Slightly Married (13 page)

How this
goes down?
Are we plotting to knock over a casino?

Somehow, I bite back the sarcasm. “You have equal say.”

“Okay. Good.”

Silence.

“So what
do
you have to say?” I ask through gritted teeth.

He shrugs, maddeningly casual. “I say we have French onion soup at our reception.”

“Which will be held…where?”

“I think we need to shop around a little for a place.”

“But
where?
”

“You know…everywhere.”

“Like…?”

“Like…” Clearly, he is racking his brain for possibilities. “For one thing, we can check out that loft my sister was talking about.”

“She said it would cost us a fortune. I mean, even with my raise…we’re pretty much broke, Jack. It’s not like my parents are going to be able to pay to give us a lavish Manhattan wedding and a great honeymoon.”

“What about
my
parents?”

Hmm. That gives me pause. What about them?

“They’re going to want to help,” Jack says. “My mother said so.”

“Help pay for it? Or help plan it?”

“Probably both.”

Which, I have to admit, would only be fair.

“Can you ask her what she has in mind?” I ask Jack. “Moneywise, I mean.”

“I’d feel funny doing that. You can ask, though.”

“You think I wouldn’t feel funny asking your mother how much cash we can count her in for?”

“Well, the thing is, she’s not the one with the cash. That’s my father’s department. And I’m sure he’ll want to help.”

Hmm. What if Jack’s rich father wants to throw us a lavish Manhattan wedding?

I picture myself pulling up to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue in a rose-bedecked horse-drawn carriage—or better yet, one of those vintage limos. I’m in a designer wedding gown, of course. No bustle, latest style be damned. I mean, who wants added padding there?

“Did you talk to him about it yet?” I ask Jack, wondering if the Rainbow Room does weddings and if it’s available on the third Saturday in October. If not, there’s always Tavern on the Green, or—

“My father? He doesn’t even know we’re engaged,” Jack reminds me. “And when he finds out that my mother knew before he did…”

“Well, why didn’t you invite him to come out with us the other night?” As if I didn’t know.

“Because he’s a miserable human being and I didn’t want him to put a damper on our celebration.”

Right…albeit a miserable human being with a big fat checkbook
, I want to point out, but I just say, “Oh, yeah.”

Still…wow. This is a whole new ball game. I mean, usually the bride’s parents pay for the wedding, but given my parents’ financial state, I just assumed Jack and I would have to cover the bulk of it ourselves.

“Maybe we should go up to Bedford and visit your dad to tell him the news,” I suggest tactfully, once again unfolding my honeymoon spreadsheet. “You know…so he won’t feel left out.”

“Yeah, we’ll do that.” I’m about to get my coat when Jack adds, “Eventually.”

Damn.

But we can’t make wedding and honeymoon plans until we know if your father’s helping to pay for it
, I want to remind him.

“I don’t think we should keep your father in the dark for very long,” I tell Jack. “I mean, I think he deserves to know what’s going on. Don’t you? It’s not fair that your mother knows and he doesn’t.”

“Why not? Your parents don’t know.”

“But they will when we go up there.”

“Well, after we tell your parents, we’ll tell my father.”

I’m shaking my head before he’s even finished speaking. “Nope. That won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because we need to know before we go up to Brookside whether we’re having the wedding there. And if your father actually wants to get involved in it, we might decide to have it here.”

“You know, on second thought, I really don’t think I want my father to be involved in this,” Jack says. “I’d rather have a small wedding that we can afford ourselves, wherever that may be, and leave him out of it.”

Poof
—there go the cathedral and vintage limo, designer wedding gown and Rainbow Room reception, not to mention that tropical honeymoon hut of my dreams.

“Do you really think that’s fair?” I ask Jack. “Leaving your poor father out?”

“My ‘poor father’?”

“You just said he might want to help us.”

“If we take his money, we have to let him take control.”

“How much control?” I ask, even though I’m well aware that if it wasn’t for his father financing his education, Jack would have become a chef—his dream job—and not an ad agency guy—his father’s dream job for him.

“He’d take total control, Trace. Trust me. There’s no one more domineering than my father. We don’t want him involved.”

“But I thought you said—”

“Forget what I said. It was a moment of insanity. We can’t let him help pay for it.” Jack is adamant. “I don’t care if we have to have the wedding at the charbroil in Brookside, we’re not getting him involved.”

Back to square one. Well, square two, if square one is the charbroil.

Trying to remain optimistic, I say, “I should call Shorewood and tell them we want it for that Saturday in October, then. Right?”

“I guess so. If it’s that important to you.”

Yes!
Mental high five.

“It is that important.”

“Okay. Reserve it.” Then Jack adds, “For now. We can always change our minds.” He picks up the remote again and aims it at the television.

“The thing is, Jack…”

He looks up at me wearing a
now what?
expression.

“It’s not that simple. If we want to reserve Shorewood, we have to put down a deposit.”

“How much?”

“I’m not sure exactly, but it would probably be…” I hem. I haw. I distract myself momentarily by wondering what, exactly, hemming is and what hawing is.

Then, when I can no longer put it off, I force myself to blurt the ugly numerical truth: a dollar amount that’s roughly three times our monthly rent budget.

Jack gapes. “Are you kidding me? That much? Just for the deposit?”

“Unfortunately, no. Not kidding.”

“That’s sick.”

I shrug.

I felt the same way when I first discovered the deposit requirement last fall when I was furtively making wedding arrangements, sans fiancé. By now, I’ve had plenty of time to grow accustomed to the financial logistics of wedding planning. I’m sure Jack will get used to it, too, eventually. For now, I’ll just have to let him sit there looking as though he was just given a retroactive pay cut equal to ninety-nine-point-nine percent of his salary.

“How are we supposed to come up with that kind of money?”

“We can do cash advances on our credit cards—”

“No. No way.” He looks even more horrified than he did when I told him how much the deposit would be.

“Why not?”

“Do you know what the interest rate is? There’s no way we’re doing that. You’re pretty much maxed out as it is.”

This is true. He’s not, but—

“Listen, I have an idea,” he says then, surprising me, because who knew the wheels were actually turning behind that horrified expression?

“Great. Let’s hear it.”

“Let’s just sublet an empty studio apartment in New York in October and have it there. It would be a hell of a lot cheaper. Think about it.”

I do think about it. And I laugh.

Jack does not.

“What, you think I’m kidding about this?”

“You’re not?” Then, in the kitchen, we hear a sudden, clattering, escalating hum.

For a moment, I think something’s about to explode—and I’m not all that surprised, mind you. Then I remember the teakettle.

“You must be kidding about this,” I tell Jack as I jump off the arm of the couch, “because there’s no way you honestly think we should have our wedding in some empty studio apartment.”

“Why not?”

I shove the honeymoon spreadsheet back into the drawer. The teakettle is swiftly building into a full-blown whistle.

“Because it’s depressing!” I say over my shoulder as I hurry into the kitchen, feeling as if I, too, am about to explode.

“How is that depressing?” Jack calls after me.

“It just is!”

To my surprise, Jack follows me. I honestly thought he’d turn on the television in my absence, but he pops up behind me as I fill two mugs with boiling water.

“Listen, Tracey, I don’t want to argue about this for the next eight months. Whatever you want to do about the wedding is fine with me, because how it happens is obviously much more important to you than it is to me.”

I nod.

“I just don’t know how we’re going to come up with such a huge chunk of change anytime soon,” he says heavily.

“Selling stuff on eBay?” I suggest impulsively, setting the hot kettle carefully back on the burner.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Whatever we don’t need. I’ve got some clothes I don’t wear…”

“Yeah, I’m sure those snazzy wool dress shorts of yours will fetch a few hundred at least.”

Ha.

“Look, Jack,” I say, my back still turned because I can’t bear to let him see that I’m about to cry, “we’re going to have to figure this out because we can’t book a reception place without a deposit.”

“I know.”

“I guess we could wait to get married until we can save up enough money to give ourselves a decent wedding,” I suggest reluctantly, bulging my eyes so that the tears won’t start falling. “By this time next year, we could probably—”

“No. We don’t want to wait.” Standing behind me, Jack puts his hands on my shoulders. “If worse comes to worst, I can always sell my stock. I’d get eight or ten thousand, at least, if I did that.”

Stock?!

“What stock?” I turn slowly to look at him.

“I’ve got some Disney shares my grandmother gave me for my birthday when I was a kid.”

Wow. My grandmother gave me hand-crocheted sweaters. Ugly wasabi-green ones. I still have them, tucked away in a drawer.

Back then, I don’t think I’d have appreciated stock any more than I did the sweaters. At least I knew she’d spent all that time on making a special gift. Handing a kid a stock certificate seems so…impersonal.

From the perspective of an adult bride-to-be, though…brilliant move. Gotta love Jack’s grandmother, God rest her soul.

“I didn’t know you had Disney stock,” I tell him, wondering what else I don’t know about him. My tears seem to have subsided. “Are you sure you’d actually want to sell it?”

No. He isn’t sure.

I can tell by the look on his face, even as he nods.

“I can sell it.”

He
can
. But he doesn’t want to.

“Well, don’t do that yet,” I say, feeling guilty. “Maybe we can come up with another idea.”

“Like what?”

“Like…I’m sure my parents will help us with the wedding.”

But they’ll have visions of crepe-paper-festooned basketball hoops and candied almonds in fluted paper cups. I know it. Maybe they’ll ask Grandma to crochet me a veil.

“I guess we should just wait to make any decisions until after we’ve talked to my parents,” I tell Jack, dismally dunking my tea bag in and out of the steaming water.

“That’s what I think.”

“And I’m sure nobody will book Shorewood for that October date between now and next month.”

My tone is laced with sarcasm.

At least, I thought it was.

But it must not have come out that way, because Jack leans over and kisses me tenderly on the cheek. “I love you.”

I look up in surprise. “What was that for?”

“I honestly thought you were going to make a big stink about not having a place yet…”

He honestly thought right.

“But you’re being very mature about this.”

He sounds pleasantly surprised.

Like I’m not very mature about most things?

Turning away, I reach up for the cupboard to put away the box of tea bags. Naturally, the wooden knob comes off in my hand.

I curse.

Jack reaches around and takes the knob from me. “Here. Let me fix it.”

“I did fix it.”

“You need to use a wooden match. A toothpick is too thin to give it enough traction.” He opens a drawer, rifles through it. Pulls out a limp, nearly empty book of matches from some restaurant we haven’t been to in years. “Is this all we have? Where are the box matches?”

I shrug. “We probably don’t have any.”

He jerks open another drawer—the one where we keep the silverware. I take a cautious sip of my tea and let him conduct a fruitless search for box matches among the spoons and forks. He slams the drawer shut and grumbles, “How can we not have any?”

We might have some if you hadn’t made me give up smoking
, I want to point out crankily. But I refrain, because I never lit my cigarettes with box matches anyway.

And because, to be entirely fair, he didn’t really make me quit—that was my decision.

And because ninety-nine percent of the time, I’m glad I gave up smoking.

The other one percent of the time, I’m ridiculously stressed and would positively kill for a cigarette.

Like right now.

Since that’s out of the question, I leave Jack to fix the knob and retire to the living room with my mug of tea, the television tuned to
60 Minutes
.

Ah. That’s better.

Sometimes, you just have to take your pleasure wherever you can find it.

One would assume that pleasure, for an engaged woman, wouldn’t prove to be quite so elusive.

You know that
Weddings in America
feature I was so psyched to watch? Turns out it’s one of those hidden-camera exposés on wedding planners. Apparently, the industry is filled with predators out to rip off engaged couples and their parents.

Who knew?

I’m glad Jack is still puttering around in the kitchen. He doesn’t need to hear any wedding horror stories right now.

In the midst of an interview with a pair of sobbing newly broke newlyweds, the phone rings.

I grab the remote and freeze the screen, courtesy of TiVo, on the groom’s stricken, tear-soaked face.

“Tracey, is that you? Guess who’s back in town?”