It is an old Jewish custom, dating back to the time of Rebecca, that the bride and groom must go to a private room after the wedding ceremony and be alone for the first time. Since Jack and I were living together for almost a year before our wedding, we most certainly have had occasion to “be alone” together, but, nonetheless, my father made sure that, the second we got to the art gallery for the reception, we went back into Millie’s office to have our time in the Yichud.
“We’re finally married,” Jack says, as he grabs me and gives me a kiss. It’s not the sweet and innocent and totally family-appropriate type of kiss that he gave me in Judge Martin’s chambers. This kiss is serious, earnest, burning—downright smoldering. It’s a kiss that tells me everything I need to know about the type of life we are going to have together: Jack loves me and always will.
And I love Jack and always will.
We kiss shamelessly for God knows how long when finally one of us realizes that it might be bad form to spend the whole of your wedding making out with your new husband in your best friend’s mother’s art gallery office. It’s actually Jack who says it, because I don’t really see a problem with it.
“We’re finally married,” I say to Jack as I touch up my lip gloss in the reflection of Millie’s huge floor to ceiling window. You’d think a former model like Millie would be vain enough to have a mirror somewhere in her office….
“You didn’t think I’d let you get away from me again?” Jack says.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t,” I say, turning around to look at my new husband, “I was really hoping you wouldn’t.”
Jack and I finally walk out into the reception and I’m awestruck by how Millie’s created such an ethereal space out of her art gallery. Sure, it’s in a huge penthouse loft in Tribeca, with fourteen foot ceilings and views looking out to the water that make you feel like you are in a movie. Sure, it’s all exposed brick and original wood, framed perfectly by its many picture windows on each of the four walls. But, for the reception, she’s taken out the huge eight foot white walls, normally arranged like Stonehenge, on which the art is displayed, and has replaced them with tables dressed in crisp white linens with chairs dressed to match. She’s got tiny little white lights strewn across the ceiling, making you feel like you are outside on a crisp summer’s night.
I see Vanessa from across the floor with her father and the new guy she’s dating. I’m shocked to see that this new guy is actually someone I know. The new guy is also someone who her father already knows. It’s someone Vanessa knows, too. Very well, I might add.
Her husband. Well, ex-husband as the case may be, but the fact remains that Vanessa’s here with Marcus. And they’re holding hands and giggling like two children. Two children who are madly in love.
Jack and I walk over to the other happy couple of the evening and say hello.
“Congratulations,” Marcus says to me. “May I kiss the bride?”
“Of course,” I say.
As he leans over to kiss me I look over his shoulder at Vanessa. She just shrugs and laughs.
“May I kiss the bridesmaid?” Jack says and gives Vanessa a big hug.
“I’m the maid of honor!” Vanessa says.
“I beg your pardon,” Jack says, “May I kiss the maid of honor?”
“Because I didn’t do all this,” Vanessa says, throwing her arms out wide so as to indicate that she’s talking about the reception, “to not get top billing.”
“Of course you get top billing,” I say, just as a waiter breezes by with a platter of mini hot dogs. Jack and I both grab one at the same time.
“These are my favorite,” I say, dipping my mini hot dog into the mustard and then grabbing for a cocktail napkin. I have to do a double take when I look at the monogram—BSJ— for Brooke and Jack Solomon.
We are officially husband and wife.
“Mine too!” Jack says, dipping his mini hot dog into the mustard and then popping the whole thing into his mouth.
“I know,” Vanessa says, smiling, “a good maid of honor does her research.”
And she had. In fact, all of Jack’s and my favorites were there: a potato bar in one corner, a caviar station in the other, tuna tartar and tiny vegetable dumplings being passed around by elegant waiters in pristine white jackets, and even a martini bar.
And then, of course, there’s lots of kosher meat, lovingly supplied by my dad.
As Jack and I approach the prime rib carving station, I overhear my father trying to convince Jack’s mother to taste a tiny piece of his meat.
I assure you, this conversation does not sound even half as dirty as I just made it out to be.
And, anyway, get your mind out of the gutter, you horn dog, I’m talking about my wedding day here, for God’s sake!
“It’s kosher,” my father pleads. “It’s blessed by a higher power.”
“That’s really not the issue, Barry,” Joan says, eyeing a crudite platter nearby.
“Then what is the issue?” he asks, “I’d really love for you to love my meat.”
Okay, yes, I admit, that last part does sound a bit off.
“I just like to watch my weight,” Joan says, running her hands across her hips without even knowing it.
“It’s your son’s wedding,” my father says, lowering his voice and talking to her like he’s a high school senior who’s got a freshman girl in his car after curfew. “Live a little.”
“It’s not just that, Barry,” she says. “I’ve had a lifetime struggle with my weight, and sticking to a vegetarian diet is really the only way I’ve found that helps me to keep the weight off.”
“Is that what it is?” my father asks. “My Mimi eats my meat all the time and still stays thin as a rail. I can get you some really lean cuts that are low in fat, but will load you up with protein, so that you don’t feel hungry when you’re dieting.”
After then assuring her that her figure is gorgeous anyway, my father promises to get Joan what he called his “Mimi cuts” that would help her to diet more effectively. I could have sworn that I later even heard my mom giving Joan some of her best diet tips.
Which is odd, seeing as she never really shares them with me.
The band begins to play and Jack puts his hand out for me to take. I can’t help but recall that other time that Jack and I danced at a wedding—when we were at my ex-boyfriend’s wedding and I was pretending that Jack was my Scottish fiancé so that I could keep my dignity ever-so-slightly intact. (Long story.) It was at that wedding, on that dance floor, that I realized that Jack was the man of my dreams and that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.
We’ve had countless ups and downs since that night—too many to even think about—but we finally made it here. To the day of all days. Our wedding day. Where we’re dancing as husband and wife, and I truly couldn’t be happier.
Now, here, in the middle of Millie’s art gallery, I look around the room and see friends and family. All of the people who mean the most to us in this world. My parents, Jack’s parents, Jack’s sisters and brothers-in-law and Vanessa…. All here for us. To celebrate this day with us.
It may not be the Pierre hotel in Manhattan and it may not be a temple on the South Shore of Long Island, but all in all, I couldn’t have had a more perfect wedding if I’d actually planned it myself.
It is the happiest day of my life.