The Sleeping Beauty Proposal

"I don’t see why you have to pack up this apartment you’ve been living in for fifteen years and move out overnight,” Patty asks.

“So, if he showed up once, he’ll do it again. And the next time he’ll bring Connie, just to rub my face in it.”

“You want I should take her out?” Patty looks up from her box of plates. “No marks. My people don’t leave evidence.”

I stuff one more sheet into the garbage bag. Filling garbage bags with linens is not the tidiest of methods of relocation. (Nancy Michaels would be shocked!) But I’m not going for tidy. I’m going for fast.

The good news is that my landlord, Mr. Collins, was initially going to give me a hard time about moving out since I recently renewed my lease. As ammunition, he brought out my contract and pointed to where I had agreed to find a sub-tenant should I have to leave before my term was up. (Who reads the fine print on those leases, anyway?)

So I pointed to where he was supposed to remove all vermin and hadn’t. (Mice.They live in my stove and Jorge does nothing to stop them. Just sits and watches them like they’re kitty TV.) Which was when Mr. Collins saw my ring.

After that, it was hunky-dory. He was overjoyed that I was getting married after living in his apartment for nearly two decades. Kept saying he thought it would never happen, that I would end up in a nunnery, et cetera, et cetera. As a wedding gift, he ripped up my lease and brought out a can of Tab to toast.

It’s amazing, the awesomeness of that ring. Has the power to destroy leases and produce really bad diet soda.

Patty wraps a plate in newspaper and slides it into a box.Then she takes another sip of wine.This has been her snail-like process. Pack. Sip. Pack. Sip. At her rate, I’m not only going to be hauling a bed, a bureau, a couch, several appliances (including my crappy Rite Aid coffeemaker), but also a midget drunk.

After she closes and tapes the box, she dumps it rather carelessly by the door.Then she spends a great deal of time looking out the window for Todd or Hugh, whoever should come first.

Todd has promised to help move my bed and couch into Peabody Road so I can sleep there tonight. If only the evening were ten degrees cooler. I have completely pitted out my sleeveless white shirt. Even my hair is sweating.

Taking a break, I pour myself a glass of wine and add an ice cube. Then, dumping some salsa into a bowl, I carry that and a pack of fat-free baked chips to the tiny front porch where Patty is sitting, her arms around her knees, on Hugh patrol.

Patty’s firm is throwing a huge black-tie couple’s shower at the Harbor Hotel for Patty and her fiancé, the illustrious Moe Howard. I’d give anything for a shower at the Harbor Hotel.

Forget that. I’d give anything for real fried tortilla chips. This baked stuff definitely does not cut it. “Yeah? What have you registered for?”

“More like what haven’t I registered for.” She goes inside and comes out with her purse, from which she pulls a file folder overflowing with white sheets. Her registry records.

"Yes, I do. I’ve got one hundred and forty. All I’m missing is a living, breathing groom. Here’s my favorite list.”

She hands me a sheet from Hammacher Schlemmer.At the top is the Mechanical Core Muscle Trainer for a whopping $1,999.

Patty swills some more wine and says, “Can’t hurt to ask. If you’ll notice, I’ve also registered for a Professional Rotary Belgian Waffle Maker at a very modest seventy-nine ninety-nine. And then there’s the cat hammock for forty dollars.”

Jorge’s fat butt rounds the corner, searching for escape. Like all cats, he dreads being moved and has been inching away from us all evening. I am safely assured he won’t get much farther than the back steps before, exhausted, he sets down his satchel and takes a snooze.

“And whose fault is that? If you weren’t so stingy with the car keys, the poor fellow could get around more.” She huffs, scoops up some salsa, and hands me another sheet from her registry file. Tiffany & Co.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. She really has gone over the edge.“What happened to good ole Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s?”

“They’re there, too. You know what I’ve noticed? That men like me more now that I’m engaged.”

Reluctantly, I draw myself away from the $775 Birds of the Nile mini vase, the kind of item that screams “extravagantly impractical. ” “Men always liked you.What’s so strange about that?”

“Now they really like me. I mean, I’ve had two clients ask me out since I’ve gotten the ring and these are clients I’ve known for years.They asked all about who I was marrying and if I’d thought long and hard about the consequences of settling down.Then they insisted on wining and dining me, as if they’re trying to change my mind.”

“I think it’s a biological thing. Like, now that another male has marked me as his own they suddenly have to fight for me, the desirable female.”

Could that be true? With me men haven’t been . . . no. Hold on. What about Steve? He’s been flooding me with mushy e-mails fretting over my upcoming nuptials.That’s after decades of friendship.

And then there’s Nick. Not that he’s interested in me. I mean, he might be interested in me, but only as a downstairs neighbor, a partner in our real estate venture, so to speak. Besides, there’s Elena back home. I must be a poor excuse of a woman compared to her.

“This is what women who want to get married should do: Buy a ring.Tell people you’re engaged and you’re guaranteed to get propositioned,” Patty says, as Todd pulls up in his truck. “Uhoh. I’ve got to get myself together.” Whereupon she flees to my bathroom.

“Just finished unloading twenty sheets of drywall.” He wipes his forehead on his sleeve. “I hope you have beer.”

Darn. I always forget. “I will get beer. I promise. In the meantime, how about a nice refreshing glass of white wine?”

“All right. All right. No need to be sexist.” I try to get him to eat some salsa, but that’s the last thing he wants. He wants to get the heavy lifting done with so he can go home, take a shower, and collapse.

“Where’s Hugh?” he asks, lifting a chair.“Mom tells me he’s in town. Shouldn’t he be moving you?”

“That’s no excuse. You’re moving. You’re going to be his wife. He shouldn’t be leaving all this hard work to his future brother-in-law.”

Todd grunts, still not satisfied that Hugh’s not helping. We carry our stuff to the curb, where Patty’s Porsche is parked, locked, and loaded.

I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean until I remember Captain Moe. “Yeah. She has the night off to help me pack. She’s inside, um, packing, right now.”

“This stupid wedding. I mean, this guy’s never around. Never. He could be leading a double life with another wife for all we know. Some scum after her hard-earned money. That’s what I think he is.”

“Captain Moe is not a scum after her hard-earned money,” I say, defensively, having grown rather fond of Captain Moe.“He’s a devoted family man, very close to his brothers.”

“Captain Moe,” Todd scoffs, setting the chair in the back of his truck. “It’s gotta be bullshit. Sounds like one of the Stooges.”

Patty reemerges having done the magical makeup thing she does that makes her eyes sparkle and her lips shine. At the sight of her, Todd straightens up and starts hauling stuff he doesn’t have to.

We drive up the street to Peabody, Patty following in her Porsche with Jorge in his cat carrier meowing all the way.Though my condo is only about a quarter mile from my old apartment, I know he’s going to have a hard time adjusting. Jorge fears change.

With Nick’s help, we set up my antique sleigh bed in the spare, but large, master bedroom while Todd, Nick, and Patty bring in the couch.

Todd, Nick, and Patty bringing in the couch pretty much means Patty holds open the door while Todd and Nick heave and huff in. Now I’m certain my brother’s trying to impress her, because he insists on single-handedly hauling more unwieldy furniture: my kitchen table and chairs, an upholstered chair for my living room, and the television and television cabinet.All the while bragging about how strong he is.

“Can Captain Moe lift a solid oak table with one arm? Well, can he?” he barks, carrying the table into the dining room.

The midsummer sun is setting by the time we finish. Nick and Todd crack open beers and help themselves to a bucket of fried chicken from the KFC in Watertown. Using leftovers from my refrigerator back in the old place, Patty whips up a salad and somehow manages to find another bottle of white wine.

We end up heading to the golf course to catch the Boston skyline and, when it turns dark, for an invigorating, slightly risky game of nighttime golf using balls Todd painted with glow-in-the -dark paint. I keep sneaking glances back at my house—our house—its windows glowing warmly. I am going to be very happy here.Very happy.

Finally, Todd and Patty leave, Nick and I waving good-bye from the porch as if we’re already a couple. It’s not until their cars turn off Peabody that it dawns on me how very comfortable our coupledom is. And how, ironically, that makes me feel all the more awkward.

He looks rather sexy with the streetlight on his hair and I can’t help thinking what it would be like if we were really a couple. We’d clean up the cups and bottles, chatting about the evening, and then he’d take my hand and say softly, “Ready for bed?”

Or maybe we’d blow off the dishes and instead we’d pour ourselves another cup of coffee and enjoy the summer evening, Nick casually placing his arm around my back while we rocked on the wooden porch swing (note to self: get one of those), occasionally leaning over to kiss my cheek or playfully unbutton my blouse as we discussed whether to spend our vacation at the Cape or save up for a trip to Italy next spring.

Crash! Back to reality.“It’s jet lag.Takes him days to recover,” I say, gathering up the trash, hoping he’ll leave it at that.

“Do you expect Hugh to be moving in right off or are you two going to do it the old-fashioned way and wait until after you’re married?”

I cannot tell, because his face is shadowed, whether he’s grinning. “The old-fashioned way. If you met my mother, you’d know why.”

Nick takes the empty bottles as I carry the plates inside, our footsteps hollow in the bare rooms. The kitchen suddenly strikes me as depressing with its unfinished counters and cabinets, the bare light fixture hanging from the ceiling. I dump everything in a black garbage bag and want to cry—though I have no idea why.

That’s when I feel Nick’s arm around my shoulders, warm and consoling.“The kitchen won’t always be like this, Genie, I promise. I’ll have everything finished by your wedding. Cabinets. Counters. I’ll bust a hump so Hugh won’t hate it.That’s what you’re worried about, aren’t you? That Hugh will hate it.”

No, I want to say. I’m worried that you’ll hate me when you find I’ve been lying all this time about my engagement, especially after you “busted a hump” to get the kitchen done.

“It’s not that,” I lie.“I’m just tired.And filthy.” God. I can smell my shirt from here. “I could really use a shower.”

I must seem shocked because he adds, laughingly, “It’s fairly clean. I even have, believe it or not, soap. Come on. I’ll show you.”

To get to Nick’s apartment, we go through my kitchen and up the back stairs. I’m expecting the standard bachelor pad—La-Z-Boy recliners, a big TV, a computer, beer cans scattered about—and am delightfully surprised to find that while it’s no Taj Mahal, his apartment has a refreshing order and warmth to it.

There is a red leather couch and what appears to be a hand-carved coffee table.Two nice accent lamps and a high-backed chair with a reading lamp. Also, a stereo perched on a shelf and artwork scattered about on the walls.

“I haven’t had a chance to do any work on this place.” He’s actually tidying up for me, snatching a newspaper and balling a pair of dirty socks on the floor.“Gives you an idea what the house was like before Todd and I started the renovations. A 1970s special.”

A woodstove extends from his fireplace and whereas my living room is spacious and open, his has been divided into two. There’s worn green wall-to-wall carpeting on the floor that, underneath, is probably oak, like mine, and all the woodwork is brown instead of white.The kitchen, painted a hideous yellow, features a vintage General Electric stove in the retro style of Harvest Gold.

“I call it Hell’s Kitchen. Not very original and I’m sorry that the bathroom’s not that much better.”

The bathroom is above mine, just like his bedroom is above mine. I can’t help myself from sneaking a quick peek. Rumpled navy duvet over a queen-size bed with a plain oak headboard. More books.What’s with the books?

“The shampoo’s in the corner and the soap’s in the bottle. There’s a relatively clean towel on the door. Okay?”

He leaves me in the bathroom, which some unfortunate soul painted a nauseating pinky peach. Nick’s toiletries are scattered about—shaver, shaving soap (interesting), deodorant. The basics. Not like Hugh’s expensive supply of Kiehl’s Eye Alert, N.V. Perricone M.D. Skin Fitness After Shave Prep, and Jack Black Face Buff. And that didn’t include his premium stock inside the medicine cabinet.

I shower up, wash my hair, and feel a billion times better. I do not let my mind wander to how many women have been here, how many have studied his use of shaving soap as if it were a clue to the mystery that is Nick. No. I turn off the water, reach for the brown towel hanging on the hook, and find it can barely reach around my body. Great.

“Hey, Nick?” I call, discreetly opening the bathroom door a crack. “Your towel, um, is kind of small.”

He comes down the hallway, his shirt unbuttoned, revealing a relatively smooth chest with almost no hair.“That’s all I have. How about I get you something else?”

In a second, he’s back with a white T-shirt that barely covers the tops of my thighs. It’ll have to do as I inch out of the bathroom, keeping my back to the wall. “Thanks again.”

Nick’s sitting on his bed, reading, his legs propped up. “No problem. In the morning, just let yourself in.Todd and I are out by five to get to Hingham.You’ll have the place to yourself.”

I’m stalling. I don’t want to leave. In fact, I want to sit myself at the end of his bed and pepper him with questions.Why do you read so much? Did you go to college? Why are you a carpenter? How come you’re in your midthirties and still single? Who’s this Elena person? Why don’t you have much of a Greek accent? What do you think about me? Do you think about me? What do you want out of life? Because intuition tells me I want the same thing, too, and I think I’m falling in love.