The Sleeping Beauty Proposal

I cannot remember Connie Robeson ever missing a new student review meeting before. Now I understand why Alice is making such a big deal about her unexpectedly going out of the country and being gone for such a long time. Something is definitely afoot, as they say. Connie never bypasses an opportunity to suck up to Bill.

We all take our seats, the clerks, the IT people, the other admissions counselors, Alice, Kevin the wunderkind assistant director of admissions, and me. I arrange my transcript file, yellow tablet, and pen neatly, preparing myself for a barrage of questions about Hob, when a sparkle of pink catches my eye.

My ring. Spectacularly colorful under the conference room’s fluorescent lights.The wise move would be for me to quickly slip my left hand under my tablet before anyone else sees, but I can’t resist making it glint and sparkle, twirling the ring from side to side playfully until Bridget, one of our traveling admissions counselors, says, “So there’s the famous diamond.Wow.That is huge.”

Kevin, who’s been chatting with David Smythe, our summer intern, whips around. "Hey. I heard you got engaged. Let me see.”

And before I know it, I’m being peppered with questions about Hugh’s television appearance and how come he’s not here to celebrate, about when we’re getting married, where we’re getting married, if I’d expected him to propose, how long we had been going out anyway, what finally changed his mind, if we’re going to have kids right away, if we’re going to buy a house, if Hugh’s going to stay here at Thoreau or quit and write and, if so, what I’m going to do, if it’s going to be sit-down or buffet reception and where we’re going on our honeymoon—the one question, supposedly, that pushes politeness.

Felicity Trinkle, a computer clerk, wants to try on the ring, but I won’t let her, ostensibly because “I won’t part with it for a minute, ” but really because I’m afraid she’ll see that the inside of the rhodium-coated brass band is engraved with “Bickman’s Jewelers” instead of the initials of its designer.

That’s when Felicity says, “You should make sure that ring is covered by Hugh’s insurance policy. My sister left her ring on the bathroom sink and forgot about it. Came back five minutes later and it was gone.Their insurance hadn’t covered it since she’d been negligent. Now if someone had mugged her . . .”

This opens up a torrent of advice from women in the office who have never before given me the time of day because I was single. It was as if in being single there was no way I could possibly understand the trials and tribulations they endured as put-upon matrons. Now that I’m engaged, however, I have been silently initiated into their secret club.

The matrons urge me to insure not only my ring, but also my entire wedding should “a sudden cancellation arise.” (Considering my circumstances, this is not a bad idea.) Also, speaking of wedding costs, Kevin (who isn’t married, mind you) suggests I draw up a wedding budget and not overspend. (He’s such a perfect nerd.)

Margery Rothman, one of Admissions’ dinosaurs, cautions me against serving white wine at the reception. “People guzzle it like water. It’ll bankrupt you.”

Karen Caruso adds that I shouldn’t make the mistake she made of stamping NO CHILDREN on the outside of the reply envelopes for her wedding invitations. Her cousin—and mother of five—hasn’t spoken to her since.

Nor, apparently, should I have a “standby” guest list to cover the ten to twenty percent (on average) of people who “decline.” I find this horrifying. Do some couples actually do this? And, if so, do they also have a “frequent” guest list and a “first class”?

We are all so abuzz, hashing over weddings do’s and don’ts, that we barely notice Bill. He walks in, throws his own files on the desk, and pushes back his coat—Bill language for “enough.” Everyone takes his or her seat as his arresting gaze sweeps the room.

Alice raises her hand slightly. She is petrified of Bill. He’s so mean and such a backroom player with his cigars and campus politics, I don’t blame her for being scared. He scares me, too.

A boyfriend? In England? Connie? She never mentioned a boyfriend in England. She doesn’t even like British men. They’re too pasty and white and effeminate. She’d go on and on....

Like magic, the reason for Connie’s frequent trashing of Englishmen becomes crystal clear. She doesn’t hate British men. She loves them. Oh ... my ... God.

Suddenly, my chest freezes, unable to expand or contract. I feel as if maybe I’m having a heart attack and I grip the table, trying to remember the symptoms. Pulse racing. Chest pain. Arm pain. Heart pain.

Across from me, Alice has the oddest expression. Her eyes have narrowed and she clearly is trying to communicate to me that she knows something I don’t. I can’t tell if she’s laughing or accusing or . . . busting me.

"Well, that’s too bad,” Bill is saying. His voice seems very, very far away. "Because we have a lot of ground to cover today. Okay, let’s start with the incoming student update.”

Margery jumps in with a glowing report about how all her choices managed to maintain their grade point averages since she did such an excellent job of weeding out the fly-by-nights and fakes. Someone’s talking about cutoff GPAs and another’s bringing up high school rankings, maybe Karen, I don’t know. I don’t care because I can’t focus for the life of me.

I can’t think of anything else besides Hugh and Connie, the woman he claimed on national television to love, desire, and worship. And the more I think of them together, the more I think of him longing for her soft, warm lips, the more I realize how much sense it makes.

There was that period last year when she started escorting applicants over to the English Department to sit in on Hugh’s classes. Then she lost all that weight and got breast implants over Christmas vacation. She really did look like one of those Victoria’s Secret models, especially after she let her hair grow and got the highlights.

And let’s not forget that warm evening this spring when I was working late and came outside to find Hugh and Connie sitting on the picnic bench waiting for me, her long, bare legs crossed and silky smooth (I remember that).

Well, Connie wasn’t waiting for me. She was waiting for Bill, who was taking her to the wine-and-cheese reception over at the dean’s house. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that she and Hugh were sitting close, very close, and Connie was giggling and tossing her long blond hair and Hugh was leaning back, laughing with her.

Oh! What about that week last April when Connie and I were supposed to hit the road for a Midwest high school evaluation with Bridget? But Connie came down with the flu and stayed home and Hugh told me he’d checked in on her once or twice to make sure she was okay so when Alice asked why Hugh’s Saab was parked in Connie’s driveway that weekend and . . .

God! I am such an idiot! Why didn’t I see it before? Connie and Hugh have been carrying on for . . . forever! I’m a walking cliché, the girlfriend who is the last to know. Probably the whole campus has been aware of Hugh’s catting around. I bet the entire office has been sniggering behind my back, Margery Rothman and her ilk gossiping about how sad it is that Hugh’s such a Lothario while I’m so ... clueless.

That explains why Alice kept making such a big deal of Connie being out of the country and how I, of all people, wasn’t supposed to know where she was. I am so dense. I kept writing Connie off as a desperate spinster with a library full of books about how to get married after thirty-five when really I should have been on high alert.Those books work.

Which means—oh, triple crap—that Alice knew all along that Hugh hadn’t proposed to me. So Alice also knows the ring is bogus. And the flowers! What does she know about those? I should have read that damn card.

Margery’s about to fill him in when I summon my faculties and launch into Hob Cooper’s dismal final grade point average. I can’t believe my mouth is working so well and that I’m able to pull this off. Look, I have a memo. Here I am handing it to him. I have copies. There I am distributing them around the table. People are reading and nodding.

I am engaging in an intelligent discussion about the pressures on a devout Mormon leaving a Mormon community to attend a heathen East Coast college like Thoreau. My coworkers are smiling and nodding. I’m actually putting forward a cogent argument on why we should excuse Hob’s C+ in chemistry and his F in badminton and no one knows that inside me, I have absolutely zero idea of what I’m saying.

“In sum,” I say, having never said “in sum” in my life, “Hob is a dedicated student who clearly is capable of performing quality work at Thoreau. Frankly, I’d be worried if he hadn’t slacked off a bit after getting our acceptance. I mean, he’s been pulling down a straight three point eight and racking up fifty points per game as center of the Park City Panthers.Who cares if he can’t keep his eye on the birdie when he’s the next Larry Bird?”

Everyone laughs satisfactorily at the Boston basketball reference. I sit down and see that Bill is grinning at me with unabashed approval.What have I just done? I can’t think of a thing I’ve said.

“Excellent.” Bill makes a note.“I hope the Coopers know just how lucky they were their son got you as an admissions counselor, Genie, and not some tough nut like Kevin.”

Oh, please, no. Not after I’ve just found out Connie is Hugh’s future wife. Margery and Karen both giggle. Kevin gives me a nudge and I want to slap my hand over Bill’s mouth. Anything to shut him up from announcing what will surely haunt me for decades to come.

Remember when Genie Michaels told everyone Hugh Spencer asked her to marry him when he really didn’t? Bill Gladstone even made an announcement. It was so mortifying.

“... is moving on. And while that makes me sad, I’ve been in this game long enough to know that change, though hard initially, is necessary, and certainly Bowdoin’s lucky to have Kevin join their team.”

A round of applause breaks out. Slowly, I lower my hands and, feeling even more foolish, see Kevin is standing and shaking Bill’s hand. No one is looking at me, not even Alice.

Bill and Kevin stop shaking hands. “You don’t have to be that enthusiastic, Genie,” Bill says to more chuckles all around. “Unless, of course, you want his job, which I certainly hope you do. I encourage Genie as well as everyone here to update your resumes, dress for success, and make a good impression. Because I plan to fill Kevin’s spot from in-house and, yes, I am open to bribes.”

Kevin stops me at the door. He’s so short, I can look down and see the prematurely gray hairs on the top of his head. “I’m going to miss you, Genie.”

Kevin relishes his role as Bill’s right-hand man. I bet he’ll miss that when he moves to Bowdoin and finds he’s back to being part of the herd.

“Logically, Connie has to be Bill’s first choice. She’s been here longer than you and, hmmm, how to say this?” He furrows his brows. “She tends to be more professional. Admissions is more than a job for her. It’s a career, a calling.You’d do well to remember that in future.”

In future. How pretentious. Of course Connie will get Kevin’s job. She was supposed to get it before he got it, but then Bill decided he needed a right-hand man, not right-hand woman, to attract the much-coveted male students and, so, she was passed over with the promise she’d be next.

“Cut her trip short and rush home to claw and scratch her way into Kevin’s office. Bad enough you got that rock on your finger.Wait until she finds out that Bill announced an opening for assistant director of admissions and she wasn’t here. She’s gonna go mental.”

I stand by my door and watch as Alice takes out her master key, unlocks Connie’s door, and deposits the memos from today’s meeting on her desk. When she leaves, she doesn’t bother to lock up, leaving Connie’s office temptingly open. I enter for just a bit and consider peeking in her desk, searching for clues about Hugh. A picture of them on the beach. His phone number on her speed dial. Extra-large condoms. (Hugh insists he needs them.)

Taking a deep breath, I return to my own office, locking the door securely behind me lest I am struck by a sudden urge to fling it open and run to Connie’s.

There is a flash of red behind my desk. The roses. Might as well get to the next bit of bad news. I slide open the envelope and remove the card.

Which is when I notice that the roses are not any old roses. They’re Mr. Lincolns and they’re in a root-ball. They’re not cut; they’re supposed to be planted. Planted on Peabody Road.