Whose Wedding Is It Anyway? (8 page)

Emmett loved that stupid joke—or at least he had when he was a kid. For weeks when he was seven or eight, he insisted I tell it every night before he went to bed.

I had no idea if it would work or backfire. It worked. Emmett smiled.

“A ham sandwich walks into a bar,” he countered. “He asks the bartender for a beer. The bartender says, ‘Sorry, we don’t serve food.’ Ba-dum-pa!”

“That’s what you two find funny?” Devlin asked, clicking away.

“Where’d you find this bozo?” Emmett whispered. “What a loser.”

“I’d agree but I’d get fired,” I whispered back.

Emmett and I spent the next five minutes topping each other with jokes. Devlin shot four rolls before Emmett even knew it.

On Saturday, my grandmother hosted a get-to-know-each-other brunch for the two families. Noah’s parents and sister came bearing a pound of chopped liver and a box of butter cookies with multicolored sprinkles. Emmett arrived with the pigtailed girlfriend I’d met briefly in my doorway last year.

Interesting. Emmett had never brought a woman
“home” to meet the family. In fact, I’d never met one of Emmett’s girlfriends, and now I was seeing this one for the second time—at a family brunch, no less—a year later. Were they serious? Just friends? Had Emmett given up the wealthy older women he used to brag about “dating” for a woman his own age? It was amazing how little I knew of Emmett’s personal life.

“Charlotte?” my grandmother repeated when Emmett introduced her.

“Charl
a,
” she enunciated. “Like Charlotte but with the
a.
Charla Gould.”

“Charla,” we all repeated, suspicious of her shoulder-length braided pigtails. She wore a sparkly lavender knit cap, a puffy white down jacket to her knees and white leather knee-high boots with low platform heels. When she took off her coat, we were all surprised by how slight she was. She had on the tiniest miniskirt, red and black and white plaid, and three layers of tiny ribbed long-sleeved shirts. She was very pretty, but she hid it.

“Hmm, is that ruggelah?” she asked, eyeing the dining-room table.

That was all it took for my grandmother to fall for her. Charla and Emmett were the same. Able to charm anyone with just the right question.

Charla ogled the spread on the table. “I love ruggelah! It’s good for the soul.”

We sat, we filled our plates, we said yes or no to coffee or tea.

“Isn’t this nice,” my grandmother commented after a couple of rounds about the weather and the traffic on the George Washington Bridge, which, according to Mrs. Benjamin, had been horrendous.

“So, Emmett,” Mrs. Benjamin said, heaping chopped liver on a lettuce leaf. “What is it that you do?”

“I think,” was Emmett’s reply.

Mrs. Benjamin paused. “You think? I don’t understand.”

“He means a think tank, like they have in Washington,” Noah’s father said. “Is it true you guys make a fortune for just sitting around talking?”

Emmett raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t know. I just think for myself, not the entire country.”

“How is it that you support yourself, dear?” Mrs. Benjamin asked.

“I rob banks,” he said.

“That’s a bit risky, isn’t it?” Noah’s mother asked.

We all stared at her. Was she kidding?

“Mother, he just said he’s a bank robber!” Beth snapped. “A more appropriate answer would have been to pick up the phone and call the police.”

“I was kidding,” Emmett said, eyeing both mother and daughter Benjamin as though they were insane. “I’m in between jobs at the moment. But I’m working on a novel.”

“It’s brilliant,” Charla said. “Just brilliant.”

“What’s it about?” Mrs. Benjamin asked.

“Existentialism,” Emmett said.

“Isn’t that nice,” Mrs. Benjamin replied.

“Mother, you don’t even know what existentialism is,” Beth muttered.

Noah squeezed my hand under the table.

“Well, it sounds interesting,” Mrs. Benjamin said. “I understand you just moved back to New York from—where were you living, dear?”

“Here and there,” Emmett said. “I’m going to base myself in New York for a while since Charla just started school here, at NYU.”

My grandmother smiled.

Charla put her hand atop Emmett’s, but he pulled his hand away. “So, Eloise,” she said. “Where are you in the wedding plans?”

I had a mouth full of potato salad. “Tomorrow I’m going gown shopping.”

My grandmother beamed. “And I’m going along. I can’t get around easily, but I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

When you see the gown Astrid has in store for me, I’m sure you’ll wish you had missed it.
I had no doubt my gown would be made of parachute material or have wings or even an engine.

“Crazy as this sounds, I always liked the idea of getting married at City Hall,” Charla said. “Just me, my love and the legal stuff.”

Emmett was staring at his plate, which he’d barely touched.

“You two serious?” Noah’s mother asked, wagging a finger between Emmett and Charla.

Noah shook his head. “Mom…” He smiled at Emmett and Charla. “You have to understand, she’s an amateur matchmaker in her neighborhood. Marriage is all she thinks about.”

“Me too,” Charla responded quietly.

Aha, so Charla was serious but Emmett was his usual self. Even so, the fact that he was still dating the same woman a year later was new for Emmett. I wondered how long he’d been dating her before I met her in my doorway last year.

Emmett was studying his potato pancakes. “Uh, is there any sour cream?”

The women at the table, except myself and Beth Benjamin, flew over themselves to get the dish of sour cream to Emmett.

“Well, I think weddings are all a huge waste of money and other people’s time,” Beth muttered, layering smoked salmon on a bagel. “What’s the divorce rate? Fifty percent?”

“Cynical!” Noah chided. “There’s the fifty percent that last till death do us part. That’ll be me and Eloise. Tottering around in our nineties, holding hands.” We were actually holding hands at that very moment, under the table. He brought our hands onto the table in a united front to emphasize his point. “And, Beth, don’t forget that your own parents have been married for thirty-four years.”

“Well, I guess you got me there,” she muttered.

Beth was a mutterer. I glanced at her. She was on the verge of tears.

Beth Benjamin had never endeared herself to anyone, but she was going through a divorce and it had to be pretty hard to have to sit through endless conversations about her brother’s la-di-da wedding that would be featured in a national magazine.

Note to self: Invite Beth somewhere—if she says nothing snarky in the next five minutes.

She blew it in under four. “And, I wouldn’t get too excited about going wedding-gown shopping with Eloise,” Beth told my grandmother. “Have you seen the bridesmaids dresses we’re wearing? They’re Halloween costumes.”

“They’re
couture,
” I defended.

“I think they’re great,” Noah said. “Very high fashion.”

Score one for my fiancé. He hadn’t even seen the dress.

“Well, weddings aren’t about high fashion,” Beth retorted. “They’re about love.”

“We’ve got plenty of that,” Noah said, still holding my hand.

That night, Noah and I lay in bed, watching the
Late Show with David Letterman.
The Hilton sisters were guests.

“You really don’t mind that you might be wearing a space suit on your wedding day?” I asked.

He shook his head. “As long as I lift up the veil and your face is underneath it, I don’t care about anything else.”

“I’m very lucky,” I whispered.

“No,
I’m
lucky.”

I laughed. He had no idea how much I needed that.

O
nce again, half the staff of
Wow Weddings
was squeezed into tiny It’s Your Day bridal salon. Front and center were two mannequins covered by drop cloths. Astrid, wearing a wool suit so blindingly white it was difficult to look at her, stood between them, snapping her fingers to bring everyone to attention.

My grandmother squeezed my hand. “I’m so excited to see your wedding gown!”

Are you there, God? It’s me, Eloise. Please let it be remotely normal.

Astrid cleared her throat. “I have chosen two gowns that I feel most reflect the tastes of today’s Classic and Today’s Modern Brides. I will now unveil the Classic Bride’s gown—”

“Um, Astrid?” Philippa interrupted. “I don’t see any other racks with our names on them.”

“And?” Astrid said.

“Well, what if we prefer another wedding gown? Philippa asked. “Don’t we get to choose another one? Like we did with the bridesmaid dresses?”

Astrid shook her head. “No.”

“But—”

“Philippa, do you have any idea what a Princess-brand wedding gown costs? The gown I have selected with the esteemed help of Princess’s marketing director and advertising director has a price point of twenty-two thousand dollars. This gown—” she swept her arms at the mannequin on her left “—is the gown that Princess wants to push as this season’s must-have. Therefore, it is the gown you will choose.”

Add air quotes!

Philippa looked at me. She took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “Oh,
are
you? Let us begin then. I will now unveil Princess’s silk and satin hand-beaded wedding gown, the Crown Jewel.”

Under the drop cloth was my Audrey Hepburn dress.

“Oh, Eloise, isn’t this gown just lovely!” my grandmother whispered. “With all Philippa’s worry, I was expecting something awful!”

Philippa stared at the mannequin. “Um, Astrid?”

“What is it, Philippa?” Astrid asked, monotone.

“It’s really pretty,” Philippa said. “But it’s not my dream dress.”

“Philippa, this feature isn’t about your dream. It’s about advertising revenue and circulation.”

“But—”

Astrid ignored her. “Where is the Classic Bride’s mother or maid of honor?” she called out as she glanced around. “We’ll begin shooting oohs and aahs in exactly three minutes.”

No one stepped forward.

“Philippa, I don’t see your mother or your maid of honor,” Astrid said.

“My maid of honor is right there,” Philippa replied, pointing at…

Me.

Huh?

She ran over to me and pulled me aside. “Eloise, I would be so honored if you’d be my maid of honor! After all, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even be getting married!”

But—
We’re not even really friends. And what about your gazillions of size-four girlfriends?

“Classic Bride and the Classic Bride’s maid of honor, please move to makeup for a quick touching up,” Astrid instructed.

News flash for Astrid, supposed efficiency expert: It would take less breath to use our
names.

Devlin’s assistant slid a headband so tightly onto my scalp that my head hurt. She poofed my hair up around it, then handed me a Pepto-Bismol-pink cardigan to put on. Philippa was given a dusting of blush, her blond hair was pulled back in a baby blue headband, and she was tossed a baby blue cashmere tank top to change into.

A moment later, we were positioned around the mannequin wearing
my
gown.

“Philippa,” Devlin snapped. “Smile like you mean it.”

“But I don’t mean it,” she whispered to me. “I don’t want to wear this boring gown.”

“Just pretend for the shoot,” I told her. “Remember, it’s not about the dress, it’s about Parker. And you love him, right?”

She nodded. “I love him like crazy.”

“So pretend the gown is Parker.”

She beamed, Devlin snapped.

Astrid clapped her hands. “Okay, we will now unveil the Modern Bride’s gown. At a price point of twenty-six thousand dollars—”

Whoa.

“I present Rendezvous Squared’s must-have gown for the season,” Astrid continued before unveiling the mannequin.

No.

No.

Please let this be a dream.

“Are those feathers?” my grandmother whispered.

I was going to be Big Bird at my wedding. And unlike in my dream, I didn’t want to be.

Philippa gasped. “But that’s
my
gown!”

You can have it. Please.

“Philippa,” Astrid droned. “We discussed this last week. As evidenced by
Wow
’s choice, this fashion-forward, twenty-six-thousand-dollar gown from Rendezvous Squared is the manifestation of modern.”

No, it’s what Big Bird’s bride would wear for their
Sesame Street
nuptials.

“According to the major fashion houses, yellow is the new black,” Mini-Astrid said.

“But no one wears a black wedding gown,” I pointed out. “So if yellow is the new black, it can’t be the new white also! And
that’s
the color we should be going for, don’t you think? The new white!”

“There is no new white, Eloise,” Astrid said. “White will always be white.”

So much for my using fashion doublespeak against the queen of fashion doublespeak. “I see. Thank you for the clarification.”

While Philippa and I went off to a corner to hyperventilate, my grandmother was sent into the beauty and fashion editors’ clutches. Five minutes later, Grams emerged wearing an “aunt of the bride” fuchsia leather jacket with a rhinestone-studded lapel and matching long skirt. She looked surprisingly good in hot pink.

“Let’s shoot a roll with Eloise wearing her veil,” Astrid instructed Devlin. She snapped her fingers and Mini-Astrid pushed over another mannequin whose head was covered by a drop cloth.

Astrid unveiled the naked mannequin. My veil was leather. A very thin, pale yellow leather, perforated with tiny holes that spelled out
peace
in lowercase letters.

I was all for peace.
But this is war,
I shouted mentally at Astrid, who was beaming at the Big Bird dress.

I was summoned to the beauty editor for hair flattening. The fashion editor attached the veil.

“Dynamite,” Astrid said, nodding at the veil. Her minions nodded too.

“Is that leather, dear?” my grandmother asked.

I nodded.

“What does that say across the top?” she asked, squinting at the tiny holes.

It says SUCKER.

“Peace,” I told her.

She chuckled. “What a funny thing to advertise for a wedding.”

“Trendy magazines and their ways,” I said with a shrug. If my almost eighty-year-old grandmother could have a sense of humor, so could I. Right?

Devlin ordered me and Grams into position around the Big Bird gown. “All right, Modern Bride and Modern Grandmother—smile!”

“You’re so lucky, Eloise,” Philippa breathed, gazing with dreamy eyes at the Modern Bride gown.

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Help

I am in desperate need of a Flirt Night Round Table. Just wait till you see my wedding gown. Ack!

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Re: FNRT

How about tomorrow afternoon after our bridesmaid dress fitting? P.S. Your wedding gown can’t be worse than the dress you’re wearing at my wedding. Can it?

The moment I arrived at A Fancy Affair bridal salon in Forest Hills, Queens, on Saturday morning, I was greeted by Jane’s aunt Ina’s signature scent, Norell, a kiss on the cheek, a quick comment about the weather and an even quicker question about how my own wedding plans were going. I was then laden with dress bag and shoes and instructed to change in dressing-room two and to step onto platform three in fitting-area one.

A seamstress with a tape measure around her neck and a box of pins in her hand was waiting for me when I walked out of the dressing room. I expected her to laugh at the dress, but she didn’t. She patted the third platform (there were five set up in a row in front of a wall of mirrors), kneeled down, opened her pin box and set to work.

“Are you Miss America?”

The seamstress speaks!
During the past ten minutes, she hadn’t said a word other than “Turn to the left. No, the other left.”

I glanced down at the seamstress. She had two sharp pins in her mouth. Could you talk around pins?

“
Are
you Miss America?”

Ah. A mini-ventriloquist emerged. Behind the seamstress hid a little girl, absolutely adorable and six or seven years old, shyly peeking up at me. She was decked out in a flower girl’s ensemble, frilly yellow dress, shiny Mary Janes and daisy halo.

“Just for today and again when it’s ready for fitting number two and then again on the Fourth of July,” I told her with a wink.

Her mouth dropped open, and she ran out of the fitting room yelling, “Mommy, Mommy, Miss America’s in there!”

“What would Miss America be doing in Queens?” a woman’s voice asked in the next fitting room.

“She makes lots of personal appearances,” another voice said.

Yes, fellow Americans, it is true. My beauty, my bright-white smile, my president’s wife’s wave, my dream for us all—insert dramatic heartfelt glance at the audience—to just get along, have won me the crown! Yet here I am, in my best friend Jane’s hometown of Forest Hills, Queens, a schlep on the subway from my Manhattan neighborhood—

A few heads poked in and eyed me up and down. Miss America must not get a lot a lot of privacy. “Sweetie,” said one of them, “that’s not Miss America. That’s just a bridesmaid.”

I beg your pardon. I was a
maid of honor.
My dress had a row of extra stars along the neckline to prove it.

“But why is she wearing a red, white and blue dress with stars all over it if she’s not Miss America?” the girl asked.

It was a very good question.

They all stared at me.

“July Fourth wedding,” I explained.

“How patriotic,” said one of the head pokers.

I had a better word to describe the dress, but as Jane, her aunt Ina and her cousin Dana had just walked in, I decided to keep my adjectives to myself.

“Eloise! Don’t you look lovely!” Jane’s aunt, Ina Dreer, said. She beamed at my reflection in the mirror, her hand over her heart. “Oh, my! Girls, doesn’t she look beautiful? What did I tell you? Was I right or what?”

Or what,
Jane mouthed at me.

“Where are Amanda and Natasha?” Ina asked, glancing at her watch. “They’re seven minutes late.”

“Aunt Ina, they’re coming from Manhattan,” Jane pointed out. “Give them a break.”

“Well
I
came from Chappaqua,” Dana said, brushing snow off her Ugg boots. “And I managed to get here on time. And Eloise came from Manhattan, and she got here
early.
”

“Amanda and Natasha and I came together,” I said. “They stopped in the Starbucks on the corner. They had cravings for peppermint mochas.”

As Ina and Dana stared at their watches and muttered that we
all
wanted a cup of coffee and the nerve of some people, Jane hopped up on the platform next to mine.

“So am I right?” Jane asked. “Or could your gown really be worse than this?”

I smiled at her in the mirror. “Now that I’m wearing it, I’m actually not sure. I’ve definitely never felt so American.”

She laughed. “Is your gown really that bad?”

“Not if you like yellow sequins and feathers—lots of them.”

She smiled and slung an arm around me. “Well, it can’t be worse than the polka-dot bows on Amanda’s bridesmaid dresses.”

Actually, it was a million times worse.

“Sorry we’re late!” Amanda and Natasha chimed in unison as they rushed in, a light dusting of snow on their hair. Amanda was gulping a venti Starbucks coffee and shaking snow off her long blond ponytail, and Natasha was rocking Summer’s stroller back and forth. “Caffeine run.”

Ina waved her hands dismissively and ran over to the baby stroller. “Let me see that sweet baby! Oh, she’s sleeping. She’s so beautiful!”

As everyone ran to the stroller to get a peek at Summer, I tried to step down from my platform, but the seamstress grabbed my ankle. “Do not move, please!” she barked.

Yes, ma’am!

“Summer, Auntie Eloise says hello,” I whispered.

“Okay, let’s not dawdle in here,” Ina commanded, handing dress bags to Amanda and Natasha. “Hurry into a dressing room and change, and then come back in here immediately. Natasha, dear, you’ll have to wake up the baby so that we can try on her dress,” Ina added, pint-size dress bag over her arm.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You actually want to wake a sleeping two-year-old? Do you prize peace and quiet?”

Ina sighed. “I suppose we can wait until the very end. Okay, girls, shoo! Change!” She rushed out, shouting, “Seamstresses, we’re ready for three more in fitting area one. Jane, here’s your gown. Go try it on.”

Bossy!
Jane mouthed when Ina was busy eagle-eyeing the seamstress’s work on my hem.

Amanda, Natasha and Dana came out of the dressing
rooms in their patriotic chic and stepped up on wooden platforms.

The three of them were so pretty, they’d make the Big Bird gown look good. Natasha was a dead ringer for Nicole Kidman, even mistaken for her sometimes. Amanda was tiny, with long blond hair and huge blue eyes that she now hid behind severe eyeglasses to be taken more seriously at the law firm where she worked as a paralegal. And Jane’s cousin Dana, also tiny and also blond, was very attractive, which you realized only when she wasn’t talking.

“Omigod!” Dana squealed as she stepped up on her platform. “I
love
this dress!” She turned to the left and to the right, admiring her petite figure and playing with her wispy blond bangs.