The Wedding Beat (16 page)

There was something about arriving at LAX that invigorated me. It could have been the three hours gained. Or the VIP treatment I was getting from Brooke Brenner, Roxanne’s publicist. She texted me within moments of landing that she was waiting for me outside the baggage claim to chauffeur me to the wedding. Gary was picking me up afterward to ferry me to his place in Burbank for the night. I was hoping that saving The Paper money on a hotel and car rental would score me some brownie points.

Since I had never met Brooke before, she had e-mailed me a photo—of her car. A red convertible MINI Cooper. Sitting inside it, slurping a Starbucks iced latte, was a tan woman with silky blond hair and oversized Chanel sunglasses. Her smile was broad. Her teeth were white. I caught myself thinking of the iconic Farrah Fawcett poster. Not that Brooke was wearing a bathing suit, but her clingy, white sleeveless top was barely more concealing.

“Jump in,” she said with an inviting twirl of her hand. I tossed my shoulder bag into the backseat and was still buckling up when she zipped out from under the overhang into the glorious sunshine.

“What’s with the jacket?” she asked. I was dressed for the wedding in a light gray suit and tie. She was obviously not. The wind whipped through her hair as she wove between lanes. “Loosen up. You’re in California.”

I caught a glimpse of the ocean while standing on the narrow balcony of Brooke’s apartment in Santa Monica. She lived a few
blocks from the beach, and I could see a small patch of azure waves between the neighboring buildings.

“You’re sure you don’t mind waiting while I change?” she asked for the third time, even though I had assured her I was fine. “When I was a kid, I hated it when my dad would make unannounced pit stops. Hated it. I hope I’m not turning into him.”

Clad in cut-off jeans and sparkly flip-flops, she didn’t look like anyone’s father. I said something to that effect.

“You’re a keeper,” she said with an ingratiating giggle. I was tempted to think she was flirting with me, but that’s what publicists do. They flirt. They charm. They do anything within their powers to persuade you to write nice things about their clients, and I knew better than to take it seriously.

“I’ll be back in a flash,” she said. “Make yourself at home.”

I closed my eyes and surrendered to the sun’s warmth. It felt good on my face. I wanted to take off my clothes and go running along the beach. Or swimming in the figure-eight-shaped pool below. It somehow felt wrong to be in California and not be lounging poolside. I was glad I had taken Brooke’s advice and removed my jacket.

I heard her voice from the back of the apartment somewhere. “I forgot to ask you if you’d like to freshen up.”

“Is that your polite way of saying I have convertible-car hair?” I asked, eyes still closed and staying in my Zen zone.

“I think of it as organic volumizing.” Her voice sounded closer. “People pay hairstylists a lot of money for that.”

I opened my eyes and she was standing beside me—in a white towel. And not a particularly large white towel.

“I think it’s working for you,” she said. “See for yourself.” She held up a hand mirror she was carrying, but it was hard for me to take my eyes off her tan lines.

“Not too much damage,” she said, teasing my hair. She was
more than a half foot shorter than me, so to do that, she had to stand very close. Her towel brushed against me, and she smelled like fresh taffy.

I held the mirror. Or rather I held my hand around hers. I wanted to caress her shoulders. I wanted to kiss her lips, her chin. I wanted to nuzzle in the crook of her neck.

“I decided to take a shower,” she said. I hoped she was going to say, “Do you want to join me?” I had an irresistible urge to remove her towel. All it would take was one finger.

I had an hour before I had to be at the wedding. I had condoms in my wallet.

I had to stop.

She was the publicist for my article. It was hard to conceive a worse ethical breach than sex with a source. This was not the time to be taking chances with my job. Not to mention I was one false move from a serious charge of sexual harassment. True, she was undressed, but this was LA. Being half naked was a way of life.

Brooke wasn’t the slightest bit self-conscious. She didn’t seem to notice I was attracted to her. Or she didn’t care. Or she was pretending she didn’t care. I wanted to know which.

She absentmindedly picked up a stack of mail before putting it back down and heading back to her bedroom.

“I gotta get cleaned up,” she said.

I didn’t want her to go. I needed to say something smart and sexy.

“Are you a dirty girl?” That wasn’t it.

She laughed but didn’t turn around, saying, “Oh, God. That’s something my brother would say.”

Driving north on the Pacific Coast Highway, we were buttressed by the Palisades as we snaked along the shoreline. Brooke had put the MINI Cooper’s top up before heading to the wedding.
Big hair didn’t go with her slinky, backless dress. I had tried not to gape while helping her with her wrap.

Now she was silhouetted against the vast expanse of gleaming sea and Western sky. I kept glancing in her direction, taking in the view. If she minded, she didn’t let on. I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like to be really going to the wedding together as a couple. Walking in arm in arm. Me holding her wrap while she set stray blond strands in place. Her rubbing lipstick off my lips with the tips of her fingers. There was something to be said for California dreaming.

A valet took the car when we arrived at the entrance to the Malibu estate Roxanne’s parents had rented for the event. A palm-lined pathway led past a pool and a petting zoo, where bleating sheep wore pink ribbons round their necks. It was a cross between wedding kitsch and animal cruelty.

The six-thousand-square-foot modern white beach house emerged from the lush vegetation. I followed Brooke inside, enjoying the sway of her hips. Waiters provided champagne flutes while guiding guests to the bi-level wraparound terrace, where a string quartet was playing Vivaldi.

Brooke grabbed two glasses of bubbly. Tempting as it was to linger in a fantasy version of my life, the reality didn’t allow for imbibing.

“I’m on the job,” I demurred.

“Don’t be such a martyr.” It wasn’t Brooke speaking. Roxanne was towering over me with the train of her Vera Wang lace slip dress hoisted over her shoulder. “I promise not to post pictures online if you do anything outrageous.”

“You look beautiful,” Brooke said, kissing her cheek, which unexpectedly made me flush.

“This
shmatte
? I picked it up secondhand. That’s not for print.” She winked at me.

Usually brides are hidden away before the ceremony, not broadcasting their thrift-store bona fides. Roxanne wasn’t at all what I expected from the daughter of a Beverly Hills surgeon, and she had an imposing physical presence. She was close to six feet, not counting her hair, which sprouted upward into a cornucopia of tightly coiled ringlets, easily giving her a half foot of added height.

“It’s nice to finally meet in person,” I said awkwardly.

“I should have warned you that I’m an Amazon,” she said. “And I’m not even wearing heels, because I’m marrying a munchkin. If there’s anything you need, just let me know. I’ll get you a copy of our vows after the ceremony, and I can wrangle people for interviews during the reception, if you tell me who you want to talk to.”

I usually avoided harassing brides on their wedding day, and I was rather looking forward to reconnoitering with Brooke. “I think you’ve got a few other things on your plate,” I said.

“Are you kidding? I’m a producer. This is what I do. My only task is to walk down the aisle and say ‘I do’ without falling on my face. Do you really think that’s going to be a problem for me? I’m asking him, not you,” she said, turning to Brooke with mock indignation. “Brooke has known me to be vertically challenged on occasion.”

“Only with a bottle of Manischewitz in your hand,” Brooke said.

Roxanne howled with laughter. “Did she tell you we went to Hebrew school together?” It was news to me that Brooke was Jewish.

Dating a source suddenly seemed less reprehensible.

“But we usually cut class and smoked cigarettes in the girls’ bathroom,” Brooke said.

“Don’t believe anything she tells you,” said Roxanne. “I was a model child. And if Rabbi Snyder asks, I have no idea what
happened to the missing case of Manischewitz at the seder in ‘ninety-two.” With that, she was off to micromanage the photographer.

Brooke and I strolled toward the terrace. Beneath us were rows of white chairs set out on a manicured carpet of lawn that extended to the edge of a dramatic bluff, with wooden steps zigzagging down from the precipice to a private cove.

“Sounds like you had some wild and crazy school days,” I said, almost groaning at how uncomfortably forced that sounded.

Brooke didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure if she was embarrassed, bored with the subject or bored with me. I decided that it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to put my job at risk for someone just because we were the same religion and she looked good in a towel.

“Do you want to get seats?” she asked.

“I usually just stand in the back,” I said.

“That works for me.” I wondered if she was trying to assist my reporting efforts or ensure that we spent more time together. I reminded myself it didn’t matter.

As the sun sank below the horizon, Rabbi Snyder began the ceremony, taking his place beneath a wedding canopy of bamboo and palm fronds. Five tawny bridesmaids carrying tapered white candles paraded by in form-hugging pink sheath dresses, which I couldn’t help notice showcased impressive cleavage on each woman. Then I realized it wasn’t just the dresses that were identical; the bridesmaids had matching breasts.

“Yes, they all went to the same doctor,” Brooke whispered. “That’s off the record,” she added, grinning mischievously.

She was adorable. I was in trouble.

Every time I looked at Brooke, I regretted not kissing her in her apartment. So I avoided looking at her, which just made me
want her more. I felt like a starving man in the presence of a glazed pastry. My first instinct was to gorge myself, but even thinking that way was disrespectful to Brooke—and The Paper. After the ceremony, I vowed to focus on doing my job and keeping my distance.

I mingled with the guests as they migrated to a candlelit tent containing a lavish buffet of smoked sable, rack of lamb and a myriad of other delicacies. There were a dozen linen-covered tables interspersed with floor lamp–style propane heaters. Chinese lanterns hung overhead, glowing like crimson-colored sentinels.

Buffets were challenging environments for me, because doing interviews required competing with the food for people’s attention. At a Jewish event, there was no contest. Standing between guests and stuffed portobello mushrooms was a good way to get myself trampled.

“Is this the silliest wedding ever?” asked Roxanne, resting her head against her husband’s. Though her words were irreverent, her body language was not.

“Not by a long shot,” I said reassuringly. Looking around the space, my gaze gravitated immediately toward Brooke. I purposefully turned away.

“Is this what you—how you say?—expectated?” Ari asked. Naturally, the only two people I didn’t need to interview were the only ones willing to converse.

“I anticipated seeing more gymnasts,” I said. I also expected to see Matt Lauer, but I didn’t want to sound like a star fucker.

“My teammates do training,” said Ari, who had short-cropped hair and deep-set eyes. Though only a couple of inches shorter than me, he seemed almost twice as broad.

“Ari’s only in the States until Tuesday,” Roxanne said. “We’re putting off the honeymoon until after Beijing.”

It would have seemed more logical to put off the wedding as well. I wondered if she was pregnant. “So why get married now?” I asked.

“We didn’t want to wait,” she said.

“You waited three years,” I pointed out.

“I waited,” Ari said. “She debated.”

Roxanne blushed. “I had a plan for my life,” she said, “and my plan didn’t include a guy who lived on the other side of the planet and was a half foot shorter than me.”

“Not half foot.”

“In heels,” she said, stroking his cheek. I averted my eyes and caught sight of Brooke again. “Being together didn’t make any sense. It still doesn’t.”

“Why are you not eating?” Ari asked me.

Bridal couples rarely understood that what was a party for them was a work night for me. It was also difficult to explain The Paper’s strict rules about accepting anything that could be construed as a gift.

“It’s not a gift. It’s food,” Roxanne said, “and no one’s going to know. There’s an extra seat at Brooke’s table. You’ll be her date.”

It was out of the question and wildly inappropriate. So why did it sound so appealing? “I think Brooke might have an opinion about that,” I said, trying to make light of the subject but feeling a tightness in my chest.

“Advice from married man: Never ask woman’s opinion.”

“You won’t be married long giving out advice like that,” said Roxanne.

“You see? You get without asking. You must stay and be our guest.”

“I assure you that Brooke will be delighted,” Roxanne added.

“Thanks for the kind offer,” I said, wondering if she had
inside information on precisely how delighted Brooke would be. “But I can’t accept.” I felt a sharp pain underneath my ribs as I insisted I didn’t want what I specifically did.

“You need to let go,” Ari said emphatically. “It is—how you say?—secret agent of life.”

“When he retires from gymnastics, he’s going to get a job making—how you say?—Chinese fortune cookies,” Roxanne joked while running her fingers through his hair.

“I am serious,” he said. “Life is like being on the high bar. There is time to hold on tight, and there is time to let go.” As Ari spoke, he embraced Roxanne firmly in his thick arms. “You ask why we get married now. The answer is simple: She let go.”

Roxanne kissed him gently on the lips, holding his face in her hands. “That’s exactly what I did,” she said, her voice cracking. “I let go.”