The Next Best Thing (3 page)

To which my mother had replied
You sure got your nerve, running around here with your nose in the air, when everybody in town knows that the Davises ain't none but a bunch of fucking crooks and con-artists!

Mrs. Davis had retorted
You Carters are nothing but common trash, and not one of you are fit to wipe my shoes!

Poor Mrs. Davis. What did she fix her mouth to say that for? If that witch had done her homework, she would have known that uttering those words in a church full of
my
family members was the wrong move to make—something equivalent to a lamb walking boldly into a lion's den, and expecting to make it out unharmed.

My mother snatched Mrs. Davis's wig off, and the fight was on between members of both families until Rev. Thompson announced that the police had been called and were on their way.

The church and the parking lot both cleared out in about three minutes flat.

Umph! My people, my people…Just buckwhylin' all up and through the church.

After hearing Cookie's report, I shook my head and winced at what my co-workers must have been saying:
Oh my God! Who knew that Tori's relatives were so…ghetto?

I did, that's who. However, I was hoping that my family could at least hold it together in honor of the occasion. Obviously not.

Even at that moment, Junior and some of our wayward cousins were on one side of the room discussing what they were going to do to Roland upon catching his ass out in the streets.

Uncle Blue was taking folks' money at the three-card monte table he had set up in the middle of the living room; and I'll be damned if I didn't smell marijuana smoke drifting out from under the bathroom door. No telling who the culprit was. Probably Aunt Vera.

“Come here, Tori, and let me pray for you,” said my cousin Janice, who I noticed had been sneaking sips of champagne all evening, even though she claims to have not had a drink since she got saved two years ago.

With booze on her breath, Janice laid hands on me and prayed with all seriousness. “Father God, I pray that you bless and comfort my baby cousin Tori during her hour of need. May she not rely upon her own understanding, but be assured that your hand is upon her, Lord, and your goodness and mercy will follow her all the days of her life. Father, I pray that you just keep Tori strong, Lord! In Jesus' name we pray…Amen!”

I thanked Janice for the prayer, and quickly stepped away from her in order to dodge the bolt of lightning I was sure would strike her backsliding behind at any second.

Daddy sat at my island counter muttering and cursing up under his breath, while also nursing a split lip, and a tall glass of cognac.

Just as cantankerous as ever.

I wouldn't say that my father was completely unsympathetic towards my plight, but he admittedly was not one of Roland's biggest fans, and made it clear before we even left the church that his primary concern at that point was recouping the money he had given me towards the wedding.

How's that for family support?

Then again, that's my Daddy. An ass-kicking, name-taking, Army veteran, who has never been known to sugarcoat, or bite his tongue, on any issue, which is why Mama is always dragging him by the ear and making him apologize to somebody that he has offended.

And speaking of Mama. She was damn near inconsolable.

Three years' worth of free milk and Roland has walked away without buying the cow; just as she had feared from the day Roland moved in with me.

Though it was hard to tell if Mama felt sorrier for me, or for herself.

The prospect of having a successful architect for a son-in-law had become a badge of honor that my mother had rubbed into the faces of the women down at her social club every chance she got.

Now, she was going to have to eat humble pie at the next meeting of the Kansas City Ladies League and answer questions as to why her daughter had been left at the altar looking like a jackass.

I am proud of myself for holding up so well under the circumstances, though. Thanks to that old Carter pride, I did not shed a single tear, all day.

I may have fainted, but I didn't cry.

During the packing party, I laughed and joked with my guests so much, I could tell by their puzzled looks that most of them didn't know what to make of me. There I was, fluttering around the place, offering salmon caviar hors d'oeuvres and refilling champagne glasses, as if I wasn't bothered one bit by being told on my wedding day that the last three years of my life were a complete lie.

However, you can fake the funk for only so long.

After all my guests but Simone had left, loaded down with platters of food and bottles of booze, all that strong-woman bravado went straight out the window. Right along with the ridiculous smile that had been pasted on my face all day.

I was shoving what was left of the wedding cake into a garbage bag, when the first teardrop fell. Followed by a thousand more.

Thank God for Simone! That girl is the most sane, well-adjusted person in my life. She stayed by my side, offering Kleenex and comforting hugs well into the wee hours of the morning.

As I ranted and raved until my voice became hoarse, Simone listened patiently and had the compassion not to utter
I told you so
, which she certainly could have done since she was skeptical of Roland from the very beginning.

“He looks good on paper,” Simone had said after first meeting Roland. “But there is just something about his aura that doesn't sit quite right with me.”

Being the spiritual, mother-earth type person that she is, I wasn't at all surprised when Simone gave me a beautiful leather-bound journal filled with inspirational quotes for every day of the week.

“You might as well try it,” she said, responding to the skeptical look on my face. “It will help you process some of this shit you're going through, and at the same time, bring about a whole new level of clarity to your life that you've never had before.”

Simone is a personal-growth junkie, who, through a life coach and a ton of self-help books, has finally been able to get past her bourgeois, overprivileged childhood, which for some reason she previously viewed as tragic.

I, on the other hand, am cynical when it comes to all that holistic, new-age mumbo jumbo crap.

I mean, really. How can something as simple as putting thoughts and feelings down on paper help people who “trust the process,” obtain self-awareness to the point where their lives are healed and their souls are transformed?

Give me a break.

If it were that easy, then even sickos like R. Kelly and O. J. Simpson would be sane.

However, the months to come would probably be the toughest of my life, so if there was even an ounce of benefit to be gained from journaling, then damn it, sign me up.

It's a helluva lot cheaper than Valium, that's for sure.

Dawn was just starting to break when Simone left.

I opened the journal and read the inscription she had written on the inside cover:

I chuckled despite myself, then read the quote, picked up a pen and wrote the first entry.

 

Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans.—John Lennon

SUNDAY

Lisa, my third cousin twice removed, cornered me at the packing party, and asked, “So, what are you going to do now?”

That annoyed the hell out of me.

I was all set to give Lisa a piece of my mind when I realized that was actually a damn good question.

One of the top ten rules of event planning is to always have a plan A-Z. And while I do that all day every day professionally, I was negligent in doing the same in my personal life.

What am I gonna do now?

At this point, the only thing I know for sure is that I have to do away with that twenty-year plan that included Roland and a bunch of his little chocolate babies. I have to create a brand-new future for myself. Where to start and what the details are? Hell if I know.

That is something I guess I'll figure out, one day at a time.

Of all the skyscrapers that make up the downtown area, the Price Morgan Pavilion is the most impressive, with its eighty-six stories and ultra high-tech exterior. The Pavilion is also home to Sophie Wilkerson Events, the most successful event management firm in Kansas City, which is where I work.

Located up on the sixty-eighth floor, I walked through the glass and chrome doors of SWE this morning, and my co-workers were as wide-eyed and startled as if they were seeing a ghost.

After all, most of them were there to witness the fiasco that was supposed to be my wedding, and it was evident in their faces that the last thing any of them expected was to see me bounce back so quickly from such an extreme public humiliation. Half of them were giving me sympathetic looks, while the other half were looking me over for signs of weakness.

The questions of the day were
Tori, what are you doing here?
and
Shouldn't you be taking this time off?

The phony concern was so transparent it made me laugh. Because the truth is, most of them were probably hoping that I was at home slitting my wrist, so that one of them could move in and take my spot.

At SWE, the title of Senior Event Coordinator comes with a bull's-eye on your back, so you can't sleep. It is imperative to bring your A-game all day, every day, or it could be a wrap for you in an instant.

We may throw parties for a living, but SWE is just as cutthroat a workplace as any brokerage firm on Wall Street.

Picture fifty anal personalities under one roof amped up on Red Bull, espresso, and Krispy Kreme doughnuts; all back-stabbing, tattle telling, and jockeying for better positions, and you got some idea of what our office is like on a daily basis.

That is because Sophie Wilkerson happens to be a shrewd, fiercely competitive businesswoman who breeds these same qualities in the office among her employees; says it inspires greatness, and keeps everybody on their toes.

By the time I made it to my corner office, there were so many people following me that it felt like I was leading a parade.

I turned on my computer and checked my inbox, feeling like I was on display. My co-workers were crowded in my office and around the doorway, staring at me as if I were some rare piece of artwork they were trying to figure out the intricacies of.

I met their gazes head on, with what I hoped was a look of strength and resilience. “Listen, people,” I said. “I'm here, I'm fine, so let's get to work. Okay?”

As they were all filing out, I overheard someone in the crowd utter, “Wow, what a champ!”

Hah!
Suckers
!

I laughed and congratulated myself on my stellar acting abilities. If they knew the enormous amount of inner strength and determination it took for me to even get out of bed this morning, they wouldn't be nearly as impressed.

Sophie would be the real test, though. She hired me right out of college, and no one in the company knows me better than she does.

Sure enough, I was faxing an invoice to a client when Sophie got the news that I was back to work. She made a beeline to my office, her green eyes shining with maternal pride that her protégée and heir apparent took such a lickin' but was still standing tall.

If they had a definition for bad bitch in the dictionary, Sophie's picture would be right there. Back in the '70s, her first husband left her with eleven dollars and four babies. She threw rent parties for herself, put on fashion shows—anything to make money. Now, over thirty years later, Sophie Wilkerson Events is a multimillion-dollar-a-year business.

Sophie believes that true ladies do not reveal their ages, so her exact age is unknown. But looking at her even with all the Botox, Thermage, and weekly facials, I would have to put her around sixty. At least.

Either way, she's still fierce with her perpetually bronze skin tone and short pixie haircut.

And talk about a sense of style! Old girl never fails to impress in something chic and free-flowing like the white, Chanel pantsuit she wore today, which made her look like she was floating on a breeze. Immediately, Sophie pulled me into a warm hug and said, “I have taught you well,” in her husky, Eastern European accent, which has always puzzled me since she was born and raised in Scottsdale, Arizona.

“It's good to be back,” I said, meaning it sincerely.

Over the years, I have learned priceless pearls of wisdom from Sophie, such as
If you're having a bad day, the only person who should know that is you, True professionals never let personal problems interfere with business,
and her favorite,
Crying is for the weak. If you must do it, please let it be on your own time.

Little did Sophie know that I have been doing just that; crying on my own time.

In the days following my ordeal, I fell into a mini-depression, which I tend to do after every breakup.

This time around, I didn't leave the house for three days straight. During that time, the UPS delivery guy who came to pick up Roland's stuff was the only person I had face-to-face contact with. I did not comb my hair, or go down to the lobby to pick up a newspaper or check the mail.

What I did do, though, was throw myself one helluva pity party. I baked my favorite lemonade cake with the intention of eating every last bit of it by myself. I pigged out on what was left of the spicy scallops, and lobster mashed potatoes, drank way too much champagne, and cried a river's worth of tears. I felt like Sybil, with all these different moods and emotions that would change what seemed like every few seconds. One minute I thought I had a grip on things, and the next minute, I would burst into tears and have a “Damn, damn, damn!” moment like Florida Evans.

Meanwhile, the phone was ringing off the hook with folks calling to check on me and treating me all fragile and shit, the way you would a mental patient on suicide watch.

Mama was so worried about my frame of mind that she suggested I come spend some time with her and Daddy, which is something that really
would
send me over the edge.

As much as I love my parents, eighteen years under their roof was long enough. And I really didn't care to relive the childhood trauma of hearing the two of them making love in the middle of the night.

Anyway, after about the hundredth call, I just stopped answering the phone and let the answering machine pick up.

“Tori, this is your Aunt Vera. I'm just calling to check on you, and make sure you haven't done anything stupid. I love you…give me a call.”

“Hey, sis, this is Junior. Don't even worry about that Roland stuff, best believe he's gonna get handled! Anyway, I'm a little short on my child support payment this month, think you can let me borrow like, two-hundred dollars? Peace.”

“Tori, this is Yvette. Pick up the damn phone!”

“Hey cuz, this is Cookie…I know you're goin' through it, but you can at least call me back, shit. Bye!”

I knew they meant well, but I just could not stand to hear any more of that clichéd bullshit that people like to toss around when trying to comfort someone through a devastating crisis. Things such as doors closing, windows opening, and loving something enough to let it go and seeing if it will come back and if it doesn't then take heart because that which does not kill you makes you stronger.

It felt good to completely shut down, and shut the world out, with no cell phone, e-mail, or text messages.

By late Tuesday evening, I was over it, honey. I had one of those lightbulb moments, and suddenly realized that going completely crazy is a luxury that I simply cannot afford. Especially since I now have a three-thousand-dollar-a-month mortgage to pay by myself.

Plus, Mama called at six o'clock this morning and gave me added incentive and encouragement. “This is the day that the Lord has made, rejoice and be glad in it!” she said with the enthusiasm of a cheerleader. “Your Daddy and I raised you to be a
victor
, Tori. Not a victim.”

So, using Jennifer Aniston as my role model, I literally drug myself out of bed and put my game face on.

I am far from being over Roland and this whole sordid situation, but I don't see why the rest of the world has to know that. Celine Dion is right. The heart does go on, and so will I—eventually.

In the meantime, my first day back to work was a classic display of faking it till you make it. I shamelessly took all those accolades and pats on the back as if I truly deserved them.

They say a certain percentage of success is just showing up, and I found that to be true today. I showed up. And for that, I am pretty sure I gained some respect back.

“Way to show some of these weak-kneed cowards around here how to take a lickin', and not even miss a step!” Sophie said, still cheering me on.

“You can't keep a good woman down!” I said with a wink.

“Right on, sister!” she said, giving me a fist bump. “So seeing as how you were supposed to be out of the office for a month, and there's nothing concrete on your schedule for today, how about representing the SWE vendor booth at the Bridal Expo this afternoon?”

Ugh. Maybe I should have kept my ass at home.

I planned weddings when I first started out, but I am glad to say that I don't do them anymore. Mainly because you have to deal with the unreasonable demands of bridezillas who think they know what they want but really don't, and everything is your fault and you have to do a tremendous amount of hand-holding and micromanaging and the migraines that come along with the territory are just not worth it. Besides, after what I had just been through, I was in no mood to deal with anything even slightly associated with weddings.

“What about Margo?” I asked, trying not to sound as un-enthusiastic as I felt. “Weddings are her area of expertise.”

“True, but Margo went into labor last night and is now officially on maternity leave,” Sophie said, peering at me closely. “Now, if it's something you can't handle—”

“What's not to handle?” I asked, with a laugh.

I knew that Sophie was testing me to ensure that I really was as over my personal tragedy as I claimed to be. I wasn't, of course, but handing out brochures and answering questions about the specialties we had to offer was not a big deal. Besides, I wasn't going to have to actually work with any of these people later on down the line, so I could put up with the hoopla for a few hours.

 

“Looks like it's gonna be a long day,” I told Erin, my assistant, the second we stepped into the Overland Park Convention Center.

“Tell me about it,” she replied, looking overwhelmed by the humongous state-of-the-art facility, which really should have its own zip code.

It wasn't even noon yet, and the place was jam-packed with thousands of women running around with goodie bags full of free promotional merchandise, and excitement shining in their beady little eyes.

Erin is fresh from the cornfields of Nebraska, and has only been with SWE for a few months. The girl has no special talent or area of expertise, except for making blankets made entirely out of the hair her cat has shed.

Even so, Erin's rise from intern to assistant had been meteoric, and unprecedented. It's not fair, and it sucks for those who actually deserve to be promoted, but what can you do? She is Sophie's niece, and nepotism will always be alive and well.

Erin and I schlepped our way through the crowd until we found a booth with signage that read:
SOPHIE WILKERSON EVENTS—WE MAKE DREAMS COME TRUE!

The two of us got to work decorating the booth with white silk fabric, a fresh assorted floral arrangement, and pink and silver balloons. Next, company brochures were set out, along with refrigerator magnets, key chains, coffee mugs, and pink T-shirts that said “Bride” across the front of them. Two seconds after setting up, Erin and I were descended upon by two expensive-looking women who looked like “before” and “after” versions of the same person. Clearly, they were related.

“Oh look, Sophie Wilkerson Events!” exclaimed the older, “before” version. “I forget your name,” she said, pointing at me. “But you did my son's bar mitzvah four years ago—Do you remember me?”

Not off the top of my head, I didn't.

I kept a friendly smile on my face while I took in her physical characteristics: guppy-like, collagen-injected lips, heirloom diamonds on every finger, definitely old money.

It took mere seconds for the name to pop up in my mental Rolodex.

“Of course I remember you, Mrs. Swartz!” I said. “How is Bradley, by the way?”

“Well, I don't like to talk about it,” Mrs. Swartz said, lowering her voice. “But Bradley's in juvenile detention right now. It's all a big misunderstanding.”

The “after” version of Mrs. Swartz rolled her eyes and said, “Yeah, it's a big misunderstanding, alright. He didn't
mean
to nearly beat that homeless guy to death with a baseball bat.”

Mrs. Swartz shot a withering look to the “after” version of herself, then said tightly, “This is my daughter, Cynthia. She's the bride-to-be.”