I look down the hallways of Gainnet before creeping back to my office. I feel like a night prowler.
“Hey!”
“Ahh!” I scream as I turn around and see Tracy.
“What are you sneaking around for?” she asks.
“I’m not sneaking,” I say as I try to gather my bearings. My heart’s racing like the NASCAR leader. “What are you doing hunting the hallways like a bad spy movie? Sheesh, next thing you know, you’re dropping from a line in the ceiling.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re guilty. How was your wedding dress?” she asks with her arms crossed.
“Ghastly. Thanks for asking.”
“Purvi called while you were gone. To make sure you are working on the Sunflower project, I suppose.”
“What did you tell her?” Now I don’t want anyone lying for me, but I haven’t exactly been the pillar of employees lately either. I could use a slight fib.
“That you asked not to be disturbed. Which was partially true because you weren’t exactly here to bother.”
I exhale. “I’m going to get fired by a boss I got hired. All because I went to pretend I was a Southern belle. This ought to be interesting. But if anyone can succeed at total failure, my money’s on me this week.”
“Purvi’s in no mind to care about your wedding. She’s like the walking wounded. She barely had the will to ask about patents. When she asked about the Sunflower project, it was almost like she didn’t know what it was.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come in your office.” Tracy drags me in and shuts the door. “Purvi’s husband, Sagar, is here. He wants to take their son back to India.”
I gasp. “That boy means everything to Purvi. He can’t take him back.”
Tracy laughs. “He wants Purvi to go too. She’s his wife. He’s tired of living without his family, and he’s decided he doesn’t want to live here. He says it’s time to leave America behind for now so their son will know his culture. Their son can come back for college.”
I let this information wash over me. “How did you get all that out of Purvi?” She’s not exactly the personal life-sharing type.
“I talked to her mother-in-law when I called back to ask about a patent. I didn’t think she spoke English. But she does. Quite well, in fact.”
“Well, Purvi is not going to India,” I insist, but I know she probably is going. I know that Purvi loves this man we’ve never seen and that she misses her family back in India. His family, I should say. Purvi left hers when the marriage was arranged. It’s so hard for me to understand this part of her culture. Purvi is the most intellectually stimulating woman I know. She runs her law department like everything is of White House importance, and her command is gold. So it’s so hard for me to picture this complete submission she has to a man across the world.
Yet who am I to judge? The arranged marriage statistics are a lot better than our American ones. Sadly, even our Christian marriages. Purvi is a woman of principle. She’ll do what she must. And maybe that’s what it’s about, being committed to commitment. When I think about Philadelphia and the relatively small sacrifice on my part, I cringe. When a non-Christian is better able to sacrifice than me, who’s been given everything, it doesn’t do much for my spiritual ego.
Tracy starts to straighten up my office. “So be prepared. Purvi’s going to be all business until this gets settled. You might do that prayer thing you do.”
I pull a picture out of my purse, unwilling to face another work change. Avoidance is always best in these situations. “This is my true gown. I’m going to see if my sister-in-law, Mei Ling, can make it before I reorder it tomorrow.”
Tracy looks at the photo and oohs and ahhs appropriately. “I thought you just went to see your wedding gown.”
I shake my head. “That’s the imposter. I have plans for that one tonight.” Sinister thoughts enter my head. I’m going to get rid of that one tonight. I am not wearing that overblown yellow balloon. I’ll look like a stuffed sofa from That ’70s Show. The last thing a bride wants is to be mistaken for retro furniture. And not even good retro. No, it’s the era that brought us black lacquer and brass.
My phone rings, and Tracy, being the consummate professional and completely nosy, picks it up. “Ashley Stockingdale’s office. This is Tracy.” She slowly moves the phone away from her ear. “Charming,” Tracy says with lifted brows. “It’s Emily from Atlanta.” She hands me the phone while she mouths an obscenity.
“Ashley, did you go to your fittin’?”
“I did, and the handwork is just beautiful,” I say in my best bipartisan voice. I’ve learned in negotiating to throw in a positive before dropping the explosive. “But, Emily, that dress is not for me. It’s incredibly made, and I so appreciate that you’ve gone to the effort, but I look like the Michelin Man in it. I’d like to do a sleeker gown for my special day.”
“You have time to lose weight before the weddin’. Do you have a gym membership? Can Keh-vin arrange for you to work out at the hospital? Perhaps I can find you a Pilates instructor online.”
I’m squeezing my fists to avoid saying something I’ll regret.
“Perhaps a personal trainer?” she suggests. “Would you recover from a tummy tuck in time?”
“My weight is not the issue,” I say through clenched teeth. Now I’m no lanky model, but I’m not ever going to be—even if I starved myself. And dealing with Emily, the chances of me doing without chocolate are slim to none (or not so slim, as the case may be), so I’d say my weight is what it is. “You know how Scarlett wanted her eighteen-and-a-half-inch waist again? I have never had an eighteen-inch waist, at least not since I was four, and I just think this gown would be gorgeous on a younger, more anorexic bride.” Shouldn’t have added that last part.
Emily takes on my college psychology professor’s voice. “Listen, it’s all right with me if you want to be in denial, but the mirror doesn’t lie, even if my brothah does. You’ll have to live with the pictures telling that truth for a lifetime, and they’ll be plastered all over the society pages here. I don’t mean to be harsh, Ashley; I just wanted you to know. I’d be horrified if someone didn’t tell me.”
“Is there something you called about, Emily? I really need to get back to work.”
“Yes, your weddin’ schedule is goin’ to have to be strictly adhered to if we’re to get everything done in time. You have an appointment next month at Stanford Park Hotel, July 2 at 11:00 a.m., for a sample meal. I’m hopin’ Mothah and I can get there, and you should certainly invite your mothah. I wouldn’t count on Keh-vin with his schedule. Next Saturday, I’ve arranged for you and him to select wed-din’ gifts at Bloomingdale’s at ten, and I’m workin’ on the chapel. When selectin’ gifts, please be sure to provide as many gift options as there are invitations. You’ll need bed linens, table linens, china, crystal, proper cutlery, silver . . . I’ve told the sales representative everything. She’ll provide you with a checklist so you will understand and be able to have a proper weddin’ registry. You’ll need to decide if you’re hyphenatin’ your name for monogramming or if you’ll be takin’ Keh-vin’s last name. I advise the latter for Southern entertainin’. I’m faxin’ your schedule. Should you have any questions, get back to me as soon as possible.”
Sure enough, the fax machine starts to beep, and I see this endless list of useless things, the kitchen equivalent of the Tussy Mussy, rolling off the machine. I read the first few things on the registry.
Coffeemaker options. Um, walking down the street to the nearest espresso shop. There’s your coffeemaker options.
Flatware options. Um, silverware. Maybe a nice set of chopsticks for eating Chinese out of the box.
Linen essentials. Duvet cover. It rarely hits below 50 degrees here. No duck should have to die for my bedspread.
Crystal stemware. If these don’t go in the dishwasher, they don’t go in my kitchen.
Sushi plates for Japanese/seafood entertaining. Four sushi restaurants in walking distance. Count them. I’m sure they’ve already purchased the fish plates.
“Emily, I’m looking over this list, and we’ve had our own places for some time now. I hardly think we need all this. My mom never uses her china, and what will I do with crystal without Kay? I’d rather just have good day stuff.”
“Ashley, you’ll be a surgeon’s wife. You’re goin’ to be entertainin’ on a regular basis. You can hardly bring out the paper plates and plastic forks for the chief of surgery and his wife. My mothah was always ready for a drop-in guest, and I would hope you’d do the same for our darlin’ Keh-vin. Being a surgeon’s wife is a job of its own. I do hope you understand this.”
The fax machine is still spitting out lists. The funny thing is, I like lists, and I like shopping. You’d think I would enjoy this part. Somehow, Emily takes the fun out of it.
“Kevin and I both work ridiculous hours. I’m just not the type to polish silver, Emily. I don’t think that’s why he’s marrying me.” If it is, Lord have mercy!
“Then you’ll hire someone. My mothah says your new house will have a maid’s quarters.”
“A maid’s quarters?” Hello, like I really want some cute young thing who can clean better than me living in my house. “We don’t have a house. We haven’t even started looking, and I should think I’ll know if it will have a maid’s quarters. It won’t, by the way.”
Tracy’s eyebrows knit together, and I can see she’s dying to know what Emily is saying.
“See page three of your agenda, Ashley.”
It says, “House Hunt,” with three addresses and a realtor’s name. “Has your brother told you he’s considering Philadelphia?” Now I’m not considering Philadelphia, but if it gets me out of the in-law real estate tour, bring on the cheesesteak.
“My fathah is ready to go into escrow on one of these three housing options. Philadelphia is not on his list of sites. This will have to be something to add to your agenda if it’s a priority.”
“Let me study this schedule, and I’ll get back to you with changes, Emily.”
“No, no, no, no, no. No changes. This is the schedule we must adhere to if we’re goin’ to pull off a weddin’ of any caliber. Invitations must be mailed in July, which means you need your chapel, your reception information, and your gift registry filed and ready for people to send gifts.”
Bridezilla has nothing on the Coordinator.
Seth comes into my office, ignoring the small fact that I’m on the phone. “Did you look up the comps yet, Ashley?”
I just can’t help myself. I start to scream, and both Tracy and Seth look at me like I’m crazy.
Emily is still barking orders.
“I have to go.” I hang up on her without another word. Seth and Tracy are both looking at me with intrigue. “What?”
“You screamed,” Seth says.
“Did I?”
“You did,” Tracy agrees.
“I feel like screaming again. ‘Get out of my office’ comes to mind.”
Seth grins that disarming smile of his. “Let’s go get some coffee.”
“I don’t want coffee. I want to work.”
My office phone rings again, and I pick it up and shoo the odd couple out. “Ashley Stockingdale.”
“Ashley, it’s your mother.”
Joy. “Hi, Mom.”
“Aunt Babe wants to throw you a shower before she leaves for Las Vegas on vacation. She’s got this great idea of having a lingerie party! I have to admit, it wasn’t my first choice, but I think it will be fun after she described it.”
That’s all this day needs, the idea of my great-aunts providing me with a thong selection. “Mom, I don’t think that’s especially appropriate. We barely know Kevin’s family, and they might think their son is getting a loose woman with that sort of shower. Underwear is sort of a personal shopping experience.” Or it should be.
“Nonsense. It will be funny. Someday you’ll look back and laugh about it. The day when you can’t get a leg into it, you’ll just roll.”
I think not. You know, call me naive, but I’m hoping that I’ll be able to get my leg in a honeymoon-something for a lifetime. “What does Mei Ling think of the idea?”
“She doesn’t like it either. I’ll admit it’s not traditional, but I thought you young girls were more hip than that.”
“Apparently not. Mom, I can’t believe this would be something you’d approve of. You wouldn’t let me wear a George Michael shirt in high school because he sang that song about sex, and this is akin to the family knowing my underwear choices.”
My mom clears her throat. “I’m sure it will be very tasteful, Ashley. You’ll be married. It’s not like they’re contributing to your delinquency. You’re lucky to have your great-aunts around to care about you so much.”
“Mom, Aunt Babe thinks home shopping for cubic zirconia is tasteful. What if I get a bunch of marabou feathers and colored lace?” I hate colored lace.
“You needn’t be snotty, Ashley. It’s nice that the aunts want to do this for you. As they say, don’t look a gift rabbit in the face.”
“Gift horse, Mom. The rabbit was in that weird English movie you like.”
She starts to laugh. “Oh right, The Holy Grail. Well, you understand my meaning.”
“I do, and that’s what scares me.”
“So does the weekend of August 7 work for you?”
“The weekend works for me. The lingerie, not so much. What if Kevin thinks he married some hoochie mama?”
“Ashley, receiving a gift doesn’t mean you have to put it on. Just put a pleasant smile on your face and say thank you. Think of it as a white elephant party with underwear. You can always pass it on.”
“Ya think? Mom, Kevin’s family is all worried that I have the right china and monogramming for the towels. I’m afraid this invitation to a lingerie party might upset them.”
“I can tell you something, Ashley. Lingerie will do more for your marriage than china.”
Ewwww! “Never mind, Mom. I got the idea. The seventh is fine for the shower.” After all, I can’t wait to see what my sparkly aunts think is sexy. “And Kevin’s family will be across the country. I assume that’s best.”
“Be sure and invite some people from work, Ashley. It will be nice to share you personal side with them.”
“Mom, I’m not inviting people at work to buy me underwear. It’s just not professional. We don’t need to get that personal.” Besides, the idea of Tracy walking into Victoria’s Secret for me scares me, to say the least.
“Well, okay. You certainly know best in that arena. You’ve done very well in your career. I can help you this weekend if you’re ready to make the candy almond favors.”
“I think it’s too soon. The candy is going to get stale.”
“No one eats it anyway. It’s not really for consumption.”
“I eat it! Mom, thanks for your help and the shower information. I have to get back to work.” Dang, I sound ungrateful. “You’re the best, Mom!”
“All right, sweetheart. Give Seth—I mean Kevin—I always forget the boy’s name. Give Kevin a kiss for us.”
It’s dark by the time I get out of work, but the Sunflower project is well on its way to Patentville. I drive up to the wedding shop, and it’s completely dark. There’s a Starbucks on the corner, but it’s half a block away, and its green glow only makes the wedding shop look darker. I peek in the window, catching my second glimpse of the Scarlett gown hanging there: a neon, tea-stained beacon of historical fashion. It’s taunting me from its central location in the store. I breathe heavily with anticipation. I can’t wait to get the gown in my hands. To show Kevin why it won’t work to have his sister as our coordinator. Physical proof that I am neither crazy nor living in a time warp and that the Coach portfolio contains Emily’s dream wedding, not my own.
I clutch the picture of my true wedding gown in my pocket. “Vera Wang, Mei Ling style,” I say aloud. When Mei Ling sees my gown, she’ll see it for the fashion emergency it is. Her sewing machine will become alive with fervor. Besides, I bought Mei Ling’s red Chinese wedding gown for her reception. She owes me.
I take the key out of my pocket. It glistens under the green glow of the Starbucks sign. The key slides in easily, and I turn on the lights as I enter. I’m like a kid in a candy store: veils and garters and gowns, oh my! The only place I’d rather be at night is in the New York diamond district with my pick of the platinum, putting my careful knowledge of the four Cs into action!
So I won’t get Hannah into trouble, I lock the door behind me and go straight for my gown. Okay, I’ll finally admit it really is lovely, but it reminds me of something a little girl would play dress-up in, not something a bride would actually wear. Still . . . Hannah said the detail work was exquisite, and there’s something stirring within that says maybe I should give it one more chance when I don’t have such an attentive audience.
I pull it into the dressing room and try it on. The three-way mirror isn’t nearly as bad when you don’t have anyone staring. I can’t loop the buttons, so I pull the neckline closed with my hand. I stare for a time, then I notice flashing red lights. “What the heck?” I say aloud as I go toward the front of the store. There’s a policeman on his radio. Good thing I’m in here. The last thing I need is to be in the middle of a police action.
I go back to the mirror when I hear the pounding. “Police! Open up!”
“Gosh, they are close.” I venture another look out the window.
“You, the bride! Open this door.”
My heart is in my throat. “Me?” I say with my hand on my chest.
“You, princess. Open the door.”
I am wearing a Scarlett O’Hara gown. It’s like I’ve been awakened from a dream world, only it’s really much more of a nightmare because I’m dressed most inappropriately. I pride myself on being dressed appropriately for all occasions. But answering to a cop, I’m not sure of the proper dress.
“Open this door!” he shouts again.
I shuffle the gown toward the door and unlatch the deadbolt. The police officer takes a look at the dress and fights a battle with laughter. Finally, it bursts forth. He covers his face with his hand. He’s handsome, albeit short, and his mustache is twitching. His laughing isn’t doing anything to endear him to me.
“What’s so funny?” I ask with a hand on my hip. Like I’ve got any space for an attitude.
“Nothing. Can I ask what you’re doing in here after hours? Dressed like—like that?”
I swish the skirt around and straighten my shoulders, trying to maintain a sense of dignity. “I’m picking up my wedding gown. It was flown in from Atlanta today,” I say with false pride and authority. “See? I have a key.” But the key is momentarily missing. “Just a minute. I’ll find it.”
“You may have a key, missy, but you set off the silent alarm. Unless you have the code to turn it off, you’re going to have to come with me.”
“Just call the owner. I’m sure this is all very easily solved. See, Hannah had a date tonight, and—”
“Gee, her number isn’t in my PDA.” He’s got his arms crossed.
“Sarcasm in a police officer is not a positive trait,” I chastise. Of course I don’t have the owner’s number. I don’t even have Hannah’s cell, and she’s out on a date. This is not good.
“I’m waiting.”
“This is all a slight misunderstanding. My girlfriend Hannah works here. She lent me her key, and—”
“I’m sure your story is true, because I can’t believe anyone would break in for dress-up in that gown, but I still have to take you to the station. They’ll check out your story, and I can get back on the street fighting the real bad guys.”
“The station? No, no. I can’t go to the station. Think of all the paperwork you’ll have. I was arrested last year for assaulting an officer with my Prada, and I’m a lawyer, and—” His jaw has dropped. “I’m not helping my case here, am I?”
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.”
“No, this is not a court case. It’s just a misunderstanding. Look, here’s the key! Hannah must not have told her boss.”
“Good. Breaking and entering will be left off the charges.” He swipes the key from my hand. “I’ll take that, thank you.”
“I’ll take the dress off. Just give me a minute—” As I start to wander towards the dressing room in a dizzying fog, he shakes his head and pulls me back by the elbow.
“You have the right to an attorney present now and during any future questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney—”
“Stop the Miranda Rights. I’m a lawyer. Why would I break into a wedding shop?”
“Maybe it’s some fantasy you’ve developed. Who knows what fetishes people have? I’ve seen them all.” He grabs me by the elbow and escorts me to the flashing red lights. The people on the sidewalk outside of Starbucks are having quite the laugh. “Fine, I won’t arrest you until we check out your story, but you’re still coming with me.”
“Hey, look! Princess Fiona is getting arrested,” I hear one of them shout.
I am going to the police station. In custody. Dressed like Scarlett O’Hara. And I was worried about a lingerie shower. I’d take a private marabou teddy moment over this any day.