it would be like without him, my romantic hero. This feat is near impossible now. That’s the problem with meeting Prince Charming. If he vanishes, there’s no going back to what you once were.