With the clock ticking toward our June sixth date, Neil and I still had to meet with the wedding planner to discuss the set up. I took an early lunch and hopped on the subway into the city. It was just faster than sitting in traffic. I was still five minutes late, and Neil looked annoyed but forgiving when I stepped out of the elevator.
“You’re late,” he needlessly informed me, kissing me on the cheek.
“I am aware,” I replied, overly sweet. I turned to the two women standing near the doors to the Terrace room. “Shelby, Ms. White.”
Ms. White was the banquet and events manager at the Plaza. She was in close communication with Shelby, our wedding planner. Shelby had worked in PR for Elwood & Stern’s New York office for ten years, before breaking away to deal with Bridezillas and cake catastrophes. She said it was less stressful than working for Neil.
“Ms. Scaife,” Ms. White said, shaking my hand. She could have been named for her hair color. She wasn’t super old, probably in her early sixties, but her hair was a brilliant, shining white that framed her pale, narrow face in an ear-length bob. Her lips were almost always pursed, but she was warm and personable, even at a professional distance.
Shelby offered a more effusive, “Sophie! We’re getting close. Are you nervous?”
“I’ve got three more months to get nervous,” I said with a laugh. I wondered if brides ever answered that question with a thirty-minute hyperventilating freak-out. Probably at least one had.
“We were just discussing the potential for the space,” Shelby went on, leading us to the doors. Her cloud of fluffy orange spiral curls bounced as she walked. Shelby had gorgeous light brown skin, big gold eyes, and a smattering of dark freckles over her nose. She’d gotten married two years before, and she’d shown us photos of her amazing seaside wedding at her parent’s home in Nassau. She’d worn heels on the beach, and that was what had cemented her, in my mind, as the perfect person to plan our wedding. A woman who will wear heels in sand is a woman who has no fucks to give about anything.
Dinner and dancing would be in the Grand Ballroom, but the ceremony would take place in the Terrace Room. In advance of our arrival, the space had been set up in a loose configuration of how weddings were usually staged. Chairs sat on each level, with a section on either side of a center aisle.
“Ooh, I’m so nervous about walking in.” I took one of the steps down, pretending to hold my skirt. “I don’t think I’ve ever worn anything as big as my dress before.”
“How big is this dress?” Neil asked, holding his hands up and mimicking the width I estimated.
“I’m not telling you anything about it. You can see it on the day.” I walked to the next step and tried again. Maybe if I memorized the number of footsteps from one level to another, I would be less likely to trip and fall flat on my face. “Besides, I haven’t technically seen it yet.”
Neil walked around with his hands in the pockets of his sharkskin trousers. The sleeves of his white button-down were rolled back. That was my kryptonite. I was helpless at the sight of a good forearm.
“Sophie, Shelby is asking you a question,” he said with a quirk of his lips. Damn. He’d caught me looking.
“Sorry, I was distracted,” I said, turning to Shelby. “What was it?”
“I was just saying, it will be easier if you’ve got someone walking you down. I’m not sure how you’re planning that. Obviously, the traditional choice is for the father of the bride—”
I’ve never been physically punched in the kidneys, but I was pretty sure it felt like hearing the words “father of the bride”. I almost doubled over.
Not having a father had been the theme of my entire life. I’d constructed a self-destructive identity around being an unwanted child, or so our former therapist had told me. The last and only time I’d seen Joey Tangen, the man who’d provided half my DNA, had been at my high school graduation. He’d pulled into the parking lot of Calumet Middle School, where all of us were waiting in a line outside to file in, came up to a group of us, asked where Sophia Tangen was, handed me a card with twenty bucks in it, and left.
He hadn’t even known my real fucking name. I’d found out later, through an internet search, that he’d gotten married and had other kids, ones he actually cared about. I’d never bothered to look again.
I bet he was walking that daughter down the aisle.
“I think Sophie was planning to walk on her own,” Neil answered for me, glossing past the unpleasant shock I knew he could read on my face. “Or is your mother giving you away?”
“Um, no.” I shook my head and forced a smile. “I’m not somebody’s property to give away.”
That came out way too vehemently. I cast a look at Neil that was a silent plea. He picked up on it right away and changed the subject. “What I’d really like to discuss is where the string quartet will be.”
“Excuse me for just a minute,” I said, holding up one finger before I dashed away to the ladies’.
In the stall, I closed the door and let my tears come, very carefully, with a piece of toilet tissue wrapped around a finger under my lower lashes to prevent eyeliner run-off. Joey fucking Tangen. That man had ruined my childhood and my self-esteem. He wasn’t going to ruin my makeup. The only thing he had ever done right by me was passing along this fabulous hair color.
When I emerged from the bathroom, Neil was waiting for me, sans wedding personnel. “All right, now?” he asked, giving my upper arm a squeeze.
“Yeah. It just caught me by surprise.” That was the worst part. After twenty-six years, I should have been able to let my guard down.
“You know, we could always walk down the aisle together,” he suggested helpfully. “I’ve been to Catholic weddings where that was done.”
“Nah. I want to stun you at the altar when you see me in my fabulous dress. Stop trying to get an early look.” I sniffed away the last bit of my sadness. “Even if my dad were in my life, I wouldn’t have had him walk me down the aisle, anyway. I meant it when I said it’s like giving away property.”
“Sophie…” Neil began, and when he trailed off, I knew whatever he was going to say was something he’d been debating telling me for a while. “We could find your father. It isn’t as though we don’t have the resources to pay for a private investigator—”
“And what?” I asked, holding up my hands at my side. “What happens when we find him? I invite him to the wedding? We build the father-daughter relationship he never wanted with me in the first place?”
“I wasn’t suggesting something so unrealistic, no,” he replied mildly. “I thought you might want some closure, is all.”
“And, what if we find him, and he wants to be a part of my life?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “‘Oh, the kid I spawned and left is marrying a billionaire. Better get in on that.’ No, thank you.”
Neil nodded in understanding. “I just wanted to give you the option. And perhaps give myself the option of punching him in the face.”
I laughed. “Baby, I’m sorry, but even the way you say ‘punching him in the face’ sounds too posh. Have you ever punched anybody?”
“I’m sure I have. I can’t remember doing it, but I must have, at some point. I’m quite manly and tough,” he assured me.
“Oh, well, in that case. It’s sweet that you want to punch my father.” I paused. “I’m not sure those words often work in that order.”
“I could buy his company and fire him, if that interests you,” he joked. “Assuming, of course, that he’s employed by a small enough company. If he works for Disney or McDonald’s, then I can’t help you.”
Neil put his arm around me, and I gave him a gentle, admonishing push as we walked back to the Terrace room.
“So, string quartet?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “When were you going to tell me about that?”
“I told you,” Neil insisted, and as we bickered about who told what when and to whom, I began to feel a bit better. It sucked that my father had deserted me. It suc
ked that he haunted every major event in my life. But in the end, I didn’t need another parent. I was done with that part of my life. And, if I needed a man to love me, I’d already won the lottery in that department.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When our house phone rang at three-thirty in the morning, I figured Holli had taken mushrooms again and wanted to warn me about spider tornados, like the last time.
Neil answered, uttering a groggy, “Hello?”
He sounded so polite for someone who’d been woken in the middle of the night. My smile wasn’t a conscious effort, but a reflex triggered by my delight at his utter stereotypical Englishman-ness.
“Darling?” Neil gently shook me. “It’s your mother.”
I shot straight up. My mom? Why was she calling? It had to be bad.
“It’s not Grandma, is it?” I gasped into the handset.
Neil turned on the light and reached for his glasses.
“No, honey, Grandma is fine.” Mom sounded tired and…weirdly chipper.
“What’s going on?” I lowered my voice, though Neil would hear me, anyway. “Are you drunk?”
“No! I just…” She sighed heavily. “We had a little bit of a fire.”
“Oh my god, at the trailer?” My heart thudded in my chest. That trailer was my childhood home. “Is there much damage?”
“Oh, honey. It’s gone.”
My lower lip trembled. “So, everything…”
“Everything, honey.”
I covered my eyes with one hand. Neil touched my shoulder. “Sophie, what’s happened?”
I put my hand over the mic end of the handset. “My mom’s trailer burned down.”
“I still have my cell, but I’m not sure for how much longer. My charger is melted,” Mom said, grim humor in her tone.
When you’re poor and life fucks you over, you eventually just give up and roll with it.
“You can reach me at Grandma’s, okay?” she went on.
“Does she have some place to stay?” Neil asked quietly.
I cut my eyes to him, not sure what he was getting at. “Mom… Neil wants to know if you have a place to stay.”
“I’ll be at your grandma’s,” she stated again.
Neil made finger signals at me that were apparently supposed to mean something. “Hang on, Mom.” I covered the mouthpiece again. “What? What are you flailing at me?”
“Tell her she’s welcome to come stay here for a while,” he suggested.
My jaw dropped. I would have closed my mouth, but I was too horrified.
“For a little while,” he said, softer. Then, he gestured to the phone.
I was so shocked, I found myself putting the phone to my ear and saying, “Hey, why don’t you come out here for a little while? Just until we can get things fixed for you.”
“Sophie Anne, I already told you that I’m not taking a dime from the two of you.” This was a road we’d pushed a wrecked car down before.
“It’s not taking anything from us. Just come out here and stay. It’ll do you some good.” I pulled out my secret weapon. “You were disappointed that you couldn’t visit and help me with wedding stuff.”
Her silence told me I’d breached her defenses. She wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of telling me how to run my wedding.
After long pause, she said, “Oh, fine. I’ll come out. I don’t know when I can get a flight—”
“You just need to get yourself down to Green Bay or Sawyer,” I reassured her. “We’ll get the rest taken care of.”
“I said I wasn’t going to—“
“Take a penny from us. I know.” I rolled my eyes, and I had a suspicion that she could hear it through the phone. “But we already own the jet. Just let us send it, okay?”
“I don’t want to be an imposition—”
“You are calling us at three in the morning and then arguing when we offer to fly you to our enormous seaside mansion in our private jet,” I reminded her.
“Fine, fine!” Mom relented. “I’ll come out there. But Neil doesn’t like me.”
He must have heard it sitting beside me, because he sighed in irritation and lay down on his side, pulling the blankets up. “This is going to take some time, I presume. I’ll go back to sleep.”
I elbowed him lightly in the back, and the curve of a smile lifted his cheek.
“Neil is the one who suggested it. It’s a big house. You wouldn’t ever have to see each other.” I glanced over to him, expecting a mumbled, “Thank Christ for that!” but none came. “I’ll call you tomorrow when we have the details worked out, okay?”
“All right, Sophie.” Her voice was suddenly weary. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Wait!” I caught her before she hung up, but then, I didn’t know what to say. I settled on, “Are you okay?”
“Well, most of my things are gone. Thank god your baby stuff is in Mom’s attic. But my clothes, my makeup, my hair pieces, sewing stuff, all of it’s gone.”
I loved that my mom listed items of importance exactly as I would have. There’s a reason I went into fashion journalism.
“We can get you new stuff, Mom,” I promised. “Just come out here, please.”
“I will. Besides, your grandma will drive me nuts after two days.” Her laugh was tired and defeated. “I love you, Sophie. I’ll see you soon.”
After I hung up, I reached over Neil to turn the light off. I thought he was asleep, until he said, “Are you all right?”
I pulled up my knees and wrapped my arms around them. “I think I am? I’m kind of in shock, right now.”
“Of course you are. It was your childhood home.” He rolled onto his back to gaze up at me in the darkness. “I can’t imagine what that must be like, to know it’s gone.”
“Yeah.” Now that he’d said that, and now that I thought about it, it hit me. “Oh my god. It’s just…gone.”
He sat up and leaned against the headboard, delicately preparing to comfort me for my total meltdown.
I leaned against him with my head on his chest. “You’re not being subtle, you know?”
“I cannot give you subtlety. Only hugs.” His arms wrapped around me. I never felt quite as comfortable, safe, or happy as I did in his arms. But that didn’t stop the ache in my chest.
“Home” was gone. I hadn’t lived there for eight years, but it was my home. My mom had been so proud of the trailer when we’d first moved out of my grandparents’ house. I’d thought we were rich, because we were living on our own. Now that I actually was rich, I hadn’t changed that opinion. The trailer had been worth more to me than I’d realized.
I sniffled and curled closer to Neil, and he stroked my hair against my back. Softly, he asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Just hold me,” I murmured against his skin.
“All night,” he vowed. “Or at least until my arms fall asleep.”
I wanted to cry. Really just cry my heart out. Maybe it was because I was so relieved that Mom was safe, but I couldn’t. I just lay there, tired from being woken up and exhausted by the shock, listening to Neil’s deep, slow breathing beneath my ear, and circling my fingertips along his side.
“I hope it doesn’t bother you to hear it, but I have never truly recognized how hard some people’s lives are. Look at your mother’s position. She’s just lost everything. What if she didn’t have the resources a wealthy daughter could provide?”
“Then…she would live with my grandma. Or be homeless.” Had he never thought about this stuff before? “And what do you mean, you never realized how hard people’s lives were? You give to charities and stuff for starving children and land mine victims and clean water initiatives. Did you just go, ‘oh, that sounds like a good way to get rid of some money?’ That doesn’t seem like you.”
He adjusted his position a little, and I felt his discomfort in the shift of his body. “Well, it’s far easier to conceive of the hardships of people in developing nations. Going without vaccines or proper hospit
als, clean water, things of that nature. I suppose I’ve never thought of what happens to the poor in America.”
I sat up and stared down at him through the darkness, my utter disbelief forming a knot of tears in my throat. “They keep on going, or they die, Neil.”
His indrawn breath was like a call to action. I could hear his resolve in the silence. When Neil is wrong about something, most of the time he’ll admit it. Unless it’s about something he believes I said or he never said, and we’re actively arguing about it.
“You would consider yourself as having grown up poor, then?” he asked.
“Not really. I mean, we didn’t have a lot of things. But we weren’t homeless. And we had food. Not always good food, but we had food.”
“And that’s the standard?” He reached for something on his nightstand. The soft glow of his iPad gave the air a bluish tint.
“What are you doing?” I asked, lying back down. Whatever small burst of crisis-induced adrenaline had been keeping me awake was wearing off fast. I had a feeling that the wheels in his head had just kicked into overdrive, or some other kind of car metaphor he might have used. “You’re not Googling ‘poor people’, are you?”
“Not at all.” But he set the iPad swiftly aside.
Whatever. If Neil wanted to get involved in charity closer to home, who was I to argue? Besides, if he focused on a new cause, he might stress less about Stephen’s book. It was a win-win.
* * * *
March was intent on going out like a lion. Despite our super high-tech insulated windows, some rooms of the house were blistering cold from the ridiculous winds of the sea. As close as we were to the ocean, we didn’t see as much snow as we did sleet and ice. The weather was so miserable it was going to threaten Neil’s birthday party. He seemed fine with that; after the huge party for his fiftieth, he was more than happy to stay at home and have a birthday cupcake on his fifty-first. But I’d already arranged a party and hired caterers. I didn’t want that effort to go to waste.
Maybe I should have been rooting for some kind of horrible winter storm to keep the party from happening. With my mother coming to stay with us, we needed everything to be way less complicated. Especially since we didn’t really know when she’d be leaving.
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