A Toast to Starry Nights (2 page)

And then as if on cue, she continued on
her train wreck of thought. “I mean that's why I can't be in a relationship. My
past life as Lady Jane Grey has caused me to distrust any man who has an
interest in me because I was used so horridly. Can you imagine what it was like
for a sixteen-year-old girl to be placed on the throne by greedy, manipulative
men? Married to a repulsive toady? Beheaded!” She paused and heaved a deep
sigh. You'd think that after making such a discovery, she'd be able to process
it and move on. Not so. And I bet her reading all those historical romance
novels set in the Tudor Era doesn't help one iota.

“You know my stance on that quackery,
Willow. I don't need anyone to plant ideas in my mind to justify actions in
this life. If I were to see a doctor, it'd be a therapist to help me cope with
my mother.” There. Gauntlet thrown.

She made finger-quotes and mouthed the
word “quackery” with a sarcastic shake of her head. “It's not bullshit. You
simply don't understand the nuances of regression. And Dr. Neilsinhaur is a
therapist, too. Certified, licensed, accredited... all the good things one
should seek in a mental health professional.” She stopped for a moment and
looked like she was in deep contemplation. “I propose a deal. You see Dr.
Neilsinhaur, and I'll stay out of your way with wedding planning. I'll help
only when asked.”

Dammit! She had me by the throat. Give
her an inch and she'd plan the whole thing, probably even include Jumping the
Broom-- something she did at her own four weddings. “Very tempting, I will
grant you, but...” I really didn't want to encourage her in the madness she
chose to pursue. And she knew that I couldn't cut her completely off from
helping with the wedding, so it's not too even a trade... but if it kept her
from decorating the alter to look like a holodeck with a Ferengi as the
officiant, it was worth investigating. And I sure as hell didn't want her
handling the guest-list and inviting my father... if he ever made it out of the
Mexican prison... I never asked and if he did, she never mentioned it.

“You see him once. Only once. And I'll
keep my nose out of your wedding. Promise. I'll even pinky swear to it.” Her
faded blond braids swung to and fro as she tried to contain her excitement at
getting me to do her bidding. She held up a pinky and wiggled it, as if a pinky
swear were as legally binding as a contract. “C'mon... you know you want to.”
She reminded me of a happy puppy, bouncing with glee. “Come on, Kaylis....”

My mother is quirky. I was encouraged to
call her by her first name when I made the momentous growing up moment of going
to the bathroom by myself for the first time. “We are now equals, so you can
call me by my real name. You can call me Willow instead of Mama.” or something
like that. I suppose being able to use the toilet levels life's playing field.
Willow doesn't know how to take No for an answer. She'll wheedle her way to a
Yes, even going to the lengths of doing it on principle. This pinky swearing
thing is one of the obnoxious yet adorable moments my quirky mother uses
because she knows it works on me. It's my life's goal to not be the
head-perpetually-stuck-in-the-clouds-go-with-the-flow-kind-of-person. This is
the bane of my mother's existence, hence her use of emotional bribery.

“I don't like the idea of someone
planting ideas in my head. I'm not cool with that in the least.” A glance
towards Dmitri revealed him raking the newly churned earth even. Wheelbarrow of
compost stood at the ready to be forked into the patch.

Willow sighed. “The first visit is more
like an interview. You get to know him, he gets to know you. No head tripping.
At least not with me. If you are lucky, he'll use the Forest Room. It's
beautiful.” A look of rapture made her glow. “And I'm only asking one visit out
of you for our little deal...” her voice trailed off and her pinky waved ferociously
anew as a smile spilled across her unwrinkled face.

Dammit.

My mother is good.

Chapter Three-

“So let me get this right. You spewed on
Dmitri Branimir when he got on bended knee? Puked on him at such a crucial
moment in his life-- you know, the moment where he opens himself up to the
woman he adores. And you fucking puke on him? In front of a whole dining room.
Sweet Jumping Jesus, Kaykay, are you trying to drive that man away? Or is this
some form of freakish Croatian courtship I want to know nothing about?”

Jet never, ever,
ever
sugarcoats
anything. It's why I consider her my closest friend. Librarian by day, tattooed
model by night; she's my dose of cold water in the face for dealing with
reality. I'm positive that her brain lacks a central censoring system to
moderate that which plops out of her mouth. She is also always seemingly
equipped with mimosa fixings, which at this moment, during this conversation--
not even an hour after dealing with my maternal unit's irritating coercing-- is
a very good thing. Safely ensconced at home while Dmitri finished his
gardening, I was eager to get into the verbal free-for-all with my best friend.

Let the drinking commence, courtesy of
Jetnia Akbari. Half American mutt, half Balinese, pure attitude. At a stately
height of five foot nine when barefoot, in her perpetual heels, she towers over
my five foot nine-and-a-half frame. Her long, black hair possessed a smattering
of bright green streaks which were a new addition since I saw her three days
ago. They matched her personality; bright, obvious and somewhat obnoxious.

We sat in the living room as she
continued on her tirade. “The man who has stuck by you in the shittiest of
shitty years of your life, the guy who pretty much worships the ground you
tread and the air you breathe, this same paragon of manly virtue who took you
to the most expensive place in Chico so he could ask you to marry him was puked
upon? I can't even wrap my brain around it. What the fuck were you thinking?”
She wasn't watching as she poured the champagne into her glass. She left just
enough room for splash of orange juice. I'm certain it was there for coloring,
not flavor.

“You know, when you put it that way, it
doesn't make me feel as bad as when I spewed on him. So, yeah. Thanks for driving
the point home. I already feel horrible.”

“That's a given. But why?”

“I don't know. Felt scared shitless when
I realized this was it, the proposal. Went from Oh My God to Pukey Brewster.”
The look in his eyes the moment afterward it registered in his brain... I can
never wipe that from my mind – and I've tried. “I can't believe I'll tell the
kids we'll adopt that when Daddy asked Mommy to marry him, Mommy upchucked on
him like a drunken sorority girl at her first frat party.” I didn't sip my
mimosa. I downed it like a man dying of thirst and poured myself another.
“Maybe I'll tell my kids that he proposed during Rocky Horror Picture Show.
That's less embarrassing, right?” A shred of hope lingered in my voice.

“Only if you didn't have a red V
lipsticked to your head when he proposed at the Rocky show last night. By the
by, you are aware that you've given up your right to wear white at your
wedding, right? You threw that out the window when you two got this place
together.” Jet waved her hand airily about as she reclined on the most comfy
couch ever conceived by man.

I love my home. Dmitri designed and
built it, and his work ethic is such that only the best would do. The walls
were a mellow sage green with a white washed oak wainscoting that complimented
the polished bamboo floor. Large bay windows provided light for all manner of
plants clustered around. There was a definite wild feel to the room. It had the
open feeling of a loft with light shining through the large skylight situated
over the living area. Another skylight illuminated the kitchen, which took up
two-thirds of the back wall. Textile art that I created hung upon the walls,
and out back Dmitri built me a small workshop as my very own castle of
crafting. The garage was his manly kingdom of beer and shiny tools.

I cringed at the mention of the color
white. “I don't want a traditional wedding. White is too chipper a color,
anyhow. Besides, Dmitri agreed to my stipulation. It'll be a while before I'll
submit a novel, let alone finish one.” We sat in the living room as we enjoyed
our discourse.

“Just keep singing
Dear Prudence
to
yourself while pounding those keys. You'll finish it, edit it, sell it, and
then take me to The French Laundry with your advance. We'll be pretentious
together. It'll be fun.”

I shot her a dirty look at the mention
of that song which helped to give me my middle name. I dislike her reminding me
that I lacked a normal middle name like Marie or Elizabeth or Catherine.
Instead, I was blessed with Prudence from my Beatles-worshiping mother. My
consolation is the Souxie and the Banshees cover of said song. I chose not to
acknowledge her faux pas, and responded to her choice of eatery. “You're gonna
want wine with your decadent meal, aren't you?”

“Why, how nice of you to offer! Wonder
what is the priciest bottle in their collection happens to be? You can consider
it my birthday and Christmas present for the next ten years all rolled into
one.”

“You must have some misbegotten notion
that I hold you in that high of esteem. If I do that, then I won't be able to
afford my wedding.” I sighed. Witty banter could only go so far to make me feel
better. Dear, observant, Jet, picked up on my discontent. I've been writing for
over ten years. But between life, work and a short attention span, I have yet
to finish one of my many novels. Good starts, all of them, but I either lose
interest in the project or I get dissatisfied with where the story is going. My
latest attempt was off to a good start, I'm just hoping I can finish it before
I get bored or irritated.

“So, speaking of your attempt to join
the hallowed ranks of Hemingway, King and Rice, how goes the bodice ripper?”
She leaned forward, chin supported by hands held up by elbows propped on knees.

“I hate that you call it that. My
project is a historical romance.” Not my first choice when writing. The theory
is that I won't get as bored because it'll be more of a challenge, with
research and stuff. That was Jet's idea. Under my breath, I added, “And they
didn't write romance.”

Her no-nonsense voice dripped sarcasm.
“Bodice ripper-- don't kid yourself, hun. Hanky-panky back in the day, and all
the wenches wore bodices. Oh, and Rice wrote erotica which means romance got
bent over a log with the benefit of lube.... so stuff it. Does your adventure have
pirates pillaging the high seas?” Her green eyes were wide in anticipation.

“No.”

“Highlanders or others of Celtic
descent?” Her eyebrows rose in hopeful eagerness of a more eloquent answer.

“Ummm...”

“Are you going to let me read it?” Her
frustration was very evident.

“No.”

Something I thought impossible happened.
Jet actually sounded miffed as she replied, “Why not? And that's a question
that requires more than a monosyllabic answer.”

I took a moment to phrase it so she
could understand and not be butthurt by my reply. This latest novel attempt
wasn't something I was comfortable letting her read, partially because of her
own slightly bitter and jaded view on life. That, and I really didn't want her
feedback on the intimate scenes, which would certainly be forthcoming. Fact is,
I didn't want her reading anything I wrote because she used the one opportunity
I gave her to rip the work apart and play critic from hell... and grade school
teacher with the ever-flowing red pen of correction. “Because you'll devour it
and give me an honest opinion. And sometimes I'd like a more tactful sort of
honesty than the brutal reaming you mastered.”

I hate red pens. Seriously. That is not
red ink, but the blood of correction seeping from a thousand wounds. One can
take the hint when there's more red than white when one gets their manuscript
back. One can learn many a splendid lesson from such character building events
as Jet giving an unabashed opinion on one's work.

“I can be nice. I won't even mention you
barfing onto Dimi like a kid fresh off the Tilt-a-Whirl.” She smiled. “Besides
when you get published, you'll be in my realm. I'm sure you've heard of my
friend, Mr. Dewey Decimal. Failing that, I will get my hands on one of your
manuscripts to tear apart somehow, Kaylis. Don't doubt me, or my literary pimp,
Dewey D. You won't even see it coming, so consider yourself warned.” She cocked
an ebony eyebrow in a silent challenge.

“Okay, good point. You and your literary
pimp can read it once it crosses the border into your realm because I won't
give you a rough. So, change of topic. Dmitri told Willow what happened and now
she wants me to go to her
past-life-regression-therapist-psycho-voodoo-doctor-shyster-man to find out why
I did what I did. In exchange, she'll keep out of the wedding planning.”

“Wow, biased much? Look at it this way:
an awesome deal. Go for it. Pay this guy however much he charges for an hour
just to keep your mom out of her non-hostile takeover of one of the most
important days of your life. It'll be like cents a day to keep your mom from
hippiefying the whole shindig. Speaking of which... non traditional, like how
and are you open to suggestions?”

“You'll love this idea-- a non-white
wedding. The only white will be the flowers. I'm thinking 'Moroccan Nights' as
a theme. Dmitri wasn't really feeling 'Ottoman Harem'-- which by the way, isn't
as gaudy as it sounds. Couldn't convince him of it though. Maybe he was afraid
I'd have the groomsmen and the best man look like eunuchs.”