THAT MAN 4 (The Wedding Story-Part 1) (15 page)

As Marcy probed with her gloved fingers, I suddenly imagined Blake here doing the same. Feeling me up and then fucking me wildly with my feet anchored in these stirrups. He’d once told me he’d done that to a high school teacher and had gotten caught by his sister. Such a bad boy. A sudden distraught thought made me shudder: Had he ever done that to Kat?

“Are you okay?” asked Marcy, obviously feeling me squirm.

“Yes, everything’s good.” I forced Kat to the back of my head. Whatever she had with Blake was ancient history. I shouldn’t care. Yet, I did.

Marcy continued to probe.

“Did you find anything?” My voice was peppered with concern. She seemed to be spending an unusually long time exploring my privates.

She opened her eyes and removed her hand. “So far, everything seems normal.”

Relieved, I kept my eyes on her as she reached for the speculum on the mobile tray table beside her. I hated this part of the exam.

“Now, I’m going to insert this into your vagina and then do a pap smear. “Let me know if it hurts,” she said as she adjusted the metal clamp between my legs.

While it was definitely uncomfortable, it didn’t hurt. Marcy had a very gentle touch. My eyes stayed on her as she swabbed me twice, once with a small spatula and then again with a small bristle brush. She dipped each into separate vials that were filled with liquid and labeled with my name.

“Are we done?” I asked, eager to leave.

“I’d like to do one more thing. An ultrasound just to do a double check.”

I’d never had one before. “Isn’t that what they do for pregnant women?” I shivered. Maybe I was pregnant and that stupid store-bought test was wrong.

“Yes,” she said, first pressing down on my abdomen. “Does this hurt?”

I had to be honest. “Just a little.”

Her lips pinched, she pressed down harder. I gave a little yelp. A frisson of fear rippled through me. “Is that normal?”

“Yes. Some women are just very sensitive. If you really had a lot of pain, you would have jumped off the table.”

Inwardly, I sighed with relief as Marcy wheeled the ultra-sound machine closer to me. It consisted of a monitor and some kind of computer with lots of buttons and attachments. She then lifted up my paper gown and rubbed some gel on my tummy. The surprising warmth of it contrasted sharply with the chill of the air conditioning.

“Is this going to hurt?” I asked, fear creeping into my voice.

“Not at all.” She smiled again. “It may even tickle.”

I watched as she glided the head of a shaver-shaped probe around my belly while her other hand fiddled with the buttons and keys on the computer. She was right. It did tickle.

Her intense blue eyes alternated between my abdomen and the screen as did mine. I was intrigued by the volcano-like image on the screen, but had no clue what it was.

“Hmm,” she murmured, her eyes on the monitor.

My muscles tensed. “Is something wrong with me?”

“You have a number of fibroid tumors on your uterus.” She pointed them out to me on the monitor. They looked like shadowy dark spots. There were five in total.

“Oh my God. Are they dangerous?” Panic shot through me.
Tumors?
The C-word was on the tip of my tongue.

“Actually, they’re very common and benign. Many women have them although they’re a little unusual for someone as young as you. They explain your heavy, irregular period and the cramping.”

“What should I do?” I asked anxiously as she cleaned off my shiny tummy with one of those moist wipes.

“Really nothing. We’ll just have to monitor them to watch how fast they grow and see if they affect your ability to get pregnant.”

My panic button sounded. I was such an alarmist. “Does that mean I won’t be able to have a baby?”

“Not at all. Most of the time, they’re harmless and very slow growing. If they do interfere with your ability to conceive, they can be laparoscopically removed.”

“Laparoscopically?” I could barely pronounce the scary-sounding word.

“It’s a noninvasive surgical procedure. It’s rather painless and can be done as an out-patient.” She set the probe down on the ultrasound stand while I lay there motionless. Worry was etched on my face.

“Jennifer, honestly, there’s no need to worry at this point,” Marcy said with a comforting smile. “I want you to stay on the pill and eat foods rich with iron so you don’t get anemic. Just let me know if you experience any unusual discomfort.” She took off her latex gloves and washed her hands as I collected myself.

“Would you like to have lunch?” she asked. “I close the office and take an hour break every day. There’s a great little coffee shop downstairs.”

I was pleasantly surprised by her offer. I’d never spent a lot of time with Blake’s sister. And Blake rarely socialized with her. Maybe this would be a good opportunity to get to know her and learn more about their brother-sister relationship. And she was, after all, going to be one of my bridesmaids.

*

The coffee shop Marcy took me to was right next door to her office. It was small and totally unpretentious and kind of reminded me of the old fashioned coffee shops in Boise. We both ordered iron-rich medium rare burgers and kale salads, along with Cokes—she, a diet one and I, a cherry one.

I anxiously bit into my delicious burger, not quite knowing what to say to her. Marcy, on the other hand, wasted no time starting a conversation.

“I thought we should get to know each other since we’re going to be sisters-in-law.”

Swallowing, I agreed. “Thanks for inviting for me for lunch.”

“My pleasure.” She took a sip of her soda through her straw. “You’re probably wondering why Blake and I don’t get along that well.”

Ten years younger than Marcy, he had mentioned once that the two of them fought all the time as children. “He doesn’t really talk about it much,” I replied. “Mostly, he refers to you as being the best gynecologist in all of LA.”
The truth.

Marcy’s eyes widened with surprise. “He said something nice about me?”

“Yes. He’s very proud of you.”

With that, Marcy began to tell me what it was like growing up with Blake. She had enjoyed being an only child, and though never the beauty her mother was, her parents lavished her with attention. She was quite the bookworm and pleaser, always studying and scoring high grades. She sounded a lot like me.

When Blake came along, everything changed. The beautiful blue-eyed baby was the apple of everyone’s eyes. The center of attention. No matter how mischievous he was, he got away with everything. Marcy grew jealous of Blake, who knew how to wrap both his father and mother around his little finger. And his grandma too. While sixteen-year-old Marcy was going through an awkward stage with raging hormones and pimples, six-year-old Blake was getting more adorable each day.

“I felt threatened by him,” Marcy sighed. “I was the smart one, but I really wanted to be the beautiful one.” She paused to sip her Coke. “Thank goodness, I have identical twins. And even if they weren’t, I’d never pit one against the other that way. Or lavish more attention on one over the other.”

I processed what she’d said. Being an only child, I had no clue about sibling rivalry. I stored her information in my mind for the future.

“How are Jonathan and Jackson doing?” I interjected.

“Thanks for asking. They’re actually doing surprisingly well. In fact, better now that Matt and I are separated. I think all our fighting really affected them. Kids model themselves after their parents’ behaviors.”

More words of wisdom. And so true. I was so much like my pleasing mother, so non-confrontational. And I dissected things like my father. I told Marcy I was sorry about her marriage.

“Don’t be. We weren’t good for each other. It was a marriage of rebellion and convenience—he was a good-looking poor guy and I came from a lot of money. But we didn’t make the other half better.”

I thought hard about what Marcy had just said. Blake was still cocky, stuck-up, and arrogant. Maybe we weren’t meant…

Before I could finish my thought, Marcy jumped in. “Jennifer, I just want to tell you that you are so good for Blake. You make him better. I see the way he acts around you. He’s sweet, considerate, and loving. He’s more patient and so much less into himself.”

“But he’s still so cocky and self-assured.”

Marcy rolled her eyes. “You have no idea. And those bimbos he used to hang with…”

“Do you know Kat Moore?” The question slipped out of my mouth.

Marcy’s blue eyes darkened. “That girl is pure trouble. Stay away from her.”

“She’s helping plan our wedding.”

“Be careful. Don’t let her manipulate you.” She pressed her lips thin as if she wanted to tell me more and was holding back words. Before I could ask her what she meant, she changed the subject.

“The boys are so excited about being the ring bearers. But they’ve been fighting over who’s carrying which ring.”

Still mulling her previous words, I feigned a chuckle. The check came and Marcy reached for it. Her treat. She smiled warmly at me and then did something unexpected—she affectionately clasped my hands in hers.

“Jennifer, I’m so glad you’re marrying Blake. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. I’m thrilled you’re going to be my sister-in-law.”

We ended lunch with a hug. A new mission impossible awaited me. I was determined to get Blake to like his sister as much as I did.

Blake

I
owned half a dozen tuxes, but Jennifer was insistent I get a brand new one for our wedding. One that had never been photographed at the many galas I’d attended or touched by one of my former hook-ups.

Driving my Porsche with the top down, I headed to Beverly Hills where I was going to meet with my personal shopper, Daniel, at the Saks Fifth Avenue Men’s Store. I was actually looking forward to it. Unlike a lot of men who hated shopping for clothes, I actually loved it. And I especially loved buying beautiful Italian designer suits. I must have owned over two hundred of them. Jennifer’s analytical friend Libby called me a metrosexual, and one night when we went out for dinner, she made me take a
Cosmopolitan
magazine quiz.

1.   You just can’t walk past a beauty supply store without making a purchase.
True.

2.   You own fifty pairs of shoes, a dozen pairs of sunglasses, just as many watches and you only wear Calvin Klein briefs.
True.

3.   Mani-pedi is part of your vocabulary.
True.

4.   You shave more than just your face. You also exfoliate and moisturize.
True.

5.   You can’t imagine a day without hair styling products.
True.

6.   You spend more time in the bathroom showering and grooming than your girlfriend.
True.

7.   You carry a man bag.
False.

Okay, so, I blew one question (guess which one), but I was a high maintenance kind of guy. Trust me, any rich, good-looking guy who tells you he isn’t is full of shit. Jennifer couldn’t believe I had to annex my closet to make extra room for all my suits—and all my grooming products. She’d threatened to buy me a man bag for Christmas. But that’s where I drew the line. No fucking way. Our silly squabble flashed into my mind as I valeted my car at the back entrance of the venerable department store. As competent as I was when it came to suiting myself up, I wished she were here with me. But I didn’t want her to miss her hard-to-get appointment with my sister, and she didn’t want me to postpone the fitting with the wedding so close. It was less than a month away.

The valet attendant welcomed me warmly as I stepped out of the car. I was a familiar face. While a lot of guys I knew, including Jaime Zander, preferred to shop at hip Barney’s down the street, I liked Saks. Because all three floors of the store catered only to men, it was kind of a refuge. The last place I’d get assaulted by a blond bimbo. Besides, this is where my father shopped and his father before him. Legacy.

Upon entering the store, I headed to the elevator and took it straight to the third floor. Daniel met me quickly. To my astonishment, I was the sole customer. Well, at least I’d get done quickly. In fact, I knew what tux I liked already—it was draped on a mannequin. Simple. Elegant. A one-buttoned tapered jacket and a thin satin stripe along the pants leg. The kind Brad Pitt might wear.

“An excellent choice,” commented the perfectly groomed, androgynous Daniel. “An Armani. It just came in. I’ll retrieve one in your size and send Luigi to the dressing room to tailor it.”

Five minutes later, I was looking, if I have say to so myself, damn good in my new tux, complete with a slick new tux shirt and bow tie as well as a snappy pocket square in my signature blue. The spacious dressing room was the size of a guest room, done up in soothing shades of gray. Standing before the tri-fold mirror, I watched as Luigi, my tailor, expertly made some alterations. A stocky Italian craftsman in his late seventies with a shock of never-graying jet black hair, he’d been with the store forever and had tailored both my father’s and grandfather’s suits. He was practically family.