There are no perfect men. There are no perfect men. Well, there is One, but He’s more than marriage material. Here on earth, there are no perfect men. I love my fiancé, Dr. Kevin Novak. He’s charming, gorgeous, treats me like a princess, and looks like he stepped off the silver screen. Everything a girl could want, right? But he also comes equipped with a textbook-quality dysfunctional family. My ex, Seth: normal family, freaky self. See? Life is all about weighing your options.
Kevin’s mother is the plastic-surgery queen, and while she looks great, there’s still something “off” about her appearance. Like she’s wearing a frightening yet beautiful mask. It makes me want to break into the song “Phantom of the Opera” and maybe a tad afraid to walk under chandeliers.
Kevin’s surgeon-father is as cold as his scalpel and just as cutting. He has this fascination with beauty and his narrow definition of it: eerily thin with facial skin pulled taut. I think his dream woman is probably one of those ultrathin actresses like Lara Flynn Boyle after liposuction. Dr. Novak’s issues will probably be the death of his wife. Age has a way of catching up with all of us eventually. Even Cher one day.
Then there’s the daughter, my bridal consultant: Emily. Emily is not thin by her father’s standards but borders on anorexic to the rest of us. She’s five-foot-nine and maybe weighs 130, blond, with exceptionally dewy Southern skin. She’s an overachiever in everything except employment. Kevin says she’s had ten jobs in the last four years, but they always end in disaster. She has either dated the boss, taken stock from an elderly stockholder, or once, nearly married a man of fifty-eight years. Additionally, she has been unable to get along with the other employees—which I can only assume means other female employees. In her repertoire, she’s been a dental office manager, a doctor’s assistant, a front-desk clerk at an elegant hotel, and a radio intern. Her last job was managing a small florist’s shop in Alpharetta, Georgia. Currently, she’s got the best gig going as my bridal coordinator. She can’t marry the boss (her brother), and she can’t get fired unless she succeeds in finding a better bride for her brother, which seems to be her priority.
My cell phone rings, and I plug the earpiece in. I’m tooling down the road, anxious to get to work yet understanding my presence will make no difference today other than the fact that Purvi will have someone to yell at about our patent being “stolen.” Purvi’s yelling has no effect on me any longer. She just gets it out of her system, and we’re back on track. I love her, and she loves me. We can handle our lack of communication skills. Though we probably drive those around us crazy.
“Hi, Kev,” I say into the phone as I turn my CD off.
“Ashley, what’s going on? How come you didn’t answer your phone?” His voice sends that surge of fear through me again.
“I’m just not having a stellar day. Thought I’d spare you the angst.”
“We’re sharing our angst, remember? That’s what married people do, share the angst.”
Not when my angst has a name and it’s your sister. “Right. You’re right. Emily went with Brea. They were going to continue to shop. I hope that’s okay.” It was either that, or I had to take her out.
“I don’t expect you to babysit her, Ashley, but they’re shopping without the bride? Isn’t that a bit odd?”
“I told Brea she has free reign over the bridesmaid dress, and they didn’t have long because of Brea’s kids. She knows what my dress looks like, and I’ll get final approval.” Here, I pause a minute. “Do you have a thing about Confederate soldiers?”
He laughs. “What?”
“I mean, what would you think if I had period soldiers at our wedding?”
“I’d think you’d gone over the edge, Ashley.”
Whew. “Just checking.”
“My sister is not trying to have a Southern wedding, is she? We talked about that.”
Can’t let Emily know I tattled. “I just wondered if you might want to include your heritage in the wedding, that’s all.” I don’t want to tell Kevin his sister is not the dream wedding coordinator. Scarlett’s maybe, but definitely not mine.
“Ashley,” he says with the utmost patience. “The Confederate flag would not go over big in California. Correct? I don’t want my coworkers thinking skinhead as you walk down the aisle.”
I start to giggle. “Skinhead. That’s funny. I just wanted to make sure. No Confederate flags.” I scribble onto scrap paper sticking out from my dashboard. No Confederate flags. As though I need a reminder.
“Are you coming to the hospital for dinner?” Kevin asks. I can almost see him staring at his watch, calculating the time window he might squeeze me into.
“You’re working again?” I groan.
“It’s Friday night. Why do you even have to ask?”
“Because I’m ever-hopeful, Kevin.” A fool, if you will. Once I had a boyfriend who never had the motivation to see me. Now I have a fiancé who never has time to see me. Like I said, you pick your battles. “I probably won’t be in tonight, Kevin. I need to work too. We lost a key patent today, and I need to let Purvi know I’m committed to getting this right next time. She thinks I’m doing nothing but planning the wedding.”
“Well, you’re only getting married once. She ought to understand, but it’s fine you’re working. I’ll probably only take half an hour for dinner anyway. I want to get home before Emily goes out. The last thing I need is her falling for another old man at some karaoke bar.”
“Some women like older men,” I say coyly. Kevin is a year younger than me. While I’ve grown accustomed to this fact, I’m not exactly comfortable with it. I was raised old-school, I guess: guy is taller and older. Well, we’re half there. At least I can wear heels with him.
“Some women know better than going older. You and Demi Moore have something in common. You know how to pluck a piece of fruit from the tree when it’s ripe for the taking. Not wait until it’s all raisinlike and requires prescription meds.”
I know he’s trying to make me feel better. But really, when he reminds me of my age, I feel like Mrs. Haversham standing around in my dress . . . waiting.
“You sound exhausted already. I’m thinking delirious. How long have you been working?” I pull into my company parking lot. I’m probably making this conversation last longer than it needs to, but I’m not ready to face Purvi or everything I’ve done wrong for the day. Emily’s coordinating is mistake enough.
“I’ve been working too long. I’ve lost count and I’m starting to have Ashley-humor. Meet me for breakfast tomorrow?”
“I’d love to.” I feel my stomach surge with excitement. How does he do that?
“I can’t wait to marry you, Ashley Stockingdale. I’ll make you breakfast in bed every Saturday, and I won’t have to meet you anywhere. I’ll open my eyes, and you’ll be there.”
“I’ve tasted your cooking before. Breakfast is not a big draw for me, actually.” I know he can hear the smile in my voice, but better to tease than actually think about my future. What if it doesn’t happen this way? It’s all about expectations, and if you don’t have any, you can’t be disappointed.
“I’ll have you know,” Kevin says, “there are women out there who would die to have my waffles for dinner.”
“I don’t doubt that, but it has nothing to do with your waffles. I think it’s probably closer to the fact that you look like Hugh Jackman on one of his good days, and skipping dinner to get right to dessert is probably why they want your waffles.”
“Whew! Getting hot in here. Definitely getting hot in here. I need to get back to work. I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow. Wear jeans. I miss my woman in jeans. How’s that for a sexist comment?”
“It’s California lawsuit material.”
“So sue me.”
“Is eight going to give you enough rest?” I ask, even though my mind is still wandering to Kevin in a robe with coffee.
“It’s going to give me enough time away from you. I’ll be up at six, regardless. Put me in your Blackberry.”
“I’ll be ready.” As I start to have romantic fantasies, reality strikes. “Is Emily coming to breakfast?”
“She’ll probably still be sleeping. But if she’s awake, I’ll invite her. It’s nice to see you getting to be friends. I’ll tell her you’re hoping she’ll come.”
“Right.”
I hear his name paged in the background. “Love you, gotta run.” He clicks off the line.
I turn up my CD and have one last listen to Chris Tomlin at full blast. Anything to pump me up for “losing” another patent. I’m bracing for Hurricane Purvi. Is it my fault that most patent examiners have minimal experience? Or that sometimes the concepts are just difficult for them to grasp? But I’m thinking negatively. Our patent hasn’t been denied, and it has to be different from Microsoft’s process. I just hope it’s different enough to warrant its own patent. I button up my suit coat and square my shoulders. I am Super Patent Attorney. If anyone can do it, I can. I’m strong to the finish.
I yank open the door to Gainnet. I’m ready for anything; just check out the squared shoulders. I have just survived the Ya Ya wedding coordinator; patents have nothing on me.
Purvi is in the hall, arms crossed over her chest, her foot tapping. She’s in Indian dress today. I’m thinking this does not bode well for me.
“The world must stop for you to get married?” Her hands are now flying.
“How long did your wedding last in India?” I shot back, knowing full well an Indian wedding is a much bigger deal. And judging by Purvi’s pursed lips, she knows I’m right, which only makes her angrier.
“You are an insolent thing. Just never mind. Did you see the patent pending?” she asks.
Obviously, I haven’t been into my office yet, but whatever. “No, I’ll get to it right away. Just calm down, Purvi. Yell at me when I know what you’re yelling about. It’s much more effective that way.”
She pounds her fist in her palm. “I want you to go back to engineering, and I want a new process. A better process that outstrips this!”
Yeah, like engineering suddenly works for us. In Silicon Valley, there is the engineering department, and then there are the rest of us “support” systems. Give me a break, I’m going to march in and tell engineering what to do. Right before they consider me the daily entertainment and fire my bum. Deep down, I know Purvi understands this. She’s got to be stressed, and judging by the Indian dress, it’s not a good day to upset her. When her husband is home, her mother-in-law (who lives with the family) tends to mark her territory and show Purvi who is woman of the house. I once heard that the Chinese symbol for unhappiness is two women under the same roof. If Purvi is any indication . . .
“Just let me take some notes and see where I am, Purvi, okay?”
“Where you are is back in Taiwan. The VP of engineering is there, and I want you to meet with him directly.” She claps her hands. “We’ve got to move on this.”
I’m calm. Ohm. Ohm. “He’ll be back next week. Don’t react, Purvi. Act, don’t react. Remember that management training they sent us to?” Now these words coming from me have very little effect, as I am the resident drama queen.
“With fire in his eyes, he’ll be back. I want to ward this off and be ready. This time, we’re ready,” she says in Patton form.
I slink to my desk and look at the paperwork in front of me, and suddenly my eyes widen. “Our patent was filed before this date.” Once again, stress for nothing. Like I need additional cortisol released in my system. Makes you fat, you know? “They need to review this at the patent office. It’s our intellectual property, Purvi.” I look through the files quickly.
“You’re avoiding the subject. I want you in Taiwan.”
I am avoiding the subject. Ashley Stockingdale, U.S. Patent Attorney. Look at the nameplate. It says nothing about Taiwan on there, am I right? I lift it off my desk for reassurance. If I’m not mistaken, U.S. stands for United States; no foreign nations mentioned.
My office phone rings. It’s my mother, according to caller ID. “My mom’s on the phone,” I say. Purvi, even in her excitement, knows a mother takes precedence. Purvi exits my office in a huff, and I kick the door closed gently. “Hi, Mom.”
“It’s Mei Ling, not your mom. Do you know where she is? I’m at her house, but she’s not here.” Mei Ling is my sister-in-law and the mother to my mom’s only grandchild. Which, of course, gives her priority as my mother’s favorite “daughter.”
“All I know is Mom couldn’t shop today because she had baby Davey. We went to the bridal boutique without her.” Trying to keep the pout out of my voice. She is my mother!
“Oooh, what did you pick for the dresses? Am I going to be a hot mama?”
Please. “Mei Ling, need I mention you’re a size four and I could put you in a gunny sack and you’d be a hot mama?”
“I’m a two, actually.”
“Must I hurt you?” I ask.
“I just didn’t want you to order me the wrong size,” she says in all innocence.
“I should make you wear padding if you’re going to stand up next to me.”
“As if Kevin will have eyes for anyone else. He’s really a guy who has some capacity to love. Very opposite of Seth.”
Not going there. “Did you call my mom’s cell phone?” I ask, getting back to the point of our conversation.
“I don’t know why you bought her that thing. She never carries it. I don’t think she even knows how to charge it.” Mei Ling pauses a moment. “Yep, here it is on the kitchen counter. Dead.”
“Is her car in the driveway?”
Another pause. “Yes.”
“Then she’s at the neighbor’s showing off Davey. Try 1705.”
“Thanks, Ashley, I knew you’d know. Somehow a daughter always understands how her mother’s mind works.”
Purvi’s outside my office window, and I can see that her bouncing, jittery self is anxious. I hang up the phone and go out to meet her. “Sometimes you’re hard to like, you know that?”
“I’m not here to be liked. I want to book you on Sunday’s flight and assure the VP that everything is under control.”
For the first time, I realize that marriage is going to impact my career. I’m planning a wedding, but more important, I’m getting married. To a man who spends his life saving sick children. Supposedly I have a dire emergency, and that means going to Taiwan to kiss the feet of an engineering VP. Please. If we’re going to get into the psychology of the moment, this is about Purvi trying to be above reproach while her husband is home; and I’m caught in the middle with a sixteen-hour plane ride. She’ll be over it by the time I’m in the air.
I shake my head. “I’m not going to Taiwan.”
“Ashley, it’s your job to go to Taiwan.” Purvi’s face is wrinkled with concern.
Forgive me here, I’m having a moment. A moment when I’m thinking, I’m getting married to a surgeon. Like I need this stupid job. But I get attacked immediately with a pang of guilt and the thought of doing my job as unto the Lord.
I look straight into Purvi’s brown eyes. Purvi’s like an Indian Barbie. She’s got this creamy exotic skin that makes you want to run and exfoliate. Plus, she’s got long, silky black hair that you can just see the model running her fingers through for a conditioner commercial. All this beauty combined with the intensity of Dick Cheney.
“Let me call Kevin first, all right? I can’t just take off to Taiwan without telling my fiancé,” I say.
“First, go meet with the new director of software. He’s got some processes he wants to speak to you about.”
“We have a new director of software?”
“He’s pretty good. Has some clean patent ideas already.” Purvi nods her head and looks at a piece of scrap paper in her hand. “His name is Seth. Seth Greenwood. We got him from Mitel.”
I can’t breathe. I just stand here shaking my head. “No,” I say aloud.
“No, what?”
I grab the scrap from her hand. Seth Greenwood.
Certainly, there are two Seth Greenwoods. There has to be. This one is not my ex-boyfriend. He can’t be. That Seth specialized in communications software. We make . . . I feel my eyes fall shut. We make networks. You don’t just change industries, but as soon as I think it, I know how related the fields are. My head is spinning, and I have lost the ability to swallow. Reality sinks in. There aren’t two Seth Greenwoods from Mitel. There’s only one. He’s bald, blue-eyed, and I once loved him with everything within me. This can’t be good.