Chapter 13 #2
“Thanks, Alma.” My stomach drops at the thought that Pen didn’t warn Louise she wouldn’t be coming, and that this would—yet again—fall to me.
The parlor is empty this time, the yellow sky making the picture window look like a diorama of an apocalypse.
Far out on Lake Michigan, small tickles of lightning appear like lens flares.
Next to the window, almost blending into the bird of paradise, I spot an IV pole.
It looks much newer and sleeker than the ones they use in the hospital, but an IV infusion machine all the same.
“Hi, Gem,” Louise says from behind, walking confidently with a cane to her usual spot on the chaise. She spots the IV pole too and squints one eye over her shoulder. “Alma!” she bellows. “Take it out of my sight!”
Alma arrives a minute later, handing me a teacup and saucer with a look of camaraderie as she wheels the IV pole out of the room.
“It’s pain medicine.” Louise sniffs primly. “For my back.”
“Oh—”
“Man, a storm is brewing out there, Aunt Lou!” Calliope whips into the room, giving Louise a quick peck on the cheek before slumping onto the sofa.
“I love summer rain.” Louise sighs.
Calliope looks around theatrically. “Where is the bridezilla?”
Louise snorts a laugh but stifles it with a throat clearing.
“She, uh—” I tug at my collar, trying to combat the impending hot flash at the thought of having to be the one to say this. “She couldn’t make it.”
“What?” Calliope sits up.
“She had to fly to New York to see her publisher.”
“Unbelievable!” Calliope says. Louise says nothing, but her stiffly pursed lips do plenty of talking.
“It’s okay!” I assure them. “She called me, and we worked out everything we need to talk through during this meeting.” I pull out my laptop. “I’ve got it covered.”
Calliope gives me a look that feels too close to pity for my liking. Deflecting anger at Penelope, I can handle. I don’t need anyone feeling sorry for me.
“Sorry I’m late.” Eitan’s voice breaks the weighted silence. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the beach, and I’m not prepared for how much tanner he’s gotten since then. It’s like the sun snuck out of the sky just to kiss him. “Hi,” he says, directly to me.
“Hi,” I say back, voice unsteady.
“What did I miss?” He sits down, and Alma hands him a tea cup.
“Nothing.” I try to clear the hazy stupor that his presence raises. The planning document is open on my laptop, giving me a script. “We’re talking about photobooth, hair and makeup, DJ, and florals today. I found—”
“DJ?” Louise asks. “I thought we’re getting a band.”
“Yes, we are.” I try to remember exactly what Pen said on the phone. “It’s just that…”
“The Goldbergs have a close family friend whose son is a DJ, and they want to include him,” Eitan jumps in. I sit back, relaxing for the first time in two hours. “He’s a classically trained cellist, so Josh thought he’d be perfect to play during the ceremony, and he can DJ the cocktail hour.”
Louise shrugs. “It’s fine with me. Can we get a string quartet for the ceremony?”
“I’m sure Saul has some friends he can play with.”
Louise nods. “Alright, then.”
I look around the group, seeing no further discussion. Eitan catches my eye, and I mouth thank you. In response, he smiles at me. It’s like clouds parting.
“Ruby?” Louise asks.
“Hmm?” I turn to her, disoriented.
“What’s next?” She raises her eyebrows at my laptop.
“Right, yes, next we have the smaller vendors: photobooth and hair and makeup.” For how manic my research was before this, the actual decision-making process is relatively quick.
We go with the more expensive hair and makeup option, all agreeing that their reference photos look more natural.
For the photobooth, Louise has me bring the laptop toward her, and she closes her eyes, hovering her finger randomly.
She opens one eye to see her finger landed on the second option, Windy City Photos. “Done,” she says. “Is that all?”
Calliope jumps in with the plan for the joint-bach weekend.
I’m temporarily saved from having to bring up the florals.
Apparently, for the joint-bach, we will be working with an outdoor rec company called Outventures that is leading us on a private camping trip.
I school my face into neutrality, not betraying the fact that I haven’t camped since summer camp, and was much more open to it at the age of twelve.
Eitan adds some small notes here and there about activities and alcohol budget, all of which Louise nods along to.
He looks rather pleased at this significant improvement in performance compared to the previous meeting.
“It’s going to be fun.” Louise reaches over to pat Calliope’s knee.
“Should we airlift you in?” Calliope jokes.
Louise scoffs. “I wish. I’ll just have to settle for a solo trip to Vegas.”
Calliope makes an affronted noise. “You said you would take me next time you went!”
Louise’s face breaks into a pot-stirring grin. “Only kidding, darling. Our trip will be after the wedding craziness is over.” She glances back at me. “Anything else?”
“There’s the, uh, small matter of the florals.”
Louise rubs her chin. “I don’t want to pay for a head-to-toe chuppah and a dance-floor ceiling,” she says. “I don’t care if it’s in budget. I don’t want to be responsible for that many dead flowers.”
I squeeze my lips together nervously, sensing Penelope’s displeasure from thirty-thousand feet. “The ceiling is a real statement, it would be a—” I remember what the florist said. “Showstopper in the reception.” I’m reaching. “It will be the talk of the town!”
Louise perches her chin on her hand. “Tell me, Gem, what do you think?”
I swallow. “I think the ceiling is a statement—”
“No.” Louise shakes her head fiercely. “Not what Pen thinks. What do you think?”
“It would be…pretty,” I say, not entirely convinced. “It’s what Pen wants.”
“She can have the chuppah or the dance-floor ceiling, but not both.”
My stomach sinks. I know she wants both. “We can, um, table that decision,” I say, trying to employ the same tact I have to exercise with my CEO.
Outside, lightning flashes—a lot closer than when this meeting started—followed by a crack of thunder. A mere second between them.
Louise glances at the window. “You better get back to the city before this storm really gets going.”
Calliope lays down on the couch. “Mind if I stay for dinner?” she asks. “Storms always make my pain flare up.”
“Of course, Callie.” Louise claps her hands. “Off you two go!” She shoos Eitan and I out the door, abrupt as can be. I’m left under the cover of the carport, with the whiplash of failing to secure the one thing that seems most important to Pen.
And to top it off, it’s pouring. One of those summer storms where the clouds unzip and pour out an entire heaven’s worth of hot rain, flooding the streets and saying damn it all to the power lines.
It’s the kind of storm you want to take off your clothes and run through, let it soak you, and emerge a new person, anointed by water and heat.
Unfortunately, I’m wearing leather shoes and a silk shirt beneath my sweater vest. So, I am—as the French say—fucked.
With Calliope staying behind, Eitan and I are alone.
“That went well,” he says.
For you, I think dryly. I’ll have to do damage control with Pen tonight. I imagine what I’ll say: Louise wants us to pick one, between the garish chuppah and excessive dance-floor ceiling. I know they’re both super important, but Louise has made up her mind. And, honestly, I don’t blame her.
“Thanks for the help with the fitting.” Eitan nudges my shoulder. “You were right.”
I give a half-hearted smile, trying not to feel bitter that I’m helping Eitan do a better job than myself.
As long as the wedding goes well, I figure Pen will be happy.
And my query will land in Alice’s inbox.
It’s the thought of that fateful ping of an email laden with my query letter that propels me forward.
I will find a way to get Pen everything she wants for this wedding.
I’ll get another chance, I tell myself, preparing for some of my favorite clothes to get soaked (and ruined) on the way to the train.
I realize Eitan just said something that’s been lost to the miasma of my internal monologue. “What?”
“I asked if you want a ride.”
My shoes and blouse are really begging me to take that offer.
But I got a hot flash in the middle of Lake Michigan—the one place it should be anatomically impossible to get one—because Eitan’s hand came close to stroking my cheek.
Imagine what kind of damage could be inflicted in an enclosed vehicle.
“I’m good.” I look back at the rain, begrudging my touch-starved skin for ruining one of my favorite pairs of shoes. I stare at said shoes until Eitan walks away.
A car honks behind me.
“Ruby!” Eitan calls from the driver’s seat of a beat-up green Subaru Outback nestled toward the back of the carport.
“This is ridiculous. You live down the street from me!” Eitan honks the horn again, just to be annoying.
“Can you please get in the car? I won’t be able to drive home until I know you’re not getting soaked in this storm. ”
I turn red.
He honks again.
“Fine!” I yell, walking to the car, wanting the honking to end.
I yank the door open and shove myself inside.
The car is old—it still has a CD slot—and every surface is covered in mud-colored vinyl.
It smells like pine, somehow. Wouldn’t put it past him to have a fresh branch sitting in the back, permanently soaking the car in the distinctive scent of bro camping in the redwoods.
I have to keep ribbing him, because otherwise I’ll focus too hard on the fact that only a center console separates us, rain is turning the world upside down, and Eitan’s presence is heating up this small space like the surface of the sun.