Slightly Married (33 page)
“
What?”
I raise an eyebrow at Brenda.
“I was going to wait to tell you until after the wedding…but I gave notice yesterday, Tracey. Paulie made sergeant.”
“That’s great! Congratulations!” I tell Paulie, but even I can hear the hollow tone in my voice. “And Bren…good for you! You always said you were going to quit as soon as Paulie made sergeant.”
“Yeah, I’ve always wanted to be a desperate housewife. But I’m going to miss you guys.”
“We’ll still do happy hour,” I tell her.
“God knows you’re going to need it,” Yvonne comments.
“Just don’t you start talking about retiring again,” Latisha tells her.
“What? Yvonne, you can’t retire!” I protest.
“Technically, she could have retired a few years ago.” Thor’s comment is met with a dark look from his wife.
“If you retired, baby,” Derek tells Latisha, “just think of all the energy you’d have for other things.”
“Yeah, well, too bad for you that I’m a spring chicken,” Latisha retorts.
Unfazed, he nuzzles her neck, saying, “No kids with us this weekend—this ol’ rooster will take what he can get.”
“I can’t believe you guys are leaving Blaire Barnett,” I tell Brenda and Yvonne.
“I didn’t retire yet.”
“Maybe not,” I tell Yvonne, “but just the fact that you’re talking about it…”
She’s going to be out of there. I can tell.
Another end to another era.
But I don’t dare think about that now. One ending era at a time is about all I can handle…and somebody is clinking a glass.
“Tracey,” Jack says, grabbing my hand. “Come on. They want to get started.”
For presumably the last time in my life, I wake up alone in my girlhood bed.
From now on, whenever I visit my parents in Brookside, Jack will be sharing my bed with me. That will seem strange, won’t it? Sleeping with a guy under my parents’ roof?
Not just any guy.
My husband.
My stomach erupts in a thousand butterflies.
Yup, today is the end of an era and I feel like I’m about to freak out.
Jack
, I think.
I need to talk to Jack. That would help to keep me grounded
.
I reach for my cell phone on the bedside table and dial Jack’s cell phone. Last night after the rehearsal dinner, he spent the night at the Greenway Inn with his family and some of our friends.
He was going to share a room with Mitch and I wonder if it’s too early to call, but Jack picks up the phone instantly. “Hey. I was just going to call you.”
“You were?”
“Yeah. I miss you. I feel like I’m going through this huge thing alone.”
“I feel the same way. I feel like there’s so much we have to get through before we can be back to our normal selves.”
I just hope we can find our normal selves—our normal lives—again, when this is all over.
“Why don’t you meet me at Bob Evans for breakfast?” Jack suggests, as if that’s the perfectly logical next thing to say. “We can have zau-zage gravy.”
I laugh.
We love Bob Evans sausage gravy.
Zau-zage.
Just like that, I feel like we’re really going to be able to become us again. That after today—well, after today, and Tahiti, anyway—we’ll be able to think about ordinary things like sausage gravy again.
“That sounds so good,” I tell Jack wistfully. “But you’re not supposed to see me on our wedding day.”
“I thought that was just in the dress. Don’t wear the dress.”
“You’re not supposed to see me at all. It’s bad luck.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. But why take chances?”
He sighs. “Then I guess I’ll just see you later, at the church.”
“Okay. Are you nervous, Jack?”
“A little. Are you?”
“A little,” I admit. “But only because there are a million details that have to fall into place between now and two-thirty. I almost wish we were eloping to Tahiti.”
“Not me,” Jack says unexpectedly. “This is going to be great, Trace. You’ll see.”
“The wedding?”
“Everything.”
I smile. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
In less than an hour, I will no longer be me.
It’s the end of an era.
Tracey Spadolini is about to drop into the past, replaced by Tracey Candell.
I suppose that’s fitting, considering that I no longer even look like Tracey Spadolini. The woman in the mirror of my girlhood bedroom is a solemn stranger in white.
All that’s recognizable is her hair—worn long and loose, the way Jack likes it.
“You look beautiful,” my mother, in blue satin, teased ringlets and a corsage, chokes out. She’s been crying into her embroidered hankie all morning.
“Cut it out, Ma,” Mary Beth says, adjusting the fall of my lace veil. “You’ll smear your eye makeup.”
“I can’t help it. My baby is getting married.”
“All your babies have gotten married, Ma,” I point out.
“Don’t remind me!”
“Well, I’m not married,” Mary Beth points out, stepping back to survey the veil. “Maybe someday, though…again.”
I smile at my sister in the mirror. I really hope so. Nobody deserves what Vinnie put her through.
I’m so lucky.
And so scared.
“Ma?” I say in a small voice. “On your wedding day…how did you feel?”
“Nervous.”
“But were you sure you were doing the right thing?”
“I was positive.” She looks worriedly at me. “Aren’t you?”
“Yes!” I say as the doorbell rings.
My mother hurries out of the room to answer it.
“I wasn’t positive,” Mary Beth offers. “I knew, even on my wedding day, that I was probably making a big mistake.”
“Why did you go through with it?”
“Because I was afraid to be alone. I needed someone to take care of me because I couldn’t take care of myself. I wasn’t like you, Tracey.”
Well, there was a time when I was just like her.
Afraid to be alone. Uncertain that I could take care of myself. Willing to be with the wrong person—Will—because he was all I had. Or thought I had.
Turned out I never did.
And when he left me alone, there was nothing I could do but learn how to take care of myself.
That was a lifetime ago.
Look at me now.
For the first time today, I smile a smile that actually reaches my eyes.
Then my mother comes bustling in saying, “Look who’s here!”
If it isn’t the wedding photographer…
Followed by Grandma, who is wearing a low-cut dress that is oddly evocative of a shower curtain.
“Dolce mia!”
she exclaims, catching sight of me. “You’re a
bellissima
bride!”
She comes rushing over.
“Grandma,” I say as she envelops me in a hug, “that’s some dress. Did you make it?”
She nods proudly.
“Wow, where did you get that fabric?” Mary Beth asks. “It’s so…unique.”
“I found it at Bed, Bath and Beyond when I was shopping for Tracey’s wedding gift.”
“Did you say Bed, Bath and Beyond?”
“Shh—it’s a shower curtain,” she says with a conspiratorial wink. “But no one at the wedding will ever know.”
God, I hope not.
Grandma spins around to model for us, and I check the back of her hemline to make sure there are no ring holes showing.
“Hold that shot,” the photographer commands.
Grandma poses and preens as he snaps her alone, then a few shots of the two of us. Then he has to get me and Mary Beth and Grandma, then just me and Mary Beth, then Ma and me…mother and daughters…three generations…
You get the picture.
And the photographer gets the pictures; hundreds, it seems, and I can’t wait to see Jack.
Then Ma says, “It’s time to get to the church.”
“Already?” I ask, and my stomach flip-flops nervously.
Then I remember that Jack is going to be there, waiting for me.
“Okay,” I say, picking up my bouquet and taking a deep breath. “Let’s go.”
Standing at the end of a white satin runner in the vestibule at Most Precious Mother, I realize that this is it.
Goodbye, single life.
Hello, married life.
The organ is playing, my mother’s been seated and most of the bridesmaids have made their way down the aisle—which, of course, has taken a good long while. Now the twins and Kelsey are on their way, scattering rose petals as they go, leaving me, my sister, my father and the photographer’s assistant in the back of the church.
“Can you see Jack?” I ask Mary Beth in a whisper as she moves forward, poised to start toward the altar.
“No. But he’s up there somewhere,” she says with a smile, and then she’s gone.
Moments later, the organist shifts to the opening chords of the wedding march, and I hear a massive creaking sound as three hundred people stand in anticipation of the bride.
“Are you ready?” my father asks.
I cling to his arm tightly.
Am I ready?
Panic sweeps through me.
No.
I’m not ready.
I finally figured out how to be Tracey Spadolini! I figured out who she was, and what she needed and wanted, and how to take care of her.
Now I’m going to start all over again from scratch, learning how to be Tracey Candell. Jack’s wife.
I swallow painfully hard and look straight ahead.
For a moment, all I can see is the glare of the photographer’s spotlights.
I can’t do this, I think.
I’m just not comfortable with endings. Not even happy ones.
Then the lights shift and I blink, and look again, and suddenly, I catch a glimpse of Jack.
There he is, in a dark tux, stepping forward at the opposite end of the runner.
All the faces seem to fall away, and all I can see is Jack. He’s smiling.
This is going to be great, Trace
, he’s thinking.
You’ll see
.
“Tracey?” That’s my father again. “Are you ready?”
This time, I nod.
I’m ready.
I could go on to tell you that my father walks me down the aisle past a sea of faces: everyone we love—everyone who loves us, believes in us.
I could tell you that before all of those people, and Father Stefan, and God, Jack Candell and I promise to love and honor each other all the days of our lives.
I could even tell you that the highlight of the reception is Raphael doing a wild tarantella with Grandma in her shower-curtain dress, or that Jack surprises me by renting a honeymoon hut-on-stilts in Tahiti after all, or that Jack’s father’s wedding gift is the better part of a down payment on a condo—maybe even a house.
But you know what?
I’m not sure which part would be the happy ending.
So I think I’ll end it right here, in this moment, with me taking my first steps toward my husband, full of hope and trust and love, with no idea what’s going to happen next.
That way, it’s not an ending after all.
It’s a happy beginning instead.
And those are even better.
SLIGHTLY MARRIED
A Red Dress Ink novel
ISBN: 978-1-4268-3369-4
© 2007 by Wendy Corsi Staub.
All rights reserved. The reproduction, transmission or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission. For permission please contact Red Dress Ink, Editorial Office, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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