Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (Knitting in the City)

by Penny Reid

  And that’s when the unthinkable happened.

  Quinn was just suddenly there. He was an abrupt apparition, an unexpected face in the mirror, looking at me with a quizzical non-expression.

  I turned, my hands moving futilely to block the dress from his view, and I yelled, “Quinn! What…what are you doing here?”

  Then I realized that I was trying to hide the dress from him. I had instinctively bought into the silly tradition of not allowing Quinn—the groom—to see me—the bride—in my wedding dress before the wedding day. I’d ascribed to it without even realizing it.

  This made me flustered and confused and embarrassed.

  Therefore, I let my arms fall away—even though it felt completely counterintuitive, like using milliliters to measure distance—and let him look at me, in my wedding dress, five days before the wedding.

  He was still studying me, his expression temperate and unaffected. “My morning meetings ended early. So, that’s the dress?”

  I glared at him then threw my hands in the air. “Yes. Yes, this is the dress.”

  “Hmm….” His eyes lifted to mine and he said, “I really like the veil.”

  “The veil?”

  “Yeah. When are you going to be done? Do you want to grab some lunch?”

  I stared at him for a beat and felt…inexplicably disappointed. I glanced down at myself then back to him. I felt the need to defend my dress.

  “Did you know that people used to wear wedding dresses in different colors? It was only at the time of Queen Victoria, during her marriage to Prince Albert, that women’s wedding dresses became predominately white.”

  He lifted his suitcase to a luggage rack and asked, “When did marriage become a real thing? Was it with the advent of religion? Polytheistic societies had marriage. Zeus and Hera and their hijinks come to mind.”

  I frowned at his question. He thought I was discussing marriage in general, and I wanted to discuss wedding dresses in specific, because—I had no idea why. Yes I did—I wanted him to really, really like my choice in wedding dress, and he seemed a tad bit too unimpressed with it for my liking.

  Reluctantly, I answered his question, but then I tried to steer the conversation back to wedding dress history. “Egyptians are credited with the earliest marriages as an institution, similar to the construct we think of today. And, of interest, the wedding dress has always been a major, symbolic part of all marriage ceremonies. Don’t you think it’s interesting that every society where marriage is an accepted paradigm shares the tradition of a wedding dress?”

  He shrugged. “Not really. It makes sense if you think about it. The bride is often considered the prize, the focus of the ceremony. It would follow that—regardless of culture, religion, or era in history—everyone would want the bride to stand out, to look her best.”

  I glowered. For some reason, and I couldn’t have predicted it, his response made me feel worse.

  I glanced again at my reflection in the mirror.

  Did I look my best?

  No. I didn’t.

  It was a practical dress. I could dye it and wear it again, and feel a measure of peace that I hadn’t spent thousands of dollars on a gown that would be worn once.

  Then why didn’t I feel peace? Why did I feel disgruntled?

  Quinn walked up behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders. He met my eyes in the mirror and kissed my temple. “Kitten, I couldn’t care less about what your wedding dress looks like. I know what’s underneath it. No wedding dress can compete with that.”

  I gave him a small smile, because I knew he was trying to make me feel better.

  But I didn’t feel better.

  I felt discombobulated and miserable.

  Suddenly I hated this dress.

  ***

  Because I was already discontented, I decided to go visit my sister in prison.

  When she saw me behind the glass, she stopped, hesitated for a minute, then looked away. I thought she might turn around and ignore me, but instead she eventually shuffled to the seat on the other side of the pane and picked up the phone.

  I picked up the receiver on my side and waited for her to lift her eyes to mine before I asked, “What’s new?”

  Her mouth curved slightly upward on one side. “Oh, you know, the usual: vacationing in Rio. It’s so hot there this time of year.”

  I shook my head. “No it’s not. It’s their winter. It’s mild and dry.”

  Jem rolled her eyes. “Can’t you ever just let shit go? Can’t I ever be imprecise?”

  “Sure. But first I want you to precisely tell me what you were doing breaking into my future in-laws’ house with a gun.”

  Her expression was flat, stoic. She blinked at me twice. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Fine.” She sniffed, leaned forward. “I was there because I needed money, and I know Quinn has a shit ton of money, and I wanted you to work on him for me.”

  I glared at her for a moment then employed Dan’s method of dealing with such situations. I glanced at the ceiling and took a deep breath.

  It was either that or say, “Bitch, you crazy.”

  I did say, “I don’t even know why I’m here.” But I wasn’t talking to her. I was talking to myself.

  I supposed I should take comfort in the fact that some things never change.

  “So…you’re getting married?”

  My attention flickered back to her at the question. She looked strangely intense, like the answer mattered to her.

  I shrugged. “Yes. I’m getting married.”

  “You and Quinn, huh?”

  “Yes. Me and Quinn.”

  “He’s okay. Smart guy—you could do worse.” She picked at the chipped edge of Formica on the tabletop. “If he hurts you, I will fuck him up.”

  Again, I stared at her, then glanced to the ceiling and took a deep breath before saying, “I don’t understand you, Jem. Honestly, you make no sense, no sense to me.”

  “What don’t you understand, Janie? You’re my big sister. I don’t want you hurt.”

  “Unless you’re the one to do it?”

  Her jaw ticked, her eyes narrowed, and she looked at me for a long time before responding. When she did respond, I was surprised by the intensity behind her words. “You’re all I’ve got, Janie. I need to know that what I do still matters to someone, even when it’s crazy.”

  This statement caused me to flinch, and I opened my mouth to respond but no sound came out.

  She looked away, sighed, then added, “They have me on this medication. They started it after I…never mind about that. I feel better. Like, less angry. It’s nice.”

  I watched her for a moment and my heart—silly, silly heart—experienced a twinge of hope. I decided not to press her. I didn’t want her to get defensive about it, so I changed the subject and promised myself I’d find out what she was on. Then I’d research the medication. Then I’d see about talking to her doctors to see if I could help.

  “Dad is coming to the wedding,” I said. “Do you want him to come visit you?”

  “Dad?” She looked truly confused. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why is he going to the wedding?”

  “Because he’s my dad; he’s giving me away; that’s what dads do at weddings.”

  Her face was contorted with a confused sneer. “Why would you have him give you away? He never had you. He never had any of us. We’re not his to give.”

  I frowned at her statement, but shrugged. “It’s tradition.”

  She stared at me for a long moment then huffed. “Yeah, whatever. You should give yourself away. You raised yourself, and you basically raised me.”

  I released a humorless laugh. “I guess that answers the question of whether or not I should have kids.”

  “Fuck yeah you should have kids.” She surprised me by looking honestly offended. “You’ll make a great mom. You were great; I was the problem. Always breaking shit....
” She glanced to the side then down at the table that separated us, picked at the Formica again.

  Something was different about her. Maybe it was the medication.

  I watched her and a lump formed in my throat. I looked to the side and blinked my eyes against the sudden stinging moisture. I didn’t know if she was trying to play me or if she was sincere. It didn’t matter much, because she was in prison and was likely going to stay there for a long time.

  Rather than show her that the words affected me, I decided to stick to the wedding, mostly because it felt like benign territory. “I’m thinking about getting a different dress, for the wedding.”

  Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Isn’t it kind of late? When is this thing?”

  “Saturday.”

  She scoffed then asked, “Why do you want a new dress? What’s wrong with the one you have?”

  “It’s….” I struggled with the right word to describe the dress. I didn’t want to tell her about Quinn’s non-reaction because that would give her power over me, letting her know how it bothered me. Instead I finally said, “It’s plain.”

  She chuckled. “Of course it is. You’re always this way. You’re always volunteering to be last. Growing up, you were always giving me your share of potato chips. It makes you an easy mark.”

  “What would you have me do? Take your chips? Treat you like dirt? Behave like you?”

  Jem’s eyes held mine as she shook her head slowly. “No, Janie. I wouldn’t see you like me for all the world. What I want for you is to stop worrying about what you think you should want, and just do what you actually want. If you want a new dress with fucking…ruffles and shit, then call in every favor, every IOU, and go get a new dress.”

  I stared at her, my brain working overtime, latching on to what she’d said; specifically, call in every favor.

  I exhaled a laugh as a plan started forming in my mind. “Jem…you’re a genius!”

  She lifted a single eyebrow and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I know. We were both IQ tested in elementary school.”

  ***

  As soon as I was back in the SUV, I pulled out my wallet and searched for Niki’s card.

  Yes, that Niki, Quinn’s former slamp and current fashion industry guru. I had kept her card because we had corporate clients on the West Coast and I thought it might be nice to have a contact out there. Maybe she knew where the knitting groups met.

  I didn’t think twice about calling her now even though I would have to use my accursed cell phone. I’d helped her with a fashion emergency once, and I was hoping she would have some ideas on how to deal with my problem now. Worst-case scenario, she would say no and I would wear my plain and sensible dress.

  The phone rang three times before it was answered. “Talk to me.”

  I was a little caught off guard by the abrupt non-greeting, but quickly recovered. I also took her request at face value, skipped the salutation, and talked to her. “I need your help finding a wedding dress that is Marie Antoinette levels of completely amazing but without any reference to the fact that she was ultimately beheaded. The main issue is that I only have four days before we get married.”

  The line was quiet for a beat, then she said, “Who is this?”

  “This is Janie Morris. We met in London at the charity event.”

  “What charity event? For what charity?”

  Inwardly, I groaned. “See, I knew someone would ask me that eventually. I have no idea what the name of the charity was. I asked while we were there, but no one seemed to know. I tried to look it up later, but none of the society columns defined the charity. You would think that at least one person would know. It could have been a charity for retired feline beauty contestants for all I know.”

  “Wait—wait, is this…are you the one who helped me with my dress in the bathroom? You’re the jer—um, you’re Quinn Sullivan’s fiancée, right?”

  I tried to discern her mood through her voice. She sounded excited, but it could have been irritated or agitated.

  “Yes, this is me. I am her.”

  “Oh! You should have said so. How are you? Tell me everything.”

  “Oh, well, if you want to know, I’m well. Except Quinn’s sister is just not being reasonable. I think she doesn’t realize what a gift she has in her family. All she needs to do is apologize and mean it so everyone can move on. I also think Quinn isn’t giving himself enough credit and speaks of himself in disparaging terms that are completely unfair. He’s a good person. I just wish he’d realize it. Then there’s my sister. I just got finished visiting her in jail. She’s being charged with breaking and entering my in-laws’ house, and she had a gun. I’m not really sure how to feel about her right now. They have her on some medication which I think might be helping, but….”

  “Janie, whoa, slow down…!” I heard Niki laughing on the other end. “I meant, tell me everything about the dress problem. You said you need a completely amazing wedding dress, and I think I heard something about Marie Antoinette in there somewhere. What’s wrong with your dress?”

  “It’s very sensible and plain and, I thought it was what I wanted, but it’s just all wrong.” My eyes flickered to the back of Stan’s head. He seemed to be very dedicated to keeping his eyes on the road this afternoon.

  “Oh, girl. No woman should ever wear something sensible on her wedding day. That’s not allowed. It’s the one day you get to dress like a princess and blow the knickers off your prince.”

  “I didn’t think I wanted that when I picked out the dress, but now…I feel completely ridiculous admitting this, but—I totally completely want to blow the knickers off my prince.” My brain was at war with…my brain. My heart and my body were ambivalent. It was all brain-on-brain brawling. “It doesn’t make any sense!”

  “It’s tradition, girl. You can’t half-ass tradition.”

  “What can I do? I’m in Boston. The place where I got my dress has nothing off the rack in my size, at least they didn’t the last time I tried dresses on. Either they’re too big or too short. You might remember that I’m very tall.”

  Niki was silent for a moment. I heard her shift her phone to the other ear, and then I heard nails clicking on a keyboard in the background. “Did you say the wedding is in five days?”

  “It’s Saturday. So, technically it’s more like four and a quarter days.”

  More silence. More keyboard clicking.

  Then, “Ah, ha! I can help you! Have you ever heard of Donovan Charles?”

  The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “I think so….”

  “He’s a fashion designer, a big deal—or he will be very soon. His haute couture shop is in Boston, and I know for a fact that he has several wedding dresses in house. Some are from his latest collection, and they’re fab-bu-licious.”

  “Fabulicious?”

  “Yes, definitely. He might not sell one to you, but he’ll let you borrow it for a day. I’m sure of it. Let me call him. I’ll do it now.”

  I opened my mouth to ask her whether she thought they would fit, or to thank her, or some other thought that hadn’t quite materialized, but she clicked off.

  Several moments passed during which I held the phone to my ear. I was still caught in the forward inertia of our conversation; my mind hadn’t yet adjusted to the fact that she’d hung up or that she’d readily agreed to help me. But just as I was lowering it to my lap, it buzzed.

  She’d texted me and, if I interpreted it correctly, it meant:

  Donovan Charles was willing to help.

  He was sending over some dresses to my hotel on Thursday morning at 11:00 a.m.

  I needed to text her back with the hotel address.

  Niki was amazing and wonderful.

  Quinn had great taste in slamps.

  CHAPTER 26

  Quinn was banned from the hotel room on Thursday starting at 9:00 a.m. and for the next eight hours. I didn’t know how much time I needed to try on the dresses or if they would ar
rive promptly at 11:00 a.m.

  I needed to be finished in time for dinner. We would all be congregating at a nearby restaurant around 6:30 p.m. It would be the first time Quinn and my father would meet.

  I wasn’t nervous.

  Weirded out was the most accurate description for what I was.

  I hadn’t seen my dad in years. I didn’t know what to expect when Quinn and his parents met him. It all just felt very Twilight Zone-ish.

  Add to this the fact that Quinn didn’t know he was banned from the hotel room, but Dan knew Quinn was banned and promised to keep it a secret. Furthermore, Dan promised me that he would keep Quinn out of the way for as long as possible.

  I didn’t tell Dan the reason I needed Quinn out of the way. I didn’t tell anyone about the dress mess. This was for a few reasons.

  First, I couldn’t be certain that I was going to like any of Donovan Charles’s wedding gowns. I’d looked him up online, and he seemed to love feminine fits reminiscent of the 1940s. This was good; I liked this style; this was encouraging. But I couldn’t find any pictures of his wedding dresses.

  Secondly, even if I did like them, I had no idea if they would fit.

  And, last, I still hadn’t come to terms with my desire to blow Quinn’s knickers off with a stunning wedding dress. I wasn’t the princess- gown-wearing ribbons-and-bows girly type.

  At least…I didn’t think I was.

  But Jem’s advice kept rattling around in my brain.

  I decided not to dwell on this contradiction too much as it hinted heavily of an identity crisis.

  Therefore, since I’d told no one, I was alone and waiting when I heard a knock on the door Wednesday at 11:00 a.m. sharp. I didn’t think twice as I ran to the door and pulled it open. I’m sure my face, at least initially, was a mixture of excited expectation.

  Desmond, Quinn’s dad, stood in the doorway.

  I was startled by his unexpected appearance and tried to rein in my surprise.

  “Oh! Desmond…hi.”