On This Day (12 page)

Y
ou’re welcome,” I say in a sarcastic tone but only after Suzette is too far away to actually hear me.
That
woman—talk about taking people for granted. As I walk across the graveled parking lot, I glance back at the pretty golden Jag with its top still down and seriously hope, for the sake of the leather interior, that it doesn’t rain and the dew isn’t too heavy tonight. Maybe Suzette’s husband will check on it after the wedding.

Despite wanting to forget all about her, I can’t help but wonder about Suzette as I head back to the lodge. First she’s completely brokenhearted over her husband’s affair and as a result gets totally snockered at lunchtime. Then she decides she doesn’t care a whit and magically transforms herself into this independent, I-can-take-care-of-myself woman, even to the point of telling me not to worry and assuring me that there are lots of fish in the sea. Then after a
couple more drinks, she wigs out over how old she’s getting. And the next thing I know, she totally flip-flops and sets herself on a take-no-prisoners course to win her husband back. Give me a break! That woman is like a nonstop roller-coaster ride. No wonder her husband went looking elsewhere. He probably got tired of being married to the drama queen.

But that’s not really fair, either. After all, he obviously knew who Suzette was when he married her. Maybe he was even attracted to her because of those specific characteristics. And he made the promise (the one we all made) “for better or for worse.” So what if we do get older, more wrinkled, a bit more cantankerous—is that any excuse to trade us in for a newer model? I don’t think so.

I gather steam as I march up the stairs toward our room. To my surprise, I actually hope Phil will be there now. Possibly putting on those flimsy black socks I foraged for him this morning (even while I fantasized about a life without him). Because if he’s there, if I find him tying his tie or splashing on a bit of that Calvin Klein cologne he recently became so fond of, well, I will give him a definite piece of my mind.

As I open the door to our room, I know I’ve had it up to my eyebrows with husbands who cheat on their wives, and God have mercy on the next one who crosses my path. Maybe it was Suzette’s little independence speech, brief as it was, or maybe I’m just plain tired, but as I open the door, I am finally ready to have my say—and wedding or no wedding, have it I will!

But to my dismay the room is empty. I see Phil’s dark blue sweats piled in a corner of the bathroom, along with a couple of wet towels. I notice the empty garment bag on the bed, the one that contained his good charcoal-colored suit. Even those cheap black socks are gone. And no wonder; when I look at the clock, I realize I should be getting ready too.

Oddly enough, I feel in no particular rush as I shower and dress. In some way I remind myself of a person getting ready for the execution chamber. What’s the hurry? And I’m actually somewhat relieved that Phil isn’t here to receive all my pent-up frustrations. That really could’ve spoiled the wedding. Still, I know that what I have to say to Phil will not wait for one more day. And as soon as Jenny’s wedding is over—or perhaps I can force myself to wait until after the dinner reception—but as soon as my role here today is completed, I will tell Phil. I will inform him that
I know
.

Oh sure, I’ll give him a chance to deny it. Although I’m guessing he’ll own up to it, and that’s when I’ll tell him we’re over. But what if he’s sorry? I consider this as I slip on my shoes. What if he asks me to forgive him? Maybe I can forgive him (by the grace of God and with the passing of time), but I doubt I could ever forget it. I definitely am not the kind of woman who could remain with a man who was cheating on her. That might work for someone like Suzette, but trust is a big deal to me. And if I can no longer trust Phil, I can no longer remain married to him.

I put on my earrings and wonder what will happen after we’ve laid our cards on the table. How can I share this room with him
once I know what I suspect is true? Perhaps I can get a room of my own for the night. Or maybe I’ll take the car and drive home by myself, let Phil ride home with the boys tomorrow

Of course, I remind myself as I fuss with my hair, I will do all this in a very discreet way tonight—far away from seeing eyes or listening ears. I certainly don’t want to disrupt or detract from Jenny’s wedding. Even so, for my sanity’s sake, I must get it over with, and the sooner the better! As hard as it is to think this could really be it—that my marriage and life as I know it might really be ending tonight—I am tired of living in doubt. Let’s just get it over with.

After I finish dressing, there are still about ten minutes until the wedding ceremony is scheduled to begin. But what wedding ever begins on time? Possibly Jenny’s? With this in mind, I hurry downstairs and outside to the area for the ceremony, against the backdrop of the lake and mountains. The prewedding photo shoot must be long over with, and fortunately I wasn’t needed for any of that. However, Jeannette did make me promise to be available for some casual family shots during the reception.

It looks as if almost everyone is already seated, although I feel certain a chair will be saved for me—unfortunately right next to Phil.

“Hey, Mom,” says Patrick, as he takes my arm to usher me down the aisle. “Thought maybe you weren’t coming.”

“You think I’d miss Jenny’s wedding?” I ask in a hushed voice.

He smiles. “Nah, but Dad’s been asking if anyone has seen
you.” He frowns slightly when he reaches the row where his dad is already seated. “Everything okay, Mom?”

I force a smile—the same one I use when something isn’t going quite right at the design firm but I want to reassure the client that it’s all under control. “Everything’s fine, Pat.” Then I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. Naturally, this makes him blush, but I think he likes it.

I make my way past Jenny’s great-aunt and great-uncle on her dad’s side and, without saying a word, take the empty seat on Phil’s right.

“Where’ve you been?” he whispers.

But I hold a finger to my lips and nod toward the front, where one of Jenny’s friends is stepping to the podium with a silver flute in hand. I tilt my head forward as if the flutist is the most amazing thing under the sun, and as she begins to play, I put on the appearance of listening intently although I am actually fuming inside.

How does Phil think he can get away with this? Does he imagine that people, his own wife for instance, wouldn’t know what he’s been up to? I wonder if the boys suspect anything. Patrick’s question caught me off guard. Although they seem fairly consumed with their own lives these days. And that’s just as it should be. But doesn’t Phil realize how much this will hurt them when they do find out? Doesn’t he realize that just because they’re grown up doesn’t mean that they’re prepared to watch their family disintegrate like this?

For the second time today, I wonder what holidays will be like after the divorce. Who will the boys spend Christmas with? And what happens when they get married? Do Phil and I sit on opposite sides of the church? Will Phil be married to Delia by then? Will she be sitting next to him, taking my place? And who will the grandchildren visit during vacation times? Oh, it’s such a mess. Such a complete and hopeless mess.
God, help me!

It occurs to me that I should’ve been taking my worries to God all along. It’s what I used to do on a regular basis, but right now that seems so long ago. I hate to admit it, but I’ve done less and less praying over the past several years. I usually wait until I’m really desperate or someone I care about is ill. Maybe I’ve been too busy, or maybe I figured God was too busy. Somehow I’ve drifted from my faith. Moved away from God.

Oh, we still go to church—when it works with our schedule, that is. But it’s not like it was when the boys were younger and living at home. Back then, church occupied a rather large portion of our lives. Then there was the scandal in the leadership a few years back. I’m not naive; I know these things happen in lots of churches. After all, even the leaders are human. But I suppose we used that sad affair and the fact that the boys were in college as excuses to be less involved. Even so, I know that’s no excuse for me personally—no reason to give up on God completely. Not that I have, exactly. I’m just not sure. I’m not sure about much of anything today.

The flutist is finished with her solo now, although I have no
idea what she played. She steps aside and joins a cellist and violinist for what Jeannette said will be a classical trio. They start playing a very pretty piece, light and airy like a sunny June day, perfect for this setting. I try to take my thoughts off myself and focus on the music, the wedding, the flowers, and the spectacular view. After all, I remind myself, Jenny is my favorite niece, and I should be paying attention to this important day for her sake. I watch how the late afternoon sunrays bounce off the ripples in the lake, the mountains beyond—so very beautiful. As a wedding should be.

Then suddenly, as if I’ve just stepped into a time warp, I remember my own wedding nearly twenty-five years ago. It wasn’t anything as incredible as this, but people did comment on it back then. My aunt Edith said it was the “most beautiful wedding” she’d ever been to. “But it was more than just that,” she told me about a month later. “It had such depth to it. A spiritual quality that was quite moving. When you and Phil said your vows … Well, let’s just say I went through
two
hankies!” After that, Phil and I called it our two-hanky wedding.

We’d both taken great time and care in writing our vows. And back then, I believed that we really meant them—and that we would mean them for the rest of our days. But what about now? Barely turning my head, I glance at Phil. His eyes are straight forward, looking at the mountains too, I expect. Perhaps he is wishing he were off climbing one of them. Maybe with Delia by his side.

This thought sends a fresh rush of irritation through me, and
I stiffen up, enough that he actually turns and looks at me with a questioning expression. I turn my attention back to the classical trio. They’re just ending a song, and now there is a long, expectant pause, the one that gets everyone’s attention—as if to say, “It is time!”

O
kay, I’ve done the best I can to get ready for this wedding. Thank goodness I had that facial this week and those Botox injections only three weeks earlier. What incredible timing. I scrutinize my face more carefully than usual in the small bathroom mirror, and I must admit that my complexion really is almost flawless. I’m sure I can still pass for thirty.

And this dress is really something. I doubt that anyone—well, other than Catherine, and who wants to upstage her?—-will be wearing something that cost more than this Gucci. It’s very similar to the one Jennifer Lopez wore for the Oscars. And, like J-Lo’s, the fit is to die for. Thank goodness my implants are still holding up. I wonder how long before I need a redo. But I don’t want to think about that today. Today they look great. And I look great.

I study myself from all angles in the full-length mirror and am
pleased. At least this fleabag hotel has fairly decent mirrors. I suppose that’s something. But as I’m checking myself out, I notice that I’ve left our room a complete disaster. Where’s room service when you need it? I throw some things in the closet, then call down to the main desk and ask if they can spruce things up during the wedding. My plan is to come back here and sweep poor Jim off his feet. And I know just how to do it.

I glance at the open closet, at Jim’s suit still in the garment bag, and wonder when he plans to get ready. The wedding’s supposed to start in about ten minutes. And I had hoped we’d make a spectacular entrance together. That’s part one of my plan. And if that opportunistic secretary is anywhere in sight, as I expect she will be, I plan to look her straight in the eyes and send her the very clear message that she’d better keep her grubby little hands off my man. Or else. And I am totally prepared to dish out the “or else.”

I hear a key in the door, and before I can turn around, Jim bursts into the room. “I’m running late, Suzette. You want to help me get ready?”

“Sure thing, babe,” I say in a smooth sexy voice. “You get undressed, and I’ll start a shower—”

“No time for a shower,” he says as he pulls off his polo shirt.

“Oh, too bad,” I say with pouting lips that are still nicely full from those collagen shots in March. “I thought maybe I could scrub your back for you …”

This actually brings a smile to his face. “Tempting …but maybe later.”

I unzip his garment bag and carefully remove the pieces of his suit, his tie, his perfectly pressed shirt. I take it all apart and lay it just so on the bed before I go for his shoes and socks. My only concern right now is to make his life absolutely perfect, to make us absolutely perfect—even if it’s only on the exterior. After all, I am the queen of keeping up appearances.

I hand him his shirt and notice a brownish red spot on his chest, sort of like a bruise. I reach up and touch it. “How did you hurt yourself?” I ask, then instantly realize it’s probably a hickey.
A hickey!

“I jabbed myself with a golf club a few days ago,” he says quickly, then rubs it. “Still kind of sore.”

I lean over and kiss the spot, wishing that my kiss might erase it forever. “Let me make it better,” I say in the babyish voice that used to turn him on. But he just turns away as if he’s embarrassed. Surely I can do better than this! I hand him more items of clothing, making what I hope are seductive remarks with each one. I can tell he’s starting to relax a little, and I feel as if I might be winning at this game now.

Finally he’s completely dressed. “You look fabulous, babe,” I tell him as I gently straighten his collar, lovingly adjust his tie. “You’ll be the best-looking guy there.”

Now he looks down at me and actually seems to notice what I’m wearing. “You look pretty hot yourself, Suzette. Nice dress.” He reaches around and gives me a playful swat on the behind, and I think,
No problem. I’ve nearly got this thing under control
.

“We’ll be the sexiest couple there,” I say as I watch him comb his hair in front of the mirror. I notice how careful he is to pull the thinning hair over the balding spot in the back.

Then I hand him his cologne, something I picked up during my last shopping trip in L.A. “It’s what Russell Crowe wears,” the saleswoman had assured me, and I had no reason to doubt her.

“Looks like we’re ready, sweetheart,” he says with what looks like his old smile, as if everything’s just the way it used to be.

I put my hand in his and smile, coyly looking up at him through my lashes. My goal is to look slightly demure and yet very sexy—my temptress smile, and a formula that’s always worked. “Too bad we have to go out,” I say in a low voice as he locks the door behind us. “We could have so much more fun staying in tonight.”

He laughs as he pockets the key. “Suzette, you little devil,” he whispers in my ear as another couple emerges from their room and begins to walk ahead of us down the hallway toward the stairs.

I check out the couple as they walk. They seem a bit older than we are, and they’re not holding hands. Although they’re certainly well dressed, they don’t look nearly as stylish as we do. I smile to myself as we follow them, thinking
perfection
. Jim and I together are
absolute perfection
.