The Wedding War

by Talley, Liz

  Melanie brushed her hands on her old shorts and walked into the blessedly cool kitchen. “I need to get ready for the lingerie shower, though I’m not sure if I will ever be ready for that.”

  Emma chuckled. “Um, I’m not sure I will be, either. My friends have promised to keep it rated R and not rated X. I reminded Julianna that you and Tennyson would be there. Of course, who knows what Tennyson might bring. She’s very big on sexual empowerment. Those were her exact words, so I’m a bit frightened to open her gift.”

  Melanie had bought her daughter some soft PJ Harlow camisoles and matching satin boxers. They were pretty and functional. She was certain that Emma would love them because she’d been wanting some since she’d spied them at a local boutique. Melanie knew people would think her gift was boring, but sometimes a girl needed a bit of practicality. “I heard her saying something about a dildo collection, so . . .”

  Emma nearly dropped her teacup. “Oh my God. You’re not serious?”

  “Just kidding.”

  “Mom,” Emma said, her eyes all googly. “You didn’t just make that joke.”

  Melanie started to apologize, but then realized she didn’t need to. She had a freaking sense of humor, and her daughter was an adult. “I did. Is Tennyson still dating that cop? She seems extraordinarily, well, happy. Maybe because she no longer has to use her collection.”

  “My ears are bleeding,” Emma joked, her blue eyes sparkling. Melanie hadn’t seen her truly look light and happy in weeks. Losing one’s aunt and making a million decisions all the while balancing medical school wasn’t exactly a breeze. “Yeah, she’s still seeing him, though Tennyson balked at calling it dating. Still, he’s over at the house a lot. And I don’t think it’s all sexy times. He grilled some steaks for us the other night, and it was fun seeing her rendered speechless by him. Joseph’s a really nice guy, and he totally calls her out on her bullshit. Uh, pardon my language.”

  “Good. She needs a guy like that, and I’m happy she’s happy.” Melanie couldn’t believe she felt that way about Tennyson, but she did. For the last seven weeks, the wedding preparations had taken a back seat to Melanie’s grief. Suddenly besting Tennyson didn’t seem so important. Honestly, not many of the decisions they’d been making—a deep lilac or a periwinkle for the ribbon on the groom’s boutonniere?—seemed super important. Who the hell would even remember? Who really cared?

  When one’s sister died, superfluous things like deciding between tuberoses or calla lilies don’t seem so life-altering. Not that Emma truly understood this. She still cared very much about the preparations and all the little details that took a wedding from “ho-hum to fabulous.” Out of the mouth of Marc Mallow, no doubt.

  “Yeah, she’s been a little bit easier to deal with here lately. I guess with Aunt Hilly and everything, Tennyson decided to lay off being the supreme diva she is,” Emma said, unwrapping a tea bag and plopping it into the cup. She set the kettle to boiling and pulled a stool up to the counter. “How are you doing? You seemed a little lost in the kitchen garden. You do that a lot lately.”

  Did her daughter suspect about the smoking? No, she was super careful to hide the evidence and spray Deep Woods bug spray around the area after she smoked. “It’s been hard to concentrate. I miss Hillary. We talked almost every day, and she was . . . well, you know things between me and your Gee Ma aren’t the best.”

  “Gee Ma loves you, Mom.”

  “I know she does, but our relationship has always been . . . difficult. I guess sometimes it’s like that between mothers and daughters. Not us, I hope.”

  Emma smiled. “You’ve always been such a good mother to me.”

  Melanie had tried so hard to be a good mother, mostly because her own hadn’t been there for her when she was growing up. Anne had worked as a partner in a law firm specializing in taxes and bankruptcy. Her mother had been very diligent in her work, spending long hours at the office and bringing even more work home. She’d never bought a minivan so she could run carpool or brought snacks to any of Melanie’s softball practices. Vacation had been a week in a Mediterranean resort with someone to mind Hillary and Melanie while she and Albert relaxed on the beach. Hands-on had never been a descriptor for Anne Brevard.

  So Melanie had busted her ass to be the opposite, minivan and all.

  “Thanks. I tried.”

  The back door opened, and Kit came in, his head pinning his cell phone to his shoulder as he muttered, “Yeah, yeah, okay, sounds good.”

  He plopped his briefcase down on the counter and clicked off his phone. “Whew, what a day.”

  “Hey, Daddy.”

  “Hello, pumpkin. You aren’t here for more money, are you?” Kit asked.

  Emma laughed. “No, but if you’ve got extra, I’m not opposed.”

  “So what are you two doing?” he asked, snagging a banana from the top of the fruit basket, knocking an apple off the counter. It hit the floor and lob-rolled to Melanie’s feet. She picked it up, noting the damage, and walked it to the trash can.

  “Just finished class and about to go over my list. One last time. Marc is frantically trying to get everything confirmed before the rehearsal tomorrow. Mom and I just need to record final numbers on everything, and we should be set. I still can’t believe I’ll be a married woman in a few days. So weird, but exciting.” Emma pulled the chirping teapot off the stove and poured the water into her cup. A fragrant curl of steam escaped. Chai.

  “I’m not sure either your mother or I are ready to let you grow up. Can’t you play Barbies or something instead?” Kit joked.

  “If you build me a Barbie DreamHouse,” Emma said, taking a sip.

  Kit smiled before glancing toward the stained-glass turtle Emma made in the third grade that hung in the kitchen window. Her husband looked a little . . . something. Disturbed would be the closest description. Or maybe more like off-kilter. “Tennyson brought by a check today. She was downtown for something and came by with it.”

  “A check? For what? I told her we would pay for our daughter’s wedding,” Melanie said, feeling aggravation rear its head. Why did the woman have to have her hand in everything? Just because she had lots of money didn’t mean everyone else depended on her to pay their way. The woman was too much. The floral spray Tennyson sent for Hillary’s funeral had to be carried in by two people. The monstrosity had loomed over all the other arrangements, asserting Tennyson even in the somber occasion. The woman needed someone to dial her down a few notches on all levels. “She’s just ridicu—”

  “We paid the deposit on the bistro where we’re having the rehearsal, remember? She’s reimbursing you and Dad,” Emma interrupted.

  “Oh. Well. Okay.” Melanie felt bad for jumping to conclusions. She was good at that. Or so Kit liked to imply.

  Kit strolled out of the kitchen, leaving his banana peel on the counter. His phone and briefcase also cluttered the space she’d cleaned before going into the garden.

  Melanie tried not to be irritated, because her husband had been so patient and kind with her over the past weeks. He seemed to feel guilty for having stayed in Florida for his presentation before driving back with Charlotte and arriving a full twenty-four hours after her sister had died. Melanie couldn’t deny that his failure to be there for her had been disappointing. Yeah, his presentation had been important to him, but was it more important than being with his wife, who’d just lost her sister?

  She wasn’t really buying that it was.

  Once Melanie had left Tennyson’s house, she’d been engulfed in duty—signing the death certificate, making arrangements, picking out Hillary’s favorite dress to wear even though her mother had elected to have a private viewing for the family and closed casket for the general public. She’d made too many pots of coffee, selected the flowers for the casket spray, contacted the pastor, and every other detail that went with the passing of someone as young as Hillary, all the while trying to cope with the waves of intense grief that washed over her. Once Kit had arrived, he’d
patted her back, offered her a shoulder, and made himself a bit more useful around the house.

  Still, his messiness aggravated her.

  For the next thirty minutes, she and Emma went over the checklist Marc had sent. Mostly it consisted of confirming numbers for everything from the number of honorary cake and punch servers to those who checked a vegan/gluten-free option. She and Emma chuckled over her uncle John making his own box on the RSVP titled “meat and flour” lover. Of course he’d spelled flour as flower, which made it that much more amusing, so she’d handwritten flower lover under his name on the place card.

  After they’d emailed the list to Marc, Emma carried herself off to get ready for her shower and bachelorette party. Instead of a traditional bachelorette party, her friends were throwing her a cocktail lingerie shower, and then they would take limos to drag queen bingo at a local bar and grill. The theme for the evening was Getting Married’s Not a Drag.

  Melanie figured Tennyson would be in her element with all the sequins, glitter, and fake boobs.

  She headed toward the bedroom, intent on starting the shower so she could wash her hair. She’d asked her stylist to give her layers and highlights that made her look younger. The mission had been accomplished, but it required a good ten minutes more of style time. But the end result took years off her face. Not to mention, the upside to grieving was weight loss. She’d dropped another ten pounds and found a muted blue mother-of-the-bride dress that had a little sparkle, a plunging back, and a cute, small mermaid-ish swoosh just below her knees. And, bonus, it was a size 8. She was rather proud of how good she looked in it. She couldn’t wait for Kit to see her on Saturday. Their therapy had been going really well. It was as if her sister’s death had allowed her to open up and reveal some of the issues she’d been so quick to hide from her husband. Even though her heart still hurt over Hillary’s death, she felt like her marriage was finally on the right track.

  Kit sat on the bed, still clad in his work clothes, staring at the framed picture of the family in Turks and Caicos. Something about his expression made her feel itchy.

  “What? Thinking about going back? We could go for our anniversary,” she said, stopping and studying him.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said.

  Something in his tone made her stomach drop down to her recently manicured toenails. He sounded so serious. And sad. “What’s wrong?”

  He sucked in a deep breath. “Look, I know things are really, really stressful for you these days. With the wedding and Hillary’s death, you’ve had more than you can handle.”

  She walked over to the bed and sank down beside him. Taking his hand, she looked up at him with a small smile. “It’s been very stressful, but we’re getting through it. After this weekend, things will go back to normal. Hopefully.”

  He gave her hand a squeeze and then released it. He set the frame on the bedside table. “So maybe I haven’t been completely honest with you in therapy. You’ve been through a lot, especially with Hillary, so I didn’t want to put any other burdens on you. You needed time to heal, and I think you’re getting there. But I have been struggling myself here lately. Work has been difficult. You know how tough it is getting the permits and lining up all the vendors. I’m up to my eyeballs.”

  “I hope you haven’t avoided being honest with me because you wanted to protect me. Just because I’m grieving my sister doesn’t mean you have to hide your feelings. If work is stressing you out, you should say so.”

  Kit shrugged. “Yeah, work has been tough, that and some other things. Tennyson came by today.”

  Melanie rose and padded into the bathroom, her stomach still fluttering with a weird premonition. It was as if she’d seen this scenario played out before. Maybe in a dream or a movie. Something ominous. She opened the shower door and twisted the knobs to the perfect temperature combination. “You told me she came by. To repay the rehearsal venue deposit.”

  Kit followed her into the large bathroom, sinking onto the upholstered ottoman in the center. She could see his toenail clippings on the oriental rug beneath the linen skirt. She’d asked him fifteen million times to collect his stupid clippings. He never did.

  Her husband sat with knees spread and hands clasped. “Yeah, she brought the check.”

  Melanie wanted to strip out of the sweaty T-shirt and old gym shorts, but something about the vibe in the bathroom kept her in her clothes. She and Kit hadn’t had sex since Destin. Her hopes of resuming a closer, intimate relationship afterward had flown out the window with her sister’s death. Just getting through the day and the incessant wedding preparations had been hard enough. Each night she stayed up while Kit went to bed, watching the Hallmark channel, working on crocheting the scarf she’d started for Hillary and never finished. For some reason, it seemed really important to complete the colorful accessory her sister would never wear, and weirdly enough she found great comfort in the characters on television getting their nauseating happily ever after. She did not, however, go to bed and take solace in the arms of her husband. Maybe that was what this was about.

  Kit liked sex. And he’d initiated it several times over the past week or so only to have her start crying. She’d felt bad about that, but she couldn’t seem to want to be physical. It made her feel too alive, which made her feel guilty. And sad.

  “So . . . ?” Melanie finally asked when he’d stared at his hands long enough.

  “I think we need to consider a separation,” Kit said.

  Melanie blinked. “What?”

  “Just a trial separation. You know?”

  At that moment, Melanie knew exactly how Wile E. Coyote felt when the wrecking ball came out of nowhere and smashed him into a cliffside. “You want to file for separation? Like, as in the first step of dissolving our marriage?”

  Kit pressed his hands toward her. “No, that’s not what I said. I said a trial. We don’t need to do anything rash. Just see how we feel being apart for a little while. Things have been very tense, and I’m struggling to feel any sort of joy in life, Melanie.”

  She wanted to shout join the effing crowd but could find no words.

  Kit continued. “I just don’t know what I want anymore. I thought I knew, but I’m nearly fifty years old. I keep wondering: Is this it? Is this all there is? And I’m sure you feel the same way.”

  Melanie opened her mouth, but, again, no words came out. Her husband wondered if their marriage, their two children, their business they’d built from the ground up, the life they’d so carefully constructed into something they both desired was “all there was”?

  Wasn’t the very “it” he spoke of the American dream?

  What the ever-loving hell?

  Kit stood and started pacing, shoving his hand into his hair. “I mean, you have to be having the same questions. Look at your sister. That was it for her. She’s done, and what did she have to show for it? Honestly, I’m not sure I want to die tomorrow having my whole life just be this.” He spread his hands and twirled around.

  “What’s wrong with this?”

  “Oh, come on, Mel. Think about all the things you’ve never done. ’Cause that’s all I can think about—the scuba lessons I’ve never taken, the motorcycle you wouldn’t let me buy, the mountains I’ve never climbed. Life is zipping past us, and we’re worrying about the brakes on the truck, the exterminator using dangerous chemicals, and the returns we’re getting on our stocks. I mean, who cares? We’re frittering our lives away on endless details that don’t matter. I’m done with all that. I want more.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Her mouth felt like someone had crammed that crinkly stuff thoughtless people used in gift baskets, the stuff that required getting out the vacuum once you’d taken all the goodies out. If she said something, all that crinkly stuffing would come out, zipping and zagging all over the place, leaving papery pieces of herself everywhere. She wasn’t sure if there was a broom or vacuum big enough to clean up that sort of mess. So she said nothing. Just stared at her paci
ng husband with his exquisitely tortured face, as if he were the one wounded by the thought of their marriage being broken apart.

  “Say something,” he demanded, stopping in front of her.

  Melanie couldn’t. Her clogged throat, thick with unshed tears and stinging anger, remained closed. She shook her head, trying not to cry. Trying not to fall apart.

  His expression softened. “Hey, I know you didn’t expect this, and my timing is, well, pretty bad, but what Tennyson said made such sense. Some things require decisiveness. You either shit or get off the pot.”

  Tennyson?

  Melanie turned her head and caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her frizzy, layered hair looked ridiculous, the self-tanner too ruddy, her face too pasty. Her clothes were baggy and stained. This was what she looked like when her husband declared their marriage over. Because trial separation meant divorce. She could count on one hand the number of friends who separated and had their marriages survive. In fact, she’d have to make a fist. “What exactly did Tennyson say?”

  Kit stopped and looked at her. “It wasn’t so much what she said. Or maybe it was. Essentially she moved me to a place that made me examine what I really want in life.”

  “And that is?”

  “Fulfillment.”

  Melanie bit her lip and thought about that. “So Tennyson told you that you should be seeking fulfillment? And you think fulfillment is climbing a mountain? Would that be with Charlotte beside you? And would that be before or after you’ve had sex with her?”

  “Here you go again,” Kit said, waving a hand and dropping it to his side with a slap. “You’re obsessed with Charlotte. I’m not having an affair with her. Yeah, I admire her. She’s independent and seizes life by the horns. She’s not afraid to go after what she wants.”

  “And I am afraid?”

  Kit rolled his eyes. Rolled. His. Eyes. “Come on, it’s like what we tell the kids. Just because I’m complimenting one doesn’t mean I’m dissing the other. Of course I admire you. You’re a terrific mother.”