With Sam, I’m always in the moment (unless I’m distracted by work or TV). I want to go for walks along the river and even travel with him. He did that. Now we’re on shaky terms. At night, we touch base but rarely speak about this upcoming milestone. Several weeks pass in a blur and my nerves remain close to the surface. This is what couples mean when they talk about a widening gap in marriage. Any minute now, I expect a phone call releasing me from this relationship.
But for some reason, I feel as if this will work out. My love for Sam makes me happy, not so afraid. It makes me want more for myself and for us. Life is easy with his smile and constant jokes. His absence would create a giant hole, and this is hard for me to admit. In the past, I would pride myself on the walk away, the excising and blubbering over a bad person. It would be mind-numbingly painful if Sam left. Sam is the right person, and I wish he would just come over and say how hard it’s been for him. We could be close like we were at the beginning.
• • •
I escape through television until, one night, when I can’t stand it anymore, I ask him again: “What’s wrong?”
“Well, you might remember that I’ve done this before,” Sam answers.
Oh right, that. The ex-wife is always a problem. My mother is an ex-wife and she’s been a ghost in my father’s second marriage. In romance novels, the ex is usually pernicious or dead. Every now and then Jake Hunter is friends with his ex and they amicably share custody of their child. Of course, Jake Hunter’s ex left him because she was a cheating whore, but she’s nice.
Sam’s case is one I don’t quite understand beyond masochism and a need to be honorable. His first marriage started out okay but deteriorated over time. The relationship ended with an ugly string of events, after which, Sam fled.
For several years after his divorce, Sam left no forwarding address and no phone number, and lived under the radar. No one could find him. He was vague with people about his whereabouts, though he remained self-sufficient and productive in his field. Any inquiries about Sam went directly to his father or older brother. Sam tried to be invisible. Anytime his ex wrote to him, he ignored it.
It dawns on me powerfully that by marrying me, his life as a nomad will have to change. He’ll have to be Mr. Bloom, resident of Manhattan. Which means his nightmare could find him again. Luckily, I look over my shoulder, too. Two people looking out for each other are better than one, right?
For once, I really listen to Sam and add up the evidence of a tattered soul, a guy who flinches sometimes when touched, who has nightmares several nights a week. I doubt he was a model husband (who is?), but he did what he could over a long period of time. I know it’s a painful subject. Sam’s not the type to talk extensively about his feelings, though he’s aware of why he is the way he is.
I give him as much support as he’ll accept, then try to work on my own neuroses. If I bug the crap out of him these last couple of months, he is sure to bail.
So, I distract myself by doing one of the most frightening things ever: I sign up for National Novel Writing Month (www.nanowrimo .org), which is where you write a book in a month, during November. As with my initial romance with Sam, I don’t broadcast my new project, except to one person.
Dear Beloved Editor, you’re crazy, Marie Ferrarella writes to me. You don’t want to put added pressure on yourself. You’re about to get married.
I know, Marie. It’s totally insane, but if you only knew how scrambled my brains are. I need this outlet to wipe out my mania. I have one hell of a book to write, where I say good-bye to ghosts and invite this handsome, caring new stranger into my life.
• • •
“He won’t come to the wedding,” Sam said after that Smith reunion. “It would cost him.”
I know he’s right, which is why I write to Dad after he expresses some distress over my save-the-date card: I will understand whatever you decide to do.
He answers formally that neither he nor his wife will attend my wedding. Love, Dad.
It might have been an “appropriate” e-mail if not for the Love, Dad. The clarifying missive shocks me. Yes, clarifying, like those lotions that clear the blemishes on your face. My father doesn’t love me, not really. After forty-two years, I have my truth.
I take a breath. And another. Not so bad. Within minutes, a lightness fills my chest. Isn’t that a good thing? Dad just wrote me a terrible, terrible message. Why am I not crying? Why don’t I have a big knife in my chest?
Because I never, ever have to talk to him again. I don’t have to try anymore. I feel like I’ve been through this before. The release from bondage of a sort.
My father isn’t coming. No fake-happy walking the daughter down the aisle. No pretending that I’m glad he’s there looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. He made the choice. Just for good measure, I reread the e-mail and let it sink in further. The anger will come, probably tomorrow. But now I finally have good reason to dislike my father. He doesn’t care.
“Your father is an asshole,” Sam says after reading the e-mail.
Right. Some people turn into jerks over time. And now, this item is off the list. I have other elements to make me nervous. Like the fact that November is flying by. We’re getting married in January, right after the holidays. Two months left, really only one.
The walls are caving in.
Two hundred people on my guest list, some of whom I’ve never met. My simple dress is at that moment being altered somewhere in Italy. The invitations are in the mail. I will go on a starvation diet immediately. Thoughts are swirling. Are we having a honeymoon? Oh God, another plane ride somewhere weird.
I order myself to have more fun with this wedding planning, first by ordering a sequined “The Bride” T-shirt. I have the dress, the guests, the invites, et cetera. Our officiant is my dear friend Lou, from New Mexico. Next I have to incorporate Duran Duran into our wedding somehow.
I’ve got it: I will walk down the aisle to a Duran Duran song.
Immediately, I write to Duran Duran Mission Control, or at least the one person who might respond, Katy Krassner, an entertainment executive for this band, along with many other artists. Not only does she provide online content for their website, answer fans’ questions, write volumes, but she also knows everything about Duran Duran and is accessible. I listen to her and Nick Rhodes do their Oscar podcast every year. In my almost daily Duran Duran scouring (for twenty-eight years now) and worshipping from afar, her name has been there the longest, so I muster up the courage to write to her, outlining my plea. What is the perfect DD song for a wedding ceremony?
She responds quickly, saying nicely she couldn’t possibly comment on such an important decision. It’s embarrassing how much I’m shaking like a teenager in the front row. I’ve never been this close to Duran Duran before (if you don’t count the thirty seconds John Taylor knew my name).
No problem, I write back, exhilarated to get a response. I’ll figure it out. Duran Duran or bust. I take a page from my mother’s playbook and ask around, just casually mention how I need Duran Duran somewhere in my wedding. As it turns out, my brother has a friend who plays guitar. Sam has a cousin who plays the flute. Together, they develop a long-distance collaboration of “Rio.”
This brings me into December—the homestretch.
• • •
I grab my coat and purse, and we go to our scheduled tasting at the Yale Club. An hour later, Sam and I stare down at a table full of crab cakes, three kinds of salads, a spinach puff pastry, and herb-encrusted salmon. The filet mignon comes out just as I wonder if I’ll ever fit into my wedding dress.
For the first time in months, I notice that Sam is his happy, boisterous self again. Maybe it has to do with the food, or that it’s closer to the wedding, or that he finally believes that nothing will stop this wedding—not even a ghost from the past.
“This is the best part so far,” Sam cracks in my
ear. “And it’s free!”
“Oh yeah, this is free, Sam.” I roll my eyes and take a leisurely sip of my wine. I’m a little bombed from half a glass. Light brightens the airy restaurant on the twenty-second floor. About three other tables are filled with club members.
Our wedding coordinator, Dari, comes from the kitchen and sits back down with us.
“Have you decided on your two appetizers?”
“Crab cakes and this eggplant thing,” Sam says.
I nod since I don’t care so much about the food. We move on to the entrées, the filet mignon and salmon for sure, even though Dari seems to push the Chilean sea bass. Sam does his best to finish everything on all of the plates. He is beyond wasted and happy.
“I guess the dessert is the most important part for me . . . ,” is my contribution.
“Of course. Let me get them.”
Within five minutes, Dari returns with a tray of mousse, fancier mousse cake, shortbread s’mores with hot fudge and caramel. The groom sticks with the wine while I dive into each dessert—feeling both buzzed and sugary. I want all of them—and wedding cake.
By the late afternoon, having made all our choices, we stumble out of the Yale Club and weave our way home, slurring and laughing.
“This wedding is going to be great!” Sam yells, slinging an arm around me.
“The best!”
We kiss in the middle of the street, in the crosswalk with horns honking at us, just like we used to at the beginning. I start to feel like a real bride who is adored by her groom.
“Taxis cause so many deaths in the city. In the crosswalk,” Sam says too loudly. “I don’t want to die like that.”
“Me neither.”
We hug dramatically and then get the hell out of the way. Our arms link as we saunter down toward Penn Station. Maybe I’m premature about premarital problems. We’re a fun-loving couple, mostly happy together.
“I’ve got a couple of hours left of grading and then I’ll come home. Maybe we can eat again,” Sam says before kissing me good-bye.
I sigh as he walks away. I can’t wait to be Mrs. Bloom. This little princess is shedding her dad’s last name in favor of a new one. Plus, doesn’t “Patience Bloom” sound like a hippie heroine in a novel?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Happily Wedded Ever After (but Someone Will Puke)
One of my fears is fainting as I stand to take my wedding vows. There are examples of this on YouTube, and they are frightening. Normal people fall over on the big day. I will easily succumb. As a semi-agoraphobe, I am uncomfortable standing in a crowd for too long. The ground swims, I lose my footing, and I begin to sway in wide circles. My breathing grows shallow and I look for the exit. At publishing cocktail parties, I sometimes position myself next to a chair or wall that I can grab so I don’t fall over.
Tragic events, happy events, casual events, I usually have this reaction, but not every time. So at this happiest event of all, how the hell will I stand unsupported, holding a bouquet and staring at Sam? It’s a recipe for disaster.
To offset this rush of negativity, I think of my favorite “wedding” in a romance novel: The Sheik’s Arranged Marriage by New York Times bestselling author Susan Mallery. From the first page, I became a Mallery-aholic. It was another instance of losing an entire weekend to reading.
In this story, Heidi McKinley returns to the fictitious Middle Eastern kingdom of El Bahar, where she is an adoptive daughter to the king—adoptive because of her parents’ deaths in a freakish accident. All she wants to do is translate ancient texts of El Bahar (she’s studied to do this, followed by a stint in charm school)—certainly not marry an icky man. Sixteen months ago, I was so like Heidi. The king of El Bahar guilts Heidi into marrying his son, the ever-gorgeous, unfathomable Prince Jamal. Though traumatized by his first marriage to an ice queen who didn’t like having sex with him (imagine), Jamal couldn’t give two doughnuts whom he marries. He has no problem marrying Heidi. He finds her awkwardness amusing, and she wears glasses and her hair in a bun (just like me). To get her libido going, Heidi masquerades as “Honey,” the prince’s hot mistress, and they have passionate sex. Of course, as any sighted person would, Jamal knows that Honey is his gawky wife, Heidi. A wig and contacts can only do so much to hide your identity. Heidi gets pissed that Jamal didn’t fess up that he knew who she was, and she’s just repressed anyway. Like me, she needs constant assurance that he’s in love with her, that theirs isn’t just a marriage of convenience. Finally—and this is where I start bawling—to prove his love, Prince Jamal arranges a traditional El Baharian ceremony where he declares Heidi his “true” wife, which means she’s the only woman he will ever marry or love again. Prince Jamal wears kohl around his eyes, and it’s completely hot to me when a man wears makeup like that.
I feel exactly how Jamal does. Even if Sam were to drop from the face of the earth, he is the only one I’ll ever marry. I can’t go through this again. I’m lucky things turned out the way they did. But first, I need a village to get through the ceremony.
I call my mentor on all matters, Lou from New Mexico, also the one conducting the ceremony. I tell her my anxieties, the fact that I’m a nervous Nelly, which she’s known about me for the past almost-twenty years.
“It’ll be okay,” she says in her slight Southern drawl. “The ceremony is short. And I’ll make sure you don’t fall over. Sam can pick you up when you start to drop. You’re okay, Patience.”
Her voice alone reassures me. She is like earth and rock, unflagging in her support. Everyone needs a “Lou” in her life, and this bride needs extra help. I relay my worries about staying upright to Sam and others. They nod and I can tell they think I’m nuts, being a nervous bride. What about rushing me to a doctor for some balance-enhancing horse pills?
Standing strong is serious business for me, so I embark on a holistic plan without telling anyone. For the six weeks before the ceremony, I do a yoga-esque exercise by standing on my tippy-toes with arms outstretched for ten minutes. I alternate standing on one leg and seeing how long it takes for me to fall (about two minutes). This works well, along with the knowledge that my mother has taught class with a 104-degree fever and pneumonia. If she can do this, I can stand for ten minutes without fainting.
I’m sure that Heidi McKinley from the Susan Mallery romance is just as neurotic as I am, maybe even more so since she does a dance of the seven veils to seduce her husband. I don’t go nearly so far.
The next obsession is whether I should eat before the wedding. If I do, I’m sure to feel sick beforehand, and then I’ll vomit on the groom and it’ll go on YouTube. If I don’t eat, won’t I faint? Oh God, which hell will I choose? At the Harlequin holiday party in December, one month before my big day, I’m supposed to relax, but no, I chase after my colleagues for help in solving my persistent conundrums.
Our party is in this large, sunlit restaurant on the southern tip of Manhattan, right at South Ferry. It’s practically on the water, and the company puts on a big shindig to celebrate the end of the year. The CEO (also a redhead) and several other Toronto staff fly down for the event, to give out awards and mingle with us. But do I focus on any of this? No, because I can’t relax one bit. Wearing my semi-Christmassy olive-green jacket and black skirt, I rush around the room asking my married colleagues what they did before their weddings. Did they eat? What did they eat? How did they feel after they ate?
Who is this strange bride-to-be on the loose?
I pray that my boss, her boss, and the CEO don’t notice this red-haired headless chicken darting from table to table, asking insane questions. But still, I must know what to do: How do brides handle pre-wedding eating?
One colleague says of course I need to eat a meal before the wedding. That way I’ll have energy for the big day. Like pancakes and eggs, some orange juice. My insides churn with anxiety over this response. She’s saying I’ll pass out if I
don’t eat. My rational brain remembers for a second the many times when I ate little for days during times of stress and still managed to act like a normal person. So I find another married person to pester, Glenda.
“Did you eat before your wedding?”
Glenda, who runs Kimani Press, our fabulous African American romance imprint, smiles and answers reassuringly, “Maybe you should eat a little something, just a little.”
It’s a viable answer, but she’s obviously more mentally balanced than I am. She’s not telling me I have to eat something but that I should. I’ll take that. But still I’m not satisfied, so I go to yet another bride, the no-nonsense, tell-it-like-it-is managing editorial coordinator, Kristin. She’ll give it to me uncensored.
“Did you eat before your wedding?” I ask.
She gives me the best possible response. “You try, but you don’t.”
I sigh with great relief. And this woman got married at night, so she waited an entire day. I’ll try to eat something, like my go-to panic food: a yogurt honey peanut Balance Bar, which I associate with panic, but it’s still comforting. I’ll do that.
There are lots of things for me to do. Oh wait, no, that’s not true. The details of the wedding are done. Now I have to focus on myself, which I do. Sam appears to be serene and ready for marriage. I’m doing my best to enjoy every bit of this pre-wedding time, despite my anxiety.
I’ll redirect any insanity, rechannel my thoughts toward what gives me joy, aside from reading: watching movies and TV. This could be a fun way to prepare me for the event. I pick a wedding-themed movie or show each day, skipping Father of the Bride for obvious reasons. So here is my list:
1. Mr. Wrong (I’m sure Ellen DeGeneres, the star, would agree that it’s one of the worst movies ever)
2. Mamma Mia!
3. How to Marry a Millionaire
Romance Is My Day Job Page 25