“Mom! Guess what?”
The childlike sound of Jordan’s voice threw Camille for a bittersweet loop as she looked up from her drafting board. She held her breath, half expecting a much younger Jordan to come bounding into the workshop. She felt ridiculous when she caught herself. Misty eyes. Prickly throat.
Damn hormones.
“We’ve found a house. Maybe. We think we have.”
Oddly, the news hit Camille like a bucket of ice water.
“A house? A rental?” No wonder Jordan was excited. It was hard to find a single-family house for rent in the Twin Cities suburbs.
“To buy!” Jordan enthused as she claimed her favorite workshop perch—the tall blue stool that Camille herself had used to gain a good view of her father’s woodworking. “We’ve been looking for an apartment, but rent is outrageous, even on a place as small as the one James is living in. The agent we’ve been working with showed us a house that has renters in it now, but the owner wants to sell it.”
She clasped her hands, barely able to contain herself. “Oh, Mom, it’s perfect. Almost exactly halfway between his office and my school, and not too far from you.”
“I thought you were planning to stay in James’s apartment until you had a little more—”
“In savings, I know, but this is such a great opportunity. We have almost enough money for the down payment now. In fact, if we skipped the honeymoon, I think we could do it.”
“Skipped the honeymoon?” Skipping wasn’t good. Not now. They were too far into the fairytale-wedding plans to lop off the tail and leave any ends loose. Camille swiveled her stool toward Jordan. “What does James say about that? Most men want to skip right to the honeymoon.”
“He likes the house,” Jordan said, her effusiveness fizzling.
“And?”
“And we’d need a little help.” Her eyes gave away her request with an advanced apology. “Obviously, we can’t ask his parents, so…”
“Are you asking me?”
“At the moment, only hypothetically. I’m just asking whether you would consider helping us with a down payment on a house if we were to ask.”
“I would consider doing anything you asked me to do, Jordan. You know that. But right now…” Please don’t ask.
“You’d do it?”
“Right now we’re up to our eyebrows in wedding plans, and I don’t know why you’d want to cancel your honeymoon.”
“Not cancel, but maybe postpone. It’s a great house, and great starter houses are scarce right now.” Jordan grabbed Camille’s hand, which was an unusual gesture for Jordan. “I’m just wondering whether it’s an option.”
“I guess I would need to hear more details.” Camille hadn’t realized that buying a house right out of the gate was under consideration. “You know, I did suggest—”
“I don’t know the details yet,” Jordan said quickly. “So you’re saying you would consider helping us out once I have more details?”
“The word ‘consider’ is fairly broad, honey. As I said, without really committing much, I can honestly say that I would consider anything you ask. But right now we have our hands full with your wedding.”
Jordan’s grin was infectious. “I’ll take that as a definite maybe.”
“I wouldn’t try taking it to the bank,” Camille warned as the roar of a familiar engine encroached on the conversation.
“Dad’s here.” Jordan popped off the stool as though she’d been sitting on a spring. “Maybe I could take him to the bank.”
“He doesn’t even know where the bank is.” The affronted look in her daughter’s eyes took much of the satisfaction out of Camille’s clever sarcasm. The rest was lost in guilt. She touched Jordan’s cheek in a motherly gesture. “He’d find it for you, though. Don’t…don’t take him to the cleaners.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s helping with the wedding. Your dad’s always been an easy come, easy go kind of a guy. Never tight with his money when he has it, never too worried about it when he doesn’t.”
“Worrying was your job,” Jordan acknowledged.
“That’s not the best plan for division of labor if you’re looking for marital bliss. But I guess you know by now that if you want something, and your dad has the money, it’s yours. Make a wish in his presence and he’ll find a way to grant it. He loves to be able to pull a wad of cash out of his pocket and plunk it in your hand.”
“Your hand.”
“Sure,” Camille agreed as she took a peek out the window. “My hand, your hand, whatever.”
Pulling a final drag on a cigarette, Creed was out there in the driveway, hunkering down to examine the cracks in the asphalt. She missed having a man around to fix things, and she knew she’d come home one day and find the driveway patched and resurfaced. But with Creed the caveat had always been if he stuck around long enough.
“You’re his princess,” Camille said, turning from the window. “If you need a crown or a coach, you tell your dad. Just don’t ask him for the everyday stuff. Unless it’s something he can fix with his own hands.”
“I was only kidding. I’m not going to ask him. I asked him for a car once.”
“A car?”
“After I got my license, I wanted my own car. Remember?”
“How can I forget? I heard it at least twice a day for two years. But I didn’t know you asked him.”
“I always thought that when you said no it was just because you didn’t want me to have something. He never said no the way you did. He always made me feel like he wanted to say yes in the worst way, that he hated letting me down when he had to say no. I ended up feeling just terrible about asking him for the car. He had such a sad look, like somebody had pulled the rug out, landed him on his butt, and when he looked up, he saw that it was me.”
Camille knew that look. Hearing its architect open the back door, she laughed. “But it never bothered you when I said no.”
“Of course not,” Jordan said. “You did it with such flair.”
“Just for future reference, I’ll let you in on a little motherhood secret. If you expect to hold the line with your kid, you have to adopt an attitude. Use it. Believe in it.” Creed appeared in the doorway just as she was admonishing, “Stick to it. Otherwise you’ll be caving in all over the place.”
“The Camille Delonga attitude is hardly a secret.” Jordan slipped her arm around Creed’s slim waist. “Right, Dad?”
“I would have to say ‘No comment.’”
“I would have to say that the Jordan Burke attitude is pretty obvious, too.” Along with the old Daddy’s-girl routine, Camille thought. But it was okay. Although it was hard to look at the two standing together in her workshop like that, one just visiting, the other soon leaving. Her feet located the clogs under the desk. She looked up smiling as she slipped them on. “Our attitudes sort of work in tandem.”
“No way.”
“Sorry. You can pick your friends, and you can pick your fiancé, but you can’t pick your mother. One of these days you’ll hear yourself sounding like me.”
“No way!” Laughing, Jordan led the way to the kitchen. “Whose car are we taking?”
“Mine.” Camille found her purse on the counter and checked for keys. “Why don’t you ask James to stop in later, and we can talk about your housing needs over supper.”
“Not tonight.”
Camille knew a loaded answer when she heard one, but she managed to contain the automatic Why not? behind a smile. “Whenever you’re ready. Right now are you ready for cake?”
“I know what I want.” Grateful for the change of subject, Jordan pulled a magazine clipping from the side pocket of her purse and showed it to her parents.
“That’s an ad for Barnett’s Bakery,” Camille said. “They’re supposed to be pretty spendy.”
Jordan pouted in disgust. “But really good. Of course, a cake is a cake. Let’s just go to the grocery store and buy something in a—”
“Let’s compromise,” Camille suggested. “I’ve done some research, and I’ve made an appointment with the Bakery at Byerly’s. It’s not Bridget’s first choice either, but I understand they’re a little more reasonable. We’ll sample. If it’s not what you want—”
“I don’t care what it tastes like. I don’t even like cake that much.” Jordan smacked the clipping with the back of her fingertips. “But I want it to look like this. This is classy, and it goes with my dress.”
“Bring the picture. You pick the style, your dad picks the flavor, and I have the final word on price. Is it a deal?”
“You’re going to let me eat cake now?” Creed snapped to attention. “Where’s James? I need some male backup.”
“I’m carrying his proxy,” Jordan said.
“Meaning he’s staying out of it?” Camille supposed. “Wise man.”
“As long as he shows up at the church with a ring in his pocket,” Creed said as he punched the garage-door button.
Thanks to a helpful pastry chef named Belle Jensen and her tasty wares, they were able to please Jordan with the look she wanted at an affordable price. Belle explained that the white chocolate rolled fondant in Jordan’s picture could be done in plain white fondant, which she could “pearlize” with some sort of shiny confection. By serving a chocolate groom’s cake decorated with a trout on the hook, they could get away with a smaller, more elegant wedding cake. Creed played the role of buffer as well as taster, helping to steer the decisions toward the happy compromise Camille was hoping for.
With the removal of each calendar page, compromise seemed harder to come by. In all the excitement Camille wondered whether Jordan was beginning to believe she’d had an infusion of royal blood. Being the center of attention was bound to take its toll, Camille decided. And it couldn’t last, not even for a princess. The ephemeral bride would soon be a normal woman, settling down to everyday life. For now she ought to be able to have her pearlized cake and eat it, too.
Three weeks before the wedding the bridesmaids hosted Jordan’s bridal shower at Bridget’s house, which Bridget intended to occupy until the day Tim and his lawyer pried the key from her hands. Camille tried to stay out of the shower planning, but she had ideas, and she ran into bargains, and such serendipitous finds could not be ignored. She personalized scented soap for party favors and made centerpieces and floral place-card holders. Rosemary shopped her favorite Internet auction sites for hand-trimmed hankies and costume jewelry from the 1940s for game prizes. The games became competitive, the jokes risqué, and the laughter riotous.
Inevitably Rosemary ended up on the sidelines with Ramona Mayfield. They were the grandmothers, after all. They exchanged what they knew of the other two grandmothers. Creed’s mother had passed away sometime ago, Rosemary explained. Ramona had heard that Bridget’s mother, who had moved to Florida, hoped to be there for the wedding.
“She’s older than we are,” Ramona said.
Rosemary wondered how Ramona had come to that conclusion, but she wasn’t curious enough to ask. Ramona dyed her hair black and wore it long. One big mistake on top of another. Not that Rosemary could win any beauty contest at the moment, but if they decided to hold an American Grandma pageant next year, she’d be ready. For now she had her wigs in several colors, but no black. She tried to imagine herself with black hair. She’d probably look worse than Ramona. The image of two black-haired crones perched side by side on Bridget’s antique deacon’s bench made Rosemary laugh out loud.
Heckle and Jeckle.
“Look at that little veil thing they put on Jordie,” she said in response to Ramona’s what’s-so-funny? look.
“They shouldn’t have these things so close together,” Ramona said. “Wedding, divorce, wedding. My Lord, how are we supposed to keep up with it all? Isn’t there some sort of unwritten rule about spacing? All we need is a funeral between now and—” Ramona caught herself and quickly offered a ghoulishly red-lipped smile. “You seem to be holding up well, Rosemary.”
“You do, too.”
“Well enough. I don’t usually come to these things, but with my son’s recent descent into absurdity, I wanted to be here for the Mayfield side of the family. It’s only right.”
“You were at Lauren’s wedding.”
“I make an appearance at the important events. Funerals, weddings, the occasional holiday gathering. Just to keep up with who’s doing what, you know.” She patted Rosemary’s hand. “At our age you have only one thing left to do, and you want to make it count for something.”
Our age again?
“What’s that?”
“Divvy up the worldly goods.” Ramona fairly cackled. “I’m keeping my eye on them. They know it, too. Just like I used to tell them when they started making their Christmas lists. Santa sees your every move. You’ll only get what’s coming to you.” She turned toward Rosemary with new interest. “Have you a plan in place?”
“I don’t have a lot. I’m giving Jordan some things now that she’ll be setting up her own home.”
“I mean a funeral plan.”
“For myself?” Rosemary laughed. “That’s one family event I don’t plan on attending.”
“But you don’t want them making decisions about your final arrangements when they’re grieving. Who knows what they’ll come up with?”
“Well, I’ve—”
“And you want the affair to do you justice, to make a statement. I could recommend a wonderful planner. He is an absolute artist.”
“I think I’ll get myself a little more coffee.” Rosemary stood abruptly, ready to scream, set to bolt. But not without proper comportment. “Would you like some?”
“Oh, no, dear, that stuff’ll kill you.” Ramona arched a penciled eyebrow. “I wonder what’s in that decanter on the buffet?”
“It looks like sherry.”
Ramona nodded once. “Sherry would be very nice, thank you.”
“Will you all excuse the bride for a minute?” Lauren called from the kitchen. “The groom is on the phone.”
Jordan sprang from the wingback chair that had been designated the seat of honor. “Maybe he’s heard from the real-estate agent.”
Camille presented another round of game prizes. Bridget served another round of snacks, checked her watch, caught Camille’s attention with a pointed glance at the pile of wrapped gifts. Camille shrugged. Bridget redirected the pointed glance toward the kitchen. Camille had a feeling she didn’t want to go there. She tried a signal from the doorway, but Jordan ignored it. The conversation was looking pretty intense, which reminded Camille of Jordan’s first boy-girl birthday party. The girls had spent much of the party talking on the phone, trying to persuade one guy that even though her mother was home she wasn’t at the party and another that he could bring his video game with him.
“Jordan. Honey, this party is in your honor.”
“I have to get back, James. We’ll talk about this later.” Jordan scowled. “But there is something to talk about. I know this isn’t the only house, but it’s the perfect house, and if—” She glanced up at Camille, then quickly turned her back. “No, I’m not. But you’re not treating me like an equal partner either.” Pause. “Don’t say that. Don’t even—” Jordan sighed. “I have to get back to this stupid party now. Yes. Thanks a lot. Bye.”
She slammed down the receiver, turned, glanced at her mother, then back at the phone. Wrapping her arms around herself, she quietly admitted, “He’s mad at me.”
“The house?”
“Sort of.” Her lower lip trembled as a tear fell. “It’s more than that. He thinks I…”
“Come on and open your presents, Jordan.” Lauren’s bright smile vanished. “What’s wrong? Was that still my brother on the phone?” Lauren rushed to Jordan’s side, augmenting the drama with a bride-to-bride embrace. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s just a big bunch of hot air sometimes.”
“He’s just my future…h-h-husbannnd.”
“Jitters,” Lauren translated for Camille. “Oh, Jordan, it’s perfectly normal. This close to the big day, I was the same way.”
“He says I’m not…”
“He’s got jitters, too.”
“But what if he…”
“He won’t. They say they will, but it’s their last gasp of bachelorhood. Like a fish flopping around on the dock.” Lauren leaned back, bugged her eyes, thrust out her lips, and turned her hands into makeshift fins. Her fish imitation extracted a blubbering giggle from the bride.
“All it takes is a wife to make a man of the poor dear.”
“Says the old married lady,” Camille said, laughing.
“A fishwife!” Jordan wailed.
“We’re taking her out after the shower,” Lauren told Camille. “All she needs is a night out with her maids. Don’t worry. We’ll have a designated driver, and Jordan doesn’t even have to call not it.”
“Do you want me to drive?” Camille offered.
“Sorry.” Lauren grinned. “No moms allowed.”
Ramona was the last to leave. Bridget, who had brought her, was amused to discover her tippling. She made a deal with Lauren to take her grandmother home in return for relief from cleanup detail.
“Rosemary, you rascal,” Bridget teased after the girls had left. “You got my mother-in-law drunk.”
“I found a way to add spirit to the conversation. It was either get her to change the subject or hit the bottle myself, and I’m trying to keep the spirits at bay these days.” Rosemary wagged a finger. “That’s the last time you’re putting me on grandma detail.”
At home, Rosemary went to bed, leaving Camille to post-party blues. She had a pair of fire screens in progress, but working on them seemed too much like work work. She needed a gradual letdown, a bit of play work. Applying silk flowers to grapevine wreaths was more appealing, but she wondered about the length for the swag that would go with the wreaths. She needed to take another look at the room, which would require a visit to the Countryside Inn.
It was Saturday night. The place would be busy. Probably something going on in the banquet room. If there was a band playing, the bar would be crowded.
If there was a band playing?
She wouldn’t hang around. She just needed to take a peek.
The doors to the banquet room were closed for a conference dinner. No decorations, no ideas to be gleaned. Camille took a few measurements, made a few notes about the collection of doors that surrounded the foyer, but she was drawn to the music coming from the bar. She’d noticed a new poster on display inside the front door. NOW PLAYING—ONLY THE LONELY. She wondered who had taken the photograph. Creed had never been much good at promotion, and he’d never wanted a manager. I’ve got a wife, he would say. Why in hell would I hire a manager? But she hadn’t heard anything about being replaced. Not by a manager anyway.
She found an inconspicuous place to sit and ordered a glass of Chablis, which she changed, on second thought, to a more festive margarita. She could now check “bridal shower” off her mental to-do list. That left the bridesmaids’ breakfast, the rehearsal, and the groom’s dinner leading up to what was fondly termed “The Big Day.” She deserved a margarita. Anyone who celebrated such significant milestones alone in a crowd of her former significant other’s fans actually deserved a whole parade of margaritas.
To the mother of the bride, she toasted silently with her first salty sip. Then she sat back to watch the father of the bride ride his music as he would a horse. He still connected with the women in the audience, singled them out individually, sang to them, sucked them in. They lapped it up, just as Camille had done. If she were sitting up front, she would probably do it again. There was no denying his appeal.
This was good practice for the reception, when she would be front and center. He would choose heart-melting music, and she, by that time, would be a bowl of emotional mush anyway. Yes, practice was a good thing.
She ordered another margarita.