Happily Ever After All Read online

  “Why not?”

  “The number-one place we’d want to have it at is booked all the other Saturdays in October, actually, and by now it’s probably booked that day, too. There aren’t that many other decent places to choose from, so…”

  Oops.

  I said too much, starting with the word booked.

  But instead of asking the obvious—how can you possibly know that, if we’ve been engaged less than an hour and we’ve spent every moment of that time together?—Jack asks, “What number-one place is that?”

  “Shorewood Country Club. In Brookside,” I add at his blank look.

  “We want to have our wedding in Brookside?”

  “My hometown,” I clarify, realizing there must be a crack enclave in the South Bronx also called Brookside. No wonder he’s mixed up and wearing that are-you-out-of-your-mind? expression.

  “We never said that,” Jack informs me as he sneaks another glance at the television, where an ESPN reporter is animatedly recapping some game.

  “I know we didn’t say that. We never said anything because we never talked about it before,” I point out.

  I neglect to add, That’s because you once said something along the lines of “getting married is for assholes.”

  Pardon his French.

  “I just assumed we’d get married in Brookside,” I say instead.

  “Why?”

  Realizing a crash course in Nuptials 101 is in order, I patiently explain, “Because weddings are usually held in the bride’s hometown. Kate and Billy’s was in Mobile, remember?”

  To Jack’s credit, he doesn’t point out that there’s a tremendous difference between a charming Gulf Coast city and a tiny blue-collar town south of Buffalo on Lake Erie.

  To his discredit, he says instead, “Well, since we happen to live in New York, where there are millions of decent places to have a wedding, why wouldn’t we just get married here?”

  I’ll admit this gives me pause.

  Because, when you come right down to it…he has a point.

  Why not just get married here?

  Back when I was certain I would eventually marry my ex-boyfriend, Will McCraw—which, unbeknownst to me, Will McCraw never once considered—I assumed the wedding would be right here in New York.

  That’s because Will didn’t like Brookside. He didn’t like my family, either, I suspect, although he never said it. What he did say, frequently, and in their presence, was that he didn’t like Brookside. Pretty much in those words.

  Just one of the many reasons I suspect that all those novenas my mother sent my way for years were probably her pious Catholic answer to voodoo. If there’s any truth to the power of prayer, my messy breakup with Will can be attributed to Connie Spadolini’s direct pipeline to God. Imagine what she could accomplish if she converted all that maternal energy to global causes.

  “Well?”

  Oh, yeah. Jack is still wondering why we shouldn’t just get married here in New York. “Cost, for one thing,” I say. “Do you know how much we’d pay for a sit-down dinner for three hundred in Manhattan?”

  “Three hundred?”

  I have his full attention now—and he certainly has mine, because it looks as though I may have to administer CPR any second.

  “Tracey, you’re not serious about that, are you?”

  “A sit-down dinner? Well, we can look into a buffet, but sometimes it’s more cost effective to—”

  “No, I’m talking about the head count. Come on. Three hundred?”

  “I have a huge family, Jack. And then there’s your family, and all our co-workers, and our friends from New York, and our high-school friends, and college roommates…”

  “And don’t forget my old Cub Scout den leader or Jimmy the doorman,” he says dryly.

  I decide this is probably not a good time to mention that Jimmy the doorman was on my initial guest list—the one I pared down from just under five hundred to the aforementioned three, and with considerable angst over every cut.

  “Hey,” he says suddenly, “if we had it here in New York, I bet a lot of your family wouldn’t come.”

  I bristle at that. “So we want to have the wedding in the most inconvenient place as possible? Is that your point?”

  “No. That was definitely not my point. Forget I said anything.”

  “Listen, Jack…we don’t have to decide all of these details right now. We’re supposed to be basking in the moment, remember?”

  “I was basking,” he says defensively, and gulps some beer. “You’re the one who’s scheming.”

  “Not scheming. Planning.”

  “Planning to turn our simple little wedding into an extravaganza.”

  Our simple little wedding?

  Correct me if I’m wrong, but did I ever say anything about simple? Or little?

  Granted, the guest list is somewhat negotiable…to a certain point.

  But if there’s anything I learned from my six months of reading Modern Bride on the sly, it’s that weddings are anything but simple.

  However—how could I have forgotten?—if there’s anything I learned in the last few years of living with Jack, it’s that you don’t just spring things on him.

  He has always needed time to get used to new ideas—like, say, ordering brown rice instead of white with Chinese food. Or setting the alarm clock to radio instead of that annoying high-pitch bleating sound.

  He’s not going to instantly embrace the notion of a gala event for three hundred as opposed to a “simple little wedding.”

  The trick is to let an idea seep in and simmer for a while. If I’m lucky, and I let enough time go by, he’ll wind up thinking he came up with it himself.

  “Let’s just back-burner the wedding discussion for tonight,” I suggest. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Not tomorrow?”

  “I was thinking in a few days,” he says. “Or maybe, I don’t know, next weekend? We can schedule a time when we can sit down and discuss it.”

  “You make it sound like a client meeting,” I say, only half amused and not the least bit surprised.

  As I said, he’s not the most spontaneous guy in the world, unless you’re talking about home-entertainment technology.

  Then again, a lifetime commitment to TiVo doesn’t involve a public religious ceremony, a wide circle of witnesses or exotic canapés.

  In any case, I decide to let Jack off the hook tonight. Between Raphael’s wedding and the engagement, we’ve experienced enough drama for one day.

  I go over to the couch, plop down beside him, sling my legs across his lap and my arms around his neck, and ask, “So how do you think we should celebrate our engagement?”

  “And Valentine’s Day,” he reminds me.

  “Right. I almost forgot.” I have a card and a gift-wrapped sweater for him hidden under the bed. I bought the sweater on winter clearance at Bloomingdale’s.

  Had my raise already kicked in—or had I suspected I’d be getting a delightful diamond ring today—I probably would have sprung for a nice shirt from Ralph Lauren’s spring collection for men.

  But I had no idea this was the big day. How could I? Even Jack didn’t realize it.

  So I guess he can be spontaneous after all. I mean, the man got down on his knee in the streaming gutter on the spur of the moment.

  Then again, how spontaneous is a proposal after six agonizing—at least, for me—months of his having the ring in his possession?

  Not that he has any idea that I already knew about the ring, thanks to his mother’s inability to keep a secret. He’ll never know that I had actually laid eyes on it once already, when I stumbled across it while rummaging through his suitcase during our Caribbean vacation last month.

  No, I wasn’t shamelessly snooping around for the diamond.

  I’m not that sneaky.

  I only wanted to borrow his sweatshirt and stumbled across the ring box accidentally.

  Yes, I opened it an
d snuck a peek.

  Yes, I am that sneaky.

  Anyway, I was genuinely surprised by his proposal today. So surprised he’ll never suspect that I’ve been waiting for him to do it since Labor Day weekend; that every gift-giving occasion since then has had me anticipating a diamond, and being crushed with disappointment.

  Sweetest Day brought a Chia Pet; Christmas, a Gore-Tex Mountain Guide Gold parka…

  Need I say more?

  Like I said, though, that’s all behind us now.

  “Listen, I made reservations a few days ago for a nice dinner tonight,” he informs me, putting his arm around me as I snuggle close to him on the couch. “Do you still want to do that?”

  “Sure.” I’m relieved that he at least had a plan for Valentine’s Day. A plan that doesn’t involve a zip-out fleece lining or a creepy, living green Afro. “Where are we going?”

  “To that new bistro you wanted to check out on West Fourth Street. I heard the French onion soup is amazing.”

  “That sounds great.”

  “Hey! Maybe we can have it at our wedding!” he suggests enthusiastically.

  “Maybe we can!” I say just as enthusiastically, but I’m thinking there’s no way in hell I’m going to surround myself by three hundred people with onion breath at our once-in-a-lifetime event.

  “So what time are those reservations?” I ask Jack.

  “Eight-thirty. Why? Are you hungry now?”

  “Not really. I’m sure I will be by then, though.”

  “Yeah, I can think of a great way to work up an appetite,” he says suggestively, and in a swift, smooth move, flips me onto my back.

  He nuzzles my neck with his stubble-studded face. “Your hair is sticky.”

  “That’s hair spray.”

  “And it’s all pinned together.”

  “That’s my fancy hairdo from the wedding. Don’t you like it?”

  “No. I like it better down. Don’t wear it like this for our wedding, okay? It doesn’t feel…normal.”

  I laugh, thinking this is one of the things I really love about him.

  You know, that he’s such a…typical guy. That, aside from sock sniffing, he’s unabashedly into sex, and sports, and beer, and me…unlike the late thinks-he’s-great Will the Metro-sexual.

  I really have come a long way from that one-sided relationship with a man—and I use the term loosely—who was head over heels in love with somebody else. Not another woman. Not even another man. No, Will McCraw was deeply in love with himself. That’s the only thing we ever had in common. It just took me a couple of years and a whole lot of heartache to figure that out.

  Jack Candell, however, is indisputably in love with me. Only me. And he’s promised to love me forever.

  I am definitely basking now.

  So much so that I’m positive we’ll be able to agree on the details of our wedding.

  What counts more than anything is that we love each other, and we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.

  Nothing else matters.

  CHAPTER 2

  Okay, so I take back what I said last night.

  Other things do matter.

  Things like head counts and menus and which end of New York State gets to host the big event—and that it will, indeed, be a big event.

  So no, this getting-married thing isn’t just about being in love.

  I figure that out the moment I awaken on my first Sunday morning as a fiancée to realize that A) I’ve got about eight months to plan my dream wedding, and B) the afterglow-basking must come to an abrupt end if I’m going to get this show on the road.

  I slip out of bed quietly so that I don’t disturb Jack, who’s sleeping soundly at last. He was up and down for most of the night, blaming the hour delay in getting our reserved table at the bistro and the rich pasta dish he scarfed down after a fried-cheese appetizer.

  I, however, suspect that last night’s extreme case of agita could be attributed to the cause célèbre for our dinner, rather than the food itself, or the hour.

  This, after all, is a man who regularly comes home from late nights at the office to unwind with family serving–size Chef Boyardee beef ravioli—often gobbled cold from the can—topped off by an entire row of Double Stuf Oreos.

  There was a time when I, too, could have chowed through that midnight spread, and more—and followed by a Salem Lights chaser.

  Thank goodness my days of binging-without-purging are long behind me. My stint as a human chimney is more recent history, but after a couple of false starts I ultimately kicked that habit, too. I know I definitely won’t go back now because there’s something unsettling about envisioning myself as a bride with a cigarette butt hanging out of her mouth.

  Somehow Jack, who never smoked, has always managed to avoid both a weight problem and indigestion despite his lousy late-night eating habits.

  So like I said, I think his upset stomach last night was due to the shock of actually being engaged.

  Oh, well. I’m sure he’ll eventually get over it. And while he’s lingering in the recovery stage, I really do need to get busy with the planning stage.

  I open the closet and swiftly pull my lilac-colored velour robe over my comfy red-plaid flannel pajamas, then slip my bridesmaid-blistered feet into a cushy pair of green terry-cloth scuffies.

  Yes, I clash. Who cares? I’m a fiancée.

  And Jack—unlike Will McCraw—cares about who I am, not what I’m wearing.

  You know, I can’t believe there was ever a time when I thought it was normal to have your boyfriend offer fashion pointers—or that I dutifully followed Will’s.

  Wait until he hears I’m engaged. I can’t wait to tell him.

  For that matter, I can’t wait to tell someone. Anyone.

  Too bad Raphael is currently winging his way toward Africa and his safari honeymoon.

  I wonder if it’s too early to call Kate. She likes to sleep in.

  Who cares?

  This is big news. I close the bedroom door behind me, grab the phone and quickly dial her number.

  “Is Kate there?” I ask excitedly when Billy answers on the third ring.

  “She’s throwing up.”

  Oh. Right. Morning sickness. I forgot all about Kate’s new pregnancy. She’s due in late September…which means we’ll have to increase the guest list to three hundred and one. Two, if she insists on bringing a nanny. Three with an accompanying wet nurse, which, knowing Kate, isn’t all that far-fetched.

  “Can you have her give me a call when she’s done?” I ask Billy, who mumbles something that might be an agreement.

  To be sure, I say, “Can you tell her it’s urgent?”

  “Yup.” Billy hangs up.

  You’d think he might at least have asked me if everything is okay.

  No, you wouldn’t think that. Not if you knew Billy, anyway.

  Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t that I can’t stand him—although sometimes I really can’t. But that’s just because he can be an arrogant, prejudiced, elitist prick.

  When he’s not being an arrogant, prejudiced, elitist prick, he’s fine. More or less. He’s just not my kind of person. We simply have nothing in common other than his being married to my best girlfriend.

  Anyway, I really should be glad he didn’t inquire about the urgent nature of my call, because I might have been tempted to blurt it out.

  And I really don’t want Billy, of all people, to be the first to hear the big news.

  I consider calling Buckley O’Hanlon, my best straight guy friend. Then I remember that after Raphael’s wedding, he and his fiancée, Sonja, were heading out to spend the remainder of Valentine’s Day weekend at some romantic inn in the Hamptons. They won’t be back until tomorrow.

  I could call Brenda, Latisha or Yvonne, but I’ll see them at the office first thing in the morning. It will be much more satisfying to stick out my hand and show them.

  But I have to tell someone, and soon.

  I’ll just wait for
Kate to call back. I’m sure it won’t be long. How long does it take to barf, brush your teeth and dial the phone?

  In the kitchen, I brew a big pot of coffee, throw on a Frank Sinatra CD—and promptly find myself homesick.

  Between the fragrant hazelnut grounds and Frankie baby singing “My Kinda Town,” I could close my eyes and imagine I’m sitting at a vinyl-covered chair in my parents’ kitchen. No, it’s not in Frankie baby’s Chicago.

  It’s in Brookside, New York, just south and west of Buffalo—which might as well be in the Midwest. My father frequently plays Frank Sinatra on Sunday mornings as we lounge around in our robes with coffee. The only thing that’s missing is the aroma of something frying. Bacon or pork sausage, pancakes or eggs in butter, onions and hash browns in olive oil—there’s always something frying in my parents’ house.

  Suddenly, I’m desperate to share my big news with them—the news I told Jack just last night should wait until we see our families in person.

  Since my future mother-in-law lives a short train ride away, in Westchester County, we can tell her anytime. Wilma is the one who gave Jack the heirloom diamond in the first place, so she’s not likely to be very surprised.

  My parents, on the other hand, gave up any hope of my getting married the day I moved in with Jack. That’s because, as everybody knows, people—namely, men—don’t buy cows who give milk for free. At least, everyone in Brookside knows that. Probably because Connie Spadolini told them.

  What my mother never did understand is that in Manhattan, where cows are as scarce as affordable apartments and a gallon of milk is as expensive as a gallon of gasoline, living together is a prelude to marriage, not an alternative.

  I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she sees my ring and witnesses the end of the shameful era she refers to as Tracey Lives In Sin. It was only slightly less traumatic for my family than the previous eras known as Tracey Turns Her Back on Her Family (i.e., Relocates to New York) and Tracey Falls in Love With a Flaming Homosexual.

  Not that Will actually was. Gay, I mean.

  But as far as my father and brothers are concerned, if you’re going to wear black turtlenecks and expensive cologne and have an affinity for show tunes and fresh herbs, you’d damn well better be a middle-aged Italian man. Or have a vagina.