Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Epilogue

      One

      First off, let me just state for the record that I didn’t fall for Greg Munson because he was successful, or handsome—even though I sure didn’t mind the dirty how-did-you-get-him? glances whenever we went out—or even to piss my mother off. I swear, his being the son of a Republican congressman was pure serendipity.

      No. I fell in love with the guy because he gave me every indication that he was normal. And, since the odds of finding such a creature in this town are roughly a quadrillion to one, when he proposed, I pounced. I may not be proud of that, but hey. We’re talking survival of the species here.

      And I have no doubt we might have had a very nice life together if he’d bothered to show up for the wedding.

      Now, granted, it’s only been four hours since I smushed twenty-five yards of tulle into a taxi and hauled my sorry self back to my apartment from the hotel, so it’s not as if I’ve had a lot of time to figure any of this out. Not that I expect to.

      For one thing, I’m not some infantile twit blinded by infatuation, a condition to which I’ve never been prone in any case. I’m thirty-one, have lived my entire life in Manhattan and endured a childhood that, trust me, taught me early on how to spot a jerk. Greg and I didn’t even date until a good two months after I first schlepped carpet and wallpaper samples up to his new Scarsdale house, didn’t sleep together for another couple months after that. I was careful. I didn’t cling. Never brought up marriage. Never demanded any more of his time than he was willing to give. If anything, he was one who seemed hot to take things to The Final Plateau.

      So, nope. No clues there. Not even a crumb.

      We held up the ceremony as long as we could. But I knew it was all over when, like a pair of priests being called to give last rites, my mother and grandmother appeared in the hallway outside the hotel ballroom to hold vigil with me and my two bridesmaids: my cousin Shelby (Jewish, terminally married, bubbly) and best friend Terrie (black, twice divorced, cynical). Yet, ever optimistic, I persisted in covering Greg’s butt. Not to mention my own.

      “Traffic on the parkway must be horrendous this time of day,” I said brightly, ten minutes past the point where the pair of ice swans, not to mention some of the more elderly guests, were beginning to melt in the late May heat that had managed to override the hotel’s cooling system. When Terrie pointed out to me that Greg’s cell phone was like a fifth—or in his case, sixth—appendage, I averred, with only the barest hint of hysteria in my voice, that his battery must have gone dead, of course, that had to be it, because, after all, he’d helped me pick out the lousy flowers, for God’s sake, not to mention the cake and the invitations, so why wouldn’t he show up for his own goddamn wedding?

      “Maybe he’sa dead?”

      We all looked at my grandmother, calmly plucking at her underpants through the skirt of her new pink dress, who, being basically deaf as a post, had delivered this line loud enough to reach the Bronx.

      I shot a don’t-say-it look at my mother, resplendent in some schmata straight from The Lion King. Although, frankly, as the guests began to filter out in embarrassed silence, as the judge—flanked by Phyllis and Bob Munson, Greg’s parents—mumbled his condolences, as I bleakly surveyed the lavishly decorated, now-empty ballroom, I have to admit Kill the bastard had shot to the top of my To Do list.

      There’s no need for your mother to pay for the wedding, Greg had said. Between us, we can foot the expenses, right?

      Considering what we were doing when he laid that proposal on the table—which, come to think of it, pretty much describes our activity at the time—he could have probably suggested just about anything and I would have agreed. But even once again clothed and in my right mind, I still thought, well…sure. We both had solid careers— Greg had made partner in his midtown law firm before thirty, and my growing client base meant I hadn’t had to furtively paw through a markdown rack in years. Although, since Greg thought we should go halfsies, it meant dipping into my savings. Okay, annihilating them. We weren’t talking city hall and a reception at Schrafft’s. But, hey, Greg Munson was the pot of gold I’d inadvertently tripped over at the end of the rainbow. It was worth it, right?

      Do you have any idea how much a Vera Wang wedding dress costs?

      Do you have any idea, Shelby had said, appalled, when I’d weakly insisted, my eyes locked on my enchanted reflection in the dressing room mirror, I’d be just as happy with the ivory silk shantung Ellen Tracy suit I’d tried on three days ago in Bergdorf’s, how much you’d regret blowing this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to look like a princess?

      Do you have any idea, my mother had said, equally appalled, when I dragged her and Nonna into the Madison Avenue showroom to model the gown (Shelby’s princess comment having effectively annihilated my sticker shock), how many homeless people you could feed for what you just threw away on a dress you’re only going to wear once?

      Damn, girl, Terrie had said, hands parked on rounded hips that have seen action in two marriages and any number of skirmishes, you actually look like you’ve got tits in that dress.

      Could somebody hand me a tissue?

      My mother tried to convince me to ride back uptown with her and my grandmother, spend the night with them in my mother’s Columbia University-owned apartment. Since I’d basically rather put out my own eye, I declined. Which may seem extremely disrespectful to those of you who have someone other than Nedra Cohen Petrocelli as your mother.

      Okay, I suppose I’m being just the teensiest bit unfair. Nedra means well, she