The Whitney Chronicles. Judy Baer
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me, Lord? And when You send him, will You put a big label on him, please, so I don’t miss him?
With thankfulness that I have You to talk to,
Whitney
October 7
Today was a blur. I had breakfast, morning coffee, late-morning coffee, lunch, early afternoon coffee and late-afternoon coffee with clients while intermittently checking on the booth. The rest of the time I spent in the bathroom relieving myself of all that coffee. I drummed up enough business, however, to keep Harry happy into the next century. I feel a bonus coming on.
I found time to buy souvenirs for everyone, including the most spangled, outrageous T-shirt I could find—studded with rhinestones and in electric blue. Kim will love it, especially since I got a baby-size one for Wesley in the same color. I looked for a long time before I found something for Mom and Dad and finally settled on matching T-shirts that said His and Hers. Each has an arrow pointing across the shirt, supposedly to the person standing alongside you. It will give them something to do, trying to figure out if they have their arrows pointed in the right direction. I didn’t recall until later that there have been a number of recent examples of Dad’s trying not to claim Mom at all. Hopefully she’ll start leaving that little battery-operated fan at home when they wear the shirts.
Unfortunately, the evening did not go as smoothly as the rest of the day. I’d forgotten how territorial men could be, mostly because it never happens to me—until Eric and Matt faced off in the lobby outside the show.
While waiting for Eric near the exit, I was surprised to see Matt also approaching.
“Whitney, I know this is spur of the moment, but I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner at Spago? Sorry I didn’t ask you sooner, but my schedule…” Matt held his hands out helplessly. “I’m sure it’s been equally busy for you today.”
“Hiya, Whit. Ready for dinner?” Eric gave Matt the once-over, and his eyes narrowed.
“Eric, I’d like you to meet Matthew Lambert. Matt, this is Eric….”
I explained as best I could that Eric and I had made plans on the plane. Matt said, “I understand. It was nice to meet you, Eric,” and if he’d just stopped there, we’d have been okay. Unfortunately he added, “At least we had last night together” in a breathy voice that made Eric’s eyebrows go straight up into the thatch of sandy-brown hair tumbling over his forehead.
I didn’t know Eric had a jealous bone in his body. Apparently he has quite a few, and Matt managed to bruise them all. For the rest of the night, he studied me like a bug under a microscope, as if amazed that I had enough pheromones to attract anyone but him.
There were a dozen roses in my room when I returned and a note from Matt saying “Sorry we couldn’t talk business tonight—catch you later.” Later, room service arrived with a large pepperoni pizza. “From somebody named Eric,” the waiter said. “He told me he wanted you to have this in the morning because he knows cold pizza is your favorite breakfast.”
How could I ever choose between two men who know me as well as that?
October 9
Not one moment to myself today. My bladder is feeling flabby from being stretched to the max. Had most of a pot of coffee for breakfast and didn’t get to the ladies’ room until noon. Oh, the pain.
I leave the hotel tomorrow at 5:00 a.m. No time to see either Matt or Eric again. It’s probably for the best. I can’t face either one quite yet, since I have no idea what’s going on in their minds—or in my own.
October 10
Up at 3:30 a.m., in the air at seven, into the office by eleven, manic by lunchtime. No one could accuse me of not jumping right into an office frame-of-mind upon my return.
Mitzi gave me a dirty look as I entered, as if I’d been on vacation instead of working 24/7. Betty peered at me through those half-glasses middle-aged people who insist they don’t really need glasses use and told me in an accusing tone that I’d let mail stack up on my desk. And the cruelest cut of all, Bryan, sadist that he is, produced a large, heavy bond envelope addressed to me in calligraphy scrolls and embellished with a wax seal and one of those “Love” stamps that sell by the millions around Valentine’s Day and during the bridal season.
“Wipe that smirk off your face, Bryan,” I ordered, immediately out-of-sorts, “or I’m going to ask you to be my escort to this wedding. Then you’ll be the one having to dance with Whitney dressed as a human omelette in egg-yolk yellow satin and dyable shoes straight from the Marquis de Sade collection.”
Fear flickered on his face and he tried to retrieve the wedding invitation, but it was too late. He’d already made my shortlist of potential escorts.
Why couldn’t my friend Leah Carlson, who’d worked with the rest of us in this office until she’d earned parole, have had her bridesmaids wear something black and slinky? Wasn’t that the fashion now? Of course, Leah had an insecure streak, and in order to make sure that, as the bride, she was not outshone by anyone else, she’d made sure the rest of us looked utterly ridiculous, with puffy sleeves and large straw hats laden with silk flowers, ribbons and probably a resident parakeet. The only thing that cheered me about this designer fiasco was that Kim was also in the wedding, and she insisted that she looked even worse in yellow than I did. Misery does love company. So do women who are forced to look like chubs of butter rolling down an aisle.
“Need to get out for lunch?” Kim smiled knowingly at the invitation in my hand and tipped her head toward the door. “I’ll buy.”
“One lettuce leaf, one stalk of celery, one cherry tomato and water with a slice of lemon so thin as to be transparent, please.”
“I thought you were going to cut back. Doesn’t a cherry tomato have a calorie or two? Have you considered what it will do to your thighs?”
“Har, har, so not funny.” We went into the little luncheonette two doors down from our office building and I ordered “the usual” without opening my menu. Sad, isn’t it, when every waitress on every shift knows my “usual.” Of course, it’s not that hard to remember a house salad and a slice of dry toast.
“Other than the dress, are you excited about the wedding?” Kim, ever the optimist, assumed such a thing was possible.
“My mother has offered to make me a queen-size quilt of all the bridesmaids’ dresses I’ve ever worn. I’m sad to say she already has enough fabric to do the quilt and shams. This wedding will provide enough ugly fabric for the bed skirt.”
Kim leaned down to sip her Coke from the straw and looked up at me through her long, dark eyelashes. “This is not totally about the dress, you know.”
“I do know. It’s those torture implements they call shoes. They’ll dye them yellow, I’ll wear them until my eyes water and my feet blister and turn color. Then I’ll kick them off, destroy my nylons and have my toe broken by Leah’s four-hundred-pound uncle at the reception. And she wants us to put our hair up. Kim, I’ll look like Marie Antoinette!”
“It really bugs you that she’s getting married and you haven’t got a glimmer, doesn’t it?”
I hate it when she does that. Am I that transparent?
“I didn’t think so, but between this wedding and my mother’s fixation on marrying me off, I guess I’m a little sensitive right now.” The waitress came by with my house salad with a side of dry toast. “It’s crazy, too, because I’ve had more male attention in the past week than in the past four months.”
Kim listened with rapt attention as I told her my Eric/Matthew experiences in Las Vegas.
“What do you make of it?” she probed.
“Absolutely nothing. I can’t figure out what’s going on.”
“Because one man likes you, you’ve become more interesting to all the others—at least until you commit to one