10. Chapter 10
Chapter 10
“Surprise!”
I widened my eyes as Dwight’s mother walked past me and into my apartment.
“Mrs. Jones,” I said, attempting to put some enthusiasm into my voice as I shot my fiancé a look of panic. “I didn’t know you were coming. Here. To my apartment.” Which is a complete mess right now.
I waddled toward her with toe separators between my toes since I’d been giving myself a pedicure.
“We thought it would be a nice treat for me to visit,” she simpered, pressing a kiss to my cheek. Then she looked down my body and blinked rapidly. “I can see you weren’t expecting company.”
Well, I was, but I was expecting Dwight. And only Dwight. As evidenced by the tiny red negligee I’m currently rocking.
“Oh. Yes, um, let me just go get my robe.” I immediately crossed my arms over my bosom and then penguin-walked down the hallway, cursing under my breath the entire trip.
Shit, shit, dammit to fuck. Way to impress the mother-in-law, Lehra.
I’d only met Dwight’s mother once in the two years we’d been dating. She was a rail-thin woman with a brown bob and a face like a fox. She’d been distantly polite, and I had the feeling she didn’t like me very much.
Slinging on my robe, I tied it tightly around my waist and hobbled back to the living room. “I’m ba-a-a-ack,” I announced, spouting out a nervous giggle. “And decent now. Hi, Dwight.”
“Hey, honey,” he said, giving me a peck on the cheek. I hadn’t seen him since our engagement, and I’d hoped this little reunion would be… different.
“Let me just move this stuff. I was doing my toes.” I picked up the towel from the coffee table and placed all the polish bottles back in the small basket before setting them on the dining table. God, she’s going to think I’m such a slob.
“You really should find a good pedicurist,” Mrs. Jones advised, glancing down at my freshly painted toes. Harlot red to match my naughty nightie.
I hadn’t grown up with money, and therefore, had never had a professional pedicure in my life. I could definitely afford it now, but I had gotten pretty good at it, so I continued doing it myself.
“Okay, I’ll think about that. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“A sparkling water would be divine,” she replied with a smile.
“I don’t have any sparkling water. I have regular and can add some Sprite to it,” I said with a chuckle.
Mrs. Jones was not amused, and my own smile faded. “Tea is fine.”
“Coming right up. Dwight, why don’t you help me in the kitchen?” I requested in a sweet voice that contradicted the daggers I was shooting at him with my eyes. I also needed to check on dinner. “I made that Mexican casserole you like.”
“Sure, babe, and that sounds good.”
As soon as we were in the kitchen, I whirled on him and hissed, “Why didn’t you tell me you were bringing your mother? I was wearing lingerie for fuck’s sake.”
Dwight winced. “Sorry, I thought you’d be surprised.”
Oh, I was surprised all right. I wrapped my arms around his waist and laid my cheek on his chest. “It’s okay, but some warning would have been nice.”
He kissed the top of my head and smoothed his hands up and down my back. “For the record, I liked the lingerie.”
“Maybe you can see it again later, if you’re a good boy,” I purred, snuggling a little closer.
“Probably not,” he said with a tiny laugh. “Unless you want Mother to see it too.”
“After she leaves,” I whispered, kissing my way up his neck. “Did you book her a hotel close by?”
“Yes,” he said and then hesitated. “I got us each a room at The Langham.”
I halted my kissing and looked up at him. “So I’m staying with you at a hotel? I thought we could christen my new apartment since you’ve never been here before.” I wiggled flirty eyebrows at him.
Dwight stepped back and looked down, running a finger along the forest-green countertop. “This is a really nice place. Even better than the pictures you sent me.”
“You didn’t answer me, Dwight. Should I pack a bag to stay at the hotel?”
His nose wrinkled as he shook his head. “No. Mother wouldn’t approve of us staying together.”
I blinked in confusion. “Where does she think you sleep when you come to visit?”
He lifted one shoulder and then let it fall. “I tell her I get a hotel room when I come here.”
I gawk at him and shake my head slightly. “That’s just weird, Dwight. You’re thirty-three years old.”
“Do you need some help in there?” Mrs. Jones called from the living room, startling me into action.
“Crap, the tea,” I whispered before calling out, “Just a minute.”
I rushed to put some water in the kettle and set it on the stove to heat while I found the chamomile tea bags I kept for when I had trouble falling asleep.
Then I searched through my cabinets for a nice teacup. I wasn’t exactly fancy. I drank my coffee from a mug Artie had given me that read, Blow Me… I’m Hot . Somehow, I didn’t think Mrs. Jones would appreciate that.
I finally found a pretty cup that had a matching saucer and no chips. It had been my grandmother’s before she passed. Pouring the hot water in it, I placed the teabag on the saucer, and questioned Dwight.
“How does your mom take her tea?”
“Cream, sugar, and one lemon wedge.”
“Crap, I don’t think I have any lemons.” I searched the refrigerator, frantically waving my hand around like I could conjure one from thin air but still came up empty. This right here is why some notice would have been appreciated. “Take that out to her, and I’ll get the cream and sugar,” I hissed after closing the fridge.
I’m sure Mrs. Jones expected to be served from a cream and sugar set, but I didn’t have one. I always poured my creamer from the carton and added sugar with the little scoop in my canister. Fucking hell… why can’t I be fancier? This is nerve-racking!
I located a little white bowl and scooped enough sugar into it to give the entire building diabetes before placing it on a wooden tray along with a teaspoon and the carton of vanilla creamer. Oh well, she’d just have to deal with my basic-ness.
Before returning to the living room, I checked the casserole and determined it needed a few more minutes.
“Here we go. Sorry I didn’t have any lemons,” I apologized, setting the tray down on the coffee table.
“I’m sure it will be fine.” My future mother-in-law picked up the creamer and stared at it like she’d never seen an actual carton of the stuff before. And maybe she hadn’t. Dwight once mentioned that his mom had household staff.
She poured in a dash and added approximately three grains of sugar before stirring it around. Feeling the need to break the silence, I sat on the chair adjacent to Dwight and asked, “How was your flight?”
His mother took a sip and answered, “Simply dreadful.” I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the flight or the lemon-less tea with cream crudely poured from an actual carton. “They let people from coach use the first-class restrooms.”
“That is… unimaginable,” I managed to say, putting on what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. “How was the traffic? It can be hell coming from the airport in early evening.”
Mrs. Jones’s back stiffened, and Dwight reached over and patted my hand. “Honey, Mother doesn’t approve of cursing.”
What the hell did I say? Oh… I said hell.
“I apologize. New York traffic is enough to get a saint to curse,” I said with a kind of high-pitched giggle that gave away my nerves.
“I’m sure it is,” the woman replied before setting her cup down, apparently finished with it now. “I wanted to come see you so we could get started on the wedding planning.”
“Oh, that’s… great. Thank you, but we have a while. We’ll have to wait till Dwight is able to move here.”
“The wedding will take place a year from now, next February. It was the only date available for the club in the next two years. We got very lucky because someone canceled.”
“The club?” I questioned.
“The country club,” she replied, like I should frigging know that. “Our family has been members since the Roosevelt administration.”
“Which one?” I had no idea why that seemed a relevant question, but I was still processing that our wedding date and location had already been set.
“Which what?”
“Which Roosevelt?”
“Oh, Theodore.”
“Did you know that the teddy bear was named after Teddy Roosevelt?” I asked. Again… is this a relevant tidbit of information? No, no, it is not, but this woman had me on edge.
“Yes,” Mrs. Jones replied shortly. “Anyway, moving on.” She pulled a white calendar with Bride printed across it in a flourished font. “Here’s your calendar with all the dates we have so far. I’ll keep you abreast of any additional events for you to add.”
“Can we just go back to the location for a second? I always wanted to get married in Missouri. In my hometown.”
Dwight’s mother looked like I’d just told her I wanted to travel to another planet and marry Marvin the Martian.
My fiancé spoke up with a patronizing pat to my hand. “Honey, Mother has already put down the three-thousand-dollar deposit.”
“My church only charges a hundred dollars for members, so that would save a lot of money,” I said brightly. “Maybe your mom can get a refund.”
“We’re not religious,” she said with a tight smile. “And there are no refunds at the club.”
“Then maybe you should have asked me before putting down the deposit,” I argued as gently as I could.
“I asked my son,” she said, tilting her chin up a bit. “He gave me the approval.”
My eyes went to Dwight, and he smiled and nodded. “It will be great, Lehra. I promise. The club is beautiful. Very classy.”
“Well, are the dates flexible? I always pictured a summer wedding.”
“I already said that’s the only date available for the next two years,” Mrs. Jones said with an edge to her voice. “Besides, summer would be too hot.”
Sensing an impending argument, Dwight broke in. “Mother, aren’t you tired? We should probably go ahead and check in at the hotel.”
“Yes, we can grab dinner there.”
I didn’t even mention the casserole I’d prepared because, to be honest, I was ready for them to get out of my apartment. I was overwhelmed and needed to get my thoughts together.
“Morning, Mrs. Jones.”
“Good morning, dear,” she said brightly as she swept into my apartment the next day with a large white book beneath one arm.
Dwight trailed in after her and stopped just inside the door to press a kiss to my cheek. “Hi, honey. Did you sleep well?”
“Not really,” I said in a low voice. “I’m already stressing about all this.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t stress, babe. My mother is here to help, so you have nothing to worry about.”
Yeah, that’s exactly the problem.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw her setting the book on the coffee table and taking a seat on the couch. I’d thought about this all night and knew I needed to enlist my fiancé’s help in dealing with his mother.
“Dwight, I really need you to have my back with all this wedding stuff.”
“Of course, Lehra. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know, but you didn’t last night. Not at all.”
He huffed out a long sigh. “The venue is already set, and there’s nothing we can do about it now, so just move on.”
Gritting my teeth, I closed my eyes and counted to ten. When I opened them again, Dwight was standing behind the couch, looking over his mother’s shoulder.
“Come along, Lehra,” Mrs. Jones said. “We have a lot to get to today.”
Trudging toward the couch where she was patting her hand on the seat beside her, I felt like I was heading to my own execution. Do all brides feel like this? Isn’t this supposed to be fun?
I sank down and took a look at the thick book in front of me.
“This is your bridal bible,” she explained. “I’ve taken the liberty of making some selections for you so you don’t get overwhelmed by all the choices.”
“I think I’ll be fine,” I said patiently.
“Of course you will,” she said in a patronizing tone. “I’ve made myself a duplicate of this book, so if you have any questions, you can call me and just refer to the page number.”
Wanting to make a sarcastic comment, I bit my tongue and flipped open the first page. There were several selections of bridesmaid dresses that were actually a very pretty style, though they were all in the palest of pinks.
“These are nice,” I said, pointing to one. “This one would look great in a darker pink or purple.”
“I think the blush color would work better for a February wedding.”
“Well, I like brighter colors.”
“Of course you do,” Mrs. Jones said, looking up at her son. “Dwight dear, why don’t you go get us some breakfast? Egg white veggie omelets, please.” Then she winked at me. “Lehra and I have to watch our figures for the wedding.”
“Actually, I’m good with where I am. I’m a size six.”
“Multiple experts have determined that size four is the perfect size for a wedding dress.”
“The only expert I need is Dwight,” I said, matching her faux-sweet tone and looking up at him with raised brows. Time to put up or shut up, buddy.
His eyes darted between his mother and me, and he swallowed nervously. “I, um, I think Lehra looks fine.”
Not exactly a resounding endorsement, but at least it was something.
“I’ll have a side of bacon with my omelet,” I told him, a tiny bit out of spite, and he nodded before scurrying to the door.
“Be right back.”
“We’ll come back to the colors at a later time. Let’s discuss cakes,” Mrs. Jones said, flipping to another section, which was marked with a blue tab. “What do you think of these?”
To be honest, I liked all of them, but after studying the photos for a few moments, I decided on an elegant, tiered cake with pearl embellishments.
“We probably don’t need four tiers though. That will be entirely too much cake,” I noted, and Mrs. Jones frowned.
“Actually, I was planning to ask the baker to add an extra tier. We have four-hundred and thirty-three guests to invite from our side. Do you have an estimated headcount for your people?”
“Four-hundred and… uhhh, that seems like a lot.”
She smiled indulgently. “Yes, well, we have lots of business associates and other important people that must be invited. How many do you expect from your side?”
“Maybeeee, sixty? I was picturing more of an intimate wedding with friends and family.”
“The friends and family will still be there,” she reasoned. “Now, what flavor of cake do you prefer?”
Guess we’ll come back to that too.
We miraculously agreed on cake flavors. A classic white cake with buttercream frosting was my favorite. I adored the moist, fluffy cake blended with the creamy sweetness. Red velvet was a close second, so we decided to use that for the groom’s cake.
“Do you know how many bridesmaids you’d like?” my future mother-in-law asked.
“Three,” I said firmly. “My friends Nicolette, Artie, and Gianna.” I smiled. “I’m also going to be in Gianna’s wedding in May.”
If Mrs. Jones hadn’t had so much Botox, I’m sure her forehead would have wrinkled. “Artie?”
“Yes, he’s one of my best friends.”
“He?”
“Yes, Artie is a guy.” I let out a little laugh. “I told him we would call him a bridesman.”
The woman winced and shook her head. “No, that just won’t do. He wouldn’t match.”
“It will be fine,” I assured her. “I thought he could wear a tux or suit with accents of the bridesmaid colors in his tie and pocket square.”
“But that would throw off the aesthetics, dear. Think of the pictures.” She literally shuddered like I’d suggested we have a troop of gorillas in the wedding.
Dwight returned then and his mother instantly started in. “Dwight darling, tell Lehra she can’t have a man as a bridesmaid.”
“A bridesman,” I corrected, fixing my eyes on my future husband. “I want Artie up there with me.”
His eyes left mine, and he audibly gulped. “I think that would be…” We waited for his answer, and when it came, it boiled my blood. “Weird. Maybe Artie can be an usher or something.”
“No, I want him as part of my bridal party. I’m pretty sure that’s my decision.”
“But not at the expense of the aesthetics,” Mrs. Jones inserted. “Aesthetics are very important in a wedding ceremony.”
I could feel my face heating. She could stick her aesthetics right up her…
“Oh, then I should get some say in who the groomsmen are, right? Because I’m assuming you want to ask Chad.”
“Yeahhh,” Dwight drew out, placing the food down on the low table in front of us and eyeing me warily.
“Well, I think he’s way too tall. He wouldn’t match ,” I snarked, throwing Mrs. Jones’s words back at them. “And besides, you’ve told me he cheats on his girlfriend all the time. That’s definitely not the type of aesthetic I’m looking for at our wedding.”
He blanched. “Yes, but Chad is one of my best friends.”
“And Artie is one of mine,” I replied smartly. “So either they both stay or they both go.”
His mother’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “We can circle back to it.” How did I know she was going to say that? “I think I’d like to take my food back to the hotel and eat. This has worn me out.”
Yeah, well, you’ve worn me out, lady.
Mrs. Jones came to New York with Dwight for the next three months, and I was supposed to travel to Michigan in June to look at the venue. Luckily my bridesmaids and bridesman agreed to go with me because, honestly, I needed a bit of backup.
I certainly wasn’t getting it from Dwight. He agreed with his mother on every single point of contention, and I was so damn annoyed with him.
In March I was told that my idea to have the groom’s cake in the shape of a golf ball was tacky. I’d truly thought they would like that one since Dwight loved golf and the wedding was being held at a country club with a golf course.
In April, Mrs. Jones informed me that the florist agreed with her on the flowers and that bright colors simply wouldn’t work for a February wedding. So we were going with something called blissful blush. That would also be the colors of the bridesmaids’ dresses.
And in May… well… that one really pissed me the fuck off.
“When you’re here to look at the venue next month, we’ll go to Tremblay’s to shop for dresses,” Mrs. Jones said.
“I saw that on the calendar and have been meaning to talk to you about it. I’m getting a Bouvier dress. Since I’m an employee there, I can get a custom-designed dress for next to nothing.”
Her nose scrunched up and she glanced at Dwight before looking back at me. “But all the brides in our family shop at Tremblay’s.” She said the name of the store like it was the eighth wonder of the world.
“That’s nice, but I’ll be the one wearing it, and I want a Bouvier .”
If eyes could pierce holes in a person, I would have been swiss cheese right then. “You must get your dress at Tremblay’s. Tremblay’s is the best. It’s where our family shops.”
I pictured myself with a big ole gun, à la Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction , pointing it at Mrs. Jones while I growled, Say Tremblay’s again. I double dare you, motherfucker.
Instead I smiled, a kind of feral thing that crept across my lips like an angry snake. “Well, I’m not part of the family yet, am I?” As evidenced by the Aspen trips , I almost said but didn’t.
“It won’t hurt to take a look. I booked the appointment months ago, and it would be rude to cancel now.”
“But—”
Dwight interrupted with a soft hand on my shoulder that I barely restrained from shaking off. “Honey, it’s like a tradition, and it would mean so much to Mother.”
What-the-fuck-ever. I would go and pretend to look, but on my wedding day, I was showing up in what I damn well pleased. “Fine,” I muttered, dreading my trip in June like I’d never dreaded anything in my life.