“It’s beautiful, Mom. It’s your color.” I wish I sounded more wholeheartedly engaged.
She looks at the clock. “There’s so much I want to tell you, but I was thinking maybe you’d like to lie down for a while. We’re going out to dinner about seven-thirty.”
“We?”
Her smile dazzles me. “You and me and Richard. We thought it would be good for the three of us to spend a little time together. So you can get to know him before the wedding.”
A golf ball—size lump is lodged in the middle of my chest. “How well do you think I can get to know him by tomorrow?”
She acts like she didn’t hear me. “He’s taking us to Rex,” she says. As if the choice of restaurant would somehow make me more receptive to his charms.
I move to the window, hold the curtain aside with one hand. “I’m really pretty tired. I worked last night and I didn’t sleep on the plane.”
“Wyn, why are you acting like this?”
I turn around. “Like what? Like I’m tired? Probably because I am. I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.”
She chews on the inside of her lip, always a bad sign. “Okay, Wynter, do it your way. I was hoping you could forgive me for being happy when you’re going through a miserable divorce, but apparently—”
“This has nothing to do with my—with David.” I still can’t say the word.
“Then would you please tell me what it does have to do with? You’re acting like a spoiled … oh, schist! I don’t care!” Her idea of profanity. She yanks open the top drawer of her dresser and starts rifling through her underwear, pulling out panty hose, a black lace bra—which I didn’t even know she owned—a half-slip. “Richard and I are going to dinner at Rex,” she says, looking me full in the face. “If you’d like to go, we’d love your company, but the choice is yours.”
The bathroom door closes behind her.
I go down to the kitchen, open a can of chicken broth and a package of dried pasta. While the broth heats, I chop some carrots and zucchini and pour myself a glass of red wine. Tiny bubbles bead the surface of the broth. I turn the flame down low and take my wine out to the den. There are boxes everywhere—stacked by the door, stuck under tables, piled on the desk. I sit down in my mother’s sewing chair and put my feet up on her footstool, take a sip of wine.
So what does it have to do with?
It’s only been five months since I’ve been here, and it feels like a stranger’s house. It’s not just the moving cartons full of Richard’s things. There are other, more subtle changes—the sofa moved back farther from the fireplace and set at an angle. The wing-back chairs grouped with a new table. A collection of small wooden boxes sits on the mantel next to the old school clock. A lithograph in the hall that looks like a buffalo in a sandstorm.
It’s stupid. What difference does it make? My father’s gone. Been gone for a long time. He’s not coming back. I can’t get another father, but she can get another husband. And why shouldn’t she? Who wants to be a career widow? She looks great; she’s obviously happy. And I’ll never live in this house again. So let him make all the changes he wants. He could bulldoze it for all I care.
The sound of a key in the front door makes me jump. Footsteps. Then, “Wynter, great to see you.” Richard Travers is standing in front of me, filling the room with his presence, a whiff of expensive aftershave, the dampness of his wool jacket. “Fog’s coming in,” he says.
Jesus Christ, no wonder my mother grabbed him. He’s gorgeous. The prototype for tall, dark, etc. With just a suggestion of silver at the temples. His face is modern sculpture, all planes and angles, Howard Roark, the steely hero of The Fountainhead.
He takes off his coat, lays it carefully over the back of the couch, and turns his dark eyes back to me. “How’s Seattle? Johanna says you’re working in a bakery?”
I gather my composure, hold out my hand, and he grips it. His silver-and-turquoise ring cuts into my hand. “Fine. Yes. I’m … it’s nice to finally meet you.”
He smiles. “I hope you’re planning to join us for dinner.”
My eyes go automatically toward the kitchen. “Actually, I’m taking a rain check. I’m a little tired.”
“I thought you might be. Did you come straight from work?”
I nod dumbly.
“That’s rough.”
My mother chooses that moment to appear in the doorway. Howard—I mean Richard—walks over and kisses her. In my adult memory, no man has ever kissed my mother like that. Like a lover. I can’t watch. I slink off to the kitchen. I’m standing at the stove giving my soup a stir when she appears beside me straightening her lipstick.
“What do you think?” She’s fizzing like a candle rocket.
“He’s amazing.” I give her the best smile I can muster. “Totally gorgeous. You’ll have a better time without me anyway.”
“Probably,” she says. “But I wanted you to get to know him.”
“I will, Mom. I promise. I’m just exhausted.”
She kisses my cheek, a little coolly, I think. “Well, get a good night’s sleep. We’ve got to be up by seven in the morning at the latest.”
“Why so early?”
“To get the house ready before the caterer and the florist and the wedding coordinator get here.”
“I thought we were … aren’t we going to be at the Biltmore?”
She adjusts her clip-on earrings. “We decided to keep things simple and have it here.”
From the hallway, Jo?” At the sound of his voice, her face looks like she swallowed a lightbulb.
Saturday morning at six forty-five, I’m sipping coffee in the kitchen and watching the rain hammer on the glass of the greenhouse window. My mother is scrambling eggs and humming to herself when the back door swings open in a gust of wind to admit Howard/Richard, dashing in a black trench coat covered with fine droplets. He smiles at me, then turns to the object of his affection.
“I hear rain on your wedding day is good luck.” He kisses her neck and she nestles back against him.
“We don’t need luck,” she stage-whispers. “Ooh, you’re all wet.”
I guess I’m going to have to get used to this. I can’t leave the room every time they’re together.
After a quick breakfast, the serious furniture moving starts. All the boxes that have been in the den and the living room end up in my bedroom, leaving only one narrow alley for entrance and another between the dresser and the bed. The wedding coordinator shows up. Her name is Amanda Brewer and she is definitely Beverly Hills. Blue-black hair, enough eyeliner and mascara for a raccoon, red silk dress—presumably in honor of Valentine’s Day—matching pumps and huge Coach black leather bag. She’s so sorry to be late. Traffic was a bitch. And the rain … She closes her eyes briefly, as if giving thanks for having survived the trip.
The three of them huddle, and then the furniture gets completely rearranged. I stand around feeling useless, pushing and pulling when told to and not talking much. My mother asks me if I’m feeling okay.
“I’m fine.”
“Well, you could try contributing a little more to the proceedings,” she says.
“What would you like me to do? I’m at your service.”
She sighs, turns her back so Richard won’t hear her. “Could you just try being a little more animated? Or something?” “Mother—”
“Oh, the caterer’s here. Wyn, can you let them in and get them set up in the kitchen, show them where things are?”
“The caterer” consists of a tall guy with slick black hair who seems to be the boss man, two short guys who don’t speak much English and probably crossed the Rio Grande this morning, and two nubile blondes. They clump together in the foyer, rain dripping off their black wind-breakers.
“I’m Ron,” says the boss man. “This is Tony and Raul, Heather and Frankie.”
“I guess you need to see the kitchen.”
“The bartender’s name is Gary. He’ll be along later. I want to wait awhile bef
ore trying to bring everything in, just to see if the weather breaks.”
He talks nonstop while I show them around the kitchen and dining room, and just as I’m getting rid of him, Stuart, my mother’s hairdresser from forever, shows up with his partner, Jason, who’s doing the flowers.
“Wynter, darling! So good to see you.” Air kisses. “Still wearing the big hair, I see.”
“Don’t start on me, Stuart.”
He makes wide eyes. “Uh-oh. A little preceremony tension, for sure.” Jason proceeds to get into a fight with Ron about whether or not some of the flowers can go in the fridge. While they’re going at it, my mother wanders in.
“Here comes the bride,” Stuart sings. “Jo, darling!” More air kisses.
My mother looks at her watch. “Oh, my Lord, Wyn, we’ve got to get dressed.”
“Mom, it’s only ten-thirty.”
“Lupe’s coming at noon to clean, and we have to be through in the bathrooms by then.”
I look at Stuart. “You heard her. Nobody pees after twelve o’clock high.”
Everyone laughs except my mother.
“I think the ladies should have a glass of champagne to take to their boudoirs,” Ron says smoothly.
The popping cork is a cheering sound. Ron hands us each a champagne flute and we clink and sip.
“Honey, you’ll probably need to dress in my room, since yours is so crowded with stuff.” Suddenly, I’m “honey” again.
As soon as she disappears, Jason pouts. “Can I put these orchids in the fridge or not?”
Ron glares at him. “I told you I have salmon mousse and artichoke dip and chicken …”
I sigh. “Oh, come on, you guys. It’s forty degrees outside, why can’t something just go on the patio table? It’s under cover.”
Stuart turns me toward the door. “Wyn, you run along and help Jo. We’ll take care of things.”
I’m almost to the stairs when the doorbell rings. I open the door and find myself looking into golden-brown eyes under a shock of thick, brown hair. He’s holding a suit bag and he says, “Hi. I’m Gary.”
“They’re all out in the kitchen.” I close the door after him and point over my shoulder. “Just go on back.” I turn and run up the stairs.
My mother’s already brought my dress and cosmetics bag in, and we take turns showering in her bathroom. I spend an inordinate amount of time getting ready, using more makeup in one day than I have in the last four months. My feet rebel at being stuffed into pointy-toed, high-heeled shoes after weeks of nothing but cross-trainers, and the strapless bra constricts my rib cage till I feel like Scarlett O’Hara in her whalebone corset. We help each other with zippers and buttons and jewelry clasps. She’s totally focused now, past caring whether I’m animated or comatose. As soon as we’re decent, Stuart and Jason are admitted to the inner sanctum.
After gushing over our dresses, Stuart starts on my mother’s hair and Jason turns to me.
“And how are we wearing our hair?”
“We’re wearing our hair in a French braid.” I smile sweetly.
“Let Stuart fix it,” he says.
“I can do my own hair.”
“I’ll fix some flowers for him to weave in. You’ll look so goddess, Wyn.”
My mother hasn’t said a word, but she has this sort of pleading look on her face.
I sigh. “Can’t pass up the chance to look so goddess, can I?”
The guys smile conspiratorially at each other. After Stuart finishes with my mother, I take her place in the hot seat. He brushes my hair and lifts it up to the light, rubbing it between his fingers.
“You have such great hair, Wyn. Have you ever tried cornrows?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “You know, next time you’re in town, I’d love to style it for you. Crank it up a notch.”
He squirts something on my head and starts massaging it in.
“Don’t make it all sticky, okay?”
“Relax. It’s not going to be sticky, but we do want it to hold up for the afternoon.” He manages to subdue my mane into a French braid in record time, entwining it with a garland that Jason makes from stephanotis, rosebuds, and variegated ivy. It makes me nervous that they won’t let me look. Stuart fusses, pulling tendrils out around my face and at the nape of my neck till I want to slap his hands. He insists on applying more blush.
He smudges my eye shadow with his pinkie. “Subtlety, Wyn. Hard edges are definitely out.” He adds a little mascara to my lashes. I’m going to look more Beverly Hills than Amanda. Then he stands back and squints at me with one eye closed. “As close to perfection as you’re going to come in this lifetime, darling.”
Perfection? Maybe. What I feel as I stare at myself in the mirror is an overwhelming déjà vu. I can almost picture David standing next to me. In fact, if he saw me now, he’d probably forget all about the blonde. This is the way he liked me—all dressed up with someplace to go.
I sweep out of my mother’s room just as the bartender is stepping out of my bedroom. He’s wearing a dark suit, not exactly bartender attire. When he sees me, he grins, like we’re old buddies.
“Can I help you find something?” I use my best Hancock Park talking-to-the-servants voice.
“Sorry. I couldn’t find anyplace else to change.” He gives me an appraising look. “Nice dress. You must be Wynter.”
“I am.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
In my brain, there’s a tiny slot machine, with all the pictures lining up—oranges, flowers, dollar signs. No jackpot. Suddenly Howard/Richard comes bounding up the stairs. “There you are,” he says to the bartender. “I wanted to introduce—” He sees me. “Have you two already met?”
Oh shit. I think I’ve been ordering my stepbrother-pending around like hired help.
“We were just about to,” says Gary Travers.
“I’m so sorry. I thought you were—I’m really sorry.”
He has wonderful, thick eyelashes. When he smiles, they make his eyes look sleepy. “I figured that out when I didn’t see anybody I knew in the kitchen.”
The doorbell rings again. “That’ll be Lupe.” I make my escape, thoroughly mortified.
Field Marshal Amanda marches us through a quick dress rehearsal of who stands where and who does what to whom. In the intervening fifteen minutes before guests are supposed to begin arriving, I slip off to the kitchen.
If I close my eyes halfway, the scene resembles an anthill frantic with activity. Nobody pays any attention to me, which is good. I get a glass of water and lean against the counter to watch. Boss Man Ron runs a tight ship. Everyone seems to know exactly where they should be and what they should be doing. I’m envious.
Abruptly the water glass is lifted from my hand and replaced by a flute full of bubbles. Gary pours the water into the sink. “Don’t drink that stuff, little girl. Fish fuck in it.”
I stick my nose over the rim of the glass to inhale the yeast. “They’d probably fuck in champagne, too, given the chance. I know I would.” Did I really say that? I feel my ears glowing.
His laugh rumbles pleasantly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman make herself blush.”
“You obviously haven’t been around me enough.”
“Something I’m looking forward to.”
No telling where this might be going, but Ron chooses this moment to insert himself between us to reach for a fruit platter. Heather and Frankie are arranging trays of shrimp puffs and baked new potatoes stuffed with sour cream and caviar. Gary snags a couple and we devour them. I’m hungrier than I realized.
It begins promptly at two o’clock in the living room that my father always referred to as the non-living room because nobody spent any more time there than necessary. Decorated by my mother in the stiffly formal style that she grew up with, it was only pressed into service on the most ceremonial occasions, like having the boss and his wife over for dinner. The gray-haired presiding judge is an old friend of Richard’s. He
’s big on significant pauses and winks and lots of inflection. As a prelude to the wedding service, he tells how Richard and Johanna met at Prentiss Culver and fell in love and got married to dwell happily ever after. I must be the only one who doesn’t know any of the details, because the rest of the fifty-odd guests laugh in the appropriate places, nod, and all but hum along.
In spite of my best efforts, I’m reliving my own wedding. Must be those words. “To have and to hold from this day forward. Till death us do part.” Except at my wedding, I insisted on changing it to “As long as we both shall live.” David found it amusing that I was superstitious about mentioning death. He looked at me just the way Richard’s now gazing at my mother, as if she’s first prize in a random drawing and he can’t believe his luck. How can she not see what’s happened? He’s taken over her whole life, rearranging the house, selecting her clothes, changing her hair. She’s been redesigned and repackaged, a new and improved product. Why is it that they fall in love with a woman, and then they just can’t wait to start tweaking the details?
I’m so absorbed in my own thoughts that I’m startled when my mother turns to hand me her flowers so they can exchange rings. When they’ve finished the formalities and I give the flowers back to her, I notice Gary watching me, eyes brimming with questions. He gets points for being observant.
Then it’s over and everyone’s clapping for the performance. A blinding flash indicates the presence of subspecies Wedding Photographer. Champagne corks are popping like antiaircraft fire. I hug my mother and kiss Richard’s cheek.
I smile. “Take good care of her. Or I’ll break your kneecaps.”
“Oh, Wyn.” My mother laughs nervously.
Richard looks amused. “I don’t doubt that you not only would, but could.”
I watch them accept congratulations and listen to the details of the wedding trip to Hawaii and how they’re going to be living in this house until they decide where they want to build. They pose for pictures with Gary and me and just about everyone else in the house except the caterer. They read telegrams and cards from friends who couldn’t come. I’m introduced to people and five minutes later I’ve forgotten their names. I keep downing champagne, and whenever I finish a glass, Heather or Frankie is at my elbow with a refill.
Bread Alone: A Novel Page 21