Slightly Married. Wendy Markham
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I’d have known I was going to be stuck there this late, I would have said we should celebrate another night.”
“It’s okay…Here, we ordered you your raspberry margarita.” Brenda hands it over. “Actually we ordered one when we first got here, but we had to drink that. This is your freebie second. It’s a little melted.”
It’s pure liquid, but who cares? I take a sip and the tepid tequila burns its way down to my empty stomach. Pure heaven after a hellacious day in Account Exec Land.
“Come on, come on, give it over.” Latisha snaps her fingers and beckons for me to show her my left ring finger. “Let’s see what Jack did.”
I grin and thrust out my hand, wiggling my fingers and admiring the way the marquis-cut diamond catches the red and green neon light reflecting from the Tequila Murray’s Semi-Kosher Mexican Restaurant sign in the nearby window.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm. Look at you!” is Latisha’s satisfyingly appreciative response. “Girlfriend, that is some serious bling.”
Yvonne lifts a raspberry-colored eyebrow—tinted to match her raspberry-colored hair, which just so happens to match my melted raspberry margarita—to indicate her approval.
“Did I not tell you it was go-aw-jus?” Brenda asks in her Jersey accent, which always becomes more pronounced after a margarita or two.
“You even got a manicure,” Yvonne observes, knowing my fingernails are usually a mess.
“Don’t look too closely.” I withdraw my hand. “I did it myself last night. And I messed up a few nails trying to type while they were wet.”
“Typing?” Latisha shakes her cornrows in dismay. “Please don’t say you were working on a Sunday night.”
“I wasn’t working, I was online looking up wedding stuff.” I reach into the black tote bag and rifle around for the manila folder that doesn’t contain statistics geared toward constipated barbecue-goers.
“When are you going shopping for your dress?” Brenda asks. “Because I can come with you, if you want.”
“I already found my dress.” I pull out a dog-eared, months-old clipping from Modern Bride. “What do you think?”
Two agree that it’s beautiful, the other—guess who?—declares it go-aw-jus.
“The ad lists stores that carry it and there’s one on Madison, so I’m going to go up there as soon as I can and order it so it’ll be in on time.”
I’m about to tell them that I’ve also picked out the bridesmaids’ dresses—navy velvet sheaths—but first, I have to officially ask them to be in the wedding.
Before I can do that, Brenda asks, “Did you set a date yet?”
“Honey, she set a date last year,” Yvonne comments.
Which is true.
Still…
“Jack and I are thinking the third Saturday in October would be good.”
Rather, I’m certain the third Saturday in October is when we’re getting married, because I called Shorewood on the sly yesterday. I didn’t even give my name, because I don’t want the news of my engagement to leak back to my family through the small-town grapevine.
Although the banquet manager, Charles, wasn’t in, the waitress who answered the phone checked the book for me and said it looked like the date had been booked by someone else then crossed out. I was supposed to call Charles back today to check, but of course, I never had time.
So, yes, I’m fairly certain that we’re getting married on the third Saturday in October.
I tried to discuss the details with Jack a few times yesterday, but got nowhere. Still in the basking mode, he kept asking why we had to worry about details now.
Let me tell you, it’s a relief to be able to discuss the details with someone, even if it isn’t the actual groom.
“This is where I want to have the wedding,” I say, passing around a photo I printed off Shorewood’s Web site last night. “It’s a country club up in my hometown, right on the lake.”
“Lake Tahoe?” Yvonne asks cluelessly.
“No. Lake Erie,” I say. “Lake Tahoe is out West somewhere. California. Anyway—”
“It’s in Nevada,” Latisha cuts in. “I know because Derek wanted us to elope there at one point.”
“No, it’s in California,” Yvonne rasps, holding somebody’s margarita straw like a cigarette. I can tell she’s itching for a smoke. Who isn’t at this point?
Brenda starts to protest. “No, it’s in—”
“California!” Yvonne cuts in. “I was there once, a long time ago, and the only time I was ever in Nevada was when I was a showgirl in Vegas.”
“You were a showgirl in Vegas?” Brenda asks incredulously. “I thought you were a showgirl in New York. A Rockette.”
“Well, I was a showgirl in Vegas, too. Just for a few months,” she adds ominously, and I gather that stint didn’t have a happy ending.
“Well, you were also in Nevada more than once,” Latisha informs her, “because that’s where Lake Tahoe is.”
“Maybe it’s in both states,” Brenda interjects. “Like the Grand Canyon.”
“The Grand Canyon isn’t in California and Nevada!” I protest, wondering why we’re talking about western geography in the first place. I use it to segue neatly into eastern geography with, “Getting back to Lake Erie, though—”
“No, I know, the Grand Canyon’s in Arizona and Utah,” Brenda cuts in. “Jeez, I’m not as dumb as I look. What I meant was, it’s in two states, and maybe Lake Tahoe—”
“I don’t know…is the Grand Canyon really in Utah?” Latisha asks. “I’m trying to picture it on the map. I don’t think it’s in Utah.”
“Paulie went out there to hike the canyon a few years ago with his buddies right before we got married,” Brenda says, “and I know he said they were going to Utah because I remember I told him not to let those polygamists out there give him any ideas.”
“Oh, for the love of God.” Yvonne pulls out a cigarette and her lighter and heads for the door.
“What?” Brenda asks with an innocent little frown.
“Come on, baby girl…” Latisha shakes her head. “Do you really think Utah is swarming with polygamists who want to brainwash a bunch of hiking cops from New York?”
Who cares about any of this? is what I want to scream.
“Speaking of New York cops, Paulie’s on the night shift, so I’ve got to get home.” Brenda throws down a couple of twenties and pushes her chair back. “That covers me and my share of Tracey’s.”
“Thanks,” I say, “but you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” Brenda stands over me and gives me a big squeeze. “This is your engagement celebration, remember?”
Yeah.
Only I forgot.
“Hey, wait, Brenda—”
She turns around, en route to the door. “Yeah?”
“I want you to be a bridesmaid. Will you?”
She grins broadly. “Of co-awse. It would be an hon-ah.”
Left alone at the table with temporarily abandoned Yvonne’s coat and purse and Latisha, I hastily add, “You, too. Will you be my bridesmaid?”
“Hell, yes,” she says, and hugs me hard.
I