Wedding Girl (2 page)

There's no point to being a pastry chef if you can't get your own wedding sweets perfect.

“It's, just,
everything
,” I whisper.

Candace puts an arm around my waist and squeezes. At least I think she's squeezing; who can feel anything through this
corset? “It's one of my most favorite weddings we've ever had here. You should be a wedding planner.”

“Not me. I only want to plan one wedding in my life, and this one is it. The rest of the brides are on their own.”

“Well, maybe for a daughter someday?”

“Maybe.” I say this, but I don't really mean it. The restaurant business, even under the best of circumstances, is a hard row to hoe for parents. Kids don't care that the James Beard Award people are in the house and lingering over their luncheon coffee when you are supposed to be watching your special snowflake play a carrot in the school show. And
Saveur
magazine doesn't care that your kids were up at two a.m. projectile pooping in your bed the night before your big photo shoot. But the health department cares very much if you have been exposed to chicken pox or strep throat or lice, and wants you not to come within a hundred yards of your own premises. None of this bodes well for being either a fantastic restaurateur or a perfect mommy, so I'm reasonably certain parenting isn't in the cards. Dexter seems fine with the idea that there won't be a Dexter V; after all, he says, he's got two older sisters popping out heirs, and a younger brother to carry on the family name, so he's off the hook in the breeding department.

I have to admit, seeing Anneke all preggers out to there, and the way Liam watches her and smiles and gently touches her belly when he walks by her, does give the old ovaries a twinge. Hopefully, if the new place gets up and running well, and we have some success, maybe in a couple of years we can revisit, see if maybe just one child might be a possibility. I would really love to see Bubbles become a great-grandbubbles, and unlike Dex, I have no siblings to rely on for that.

“Well, if everything looks good to you, I'd say we could open the doors and get ready to welcome your guests,” Candace says.

“Can I check in on the kitchen?” I ask.

She looks me up and down. “Yes, but hold on a second.” She disappears down the hallway and returns with a large men's trench coat. “Lost-and-found treasure,” she says as I eye the garment. “Put this on; I'm not sending you into that kitchen with this dress exposed. And promise you'll stand in the doorway. I'll bring everyone to you.” I laugh and slide the coat over myself, grateful that it buttons, albeit tightly, over my hips.

We walk over to a swinging door, and she holds it open while I stand just inside. “Bride in the house!” she calls out, and immediately three people come walking over.

“Hello, Chef, congrats to you,” says my friend Erick, who has taken a night off from both of his restaurants to man the kitchen.

“You congratulate the groom, silly, and wish the bride luck.” I accept his kiss on my cheek.

“You don't need luck; you're a rock star,” says Gino, who is serving as Erick's sous chef today and running the line.

“We're gonna ruin these people,” says Megan, who is doing all the appetizers and covering the midnight buffet.

The menu is spectacular. Passed hors d'oeuvres include caramelized shallot tartlets topped with Gorgonzola, cubes of crispy pork belly skewered with fresh fig, espresso cups of chilled corn soup topped with spicy popcorn, mini arepas filled with rare skirt steak and chimichurri and pickled onions, and prawn dumplings with a mango serrano salsa. There is a raw bar set up with three kinds of oysters, and a raclette station where we have a whole wheel of the nutty cheese being melted to order, with baby potatoes, chunks of garlic sausage, spears of fresh fennel, lightly pickled Brussels sprouts, and hunks of sourdough bread to pour it over. When we head up for dinner, we will start with a classic Dover sole amandine with a featherlight spinach flan, followed by a choice of seared veal chops or duck breast, both served with creamy polenta, roasted mushrooms, and
lacinato kale. Next is a light salad of butter lettuce with a sharp lemon Dijon vinaigrette, then a cheese course with each table receiving a platter of five cheeses with dried fruits and nuts and three kinds of bread, followed by the panna cottas. Then the cake, and coffee and sweets. And at midnight, chorizo tamales served with scrambled eggs, waffle sticks with chicken fingers and spicy maple butter, candied bacon strips, sausage biscuit sandwiches, and vanilla Greek yogurt parfaits with granola and berries on the “breakfast” buffet, plus cheeseburger sliders, mini Chicago hot dogs, little Chinese take-out containers of pork fried rice and spicy sesame noodles, a macaroni-and-cheese bar, and little stuffed pizzas on the “snack food” buffet. There will also be tiny four-ounce milk bottles filled with either vanilla malted milk shakes, root beer floats made with hard root beer, Bloody Marys, or mimosas. As Megan said, we plan on ruining these people. The initial sticker shock on just the food bill almost made me pass out, and I thought long and hard about nixing the whole midnight-buffet idea. But I figure, if Dex and I are about to open a restaurant, especially a restaurant we hope will be hosting special events, these are the people we are going to need in our corner to help us promote it, so it's important to let them see how we bring an event together. Plus, if I'm to be honest, having been to a zillion boring, disappointing weddings, I think there is something to be said for being the person who pulls off the amazing one that people remember.

I look at these dear friends who are practically working for free to make our day perfect, and grin at them.

“We expected nothing less, and we cannot thank you all enough for all of this. You know that I owe every one of you wedding or birthday cakes when the time comes!”

“We're going to hold you to that. Have the day you deserve, and don't worry, we got this!” Erick says, winking at me. “Let's go, everyone; we've got mouths in ninety minutes.”

Candace shuttles me out of the kitchen, relieves me of my borrowed trench coat, and hustles me back to the elevator. “We're opening the doors, and I know you said you weren't doing the whole surprise thing, but I just want to check that you are still planning on mixing and mingling pre-ceremony?”

“We're not superstitious, and the more people we have face time with before the ceremony and during the cocktail hour, the more we will be able to just sit and enjoy our dinner.” We have a cozy table for two up in the ballroom, close to the dance floor, but still just a little quiet space for ourselves.

“Okay, then I would do one last lip gloss and hair spray check, and send your family down, and then join them in about ten minutes.”

“Will do.”

I head back upstairs to my lounge. The door is slightly ajar, and I can hear my parents talking.

“It isn't that I don't like him; I just don't like him for her. He seems just a little too slick for my taste,” my dad says.

My mother pipes up. “I know, I agree, but what can we do? She loves him. We have to support her fully in that.”

“Does she?” my dad says. “Or does she love what he represents? Does she love the idea of him? Does she love that he isn't me?”

“Pish, Robert, it isn't about you,” my mom says. “She wants everything that isn't us, that isn't what we chose, and we can't choose for her. All we can do is help her have her perfect day the way she wants it, and hope for the best.”

“What the two of you can do is stop worrying and let the smart, beautiful, capable girl you raised make her own life the way she wants it. She's not some child; she's thirty-four years old. And who she is and what she chooses and what she may or may not think of you and your choices is officially none of your business.” Go Bubbles.

I move a few steps back from the door and stomp loudly, calling out, “You guys ready to get your party on in there?” and fly into the room in a swirl of silk, with a big smile. Nothing can ruin today, not even my parents' concerns. It isn't like I don't know what they think of me, of the life I've pursued. With his brain, his mouth, and his Ivy League degrees, Dad could have been a powerful litigator and partner at a big firm but chose the life of a public defender with pro bono exoneration work instead. My mother, equally smart and accomplished and accredited, could have been the ultimate therapist to the rich and famous, but she chose a position in which she's effectively a social worker, as a psychologist attached to local public hospitals, schools in terrible neighborhoods, group homes, and juvenile detention centers. She does a lot of work with my dad's clients when they get court-ordered therapy. When I went to culinary school after college, they were thrilled. Right up until I decided on a life of cooking in high-end fine-dining restaurants, and not running a soup kitchen staffed by reformed convicts, or teaching cooking classes to welfare moms. They don't even like me cooking for the 1 percent; marrying one of them was never going to go over terribly well.

“We're ready if you are!” Lucky for me, my mom is adept at putting a good face on it, and for today, that is enough.

“I'm ready. Dad, if you will please escort these lovely ladies downstairs, I will be down in two shakes to join you. Bubbles, there is a cozy corner in the library if you need to sit.”

“I'm not infirm, child. I'll be perfectly fine with the rest of them, thank you very much.” Bubbles claims eighty-two, though I suspect that may be slightly underestimating things. But she is reasonably fit, if occasionally forgetful, so I leave it to her to decide when she needs to sit.

My dad looks me deep in my eyes and leans over to kiss the tip of my nose like he used to when I was little. “See you down there, Sunshi . . . um, Sophie.”

I walk over to the mirror and check myself one last time. Everything is in place. And my future is waiting. I turn and head out of the room, closing the door behind me. When I get off the elevator, well-wishers immediately surround me. Holding the wedding on a Monday helped keep the costs down a bit, but more important, it meant that our friends from work were all able to come, since we are closed Monday nights. And a lot of our friends from other restaurants are here as well. All the local restaurant critics and food bloggers we've befriended over the years are here. The hum of people is warm and welcoming, and as I move through the crowd, I accept the compliments and congratulations graciously.

Dexter should be around here somewhere, but I don't see his brother yet, so maybe they are still on their way. Dexter's parents are on an exclusive safari in South Africa, which apparently was booked over a year ago and which we didn't know about until I had already plunked down the substantial nonrefundable deposit on the space. I thought perhaps they would offer to cover the costs of changing the date, but instead they said they would throw us an East Coast reception at the family home in Connecticut this summer. His sisters just couldn't make the trip what with all the kids and the Monday date, so it is just his little brother, Dave, who is here to represent the family. Except “here” is not exactly correct. Dexter said he was picking him up at the airport yesterday morning, and that the two of them were doing bachelor stuff, and then golfing today, but it is nearly five o'clock, so they must be close. I left my phone off and upstairs in the safe in the lounge—this is not the time for text messages from vendors about produce orders, or Facebook updates about dog videos. I'll take one more pass around, and if I don't see Dexter, I'll just zip upstairs and check my phone in case they are stuck in traffic.

“This is amazing, and you are spec-freaking-tacular.” I turn
to see the beaming face of my best friend, Ruth. Ruth and I grew up on the same block and have been friends since we were five. Just seeing her grinning face immediately makes me forget my momentary worry. I hug her.

“Thank you.”

“I can't believe the whole thing. Are you ready?”

“Ready as anything. Where is Jean?” Jean was Ruth's first girlfriend in college, part of Ruth's transition from “bi-curious” to “full-time power lesbian,” and while the romance fizzled quickly, the friendship was forever. Jean quickly became one of my dearest friends as well, and the pair of them keep me sane. Ruth is an investment banker, all badass in her fabulous Armani suits, and Jean is a freelance costume designer for theater, all kinds of funky and artsy and creative. Between the two of them, I get the best possible advice on everything under the sun.

“You know Jean; she had a meeting this afternoon that she swore would be done by three, but those theater people take two hours to just say good-bye. She texted me that she is en route.”

I hear the doors open and peek over Ruth's head to see who is coming in, and it is Jean, but her face is ashen. I wave and she makes a beeline over to me. I notice that the hum in the room has softened a bit, and it seems that suddenly a lot of people are reaching for their cell phones, and the loud chatter is now a lot of whispering.

“Hey, honey,” Jean says, grabbing me in a deep and powerful hug.

“Don't wrinkle the bride!” Ruth tries to pry Jean away, but Jean won't let go.

“Jean. Have corset. Can't breathe.” I lean back and Jean finally breaks her embrace.

“Baby girl, we are here for you and with you, and this is all going to be okay.”

My stomach drops.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Jean?” Ruth is snippy.

“I heard it on the radio on my way over. Dexter . . .”

Oh no. This cannot be happening. There's been a horrible accident. He cannot be gone. I make a little yelping noise as my eyes fill with tears. “Is he . . . ?”

Jean shakes her head, her eyes reflexively filling with sympathy tears. “He's not coming, dearheart. He's in St. Barths.”

My heart drops back into my chest. My tears dry up. “I'm sorry, what?”