Veiled in Death. Stephanie Blackmoore
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hair in a jaunty side ponytail to reveal the giant gold hoops swinging in her ears. The big earrings matched her pretty hair, a sun-kissed shade between blond and brown. And she towered even higher than ever above me in a pair of cut-out, high-heeled gold lamé basketball shoes, a Frankenstein-matchup of Converse All Stars and stilettos. And to top it all off, that zany getup somehow looked amazing on Rachel. It was as if Anna Wintour had personally designed this look and my sister was ready to grace a fashion magazine. I think if I donned the same getup, I’d be asked about where the costume party was being held. You could definitely see the resemblance between us, but my sister was all flash and sparkling green eyes and prodigious height and curves, and I was shorter, with sandy curls and eyes a more subdued shade of brown.
My sister reined in her personal style when it came to working with me, planning weddings. Her daring suggestions were incorporated in small increments that really made the designs pop. But left unbridled, I wondered if my tentative fall wedding would turn into a mix of Malibu Barbie and fall harvest glitter-bomb.
“I’d love your help, Rach,” I reiterated, careful not to choke on my second swig of lemonade. Rachel beamed her assent, and I felt so much love toward my sister. Of course, she could help design my wedding, even if it did turn into a spectacle. I was touched that so many lovely people in my life wanted me to have a nice, carefree wedding, and take over my professional planning role. It was just too bad there was no chance for a Carole-Bev-Rachel trifecta of a collaboration.
Rachel and I both seemed to remember our mother and turned to take her in at the counter. She hadn’t recovered from Rachel’s suggestion several minutes ago that Bev plan my wedding. She narrowed her eyes from her station and stripped off the sunny apron. She glowered at us in a purple-hued low-boil rage, refusing to treat Rachel’s joke as a mere flippant comment.
“Mom, Rachel was just joking.” I attempted to soothe my mother and took out ingredients to make some cold salads for dinner to accompany our oven-fried chicken. I wordlessly handed my mom a head of broccoli and bowl of shredded cabbage. I rustled around in the pantry for a jar of mayo and some golden raisins to complete the broccoli salad.
My mother gave up her protestations and started washing the veggies, but not before she sent Rachel a haughty look. My sister shrugged and grabbed a washed floret and popped it in her mouth.
Carole suddenly wheeled around, an arc of water spraying us from the head of broccoli she held in a murderous grip. “This really is all moot, Mallory, until you and Garrett stop stalling and set the darn date.”
I opened my mouth to soothe my mom rather than lay down some kind of gauntlet. She obviously was more perturbed than I would have guessed at the prospect of Bev having any kind of hand in planning my wedding. But then she had to step way out of line.
“I think it’s time for me to intervene, Mallory.”
Say what?
I braced myself for the undoubtedly amusing and probably preposterous thing my mom would say. But nothing prepared me for her next decree.
“I think you should get married this summer. I took the liberty of peeking at your schedule in your office. You have a few Friday and Sunday dates left in July and August. Just set the darn date!”
I opened my mouth to jump in, but Carole wasn’t done. Her green eyes flicked up and down my figure. “You’ll need to shed a few pounds, and fast.” She narrowed her gaze at the jar of mayo, momentarily sparing me. “Swap this out for some low-cal Miracle Whip.”
“Mom. You’ve officially gone too far.” I held up my hand like a traffic attendant. “I happen to like the way I look. I don’t appreciate comments about my weight.” I didn’t have the bombshell looks of my sister, but I tried to make time for exercise and good food choices, even if that only translated to bike rides and long walks with my fiancé and his daughter Summer, and the occasional consumption of a salad. I wouldn’t have my mom berate my appearance. But apparently, she wasn’t finished.
“You’ll be eating for two soon enough, Mallory.” Carole waved a dismissive hand at what must have been my flummoxed and appalled face. “You need to give me some grandbabies, and you and Garrett may as well get the show on the road.”
Rachel had appeared indignant at my mother’s mixed weight-loss decree and pep talk, but Mom’s latest demand made Rachel spit out her lemonade. She shook her head as she grabbed a napkin. I was glad that my sister was as stunned as I was. Her giant etched-gold hoops hit her shoulders as she glanced back and forth between our mother and me, wondering who would say what next. Whiskey the cat stood in rapt silence, watching Rachel’s earrings like a pendulum.
“Your clock is ticking, Mallory.” My mom chose to double down on her bold remarks rather than apologize.
I stood still in my kitchen, hoping the grip I used on the tea towel in my hands didn’t give away my anger. But I thought of my role as unofficial therapist when I planned weddings. I often had to maneuver around potential and real emotional minefields and wounds exposed between family members when they attempted to come together to plan a big day. I cautioned my brides to stand up for themselves and not take the familial bait, and I would do the same with my mother.
I answered her evenly and truthfully. “Garrett and I haven’t discussed it.”
The gasp that reverberated around the room wasn’t my mom’s, but Rachel’s. Mom was shocked into total silence.
Whoops.
Rachel finally found her voice. “You haven’t talked about kids?” Rachel let out an alarmed yelp. “Mallory, that’s not a good sign.” Rachel shook her head, the gold hoops’ dancing becoming increasingly agitated. “Miles and I have it all planned out. A long engagement, with him probably popping the question on Valentine’s Day. Then a big winter wedding a year after that. Followed by several months of international travel. And our first of four kids a year after that.”
I was happy to hear my sister’s lavish life blueprint all laid out for my mom to hear. Somehow Rachel’s declaration put Carole into more of a tizzy than my own dearth of procreation plans.
“It’s time to put the brakes on all that, young lady.” My mom turned her alarmed expression to Rachel. It was a running theme that I’d grown up a bit too fast, watching my sister, four years my junior, after school when we’d been latchkey kids. My dad had left one day and never returned, with nary a clue or trace. My mom had given up her suburban housewife role and launched an uber successful decorating business from nothing. But I’d looked out for Rachel, and my mom couldn’t get it out of her head all these years later that I might not want to do things on some preapproved timeline, and that my wild-child sister might actually be ready to settle down. People’s perceptions of each other could be hard to change.
I let them argue about Rachel’s readiness to plan out her life, and retreated to my thoughts. My mom’s rather crass demand for grandbabies had set my head spinning.
It had been on my mind. I spun back a few hours prior, when I held sweet Miri in my arms. I couldn’t stop thinking about her baby-powder scent, the brief cuddles, and her joyous baby laughter. Not that I wanted all that tomorrow, either. My heart pulled.
How in the heck do I bring this up with Garrett?
The adorable six-month-old had reminded me yet again that Garrett and I hadn’t broached the subject of kids in any formal way. The topic made me uneasy. Maybe because I wasn’t sure what I wanted. And I was worried to discover what Garrett’s thoughts were on the matter.
My fiancé had been maddeningly unspecific about whether we should have a child of our own. And until a few weeks ago, I’d been ambivalent, too. I was happy and excited for my friend Olivia’s impending birth and had agreed to plan her baby shower. I realized my beau and I had just talked unnervingly and ambiguously about having another child. It was a someday thing, if a thing at all. I didn’t think the door was closed, but I was alarmed that there was no deadline. And now my mom’s needling was getting to me. A-ticking and a-tocking indeed.
And how would Summer feel? I loved my fiancé’s