Slightly Married (32 page)

Which is unusual, because he’s always online on weekday mornings.

I’m busy running around preparing for a presentation, but I keep checking my BlackBerry.

Finally, I hear from Buckley.

Sushi Lucy’s, 1:00 p.m. B.

That’s all it says.

My reply is even shorter:

OK.

I’m fifteen minutes late, thanks to Carol and Adrian and a series of unreasonable Client demands. Nothing unusual about that.

Buckley is waiting for me in the vestibule, unshaven and wearing jeans, sneakers and an untucked flannel shirt.

Nothing unusual about that, either: he works from home, and Sushi Lucy’s is casual.

Still—I’m not a big fan of the rumpled, stubbly look.

Which is good. I’m really glad he didn’t show up clean-shaven and bare-chested.

At a fairly secluded table, we order.

Then the waiter leaves and I wonder, uneasily, what to say.

I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve asked you here today
would probably be a good start, but I’m not sure of the answer myself.

It was pure impulse, and now that we’re here, I wish I hadn’t done it.

Buckley rests his chin on his fist and looks at me. “You okay?”

“Pretty much.” I sip my ice water, which leaves a funny aftertaste.

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning…I don’t know. I’m just stressed, I guess.” I gesture at my water glass. “I hate tap water. We should have asked for bottled.”

“Is that why you’re stressed?” he asks, smirking a little.

“That, and the fact that I’m getting married any second now.”

He nods. “That’ll do it. Look, Tracey, for what it’s worth, coming from me—I don’t think you’re making a mistake. I think you should marry Jack. I think you’d be crazy not to.”

Wow.

“That’s worth a lot, coming from you,” I say softly.

“You guys are good together. And you’re both ready for this. I mean, in an ideal world, you and I would have gotten each other out of our systems first, but…” He shrugs.

Okay, I have to ask. That, after all, is why I’m here. To get him out of my system. But not, I suspect, in the way he has in mind.

“What do you mean, Buckley?”

“You know…we would have had our fling and moved on, instead of being left feeling like there’s some kind of…unfinished business between us.”

Unfinished business.

That’s actually how I’ve been feeling about it, too…

But I wasn’t thinking fling.

I was thinking more…

I don’t know, that maybe if I hadn’t met Jack, Buckley and I would have ended up together. Long-term.

“If I didn’t think Jack was such a great guy,” Buckley says, “I might actually be suggesting that we…you know.”

“What?”

“Have that fling before you move on and marry Jack and I move on and…well, don’t marry anyone. Not for a good long time, anyway. If ever.”

“You honestly don’t want to get married?”

“Not in this millennium. Just kidding,” he adds with a wry grin. “Sort of.”

“That surprises me. You don’t have any desire to get married?”

“It surprises me, too. I mean, it would make my life a lot less complicated, because most women are into monogamy.”

For the first time, I’m seeing Buckley for who he really is—and isn’t.

All these years, I was thinking he might be right for me, because of chemistry, and because we have so much in common, both being creative types and coming from large Catholic families.

But now I realize it takes more than that.

A lot more.

“So if you weren’t friends with Jack,” I say, just to clarify what he’s getting at here, “you’d be suggesting that you and I…”

Sleep together?

I can’t say it.

I don’t have to.

We both know that’s what he means.

And there’s a graphic—make that pornographic—visual in my head right now that I’m a little uncomfortable with. Then I remember Brenda and Tony, and Kate and Gabriel, and I forgive myself. After all, I’m only human.

“I think that would be a really bad idea,” Buckley informs me.

“Because of Jack.”

“Right. And because it’s definitely not your style.”

“No. It’s not.”

Is it Buckley’s?

He smiles—wryly—again. “You know, even though I knew that all along about you…I guess I was kind of hoping you were going to contradict me.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He sighs. “We’ll just move on, and it’ll be fine.”

“Yeah? You think we can put this behind us now and get back to being friends?” I, for one, would relish at least one relationship in my life getting back to familiar footing again.

“I never wanted any of this to come between us, Tracey,” Buckley says. “It was really selfish of me to tell you that I loved you in the first place—even though I meant it.”

“I thought it was really unselfish, actually,” I tell him. “Especially since you knew all along that nothing could ever come of it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a great, unselfish guy.”

“You are.”

“No, I’m not. Jack is a great, unselfish guy. That’s why you guys are getting married. Me—I’m too selfish to marry anyone.”

“Maybe someday you won’t be. If you find the right person.”

“Maybe.”

He doesn’t look very sure about that, though.

“You’ve found the right person, though,” he tells me. “You do know that, right?”

I nod and reach for my icky tap water again. I do know that. It’s just…well, sometimes I’m scared shitless of the future. That’s all.

“Good,” Buckley says. “Because the way Jack was talking about you at his bachelor party last week…”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, he was trashed. I can’t repeat it.”

“Buckley! You have to!”

He grins. “No way. My lips are sealed. Just know that the guy is head over heels in love with you. Okay?”

“No. You have to tell me what he said. At least one thing he said. Come on, Buckley. Throw me a bone here.”

“All right. I’ll tell you one thing he said. He said he loves your hair.”

Oh, God. Here we go.

Why did I insist?

“Why would he bring that up?” I ask, wondering if Jack told the guys the whole Pre Cana tale.

“Oh, because Mitch was hitting on some bleached-blonde stripper with bad roots. And Jack started talking about hair, and how it reflects a person’s true character.”

“He said that?”

“Believe me, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense, but he meant well. He was going on and on about how soft your hair is, and how he loves the color—how he’s so glad that you don’t dye it or use a load of gunk in it. He kept saying how great it smells, and he loves when you fall asleep on his chest because he can breathe into it all night. And he said that sometimes when you’re away on business he opens your shampoo bottle in the shower so he can smell it and not miss you so much.”

Wow.

“Jack said that? At his bachelor party?”

“I told you he was trashed.” Buckley shrugs. “The guys gave him a hell of a time about it. And if you tell him I said any of that, I will be dead to him, so keep your mouth shut, please.”

“I will. But…thanks for telling me, Buckley.”

Jack loves my hair.

I think that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

That night, riding up to our floor in the elevator after another long day at work, I imagine what it would be like to find Jack waiting for me with a homemade dinner, candlelight, champagne, a dozen roses.

It would be like walking into somebody else’s apartment—that’s what it would be like.

Because I can predict what’s going to happen in ours: there’s going to be clutter, television, beer and takeout—at best. Jack is going to be there on the couch in jeans or sweatpants, watching the Yankees playoff game.

But that’s what counts. Out of all those details, I now realize that I don’t really care about the clutter or the beer or the sweatpants.

I missed him last night when he was gone.

And tonight, I care about one thing only: Jack is going to be there.

Jack is going to be there, for the rest of my life.

He’s willing to stand and make that promise—that
vow
—in front of a few hundred people, Father Stefan and God.

There are no guarantees.

Plenty of people make that same vow, and break it.

His parents did.

Yet somehow, despite that—despite seeing firsthand the evidence of a marriage that failed miserably—Jack is willing to take a chance on us.

So am I.

And plenty of people do make it.

My parents did.

Okay, maybe there’s no candlelight and romance in the Spadolini house back in Brookside these days—maybe there never was—but there’s a dishwasher. And there’s always been a lot of love.

I step over the threshold into our apartment.

There’s Jack, on the couch. Sweatpants. Pizza box. Yankees game.

“You’re home,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, looking up. “So are you.”

“Yes,” I say around a heavy, happy lump in my throat as he pats the empty spot on the couch beside him in silent invitation.

We’re home.

15

T
he rehearsal dinner is held in the private party room at the Greenway Inn, which is where all the Candells are staying, along with Kate, her nanny and the baby, Raphael and Donatello, and, yes, Buckley.

He made it.

He’s on the opposite side of the candlelit dining room, sitting with the other guys in the wedding party. He’s been flirting with Jack’s cousin Anne, and guess what? That’s fine with me.

It’s wedding eve and I’m the bride. I’ve only got eyes for Jack.

But it’s not like the groom and I have had a moment alone together since we got up to Brookside a few days ago—and that’s not likely to change tonight. There’s a big crowd at the dinner, of course. Both our immediate families and some out-of-town relatives, plus all of our attendants and their spouses, Father Stefan and even Rev Dev.

Jack’s parents are hosting this party together, and I can’t help but notice that they seem to have called a truce for the occasion.

“They seem almost happy together,” I whisper to Jack, watching Wilma—elegantly dressed in a black velvet sheath—laughing with her ex over sips of cocktail-hour champagne. “Do you think there’s any chance they’ll get back together again?”

Jack shudders. “God, I hope not.”

“Why?”

“Because two people can never be more wrong for each other than they are.”

“Why do you think they got married in the first place, then? Did they change that drastically? Or were they just blind?”

“Who knows? I’m just glad they did, or you and I wouldn’t be here.”

Father Stefan steps in with a, “Well? How are you two feeling tonight? Are you ready to take this big step?”

Naturally, Jack and I nod vigorously.

“Any questions about what’s going to happen tomorrow?” Father Stefan wants to know.

I assume he’s definitely not talking about later, at the hotel near the airport where we’re spending our wedding night. I really hope he figures we’ve got that part covered, and that all is forgiven at this point. I did go to confession the other day, before we left New York, so I’m starting marriage with a nice clean soul.

Jack and I tell Father Stefan that we have no questions about the ceremony. Earlier, at the church, we went through the motions for tomorrow’s mass—stuff like who stands where, and who says what. Things were a little chaotic, but Father Stefan assured us that it’s always that way.

“All right, then,” he says now. “Just let me know if you have any questions.”

He pats Jack on the back and gives me a hug before wandering off to say hello to my Aunt Aggie.

“He never did ask you whether you actually followed through and moved out,” Jack comments. “Or did he?”

I shake my head and wonder—for the first time—if maybe I should have moved out. Would we have taken each other less for granted these last few months? Would I have found some kind of spiritual enlightenment?

Who knows?

But now is not the time to start second-guessing myself.

Jack and I separate to mingle. I go first to the table where Raphael is cuddling Kate’s newborn under the watchful gazes of her doting mother and the nanny who now accompanies Kate everywhere. Billy couldn’t get away for the wedding. No surprise there.

“Donatello has decided he wants to start a family, Tracey!”

“Are you serious? That’s great!”

“I know! Can you just see me with a baby carriage?”

“I just can.”

“Now we only need to find a surrogate.” He gives me a meaningful look.

“No,” I say. “But hey, good luck with that.”

“Tracey! We’re willing to pay.”

“Then you shouldn’t have a problem finding someone,” I say briskly.

“Leave her alone, Raphael,” Kate drawls. “Tracey’s going to be popping out her own babies after the honeymoon.”

I have to laugh at that visual. “Not right after. I’ve got other things on the agenda.” Like house-hunting. And career-changing. And a whole lot of Couch Time with my husband. “Anyway, Kate, aren’t you the one who told me I’d be out of my freaking mind to even consider childbirth?”

“Did I?” she asks mildly, and reaches out to adjust little Kate’s pink bootie.

Raphael and I exchange a glance.

“Maybe,” he suggests in a low voice, “Billy had them give her a lobotomy while she was in the delivery room.”

“That would explain a lot.”

I plant a kiss on mini-Kate’s head and move on to Brenda and Paulie, Latisha and Derek, Yvonne and Thor.

“Tracey! This is the most go-aw-jus place I’ve ever seen!” Brenda informs me.

“The inn?”

“And the town! Right on the lake, and all these big old houses…”

“We picked up a real estate book when we stopped for coffee earlier, and now she wants to move here,” Paulie explains.

“We could afford a mansion here!”

“Yeah, but Bren, what would you do here?”

“She’d be a stay-at-home mom,” Latisha tells me.

“Just like she’s going to be back in New York,” Thor puts in.

“Shh!” Yvonne elbows him.