Читать книгу Wedding Fever - Kim Gruenenfelder - Страница 6

Chapter Two

Nicole

I can tell Seema is suppressing an urge to roll her eyes at me.

“Don’t give me that look,” I tell her. “The first time I was ever at a cake pull, I pulled the silver heart, which meant I’d be the next woman to fall in love. I met Jason that night.”

Mel looks up from her melon tray. “What’s a cake pull? What are we talking about?”

“Glad you asked,” I say, beaming, as I walk to Seema’s refrigerator. As I open the door, I hear a loud pop of a champagne cork. I turn to see Seema opening a bottle of Taltarni Brut Taché, my favorite sparkling wine.

“Ah,” Mel says happily. “I love that sound.”

Seema pours some champagne into flutes for us. “Good. You’ll need booze to hear this.”

“Stop that,” I say sternly, as I pull a large circular cake with white frosting out of the refrigerator and place it in the middle of Seema’s kitchen table. Radiating from the cake are twenty-four white satin ribboned loops, evenly spaced around the circumference.

“Okay now, you see these ribbons?” I ask Mel.

“Yes,” Mel says, taking a sip of champagne as she fingers one of the ribbons.

“Each ribbon is attached to a sterling silver charm, which gets pulled out before we eat the cake.” I continue. “I stuck twenty-four charms in here, one for each woman at the party. Some of the most common charms include the engagement ring, the heart, the baby carriage, the money bag, the hot air balloon, and the wishing well. The charms are like fortune cookies. What ever charm you pull, that’s the next stage in your life coming up.”

“How on earth did you get these in here?” Mel asks me.

“It’s easy, but messy. First, I bought the charms at therescake inmyfuture-dot-com. Next, since I can’t bake to save my life, I went down to Big Sugar Bakeshop on Ventura and had them bake a two-layer chocolate fudge cake with buttercream frosting. Then I stuck the silver charms in between the layers of the cake, careful to leave the ribbons hanging out in full view but the charms hidden.”

“How long did it take you to do that?” Seema asks me with a hint of disapproval.

“And make it look pretty? About three hours,” I am forced to admit.

The girls widen their eyes at me. I shrug. “What can I say? Since losing my job, I’ve discovered the joys of making a mess in the kitchen, needlepoint, and doing vodka shots at noon.”

As Seema snags a finger full of frosting, I watch Mel inspect the ribbons closely. Mel’s interest is clearly piqued. “So if someone picks the engagement ring, does that mean they’re the next to get engaged?”

“Right,” I tell Mel as I point to her. “That’s the one you’re going to get. And I’m making sure the baby carriage goes to Heather . . .”

“Is she the one at your old job doing the IVF?” Seema asks.

“Yeah. Poor thing has gone through three cycles already. Oh, and speaking of people from my old job, my friend Carolyn was fired during the latest round of layoffs, so she gets the typewriter.”

“Wait. How do you know which charm everyone’s going to get?” Seema asks.

I look at her like that’s the stupidest question I’ve ever heard. “I rigged the cake.”

Mel eyes me suspiciously. “How do you rig a cake?”

I proudly point to a red toothpick at the bottom of the cake, ever so slightly hidden by gobs of vanilla buttercream. “See that toothpick there? When we put out the cake, I’ll make sure the toothpick faces me at the table. Since everyone has a place card, I know exactly where each woman will be sitting. With that chart in mind, I slipped the perfect charm for each girl’s future into the part of the cake closest to her.”

I grab my purse from the dining room table and pull out a folded paper map. I unfold the map to show Seema and Mel a giant circle with twenty-four spokes radiating out of it. On the outside of each spoke is a guest’s name and inside the spoke is the charm they will get. I point to where Mel will sit. “For example, Mel, here you are . . . ,” then I point to a ribbon on the cake, “and here is your corresponding charm: the ring. Seema, you’re here. And here’s your charm: the red hot chili pepper. Which means you’ll be the next one to have a red hot romance.”

Mel promptly pulls her assigned ribbon from the cake.

“What are you doing?” I exclaim.

She looks at the silver solitaire ring attached to the ribbon. “Just making sure your map works.”

I grab the charm from her. “It works!” I insist as I carefully slide the ring back between the cake layers. “I spent a long time on this. Don’t mess it up.”

Seema laughs to herself. “So that’s what you think I need most in my life? Hot sex?”

“Don’t all people need hot sex in their lives?” I counter.

“Fair enough. But why can’t I pick which charm I want?” Seema asks. She takes the list from me and reads, “Like the wishing well, why can’t I have that?”

“What would you wish for? Scott?” I ask knowingly.

I can tell from the way Seema shrugs her shoulders that I’m right about that one.

“Okay,” Seema concedes. “But what about the hot air balloon? I’ve always wanted to go to Napa and take a ride in a hot air balloon.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head determinedly. “The hot air balloon is for my friend Julia. It symbolizes adventure and travel. She’s never been out of California. It’s time.”

“Why wouldn’t you want the hot air balloon?” Mel asks me as she looks over Seema’s shoulder to read the chart.

“I’m already spending two weeks in Italy for my honeymoon. I don’t need more travel,” I tell her. Then I let them in on my dream. “No. What I want is the shovel.”

Mel furrows her brow. “What’s the shovel stand for?”

I smile proudly. “A lifetime of hard work.”

Seema and Mel exchange a concerned look. Seema shakes her head. “Sometimes I worry about her.”

“Seriously, I have to get back to work. I’m going nuts at home.”

Seema nods, then says sarcastically, “Yeah, it must be terrible having to sleep past five in the morning.”

I cross my arms. “Actually, for me it is—”

I’m about to begin a diatribe when Seema’s doorbell rings.

My guests have arrived.

I point to the toothpick, then to Mel. “When you bring out the cake, make sure the toothpick faces me. You’ll get your ring, I’ll get my shovel, Seema will get her pepper. Be diligent. I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

• • •

Two hours, three new toasters, four place settings, and one obvious regift later, my gaggle of female guests are tipsy, well fed, and (most importantly) sitting in their assigned seats.

Mel brings out the cake for dessert. I am treated to a bunch of “ooohs” and “aaahs” from the group.

Mel places the cake about three feet from me, in the center of the table. As we planned, she is careful to place the covered red toothpick dead center in front of me.

I give everyone a brief history of the cake pull: an old Southern tradition, charm reveals your future: blah, blah, blah. Then I hold up a sheet of pastel-pink paper. “Each of you has a chart like this one under your place cards. The list will tell you what your charm means. Okay, now, everyone, I want you to loop your finger through the ribbon closest to you . . .”

They all do exactly as I instruct, each girl putting her index finger into the correct satin loop. I do a quick mental scan of the table to make sure everyone has their finger in the right loop. Then I put my finger through my assigned white loop, and say, “On your mark. Get set. PULL!”

I hear a cacophony of laughter and delight as we all pull out our charms.

And I pull . . . the baby carriage.

Shit.

As the women begin licking the cake crumbs and frosting off of their charms and reading their pink charts, I hear our friend Ginger squeal, “Oh my God! I got the diamond ring! That means I’m the next to get engaged, right?”

That can’t be right. Ginger’s been dating her boyfriend Jeff for all of three months. She was supposed to get the fleur-de-lis, which means “Love will blossom.”

I look over at Mel, whose face has fallen as she watches our friend Ginger show off the exact same ring charm Mel pulled out two hours ago. I lean over to her and whisper, “What did you get?”

Mel glares at me. “The red hot chili pepper.”

“But then what did See . . .” I start to ask, turning to see Seema holding up the shovel, then draining the rest of her peach Bellini.

Shit, shit, shit.

My friend Carolyn gleefully says, “Hey, I got the money bag. Maybe I should go buy a lottery ticket Tonight.”

“No, no . . .” I blurt out. “Didn’t you get the typewriter?”

“No. But why would I want the typewriter?” Carolyn asks, genuinely confused.

“Because you’re a journalist. I figured with all the layoffs, you’d want good luck getting a new job.”

Carolyn’s having fun with the pull, not taking it seriously at all. She shrugs. “Well, if I win the lottery, I’ll just start my own paper.”

“I got the typewriter!” Jacqueline, Jason’s ex-wife, cheerfully says. “Which is awesome, because I’m up for a speechwriting job for the governor.”

“You’re up for a job with the governor?” I ask her nervously. “As in the guy who lives in Sacramento?”

She’s thinking of moving Jason’s daughters to Sacramento? When was she planning on springing that news on us?

“It’s a long shot,” Jacqueline assures me. “The mayor put in a good word for me. Still . . .” She holds up the silver typewriter. “Nice to have a good luck charm.”

I open my hand, clenched tightly in a fist, and stare at the baby carriage.

A good luck charm. Yeah . . . that would have been nice.

I close my hand around the charm again, force a smile to my guests, and excuse myself to the kitchen. Once I’m in the sanctuary of Seema’s kitchen, I open my clutched fist once again to reveal the baby carriage.

A baby carriage. WTF?

I can’t have a baby! First off, I have no desire to ever touch diarrhea or spit-up. Plus, I like sleep. And I like spending my money on what ever I want. (What mother in her right mind would spend three hundred dollars on a pair of suede pumps with a college fund to worry about?) But the most important reason that I can’t have a baby is a nonnegotiable . . . I like being able to hyperfocus on my career as a newspaper reporter, a job which has stalled enough in the past year without a mewling infant on my hip taking away any shot I have of ever writing again.

It’s not that I don’t like babies. I do. I love holding them, playing with them, being an auntie, and then SENDING THEM HOME. It’s why I make such a great stepmother but would make a lousy mother.

I almost didn’t date Jason after I found out he had children.

When I first met Jason at a museum fund-raiser Seema had put together, I thought he was gorgeous, charming, and smart. Wickedly smart, which sort of surprised me for a former NBA basketball player, who was now an NBA assistant coach here in L.A. The first hour we talked, I was totally smitten. He was thirty-seven at the time (six years older than me, a bit past my comfort zone), but he was a very in-shape and smokin’-hot thirty-seven. As we talked and laughed, I started thinking about fate, and the silver heart charm I had pulled earlier that day, and how you just never know when the right one is going to come along.

Then he mentioned his two daughters, who at the time were four and eight. Damn, I thought to myself—I knew there had to be something wrong with him. Within minutes, I had politely excused myself and started scoping out other men at the party.

But I kept running into him: he was at the bar getting a drink when I popped by for a refill, later I turned a corner to see him admiring one of the Monets. At the end of the night, he was behind me in line for the valet.

He asked for my number. I told him I was seeing someone.

After the valet pulled up with my car, we stood by my open car door talking for so long, the valet actually asked us to move it along. Jason asked for my number again. I politely declined.

Then he asked Seema for my number. She called me right after she gave it to him to declare that I was an idiot, that she had overruled me, and that he was perfect for me.

When Jason first started calling, I used the accepted code of those not interested: I couldn’t do this weekend, I would be out of town. I was really busy with work during the week. My weekend was completely booked as my cat, Mr. Whiskers, had died, and I was planning his funeral. There was no Mr. Whiskers, and I’m allergic to cats. But I figured nothing turns off a guy faster than a crazy cat lady. (By the way, he was onto me. He sent flowers and asked if he could attend the ser vice.)

Despite my rebuffs over the next few weeks, I always stayed on the phone a little too long and thought about him a little too much the next day. So, after he asked me out for the tenth time, I agreed. I mean, for God’s sake, the guy wasn’t proposing, he was asking me to dinner. And what was wrong with dressing up on a Saturday night to gaze at an elegant man with poreless caramel-colored skin and clear hazel eyes?

During our dinner I discovered (to my astonishment) that this guy was a real guy. He actually pursued me: a rarity in Los Angeles. I was used to typical L.A. neurotic guys. Men who would call once every eight to ten days, with no rhyme or reason to when or why they would call. Men who asked me to go dutch at dinner. Men who were incredibly attentive until they got sex, then talked ad nauseum about how they weren’t sure if they had time for a relationship. (At which point they, too, would call at random times, although at least then I knew the reason.)

But this guy asked me out again before the first date was even over.

He knew what he wanted and— like everything else in his life— he planned to go after it until he won. If other men in Los Angeles are like toy poodles— yippy and useless— this guy was a Labrador: hardworking, loyal, a bit slobbery, and beautiful.

A month later, I agreed to meet his kids. And I fell in love with them immediately. Megan was a gorgeous eight-year-old (now nine) who cracked me up with a knock-knock joke and had fun polishing my toenails. Malika, four at the time, had the cutest voice I’d ever heard. There was (and is) nothing she says that I don’t want to repeat to all of my friends, because it’s just so damn cute.

That said, it took me a while to feel comfortable in my role as stepmother. And frankly, I screwed up sometimes. Like when I snapped at Malika for repeating the same sentence for the sixth time, or when I drove Megan to her school for her dance recital instead of to the auditorium the school had rented, thereby giving us all of four minutes to run from the parking lot to the correct stage to begin her dance.

This summer, the girls have been living with us full-time, per the custody agreement. I love it, but I am ready to rip my hair out. I seriously don’t know how mothers do this full-time. We can’t go out to dinner without Malika insisting on sitting next to me (never her father) and screaming in my ear the entire time. And I can’t insist she sit next to her father, because then I’ll look like a mean stepmonster.

Oh, and on the subject of food: what is it with kids and not eating anything? Malita is the picky eater to end all picky eaters. We had an argument last week because I used tomato sauce on my homemade pizza rather than “pizza sauce.” It wasn’t worth the fight— it’s just pizza— so I nuked her some fish sticks instead. The same thing happened with the gourmet mac and cheese I slaved over one night. It was baked. It was white. It was pronounced “wrong,” “weird,” and “yucky.”

We have been eating neon-orange mac and cheese from a box ever since.

And don’t get me started on all the driving! What ever happened to summers off? This summer the girls have had a combination of ballet camp, museum camp, zoo camp, and music camp. Of course, neither girl has the same camp as her sister, and inevitably each week’s camp is at least ten miles (meaning forty-five L.A. driving minutes) from the sister’s camp.

Jason has had a full-time job all summer prepping his team for the next season. I currently have no job. Guess who does 90 percent of the driving?

I love these kids. I really do. But in one week, they go on a Carib be an cruise with their mother, and then it’s back to school for them— and back to weekend parenting for me.

Politically incorrect though this may be, I am not only counting down the days until my honeymoon, I’m counting down the days until I get my life back.

I look down at the silver carriage again.

Nope. I’m barely hanging on as a part-time stepmonster— there’s no way I’m ready to have a baby.

Seema and Mel walk into the kitchen. Seema hands me a Bellini, then says, “Sweetie, it’s a cake, not an augury. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Easy for her to say. Ever since we were in college, Seema has lambasted me for my belief in fortune-tellers, good luck charms, and fate.

“Yes it does!” I say, almost crying. “You don’t understand. At the last two showers I’ve been to, every woman’s fortune came true. There was this woman who couldn’t have a baby, who got the carriage. Pregnant two weeks later. One person got the wishing well— said out loud she wanted a new job in New York, totally got an offer.”

“Okay,” Seema concedes, “but, with all due respect: the woman who got pregnant could have been doing IVF for the past year. And the woman who wished for the new job had probably been working on getting that job for a while.”

“You gotta admit,” Mel says, opening her hand to examine her pepper. “It is a pretty big coincidence.”

“No, it’s not,” Seema counters. “It’s people having enough faith in their lives to work hard and go after their dreams. Here,” Seema says, taking Mel’s pepper. “Give me this. Nic, give me your charm.”

I hand Seema my charm. She places it and the other two charms in the palm of her right hand, covers her hand with her left, and shakes her hands like she’s about to roll dice. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

Seema opens her hands, then gives the baby carriage charm to Mel. “You take this. Nic, you get the shovel. And I’ll take the chili pepper.”

“Why do I get the baby carriage?!” Mel practically howls.

Seema glares at Mel. “I thought you didn’t want the chili pepper.”

“Well, I want it more than a baby carriage!” Mel whines.

Seema rolls her eyes. “Fine. You want the engagement ring, right?”

She waits for a response from Mel, who looks down and shrugs self-consciously.

“Be right back,” Seema says.

As she leaves the kitchen, I look down at the shovel. “Maybe since she hid it in her hand, it could kind of count. . . .”

“What the Hell is wrong with you?!” we hear someone screech in condemnation from the other room.

Seema comes racing back in, with my friend Ginger running in after her. “Mel! I got you your engagement ring. Quick! Throw the carriage at her!”