Liar's Guide to True Love (27 page)

“The romantic epiphany,” my mother declares. She has already started clearing the dishes. She just can’t help herself and has to stay in motion.

“I guess you could say that.” I stack a few dishes and bring them over to the sink.

“It was just all of a sudden, I just knew we would never really get along. He just doesn’t understand me, you know? In college I used to like the way he would take care of things.”

“The big man on campus,” my mother says.

“Exactly,” I tell her, even though I never quite understood that expression. It seems so quaint. “But now all of a sudden I found it—condescending.”

“You guys seemed to have so much chemistry, though. You just seemed to
fit
together,” Emma says. She is resting her elbows on the table, sipping her coffee and taking another bite of toast. I have a sudden flashback when we were kids and I’d always be stuck with clearing up because she was such a slow eater.

“I think the chemistry was just familiarity. When I first saw him again after all this time, I thought I liked that. He felt safe. But just too safe, you know what I mean? For Pete’s sake, we’ve known each other since we were nineteen.”

“Robert and I have known each other since we were nineteen,” Emma says defensively. I forget sometimes that there are still people who marry their college sweetheart.

“That’s different,” I tell her, and I really mean it. “With Kevin it was always an odd mix of familiarity, but still never really understanding what I was to him. Even when we were going out, there was always a little part of me that didn’t feel like I could trust him completely.”

“He was so charming,” my mother says. “A gentleman.” Emma and I roll our eyes. One of the highest compliments from my mother was to be called “a lady” or “a gentleman.”

“Perhaps he was a bit too smooth, though,” she adds. Whether she recalls a particular incident or is just trying to be supportive of the conclusions I’ve drawn for myself, I can’t tell. “Still, sometimes romantic epiphanies are easier to have when you think there’s someone else waiting in the wings. But when this Nick fellow doesn’t pan out, well,” she shrugs, “who are you left with?”

“It’s not just about finding
someone,
anyone, to date.”

She gives a little shrug and puts her nose in the air ever so slightly. “I’m just saying, you shouldn’t be too picky,”
at your age
I silently add. “A mother just wants to see her girls happily settled down.” She smiles at Emma and then at me. “One down, one to go. And one of these days a baby!”

Emma’s smile is a bit too tight to be genuine, but our mother is too pleased with herself to notice, and she launches into a story about a friend of hers who is a brand new grandmother, and has taken a year off from teaching in order to take care of the baby. “How’s that going, anyway?” I say to Emma, happy to shift the conversation.

“Not pregnant yet,” Emma responds lightly and takes a big swig of coffee, as if to prove a point.

“Not what I mean,” I respond. “Have you and Robert talked about whether or not this is the right time for you?” She glares at me, obviously not wanting to discuss this in front of Mom. I admit, it might be a little mean to force the issue, but it is a bit wrong for our mother to be thinking she’s going to be a grandmother any day now, and I am just certain that Emma will be happier once she gets her feelings out in the open.

“Oh hush,” my mother interrupts, “what are you talking about ‘the right time’? You city girls want to put off everything. This is a great time for Emma to have a baby or two. Do you want her to wait until it’s too late, until her ovaries are all dried up?” Yes, she actually said
dried up.
“There was an article in
The Times
just the other day about fertility treatments and all the things these women have to go through because they waited too long for the perfect man, the perfect career, whatever they were waiting for, they waited
too long,
” she says again, for good emphasis. Emma gives me a look as if to say, “see?” and I do see that there is no point in debating this issue now. Oh no, not when my mother is clearly so impassioned and dead set on her point of view. I suddenly have more sympathy for Em, who has probably heard this tirade a myriad of times already, and it’s not so hard for me to see how she got on the baby track. “I hope you’re not feeling too stressed, Emma, that it hasn’t happened yet.” She has shifted to motherly concern again. “It sometimes takes a while you know. And poor Robert has to travel so much.”

Emma takes the opportunity to rescue “poor Robert” from our father, and joins them on the deck, since there’s a limit to how much a doctor and a pharma sales rep can converse without getting into the politics of their businesses. Dad always liked Robert from what I could tell. He always thought he was supportive and indulgent of Emma, in the best ways. He wasn’t too thrilled with Robert’s career choice, having long been critical of the aggressive marketing tactics of pharmaceutical companies, but then he couldn’t object too much to a profession that allowed his youngest daughter to live ten minutes from him.

Once Emma is out of ear shot, my mother says to me, “I’m so glad she got out to the city with you a few weeks ago. It’s really good for her to have a change of scenery I think. She seems so out of sorts lately, so it’s a nice distraction for her to have a little art project.” On the one hand I am pleasantly pleased at my mother’s rare admission that life in the suburbs is not all picket fences, clean air and roses. On the other hand, I doubt Emma would appreciate her design work being called an “art project” as if it were a paint by numbers set bought from Michael’s craft store. My lips twitch with annoyance at our mother’s deprecation, since it reminds me too much of how she has always commented on my own career. I bite my tongue though, knowing that in her own way, she has tried to be supportive of whatever life choices we’ve made. Critical, to say the least, but supportive.

Emma, Robert and Dad come inside the house. “I hope you aren’t giving our girl a hard time, Bridge,” my father booms, teasingly.

“Of course not,” my mother says defensively. “But if you can’t get honesty from your own mother, who can you get it from?” That’s what she always calls her strongly opinionated advice and criticism—honesty.

“Everything happens in its own time,” my father says, kissing me on the head, like he did when I was a kid.

My mother sniffs. “Easy for a man to say. Just don’t go blaming me if you find yourself single or childless at age fifty and wonder where all the years have gone. That happened to your aunt Marjory, you know—claimed her parents never told her it was important to find a husband, so she never did.”

Emma and I share a look again. Yes, we have heard about Aunt Marjory all of our adult lives, how she was so focused on her hobbies, on traveling, on being a free spirit of the ’70s. And suddenly all her friends were busy with their kids, their families, and now what does she have? A condo in Seattle and two cats. “Don’t worry, Mom,” I say. “These days it’s all the rage for us city girls to get a sperm donor and have babies on our own. Lots of babies—twins, triplets, a complete family all at once.” My father suppresses a laugh, and my mother takes the not-so-subtle-hint that we’d all prefer this topic to be closed. At least for today.

My mother switches over to a much safer topic, and a topic that is one of her favorites—comparing the successes of her friends’ kids.

I end up spending most of the day there, since there isn’t anything or anyone to rush back to Manhattan for. My dad and Robert watch ESPN while Emma and I keep chatting with my mom. It’s such a gender stereotype, right here in my parents’ house, but what can I say—there’s a reason why stereotypes exist.

Finally it gets time for my dad to drop me off at the train. Like almost every other time I come out here, I resolve to visit more often, especially when wedding season slows down. Dad gives me a hug and waits in the car for my train to leave, just to be sure that I’m sent off safely.

I have nothing to read on the train ride home, so I peruse my emails—slow day, no notes from frantic brides, or mothers. Then a text comes in—from Nick!

I want to call him back right this minute, but the train is too crowded with all the other people returning to the city from their suburban weekend jaunt.

He doesn’t reply, but that’s okay. I’m just glad that I got to hear from him at all.

The train ride can’t go fast enough, and instead of emptying out with each stop, more people get on, dashing any hope I had of being able to call him from the train. In my mind I try practicing what to say to him. That seemed to work last time—was it just last night that I waited for him at The Palace with my apology running through my head?

When I finally get out at Penn Station and make my way to the street level, I check to make sure I have a strong signal on my BlackBerry before I call him. He picks up on the second ring. I can barely believe it.

“Nick!” I say, “I just got back into the city. Can you talk?” I decide to start walking toward home, even though a little part of me hopes he’ll want to see me and I can duck into a cab to meet him somewhere.

“Yeah, I have a few minutes,” he says. But I can tell he is distracted. “I’m actually still at work, but taking a coffee break.”

“Venti drip,” I say. See, I care, I pay attention.

He chuckles. “I need all the caffeine I can get. I’m practically running on empty.”

“Can I bring you anything? An early dinner?”

“No, that’s okay. We’re going to order in a little later for the whole team. Looks like it will be a late night.”

“So I guess that means I can’t ingratiate myself to you in person.”

He chuckles again. “I guess not.” I hear him inhale, and I hold my breath. “You know, I really like you, Cass—”

“But. Here it comes, the ‘but.’ But before you say it, can I tell you again that I’m sorry, and that whole Kevin thing is really more of a misunderstanding and mis-timing. I really like you too,” I ramble. “Kevin and I had a complicated history. He was my college boyfriend, my first love, I’ll admit. I didn’t always think clearly when it came to him. But I swear I do now.” When given a moment, or rather, when I decide to interrupt and take my moment, I decide to pack in as much of my rehearsed lines as I can.

Nick sighs. “Cass, I really like you, and yeah, I was pissed, but I’m not some jealous high schooler. We all have romantic histories, I get that. I could also get over that.” My spirits rise. He sighs again. “I think, maybe our timing is just bad. I was assigned as the lead architect on this new project we got.”

“That’s good news isn’t it? New business, lead architect?”

“It is good news. It’s great news—” The tone he uses is foreboding, but I try to ignore it.

“So we should celebrate. Let me make this up to you.”

“I’d love to. I really would. I’m just really busy now. It’s just not a good time to start seeing someone. I’m going to be working early mornings, late nights, weekends.”

This is almost as bad,
almost
as bad as the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech. “I work late and plenty of weekends myself,” I choke out.

Nick is silent on the other end, and then lets out another sigh. He must sigh a lot when he’s tired, I think, and find it endearing. “I really wish our timing weren’t so bad.” I hear him muffle the phone and say something to someone else.

“You have to go,” I finish for him.

“Yeah, I do. I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Me too.”

I continue my walk home—nothing like taking a good, brisk walk to contemplate the sorry state of my love life. He sounded sincere, not like he was delivering a line just to get rid of me. He’s actually a person who loves his job, a rarity in this recession, and he’s actually doing well at it—even more rare. He clearly wants to do a good job, to give the dedication his work needs. And there’s something sexy about that kind of passion and drive. As sexy as that night we were at his place…I mentally kick myself. This line of thinking is getting me nowhere.

I text the girls, all three of them, with the same message:

Mia texts back:

Kate texts:

Suzanne actually calls me back. Thankfully she is no longer “Team Kevin” and has accepted my recent epiphany. After the standard greetings of sympathy, she turns into Supportive Suzanne. I was already determined not to give up on him, and talking to Suzanne has made me even more so. What would a guy do in my place, to win over a woman who was on the fence about starting a relationship? “A good old-fashioned courtship,” Suzanne declares. “You need to woo him.”

“Woo him?”

“Yeah. Like send him the guy equivalent of a bouquet of flowers.”

“And what would that be? A bouquet of panties?”

“Sure, if you want him to think you’re a stripper,” she says sarcastically. She pauses. “Brownies?”

“He does like cupcakes.” She might be on to something here. Not that I think Kevin has a place in this relationship with Nick, but he was always good at “the wooing” as Suzanne would put it. Small and grand gestures of thoughtfulness. I already know he likes me. He just needs a little convincing to
be
with me. “Does Magnolia deliver?”

“You can find someone to deliver
anything
on this island.”

Wedding Tip: There are two parts of wedding planning that Grooms get involved in: music and food. They generally don’t care much about everything else. So the advice I give my Brides is to understand what their Husband-to-Be wants in these areas, and to do their best to give it to him.

I set my alarm for the ungodly hour of 6:30 a.m.—I’m awake even before the pigeons it seems, and am surprised at how awake I am when it goes off. I smile to myself. I guess that is what romantic resolve will do for a person. I decide not to check my email first thing—anything in my inbox can wait until regular working hours.

I take my time in the shower and blowing my hair out—I will only have a few moments and I want to make sure I look my best in them. I choose a casually chic outfit—khaki pencil skirt and a fitted grey T-shirt that hugs all the right places—nothing trashy mind you, just
fitted.
I put on my Elsa Peretti Diamonds by the Yard necklace that was my first splurge when I had finally gotten a steady stream of clientele a few years ago. It’s classically elegant and adds just a touch of sparkle—just right for the office.

I decide to walk from my place since it’s early enough to beat the summer heat of the day, and too early for the true rat-race of crowded midtown sidewalks. I walk briskly and feel great, and decide that the natural glow in my cheeks from a morning walk will perfect this morning’s look. At a stop light I decide to check my BlackBerry. The only new message is from Nick, who wrote to me at 2:34 a.m.

I quicken my pace, and my steps feel even lighter than before. At 7:25 I am casually leaning against the entrance to his building, with an extra hot Venti drip. I see him from half a block away, carrying a messenger bag slung across his chest, his head tilted down. He’s already holding his cup of morning coffee, but that falls into my plan just as well. When he sees me, he grins—a genuine grin, even through his clear sleep deprivation.

I go up to him and stand close—too close for someone who is “just friends” and tilt my head up to his. “Good morning,” I say.

“Good morning,” he says back, and I can tell he wants to kiss me. It takes all my willpower not to just lean in three inches more and meet his lips. I bring the coffee to his lips instead, and smile.

“I brought you something. For later,” I add, nodding to the cup he has in his hand.

“So you don’t have to take a break in an hour to come back out. You can caffeinate and keep working.”

Nick smiles. “How thoughtful.”

I can tell he’s about to say more, but I interrupt, “Well you’d better get in there, it’s almost 7:30.” I step away and wave. “See ya.”

Nick chuckles and shakes his head, looking adorable standing there, double-fisting two giant-size coffees. “See ya.” I leave him standing there for a moment, and I know he is watching me walk away before he heads in.

Ten minutes later I get a text from Nick:

“It was perfect, really,” I tell Suzanne a bit later. “Then this afternoon, he’ll get a delivery of Magnolia cupcakes.” I pause. “You don’t think it’s too much do you?”

“Not after that email he sent you. Besides, no one ever thinks it’s ‘too much’ when a guy sends flowers to the office, and cupcakes are much more understated than some giant bouquet.”

“I knew there was a reason we were friends.”

“Anytime, bud.”

A few hours later, I get an email from Nick:

Perfect.

The next morning I am outside Nick’s office again, once more waiting with a Venti drip. “You’re spoiling me,” he says.

“Get used to it,” I say back, and give him a dry peck on the lips that leaves him wide-eyed. “Have a good day,” I toss over my shoulder cheerily as I walk back to my apartment.

Nick texts me right away:

I text back:

He writes back immediately:

I hit reply:

I could get used to this walk, I think to myself. There’s something nice about getting an early start to the day with a brisk thirty-minute walk. I’m not nearly so rushed returning emails that I didn’t get to from the day before. Maybe “wooing” Nick can be good for me in more ways than one.

One of the issues I’m dealing with today is with this coming Saturday’s Bride, who is getting married to her former boss in a New Jersey wedding that is right out of a TLC/We network show. Her cake is from the bakery in
Cake Boss,
her dress from Kleinfeld’s, and she’s almost a Bridezilla about her Platinum Wedding. In fact, I think she got the idea to hire a wedding consultant after watching
Wedded to Perfection,
but when the full-service design company Fête wasn’t available, she decided to settle for me. Her latest emergency is that the groom’s “nasty ex-wife” has decided to allow their children to come at the last minute. It would mean so much to the groom to have them there, but who is supposed to babysit a three-year-old and a nineteen-month-old? (Oh yes, the groom was cheating on his then-pregnant wife with the now-bride. But I’m not here to judge. I’m just here to plan the wedding). Of course, the ex is not going to attend the wedding, and the Bride wouldn’t dream of asking the groom’s friends to watch the kids while they are honored guests at her Big Day.

I would never ask Elton, even though he would be there anyway and done with the flowers early in the day. My goodness, he wouldn’t know the first thing about handling young children. There was one wedding we did together when the flower girl asked if the flowers got hurt when they were picked. Elton’s response was along the lines of “Oh honey, I cut them so fast with my super sharp scissors, they hardly feel a thing.” He was trying to be helpful, he thought.

I think about asking Suzanne, but depending on how she’s feeling about her dating life, she would either really enjoy the time with the two kids, or she would end up feeling even worse about it. I email her to see what she thinks, but it turns out she is on-call that night and wouldn’t be able to commit to babysitting solo.

Emma would be an obvious choice, although I have a couple of concerns there as well. Has she talked to Robert about their issues, or is this going to be a convenient excuse to get away from the suburbs again? And if these kids are truly little hellions like the Bride has often described, will they put Emma off from having kids altogether? I mean, I do think she is on the young side for family planning, but hey, I don’t want her to be emotionally scarred from this experience.

Ultimately, there is no one else who I can ask, and I dial Emma. She is excited about being my “assistant” again, and while we both hope this experience is not something straight out of
The Nanny Diaries,
her expectation is set that her job is meant to be of the “unseen” and “unheard” variety.

I email the Bride, expecting her to be ecstatic that I’ve resolved the latest emergency—one thing she is never lacking in is unbridled enthusiasm and over-the-top praise for even small feats of planning. I don’t expect the phone call I get from her five minutes later, practically in tears, saying “the Bitch” doesn’t want anyone looking after her kids that she doesn’t know. “She’s threatening to
come
to the wedding herself! ‘Oh, just to keep an eye on my little darlings, you won’t even know I’m there,’” the Bride does a snide mimic of the Ex. “She’s just trying to be difficult, just to ruin my Big Day,” the Bride exclaims. “She drops all of this on me during
my wedding week.
She had her chance. It’s
my turn.
” She is wailing now, and while I’ve dealt with many bawling brides, this particular situation is a bit uncharted. I take a deep breath and catch my thoughts.

“What if she meets the babysitter? Like an interview. The person I found is great, I’m sure she’ll pass with flying colors. Do you think you can get the Ex to agree to an interview?”

The Bride calms down a little. “I think so. She’s just being so
difficult
. But yes, maybe Gary can convince her.”

Later that day I set up a phone interview between Emma and the Ex. Emma, of course, passes the interview with flying colors, so much so that the Ex doesn’t even feel the need to meet her in person. Emma turned on the charm of a well-spoken, college-educated, stay-at-home suburban wife, and that seemed to be all the qualification the Ex needed. Apparently, after spending a good thirty minutes dishing on how the Bride stole her husband and the ridiculousness of this extravagant wedding, it seemed that the Ex’s concern for the children was secondary to her concern about her ex-husband getting remarried.

Over the next couple of days I am beyond exhausted, running between courting Nick, and the needs of one of my more high-maintenance brides who has begun to share way Too Much Information—“It’s the damn hormones, Cass, it’s making me
crazy.
But I can’t very well have my
p-e-r-i-o-d
on my honeymoon can I? Gary would go
nuts.
” I guess it makes sense that a bride who worships bad reality TV would turn her wedding into her personal episode.

At least doing things for Nick is fun. So far I’ve sent him pizza from his favorite place on St. Mark’s along with a six-pack of Sam Adams, a CD of fun, upbeat music by bands like Live and Bowling for Soup, chocolate-covered espresso beans for caffeine on the run, and I’m trying to figure out how to send a
tasteful
massage, just to help him unwind when he gets home. My morning drop-off has turned into a few minutes of flirtation, now that he’s started to expect me there. This morning we even sat in his lobby for half a cup of coffee while he filled me in on his project and I told him about my crazy brides. He seems genuinely interested in meeting Emma after I tell him about corralling her to be my babysitter/assistant this weekend. So no, just in case you thought I was being a crazy stalker girl (and I did run a logic check with the girls before I did any of these things), Nick actually enjoys these gifts and seems to be more into me than ever. These may be the earliest morning dates I’ve ever had that weren’t continuations from the night before, but I’ve admitted to myself that I am so smitten, I will take whatever time he has to give.