The Sleeping Beauty Proposal (6 page)

I was rightly offended and told Todd what to do with his coconuts—insert them into a nether region of his anatomy. He said he was only trying to protect me from getting hurt. I told him promptly to fuck off.

The next day, after a fitful night of sleep, I showed up at Todd's apartment with two hundred dollars—the most I could get out of the ATM—and a bet that Hugh would someday ask me to marry him. Todd found two hundred dollars of his own and doubled it. So began the Will Hugh Marry Genie wager.

It has been four years of riveting tension ever since.

The closest Todd ever got to conceding that perhaps Hugh wasn't so bad happened last Thanksgiving when, in front of cousins, aunts, and even my Grammy Michaels, my father asked him why he couldn't be more like Hugh. The implied question being:
Why can't you be more like Hugh, who had the stamina to graduate from Oxford, instead of being a Harvard dropout like you, loser?

To Hugh's credit, he quickly interjected, “Like me? Do you mean someone who can't change a lightbulb or hold a hammer? Why in the world would Todd want to be a half-man like me?”

I absolutely loved Hugh for that. Loved him.

And, though Todd would never have admitted it in a million years, I think he liked him for that, too. In fact, I think Todd likes Hugh a lot.

This morning, however, he's back to being grouchy and sour, claiming that Hugh and I haven't been dating long enough (four years!) to get married and worrying out loud that Hugh will have me “dressing in a ratty brown cardigan and typing out his manuscripts” for the rest of my life.

“What's your problem?” Patty says. “Why can't you be happy for your sister? Are you afraid of being knocked off her big brother pedestal?”

“Right. Like any man could. It's not that. It's not even what I think about Hugh. The reason why I'm not happier for Genie is because of the institution of marriage itself. It's anti-women.”

Patty raises an eyebrow. "Oh, really? And when did you become the feminist?”

“I'm not a feminist. I'm observant. Marriage for men is great, aside from that annoying clause about forsaking all others. But marriage for women is slavery.They have to take care of the kids, fill the refrigerator, keep the house in order, and, in most cases, hold a job. And, may I add, keep themselves sexually enticing.”

Ouch!

He sips his coffee while Patty glares at him so fiercely I fear flames may pop out of his forehead.

“Where have you been for the past thirty years?” she practically screams. “This is the twenty-first century. Men and women can share equally. Men get paternity leave now. Hell, more women than ever out-earn their spouses. There's no reason men should bear the financial brunt while women are saddled with domestic duties. It can be a beautiful partnership.”

Patty as the defender of matrimony.Todd the feminist. Clearly, the Earth has tilted too far on its axis.

“Yeah? If it's so great,”Todd says, “then how come you're not the one getting married?”

“Maybe I haven't met the right guy.”

We know this is an out-and-out lie as Patty has openly stated she dates in volume, not in quality, because she's looking for fun, not a lifetime commitment.

“You seem to have worked your way through Boston's Top Ten Singles list. I don't think it's a matter of not meeting your life mate. I think you don't want to get married for the reasons I said. Admit it.”

She glances up at me doubtfully. “Not exactly.” Though I know that's exactly why she doesn't want to get married—because of the Four
D
s: Diapers. Day care. Dinner. Depression. She's been there, done that, as oldest sister of the Pugliese brood.

Todd waves a red coffee stirrer. “Your problem is you're still suffering from ingrained sexism.You won't admit I'm right because you're afraid of being called selfish, whereas if I tell people—as I often explain to the women I date—that I have no intention of marrying, suddenly I'm the guy to catch.”

Wait. I have to think about this.A woman who says she doesn't want to marry is a selfish shrew, whereas a man espousing the same philosophy is hot stuff.

Patty says, "You must have the biggest ego on Earth.”

“That's not the only thing I got that's big, honey.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Toothpicks do not yardsticks make,Todd.”

Uh-oh. Patty's revving up. If I don't get them to change the subject soon, our Sunday morning coffee klatch could very well end with a nasty pantsing incident.

“Lookit, you two, I've got to take a shower and start my day, so unless you're here on a specific mission, Todd, I'm going to have to kick you out.”

This does the trick because Todd says, "Yeah, I'm on a mission. I want you to stop by the Peabody Road house.”

“What for?”

“To buy it.” Todd says this matter-of-factly, as if he's talking about a flat of geraniums instead of the prime piece of real estate he's been renovating for thousands and thousands of dollars.

“Buy it? Me?”

“Now that you're engaged, you and Hugh should buy a house—and this is the perfect place for you two.”

That's impossible. The duplex Todd's been working on for six months is
wayyyy
out of my price range. A huge two-family Victorian in Watertown abutting a country club golf course in a working-class neighborhood recently gone absurdly upscale.

Not to mention that there is no Hugh to buy it with. Minor detail.

“I can't buy a house,” I say, watching Todd watching Patty leave the room to get changed. “Especially not that house you've been working on. I mean, what's the asking price? Four hundred thousand?”

“Try half a million, and it's a bargain at that.The kitchen's not finished and the bathroom doesn't have a bathtub. Cecily Blake, the owner, told me she's running out of money for renovations and she wants to move to California and get the damned thing off her hands. I'm telling you, those are ideal conditions for a steal.”

“I can't afford it. Not on my salary.”

Todd gets up, thoughtlessly leaving his coffee cup on my table. “Sure you can. Hugh's a bestselling author raking in the dough.”

"And he would rather be homeless than live in a two-family,” I add quickly. "He hates neighbors, especially ones right upstairs.”

“So buy it for the investment potential. Meanwhile, you two can settle down in some mansion out in Concord. Or, you could be frugal, learn to deal with the upstairs noise, and move in. By renting the top apartment, the place will end up paying for itself.”

Patty comes out of my so-called guest room pulling a shirt over her bra and flashing her flat abs, an act that does not go unnoticed by my brother. “Todd's right. Anything under six hundred on Peabody Road is a find. You and Hugh should at least consider it.”

Me and Hugh? Is she on crack?

“Won't last long, Genie,” Todd says.“I guarantee that once this goes on the market, it'll be snapped up in a day.” He snaps his fingers to emphasize the snapping potential.“The difference is, those buyers don't have the advantage you and Hugh do—namely me, the inside contact.You could make Cecily an offer today before a Realtor ever gets her grubby hands on it.”

Shoot. If only Hugh and I really were engaged, this situation would be unbelievably ideal. A gift dropped from heaven. I swear, my life is a seesaw.When one end is up, the other is down.This is why I need an equal partner.

"Okay. Let's say Hugh and I”—I fire a warning look at Patty— “
do
want to buy a house and this one's a total find. Hugh won't be seeing royalties on
Hopeful, Kansas
for months, maybe a year. Either way, we're screwed.”

“Simple. Mom and Dad.”

“I can't ask them to buy me a half-million-dollar house.”

“Why not? They bought a half-million-dollar house for Lucy and Jason.”

It shouldn't irk me but it does—when Lucy and Jason got married Mom and Dad put the down payment on their monstrosity in New Hampshire, a huge colonial with a fireplace and media room and four bedrooms.

Yes, it was very generous of my parents and of course I was happy for Lucy and Jason, who happens to be one of those squeaky-clean born-again Christians and the nicest guy you'd ever want to meet. When they heard the good news, Lucy screamed for joy and Jason fell to his knees and started praying, thanking God for the nine splits of the Microsoft stock Dad had the foresight to buy at $28 a share back in the mid-1980s. We were all thrilled for them, even me.

Still, somewhere in the darkest part of my soul, the little green troll of envy poked at my heart. I couldn't help but feel slightly miffed. Here I was, the dutiful older sister, the one who, unlike Lucy, had worked every day since turning sixteen, still living with half a kitchen and a walk-in closet for a bedroom because no man had deemed me eligible for a lifetime commitment.Whereas Lucy—who had never held a job for more than six months—got her dream home handed to her simply because she happened to meet the right guy at the right time.

It wasn't fair. I know that makes me sound like a petulant kindergartener stamping her foot, but it's true. It wasn't fair. And the only way I've been able to move on is by mentally downplaying it and remembering that my relationship with my sister will always trump cash. Always.

Anyway, I've never been sure how much money Mom and Dad gave them, really.

“Oh, their gift wasn't that much,” I say, casting my line into dangerous waters. “Twenty thousand at the most, right?”

Todd snickers. “Try two hundred.”

Two hundred thousand? The words stick in my throat, though not in Patty's. She shouts,“Two hundred thousand! Holy shit, that's a lot of dough.”

“You got that right, babycakes,”Todd says.

“The only real estate my parents ever bought me was part of the Pugliese plot in Mount Hope.Which, let me tell you, does not exactly fill me with peace of mind.We Puglieses have never been known to coexist without incident for one night, let alone all of eternity. Not for nothing was Grandpa buried with his Glock.”

“Yeah, well, Mom and Dad didn't want Lucy and Jason to be burdened by high monthly mortgage payments,” Todd explains. “Not, you know, with them starting out and all.”

I have to sit on the couch and absorb this.Two hundred thousand dollars. My parents gave Lucy two hundred thousand because she was “starting out.” Yet, in their mind, I could make do with a hot, cramped tower until my prince came along to rescue me because I wasn't starting.

I was stagnating.

"Well,” says Todd, “did that change your mind?”

Did it ever.“Give me an hour. Patty and I will meet you there.”

Chapter Four

Hugh and I almost did buy a house about a year ago. An experience that nearly killed our relationship faster than Grandpa Pugliese's Glock.

The house was a bright blue Victorian in the Spring Hill section of Somerville with bay windows and inlaid pine floors and a cheerful yellow kitchen plus an airy room on the second story that would have been a perfect place for Hugh to write. I pegged that as the selling point, the office.Though, privately, I thought it made a much better nursery.

The problem was money. There was no way I could buy it alone, not on my salary as an admissions counselor. And since Hugh had yet to break out to the bestseller list with
Hopeful, Kansas,
he wasn't able to, either. But with Hugh's savings and mine there was a chance we could pull it off together. We could merge the assets, as my father likes to say.

The tour of the house was the clincher. Just one hour of meandering around and I could picture Hugh reading in the golden living room on a cold winter night, a pine garland wrapped around the carved wooden banister, a twinkling Christmas tree in the corner. We'd throw cozy dinner parties for our friends in the fall, plant our raised gardens in the spring, and spend lazy summer evenings on the porch, getting to know our neighbors. And someday, someday we might even hear the pitter-patter of little feet running down the stairs on their way to school.

I was so immersed in this fantasy that I could actually smell my roasting chicken in the oven, the one I was making while upstairs Hugh was banging out his latest novel on the computer. I could hear the rain on the roof, feel the garden dirt on my fingers.

That's when I had an epiphany: This house had to be mine, oh yes.

Hugh was at his laptop when I burst through his door, excited and pink-cheeked and brimming with hope after the showing. I can distinctly remember what he was wearing (a
Cool Runnings
T-shirt) and what he was drinking (chamomile iced tea in a pink glass, using that morning's
Boston Globe
as a coaster).

“So you like it, do you?” he said as I gushed about the yard, the living room, the office—can't forget the office—the garden, and the kitchen where on snowy days I would bake cinnamon cookies and drink hot cocoa with our children, Meg, Beth, and Amy. Slowly, gradually, Hugh's smile slipped into a frown.

“Genie,” he said, using his professor voice to cut me off. “Stop.”

"Why?” I didn't understand how he could not be as thrilled as I was.What was not to love? The house was adorable!

“I'm not there yet.”

“What do you mean you're not there yet?” Though I knew exactly what he meant.

He pushed back his chair and tented his fingers as if I were one of his students and he was soberly discussing my failing grade. “To make that kind of commitment is impossible for me. I can't think of anything right now except this book. I'm up to my eyes in revisions.”