Chapter 5
chapter
five
I read my printout a few times on the train, trying to memorize the details, since the only thing on the Save the Date was the date and location.
Apparently, the rehearsal dinner will be at The Chop House, which gives me a good sense of this wedding’s budget.
The wedding and reception is being held at Lake Shore Country Club, a Winnetka club in a massive Tudor estate on Lake Michigan with vaulted ceilings and stained glass.
There are reference photos with a chuppah decked head to toe in florals, Chiavari chairs wrapped with satin bows, and a fourteen-piece band.
It…definitely feels true to Penelope. Which is good, I guess, because it’s her wedding.
Two solid cherry doors sit at the top of slate steps. The mansion does not have a doorbell—it has a brass knocker in the shape of a lion. I pull the lion’s jaw back from its base and the ring resonates like I’ve hit a gong, disrupting a nearby flock of birds.
“It’s open!” someone hollers from inside.
Strange, if I had a mansion I would most certainly lock the doors.
I have to put my whole shoulder into pressing the door open, and I practically stumble headfirst into an atrium that is an Architectural Digest shoot come to life.
The floor is travertine, the ceiling is double height, and the chandelier is some avant-garde Chihuly-looking glass structure.
The air is perfumed with lavender and not a single vase or shoe is out of place.
On the right, there’s a huge painting of bold blocks of color that stretches up eight feet.
Wait a minute, is that a Rothko? I look back up toward the ceiling and consider that it might not be a Chihuly-looking chandelier, it might be an actual Chihuly.
I see now what Penelope meant by very rich. No wonder she’s able to fund a wedding like this.
“Hello.”
I startle at the voice that popped out of nowhere.
There’s a person breezing through the atrium toward me, with long black hair that’s pulled back in half-up braids, wearing pink overalls and lavender eyeliner.
They wipe their hand on their pants before offering it to me.
Her nails are long and decked out with shimmering pink pearls.
“Are you Miri?” she asks.
“I’m Ruby.” I’m so nervous my leg is trembling. I will it to calm down. “Friend of Penelope’s. Miri is sick, so I’m here to help with the planning meeting.”
“Okay.” They look at me, slightly confused.
“I’m Jewish,” I say, as if this clears anything up.
“That’s great?” she says with a distinct question mark at the end of the statement. I’ve officially lost them, and also I have no idea who they are. “Well, Louise just finished her blackjack game, and I’m about to serve tea in the parlor.”
“Thank you…” I trail off, wondering if this person will introduce herself.
“I’m Alma! Pronouns are she/they.” There’s a pause where I wait for them to offer their connection to this mysterious family. “I’m Louise’s nu—aide.” Alma smiles. “Louise’s aide. And I’m Filipina,” she adds, leaning in like we now share an inside joke.
“Nice to meet you.” I smile gratefully and shake the hand Alma offers. “I’m she. I mean, she/her pronouns.” Just permit me to evaporate at this point. “Where do I find the, um, parlor?” I look in either direction from the atrium. It seems I’ve hit my head and fallen into a Jane Austen novel.
Alma points to my right. “She lost blackjack, so she’s in a bit of a mood.”
“I heard that!” a distant voice shouts.
“Told you,” Alma sings, before walking in the opposite direction of the parlor.
“Thanks for the heads up,” I mutter, before marching my Mary Janes toward the ominous, bodiless voice.
I make sure the collar of the dress is straight and my knee socks aren’t drooping.
There’s a ribbon tying back a sectioned puffball of hair that I cast severe doubt on as I cross the atrium.
Have I miscalculated and gone too coquette?
In the parlor, a pale woman in a peacock-patterned kaftan holds court in a chaise lounge by a bay window, looking like a glamorous and elderly Dionysus.
Birds of paradise bookend her, and Lake Michigan sparkles out the window behind her.
To the left is an oversized marble fireplace and on the right a sofa sits beneath what is most certainly an eight-foot Cy Twombly.
Yep, definitely a real Chihuly in the atrium.
“Who are you?” the woman asks in a scratchy, radio-announcer voice, peering down her nose at me.
She’s younger than I would have thought from Penelope’s description; she can’t be older than mid-sixties.
Her thin hair is carefully coiffed beneath a headscarf that matches her kaftan, and she has on bright pink lipstick.
“I’m Ruby.” I enunciate both syllables. When I offer my hand, Louise shakes the living daylight out of it. Ow, I mouth to myself.
“Ruby. Like the gem?”
I nod.
“I like that. Gem. Good name.”
“It’s Ruby—”
“You still haven’t answered my question. Who are you? Last time I checked, the top-of-the-line wedding planner we hired was named Miri.”
“Oh, right, um, Miri is sick, so I’m—” I gnaw on my lip, a caged animal. “Filling in!”
Louise harrumphs, a sound I am incapable of interpreting. “You look like a Parisian streetwalker.”
Did she just say I look like a prostitute? I roll my shoulders and barrel forward, deciding to completely ignore it. “Are you excited? Big family wedding coming up!”
“It will be exciting. Once my niece actually takes the time to fill me in on what’s happening.” Louise sits back and looks out the window, effectively ending our small talk.
I explore the room while we wait for the woman of the hour to make an appearance.
It’s an indulgent concept, the idea of a room existing purely to sit in.
No TV, no computer. Not even an iPad. I take a slow stroll around the perimeter, seeing a framed sketch that looks like either Picasso or a five-year-old did it, a marble bust of someone stately, and a bookshelf.
I settle on the bookshelf. I start reading the titles and realize the entire shelf is taken up by editions of Alfred Feeney novels.
The oldest one is a first edition of his first novel, Lily in the Grass—the book that practically invented the modern literary romance.
It’s like Lady Chatterley’s Lover had a baby with Emma, and that baby went to Woodstock.
He hasn’t published a book in a couple years, and his last one was decidedly sadder than the rest of his canon. It’s called Blue Rose, about a golden-years couple dealing with cancer. As much of a Feeney fan as I am, I haven’t been able to bring myself to pick it up.
“You a big Feeney fan?” I ask Louise, holding up the book.
She smiles, a faraway look in her eyes. “That’s one word for it.”
“What’s another word?” I ask, wondering if she’s familiar with the concepts of fangirls or stans.
“Wife.”
The book almost drops out of my hand. I rush to reshelve it safely. “You’re Alfred Feeney’s wife?”
Louise smiles at me, a new warmth in her face at the mention of him. “Have you read his books?”
“Of course, I mean I read him in high school and college. He’s easily one of my favorite authors.”
“He’d love to hear that. He always wanted his writing to be ageless.”
“Is he here? Can I meet him?” I ask. Louise’s expression shutters, and I suddenly realize how desperate that sounded. “I’m sorry, that was so weird—forget I said anything.”
“No, it’s not weird. You can’t meet him because he passed away six months ago.”
“Oh.” I sink down into a chinoiserie chair that faces Louise. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Louise’s mouth twitches. “It’s life, isn’t it? We’re born and we die, and the time in between is what it is.”
I tilt my head. “I guess?”
Louise sighs and looks at a Cartier watch. “How late will Penelope be? I told her I had a Pink Ribbon Ladies happy hour at five o’clock sharp.”
Pink Ribbon Ladies? I would bet my (paltry) savings account that she’s talking about a breast cancer group. “Are you…” I cough, the words coming out stilted and awkward. “A survivor?”
Louise blinks. “Five years,” she says without even a whisper of emotion.
There’s a fork in the road: on one side, I can congratulate her, and we can resume our silence; or, I can tell her. For once, there’s not much to lose.
“I’m a year cancer free.”
She shifts in her seat, appraising me. “Breast?”
I nod.
“You’re too young for this shit.”
I shrug. Unfortunately, informing my cancer that I was simply too young to deal with it was not a viable treatment method, according to my oncologist.
“Was it at least caught early?”
“Stage II.”
Louise goes back to staring off into space. “I was Stage IIIc. Triple negative.”
“Well, that’s great that they caught it, right?”
She makes a vague noise of assent. The silence is thick, suffocating.
“I was triple positive,” I say. “My tumor was an overachiever, just like me.”
Louise laughs, a large guffaw that sounds like it belongs to an Amazonian bird. “And how are you doing now?”
“I’m good!” My flagrant exaggeration rings false in the rich, lavender-scented air. “I’m okay.” Louise gives me a quiet, disapproving look (I think she can smell lies). “I am here,” I try.
Louise’s chin dips, a stern acceptance of this final statement. “I’m here too,” she says.
That’s it. The know-it-when-you-hear-it thing.
My shoulders relax. I glance at the entrance to the parlor, neither seeing nor hearing a whiff of Penelope.
I figure that I’ve been dragged to this wedding planning meeting, and I may as well get a vent session out of it with someone who may actually understand my sense of humor.
I’m obviously not going to see this woman again. Well, except for the wedding.