Young Jane Young

by Gabrielle Zevin

  “Come on,” I said. “Some of them seem happy.”

  “No,” she said with certainty. “Some of them seem less unhappy.”

  “Unhappy brides are each unhappy in their own way,” I said.

  “Sure, I guess,” Ruby said. Her brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I explained that I was riffing on that old Tolstoy saw, and Ruby rolled her eyes. “Be serious,” she said.

  “So you’ll never marry?” I said. “That’s not much of an advertisement for my business.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Ruby said. “I don’t know if I’ll ever marry. I’m eight. But I do know I don’t ever want to be a bride.” Ruby is at a perfect age. She is old enough to talk to and not yet a teen or a tween. She is nerdy and slightly round, but it is delicious. I want to eat her. I want to bite her solid arms. By the way, I never mention her weight because I don’t want her to end up with a complex. I was overweight when I was her age, and my mother discussed it exhaustively. And yes, as a result, I would say I am the proud owner of several complexes. But who isn’t? When you think about it, isn’t a person just a structure built in reaction to the landscape and the weather?

  THREE

  My storefront is located between a stationers and a chocolatier, in the main part of town. It was November, and things were slow. After catching up with some of my spring and summer couples, I spent the morning shopping online for things I didn’t need. How many black shift dresses could one woman have? A lot, if you’re me. Seventeen, at last count. A wedding planner dresses for a wedding as if it is a funeral. I was thinking of what Ruby had said about every bride being miserable when Franny and Wes walked through my door. They didn’t have an appointment, but this time of year, they didn’t need one.

  Franny was Frances Lincoln. She was twenty-six years old, unformed. She was pretty enough but somehow like dough that had not been allowed to rise. She was a kindergarten teacher—of course she was! no one had ever looked more like a kindergarten teacher than she—but she said she was on leave. Wes was Wesley West—based on his name, I suspected his parents would be awful and I looked forward to meeting these monsters. Wes was a Realtor, and he informed me that his office was around the corner from mine though I had never noticed him before. He also told me that he had political aspirations. “I just thought you should know,” he said in a conspiratorial tone that suggested I should not plan the wedding for the future whatever of Allison Springs and be caught unaware. He was twenty-seven, and his handshake was too firm—what are you trying to prove, bro? As far as my clientele went, these two were not exceptional in any way. Weddings had a sneaky way of turning people into old-fashioned stereotypes of husband and wife.

  “We were thinking about hiring someone from the city,” Wes said. “The city” referred to Portland, and this was meant as a dig.

  “I’m from a city,” I said with a smile.

  “But I thought, why not try someone local? I mean, I pass your office every day. Nice place. I like how clean everything looks, how white everything is. Also, I’m hoping to run for city council, so I like getting to know the local businesses. My constituency, you know. Must be pretty slow for you this time of year.”

  I asked them if they had set a date.

  He looked at her, and she looked at him. “We’d like to get married a year from now, next December,” she said. “Is that enough time?”

  I nodded. “Plenty.”

  “She thinks winter weddings are romantic,” he said. “But what I like about it is the value. We’ll have our pick of venues, and for half the price of summer, am I right?”

  “Not half, but definitely less,” I said.

  “Winter weddings are romantic, don’t you think?” she said.

  “I do,” I said. The bride and the bridesmaids would freeze and, if it snowed, half the out-of-town guests might not show up. I suppose there was a romance to that. Winter pictures always turned out great, though, and I’m not sure that people don’t remember the pictures more than the actual event anyway. In any case, these were grown-ups, and I was not going to talk my way out of winter business.

  FOUR

  Some weeks later—perhaps after they’d visited one or more of those big city wedding planners—they arranged to come in for the second time so that they could give me their signed contract and a deposit for my services. Only Franny showed, which was not unusual, although she was embarrassed by his absence. “Is it weird?” she asked. “Does it seem like a bad sign? I mean, he should be here, right?”

  “It isn’t at all weird,” I said as she handed me the check. “I often end up working more with one member of the couple than the other. People can’t be everywhere at once.”

  She nodded. “He’s showing a house,” she said. “And he can’t always control when that happens.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” I said. “How did he propose? I don’t think I asked.” I put her contract into my filing cabinet.

  “Oh, it was romantic,” she said. Romantic was a big word with her. “Well, I think it was romantic. As I’m about to say it, it might seem weird to you.” Weird was another of her words.

  He had proposed at her mother’s funeral. Not at it, but just after it. I had a sense that it had happened in the parking lot of the cemetery, but I wasn’t clear. She was crying and grieving, mucus everywhere, and he had gotten down on one knee, and he had said something like, “Now this can’t ever be the saddest day of your life.” Gross. Again, I suppose he had meant well, but this was truly the worst thing I’d heard about him yet. For God’s sake, some days are meant to be the saddest days of your life. Also, should she have been making major life decisions when her mother had just died? I didn’t know these people, but it was almost as if he had preyed on her when she was at her most vulnerable. I was starting to hate Wes West. A little bit, I was starting to hate him. I often ended up hating the groom, but not usually so fast.

  “Oh, it is weird,” she said. “It is weird, isn’t it?”

  It wasn’t weird, but it was awful. It was awful, but it was ordinary. I didn’t know her, and it was not my business. To make the moment about something other than what I had been thinking and what my face may have betrayed, I did something that was unlike me. I reached across my desk and I grabbed her hand. “I’m so sorry about your mother,” I said.

  Her lip quivered, and her large blue eyes teared. “Oh gosh,” she said. “Oh gosh.”

  I handed her a tissue.

  “I’m a big baby,” she said.

  “No, you’re grieving,” I said. “You must feel so unmoored.”

  “Yes, that is exactly what I feel. Unmoored. Is your mother alive?” she asked.

  “She is, but we don’t see each other much,” I said.

  “How awful,” she said.

  “I have a daughter,” I said. “So I can imagine something of—”

  “And your mother doesn’t want to see her? Her own granddaughter? I can’t believe that!”

  “Maybe she does. It’s complicated,” I said.

  “Nothing’s that complicated.” Franny smiled at me. “I’ve overstepped,” she said. “I’m sorry. You have a very comforting way about you, so I forgot we aren’t friends.”

  She was sweet. “Did you do your homework?” I had asked them to assemble an inspiration board for their fantasy wedding.

  She took out her tablet from her purse. They had pinned a bride in cowboy boots and a groom wearing an ascot and tails; a buffet of pies and a seven-tier wedding cake; a silver bucket of gerbera daisies and a three-foot-tall arrangement with white lilies and roses; gingham tablecloths and white linen tablecloths; barbeque chicken and filet mignon. It was the wedding of City Mouse and Country Mouse.

  “We didn’t get very far. Some of these are his ideas and some of these are mine.”

  “I can tell,” I said.

  “He wants it to be elegant, but I want it to be more rustic,” she said. “Can you do anything with this, or are we hopeless?”


  “You’re hopeless,” I said.

  Franny laughed and flushed. “We kind of had a fight about it. Only a little fight. He says my taste is basic,” she said, “but I want our guests to feel relaxed and comfortable. I don’t want it to feel all—” She searched for a word before settling on “corporate.”

  “Elegant and rustic. Let me think. Chandeliers and white tablecloths in a barn. Or, considering it’s going to be December, mason jars with red-and-white gingham ribbons and baby’s breath and pine boughs and burlap tablecloths in a crisp hotel ballroom setting. Twinkly white Christmas lights strung across the dance floor and place cards written on tiny chalkboards. Tulle canopies and white linen napkins. BBQ and pies. A crackling fire. Yes, I see it.” And I literally had seen it. Everyone wanted elegant and rustic lately.

  “It sounds so beautiful,” she said.

  The bells on my door jingled, and Ruby came in, dumping her backpack on the floor. “This is my assistant,” I told Franny.

  Ruby shook Franny’s hand.

  “I’m Franny,” Franny said. “You look pretty young to be an assistant.”

  “Kind of you to say, but I’m fifty-three years old,” Ruby said.

  “She’s very well preserved. Franny wants a wedding that’s elegant and rustic,” I told Ruby.

  “You should have an ice cream truck,” Ruby said. “Mom did a shabby chic one with an ice cream truck. Everyone loves an ice cream truck.”

  “You’re not supposed to call me Mom at the office,” I said. “You’re supposed to call me Boss.”

  “Everyone went out to the parking lot,” Ruby continued, “and they could pick any ice cream they wanted for free. It was pretty much the best thing.”

  “It was great, but Franny’s wedding is in December,” I told Ruby.

  “True,” Franny said. “But it sounds so fun. Couldn’t we do it in December? It’s not like everyone stops eating ice cream just because it’s December. And it’s almost more fun to have an ice cream truck in December. Like, shouldn’t we embrace the cold?”

  That night, I got a call from Wes letting me know that he didn’t “get” the ice cream truck thing. “I think it looks like foolishness,” he said. “These people I’m inviting, some of them may have to vote for me someday and some of them might even have to donate to my campaign, and I don’t want them thinking that I’m the guy who had an ice cream truck at a winter wedding.”

  “Fine,” I said. “No ice cream truck.”

  “I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but it seems . . . feckless.”

  “Feckless,” I said. “That seems strong.”

  “Feckless,” he said. “Not considered and the product of a disorderly brain. I love Franny, but she can get ideas.”

  Yes, I thought, she has a brain and those do peskily tend to make ideas. “You obviously have strong feelings about this,” I said. “Honestly, it was only at the brainstorming stage, Wes. We hadn’t rented the truck or anything.”

  “Well, the thing is,” Wes said, “would you mind telling Franny that you aren’t able to get an ice cream truck in winter? Because she has her heart set on it now. She thinks it’s whimsical, I don’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier for you to tell her you don’t like it yourself? I mean, she liked it, yes, but I don’t think it was that big a deal to her. She likes a lot of things. She’s a very positive person.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think you should do it. If I do it, I’m the guy who is taking the fun out of the wedding. If you do it, it’s just a fact: the wedding planner can’t get an ice cream truck in December.”

  “But I probably can get an ice cream truck,” I said.

  “Well, sure, but Franny doesn’t know that,” Wes said.

  “Actually, I’m not comfortable lying to your fiancée,” I said. “I try never to lie to my couples. And it seems silly to me for either of us to lie over something as inconsequential as an ice cream truck.”

  “Since it’s silly, why does it matter? And it’s not really lying. You’re executing the wishes of the person who is paying for your services,” Wes said. “I believe in you, Jane.”

  I thought about telling this weenie that he could take his business elsewhere, but I did not. I didn’t mention it before but my bookish and lovely Ruby had been having trouble with bullies at her elementary school. I had done all of the things you are supposed to do when your child is being bullied. I had met with school administrators. I had called other parents. I had monitored her online activity. I had enrolled Ruby in a variety of purportedly self-esteem-boosting activities—gymnastics! Girl Scouts! I had talked to Ruby extensively about strategies for dealing with unpleasant people. Nothing had worked. I was thinking of transferring her to private school, but that cost money. Money meant you didn’t have the luxury of liking everyone you worked with.

  “Jane,” he said, “do we have an agreement?”

  “Fine,” I said, thinking that I would never vote for this man and, if he ever ran for anything, I would actively campaign against him. This marriage was doomed.

  I did not lie to Franny. I told her that I had thought about it, and the logistics of the ice cream truck would be too difficult in winter. And really, they would have been. The checking and rechecking of coats alone. It would have been a nightmare.

  FIVE

  That’s fine,” Franny said. “It was just a whim. I had another thought I wanted to run by you. I know we had mostly settled on mason jars and cabbage roses, and I could not love that more. But I was wondering if you knew anything about orchids.”

  “Orchids?” I said.

  “Well,” she said. “I see you have one over there on your windowsill. And the thing I like about it is, it never dies. It has looked exactly the same every time I’ve come in here. And, I don’t know, there’s something comforting and homey to that.”

  I had never heard someone refer to an orchid as homey. “They die sometimes,” I said. “But as long as you keep watering them, eventually they come back.”

  “Oh, I love that,” she said. “I don’t know if it fits with the elegant rustic theme—”

  “Everything fits with that,” I said.

  “But I was wondering if we could use potted orchids as centerpieces and then people could take them home with them. It would be so elegant, but also . . . what’s the word?”

  “Rustic?” I filled in.

  “I was thinking ‘green.’ That’s something that’s important to both Wes and me. Well, at least it’s important to me. I don’t know, maybe it seems more special than roses.”

  I took Franny to Schiele’s. Eliot Schiele was the florist I went to when the wedding couple wanted something unusual. He was the most serious florist I had ever met. I don’t mean to tar him with the word artisanal because that has a particular connotation, but it would not be wrong to refer to Schiele’s flowers as artisanal. He was a perfectionist, a tad obsessive, and also pricey.

  Schiele said, “Winter wedding? The only difficult thing will be getting them from the truck to the space. Orchids do not love the cold.”

  “But people will be able to take them home?” Franny said.

  “Yes, as long as you tell your guests not to dawdle in the parking lot. Also, I could print up booklets with care and handling instructions. You know, how often and how much to water, when to start fertilizing, where to cut the spike, how to repot, how to select potting medium, how much sunlight. Franny, did you know that orchids like it when you touch their leaves?”

  “Neat,” she said.

  “I never touch my orchid’s leaves,” I said.

  “Then I bet your orchid is feeling pretty blue, Jane,” Schiele said.

  “What kinds of orchids are there?” Franny asked. “Jane has a white one that I love.”

  “Jane has your typical, beginner, grocery store phalaenopsis. No offense, Jane. And we could definitely do that, no problem. But there are thousands of orchids. You shouldn’t settle down with the first orchid that catches
your eye.”

  “Hey, Schiele,” I said. “That’s my orchid you’re talking about. I’ve had it since college.”

  “It’s a great orchid, Jane. It’s a solid starter orchid. But this is a wedding. This is the beginning of young lives! We can do better.” He got out his big binder of orchids.

  She chose the brassavola, which looked like clusters of delicate calla lilies.

  “Ah,” said Schiele, “the Lady of the Night.”

  “It’s actually called that?” I asked. “Or is that your weird pet name for it?”

  “It releases a perfume in the evening,” he said. “Don’t worry, Franny. It smells great.”

  Schiele said he would run estimates for how much it would cost.

  A few days later, he sent his estimate to my office, along with another orchid, a purple one with leaves that looked like bamboo shoots, and a note: “My name is Miniature Dendrobium. I want to be friends with your grocery story phalaenopsis, even though he is incredibly pedestrian. He is very lonely and longs for companionship.”

  I called him on the phone. “My phalaenopsis is a girl.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “And actually, I think you’re being quite sexist. Not every flower is a girl.”

  “I didn’t say that. I only said mine was a girl. Do flowers have sexes?”

  “Didn’t you take biology in high school?” Schiele said.

  “I didn’t pay attention.”

  “Pity. Some plants have all flowers of one sex. Some have flowers of both sexes. You have to consider each flower and each plant individually. And in point of absolute fact, most orchid blooms, including yours, are hermaphrodites, and many flowers are bisexual.”