Chapter 3 The Reveal
Chapter3 The Reveal
The Mother of the Bride
Alexa Diamandis pondered who to tell and when as she pounded out her daily walk on Butterfly Beach, a stretch of sand walkable
from her house that took her back to her Patmos beginnings. Ever since she was a little girl, she worked out the sticky details
of her life with a brisk morning walk on the beach, followed by a swim in the sea when the weather allowed. And there was
no more beautiful spot in the world to help her make sense of her reluctance about announcing Penny’s engagement than the
slice of Montecito that was Butterfly Beach. The wild Pacific Ocean, the white sand sliver, the glamorous view of houses that
ringed the cove, the impressive mountains that surrounded this bubble of luxury. She loved this special spot and had chosen
to bring up her daughter here.
And now that daughter was choosing a man in Manhattan over this paradise.
She wished she was the type of mother who could scream for joy, make sure the moment was captured for posterity, and post to social media with descriptions like “My baby girl has found her true love.” The mothers of Penny’s Southern Methodist University soror ity sisters seemed to own that corner of the internet, with heartfelt messages and a professional photographer on hand to capture the “surprise” proposal. As the SMU Kappas dropped one by one, engagement after engagement, Alexa marveled at their Insta-gorgeous announcements.
But Alexa wasn’t that type and she never would be. A lifetime of taking care of herself, both financially and emotionally,
had rendered her too pragmatic to wax poetic on social media about Penny. Or anything, really. Of course she was happy for
Penny and Chase. She also hoped they would elope and get on with their lives. Maybe take a fantastic trip rather than spend
time and energy doing the seating chart or ordering party favors. She’d rather contribute to a house down payment than a one-off
wedding, an eminently practical idea no one ever mentioned in those glowing “She said YES!” posts.
Normalize “She said ESCROW!” Alexa thought.
If she were completely honest, there was also the fact that a tiny piece of her would never understand giving yourself over
to another human being.
Alexa was a tender but tough twenty-four-year-old when she landed in Los Angeles in the eighties. She had spent her childhood
in Greece, first on Patmos, an idyllic island near the coast of Turkey known for being the birthplace of the mystic Saint
John, author of the Book of Revelation. Alexa’s mother, Leni, was American-born, the child of immigrants who had left Greece
for the icy winds of Chicago. Leni, however, was sent back to the family homeland in Greece in disgrace to ride out an unwanted
pregnancy when she was eighteen. After giving birth to a son, she fell in love with an island innkeeper, Yiorgos Diamandis,
and married him. Or maybe she just fell into a pleasantly useful relationship that meant she wouldn’t have to move back to
Chicago and her cruel family. It was all the same in those days. Arrangements were made for her to stay in Greece.
Leni and Yiorgos owned and managed a growing number of inns and restaurants on the island serving the summer and religious tourist trade. In addition to raising Nikos as their own biological son, the couple added three more children, two noisy boys and their darling Alexa. It was a sweet life of hard work, sunshine, blue water, and unconditional love until Leni was hit by a drunk German tourist on a moped when Alexa was a teenager. The loss was shocking; the loneliness overwhelming. Her mother was dead, and Alexa learned to rely on herself.
Deciding that life on a small island in the company of four men wasn’t the ideal situation for a smart and heartbroken girl,
Yiorgos sent Alexa to an international boarding school in Athens in the care of her posh uncles, successful hoteliers with
multiple properties in cities all over Greece. Alexa had spent time in the capital city over the years with her cousins and
felt drawn to the culture and vibrancy of Athens life. But her first year without her mother was like going through a meat
grinder and coming out the other end a pulverized version of her former, carefree self. She hid her insecurity behind dark
sunglasses, black clothing, clove cigarettes, feigned ennui, and the Cure. Throwing herself into school meant not having to
think about loss, and her good grades gave her a chance to move to London and enroll in King’s College.
In London, Alexa spent many hours smoking in cafés and drinking in clubs while perfecting her English and a slightly cynical
worldview. Every summer she returned home to Patmos, passing along her observations about the Brits to her uncles and father
to incorporate into their hotels. Electric teapots in every room. Fresh flowers in the lobby. Books on the shelves. When she
returned to school every fall, she went through a period of mourning, grieving the loss of her mother, the sun, and her tan
in that order.
After finishing her degree, her plan was to get a job with an international hotel company based in London, but a busted love affair and the endless rain broke her spirit. When a British pal suggested a summer in Los Angeles, surfing in Malibu and working an hourly job, Alexa jumped at the chance. Because of her mother’s American heritage, she was a dual citizen. A breezy summer in California seemed like her birthright.
But a random conversation in the baggage claim area during a very long wait for luggage led to a surprise job offer. The professional-looking
couple, who claimed to be in the movie business, had two young sons who needed a nanny. Would she be interested in a summer
on the beach taking care of the boys while they worked on their next film?
Yes, she would.
Little did she know that the beach was in Montecito, ninety miles north of LA, an idyllic town with a large contingent of
Hollywood’s brightest, which included her new employers. The wife was the writer and director and the husband was the producer.
Together they were power players. The gig would last a decade. But within weeks of arriving at the modern house that was both
the couple’s home and their office, Alexa was making her impact felt. She was savvy, smart, and knew her way around technology.
Plus, she was a whiz with numbers and had strong organizational skills after a lifetime of working for her parents’ business.
Once the kids were in school, Alexa would assume a senior role at the film company in operations, which meant more travel,
accounting, and hiring and firing. She was well suited for the round-the-clock schedule of the film business, and the film
business loved her European upbringing and British-tinged accent. For a while, it was a love match.
But the real draw for Alexa was Montecito. She felt at home in the seaside town the minute she arrived with her backpack and her Walkman. It reminded her of any Mediterranean island, with stunning houses built up the hillside, rocky sandy beaches, sunny days and cool nights, spectacular sunsets, and so many beautiful people. But Montecito had a touch of magic, an earthiness overlaid with sophistication. It was the perfect blend of beach and brains, taste and twist. It was star-kissed well before the biggest stars even moved into the neighborhood. And being in California meant that she could reinvent herself as needed, to hide the scars of her loss. She became a better, more confident version of herself, fueled by California’s sunshine and optimism. Alexa was smitten and she never wanted to leave.
So she didn’t. When the couple asked Alexa, then in her thirties, to move to LA proper and run their film company, she declined.
She was ready to put down real roots, to stop living on movie sets and airplanes and maybe have a baby. She bid farewell to
the biz and marched into a local travel agency she’d had her eye on. The older gentleman who owned the business, Addison Kent,
knew everything about travel but was struggling to transition to a digital world. Alexa promised him that she would double
his profits in less than a year if he gave her the opportunity to update his systems, streamline his process, and bring the
company into the computer age. Plus, she wanted to add luxury tours of Greece to his offerings, executed with her insider
knowledge of the country. For all that, she wanted a percentage of the company. She had grown up as a nonconsensual participant
in the world of hospitality, thanks to her family’s businesses. Now she wanted back in.
Addison, on the edge of sixty and exhausted by his demanding clients, took her up on her offer. The good people of Montecito
would come to trust Alexa with their travel as they trusted Addison. They were used to someone else doing most tedious tasks
for them. Booking travel was no exception, even when booking travel switched to this new online nonsense. They wanted to have
a few conversations in a proper office with a real person where they could toss out phrases like “cruise through the Mediterranean”
or “cooking school in Provence” or “family Christmas in London,” and someone with a certain taste level, insider knowledge,
and computer skills could simply make that happen. This clientele wanted full service and no surprises. And Alexa Diamandis
knew how to provide both.
Eventually, she would buy out her friend and mentor and Kent Travel would become Odyssey Vacations with Alexa as sole proprietor. The offices were redecorated in the blues of Greece. A concierge position was added to provide beverages and quarters for the parking meters during client meetings. And well-designed itinerary folders became standard issue for every trip. Her people were paper people.
On the personal side, she added a lovely historic 1920s condo at the end of a cul-de-sac in what locals called the Lower Village
to her portfolio, a real estate decision she never regretted. She was settled, successful, and she was ready for that baby.
And now that baby was getting married to a New Yorker! Someone who might take her precious Penny away forever. While it was
grand to be a citizen of the world and hold those two passports—Greek and American—she couldn’t quite grasp that Penny had
chosen New York over California. She’d worked so hard to create a perfect childhood in a perfect town for Penny. Maybe, just
maybe, she’d have to succumb to plan and pay for the perfect Montecito wedding. Then her Penny would see the light and return
to California.
As Alexa walked through the door of Lucky’s Steakhouse, she spotted the crew who could make her plan a reality: the Merry
Widows. And they were already through their first round of vodka sodas.
***
When Carol “Toots” Bixby had asked Alexa to plan a ladies-only spa vacation a dozen years ago after the death of her husband, Bix Bixby, neither understood it would be the start of a beautiful circle of friendship. Toots was grieving, but not devastated, at least not yet. The overwhelming grief would come once she recovered from the exhaustion of his illness and funeral. Bix was twenty years her senior and, as his second wife, Toots had put in some hard time on the caregiving front as her husband’s physical and mental health diminished. Even his grown children agreed that she had earned her prenup payout and then some, a fact they acknowledged by not making a peep when the Montecito house went to Toots outright. They owned the oil company after all. What was a single piece of residential real estate compared to natural gas fields?
Toots, at the time an energetic former interior designer in her mid-sixties, cornered Alexa after Feldenkrais and begged,
“I need two weeks away somewhere with lots of body treatments, a few fun coconspirators, and a discreet staff. If you know
what I mean. And I don’t want to see any of my neighbors, so not Rancho La Puerta or Miraval. Also, I want to make no decisions
more complex than lemon or lime in my drink, so you must come, too.”
Alexa nodded, understanding the assignment. “There’s a place in Antigua.” She recruited a handful of other Montecito women,
all second and third wives, now widows, in the same circumstance: Mitsy, Roxanne, Ming, and Frannie. Thus the Merry Widows
were born, and remained a vibrant force collectively, traveling, socializing, and playing mahjong together while talking,
laughing, and empathizing nonstop.
At first, Alexa was on the outside, the hired hand paid to put their yearly trips together. But over the years and the global
destinations, she was swept into their circle. She was not a widow, but she shared their desire for independence in her later
years.
Tonight was their monthly dinner and the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Penny had texted her that afternoon and given her
the go-ahead to announce the engagement. The official photos would be up on Penny’s Instagram any minute. Alexa guessed that
once Penny checked the engagement photos off her list, the wedding planning would begin in earnest. She could sense that Penny
had plans in the works but wanted to save the details for some reason.
“I have exciting news,” Alexa declared as soon as Bernard, their usual waiter, placed her sauvignon blanc in front of her.
“You’re retiring!” guessed Ming, a former financial planner who had worked her golf handicap down to a respectable plus ten in retirement.
“You’re finally going to introduce us to your mystery man,” said Mitsy, who’d held the title of widow the longest and with
the most pride. Though she was not interested in marrying again—too much paperwork—she suspected Alexa of having a secret
lover or else why would she smell so delicious all the time?
“I hope you’re not sick,” declared Roxanne, who believed that work killed and sunshine cured. She was convinced her late husband,
a CFO, suffered his heart attack because of too many meetings and not enough vitamin D. She worried about Alexa.
“You finally agreed that we should all go to Antarctica on our next trip,” shouted Frannie, who was slightly hard of hearing
but up for the adventure travel that the rest of the Merry Widows avoided.
Alexa laughed and waved off all the speculation. “No, no. It’s more...” She struggled for the correct word in the situation.
What word could convince her that she was happy about all this? “More personal than all your speculations. Penny, my Penny,
is getting married. To a lovely young man from New York. He works for the mayor!”
The Merry Widows oohed and ahhed and peppered her with questions about the ring, about popping the question, and, of course,
about Chase. Penny had worked many of the Merry Widow trips over the years, either manning the phone at Odyssey Vacations
or as Alexa’s right hand on site in Provence and Porto and Sardinia. They had a genuine fondness for her daughter and Alexa
soaked that in. Maybe this would be more fun than she thought.
“What’s the scoop with Mummy and Daddy Blakeman?” Toots asked.
Alexa repeated the debrief she’d gotten from her daughter. “Real Connecticut Yankees, according to Penny. That’s the correct term for the type with the old house and the old Labrador?” The Merry Widows nodded, always willing to fill in Alexa’s cultural gaps. “The mother worked at a private school in development for many years, and the father was a stockbroker. Now they are retired and play golf and bridge. One sister. Penny says she’s not sure how much money they have. The house is a bit shabby, but that’s the way those people like it, right? Well-worn, like their Volvos.”
The group shook their heads, as if allowing an upholstered armchair to show some age was a personal failing. Redecorating
was a legitimate hobby in Montecito. Didn’t they owe the universe well-appointed living rooms? “I’m meeting them in two weeks
in New York. Penny and Chase have arranged a dinner in the city on Friday and then the parents are holding an engagement party
at their house on Sunday. Is that normal?”
Mitsy Fairchild, a Pasadena native who migrated north to Montecito, self-identified as the group’s Emily Post and jumped in.
“Yes. Very traditional to do it quickly after the engagement, that way you can keep it simple. It’s a drink, some nibbles.
An informal acknowledgment that gives friends and neighbors a chance to meet the bride. Or the groom, depending upon who hosts
the party. It’s very flexible these days. And those New Englanders will be checking you out. So wear one of those gorgeous
silk dresses you picked up in Athens. You’ll wow them.”
Toots added, “Penny may collect a few small gifts, like monogrammed coasters. But you will be able to gather a lot of intelligence
for the wedding planning. About the MOG.”
“The MOG?”
“Mother of the Groom. MOG. And you’re the MOB. Mother of the Bride. You have a lot to learn about American weddings. According
to tradition, the MOG is supposed to...” And at that point, the Widows chimed in like a Greek chorus: “Wear beige, stand
back, and shut up.” Laughter erupted.
“And what am I supposed to do as the MOB?” Alexa asked.
“Call San Ysidro Ranch to book the date and write a blank check,” Ming answered, referring to the local luxury resort. “But as a financial advisor, albeit not yours, please don’t get in over your head.”
San Ysidro Ranch was where Jack and Jackie had honeymooned and where the lucky few held their weddings. Alexa had never been
invited to a ceremony there, but she could imagine the classic nineteenth-century California ranch nestled up against the
mountains and perfumed in lavender and roses and twinkling in white lights and fairy dust as the ultimate wedding venue. She
couldn’t imagine the costs. Truly. Was a wedding there one hundred thousand dollars? Two hundred? A million? Whatever it was,
it was out of her league. Alexa sensed Ming was an ally. “Well, I’m hoping I can convince Penny to have the wedding here next
summer. Something lovely, personal. Something that I can afford. But still special.”
The more she talked about it, the more Alexa got on board with her own idea. Of course Penny would have the modest wedding
of her dreams. Beautiful young people from both coasts would attend. A small cadre of family would come from Greece to represent
their heritage. Her dear friend Simon Fox would be her escort for the weekend. A small, select group of her local friends,
like the Merry Widows, would add to the party. It would be a joyous, charming, sunny California celebration, admired by guests
for its authenticity and good vibes. And with the naivete of a woman who had never fantasized about such an event, never mind
planned one, she believed she could produce a simple, personal, affordable wedding in Montecito.
There was a collective squeal of enthusiasm from the Merry Widows. Much to their credit, her friends didn’t want to burst
her bubble quite yet with the cost of a venue or the logistics of the tent or the impossibility of booking a caterer in the
summer. Ming bit her tongue before divulging stories about clients, the half-million-dollar weddings, and the divorces two
years later. There was no reason to spoil the fun tonight. Let the hard truths be saved for tomorrow.
“The minute you have the date, call San Ysidro Ranch and book the honeymoon suite. That will be my gift to the bride and groom!” Toots and Penny had a special relationship, forged in the early days of Toots’s widowhood when Penny spent a whole summer in one of her guest rooms working as Toots’s personal assistant. Truthfully, she got the job because Toots was lonely and sad in her grand house, but neither one would ever admit it. That was years ago but they still adored each other. Toots waved her hand and her wrist full of gold bangles in the general direction of their waiter. “Bernard, we need Veuve! We have a wedding to plan!”
From the Desktop of Dearly Beloveds and Betrotheds
Dear B & Bs...
My list of wishes for the Mothers of the Groom:
Beige looks terrible on almost everyone, so skip the first part of the adage, “Wear beige, stand back, and shut up.” But the
last two bits are good advice.
Act as if it’s lovely to be included in any part of the wedding planning, even if you disagree with every decision.
Offer no opinions, only validation to the Bride and her mother.
Just because you’ve written a check doesn’t mean you get to write the guest list. Not even one table. Maybe not even one name.
It’s all out of your control—the venue, the meal, the flowers, the guest list. Try to enjoy the freedom of not being in charge.
Channel your need for attention into one nifty cha-cha for the mother-son dance.
Be the mother-in-law you wish you had at your wedding.
You won’t regret looking your best on the big day. But your daughter-in-law will be the most beautiful one at the wedding.
Never, ever wear white.
Repeat as needed: not my wedding, not my wedding .
As always, I look forward to answering your questions in future columns, even the tedious ones about forcing your poor bridesmaids
to plan a bachelorette party in a foreign country and to pick up the tab for you. (No. Hard no.) Or the ones where you question
the need to feed the guests that take a day, drive for hours, and graciously attend your ceremony. (Yes. Hard yes.) And, of
course, the classic dilemma about your estranged cousin who put their Venmo QR code right on the Evite to streamline gift
giving. (I have no words. No. Words.) See, all tedious. But send the questions anyway and I will plow through them with diligence...
and love.
Bonus! Here’s a secret I can share! For my very first Your Aunt B Goes to the Wedding profile of this season, I’ll be attending the nuptials of Ashlee and Damien in Charleston. I’ve been promised Spanish Moss
Meets Modern Nautical. We shall see, won’t we?
Big Kiss & Wedding Bliss,
Your Aunt B