Romance Is My Day Job (25 page)

No one gets up for a minute as we exchange greetings. I can feel the unease, as in, who is this strange person I've brought with me? And what's the deal with Patience and her father? Or . . . they were just talking about us and our entrance stopped them in their tracks. Or I'm just paranoid and overly sensitive.

Sam and I go around and I make the introductions. My cousin Mike is the first to offer to grill us some burgers, which breaks the ice. We settle in and chat amiably with my relatives. I know at some point, my father will approach Sam to engage him in conversation properly. He does this on the short boat ride around the lake, an outing I avoid because I hate being trapped on a boat unless I'm the one manning it. Six of my relatives board the vessel, and from the dock, I watch everyone and toy with the idea of jumping in the lake.

Just by the way they start talking to each other, I can tell my father likes him. As he leans in, my father's expression is light, almost content. He hasn't looked at me that way in a long time. This is okay. At least, in this small way, I can see he feels I made a good choice. The boat leaves and around the lake it goes.

To burn off some stress, I whip off my shorts and shirt (I'm wearing a bathing suit) and jump into the lake. Once the boat returns, Sam does the same. Other cousins and their children follow. For a while, I feel like a kid, frolicking in the water, scared of encountering mud and eels. I swim and swim, noticing members of my family hanging out on the bank. They are fun, nice people to spend time with. I vow to make the trip to see them more often.

I see my father is angling to leave after a couple of hours. He has to get home before dark since his eyesight isn't what it used to be. Because he's leaving quickly, I'm not sure how to play saying good-bye. It seems weird for me to come out of the water, sopping wet in my bathing suit, so I stay in to see how he'll handle that. He'll either lean down from the dock to give me a kiss on the cheek or just nod a good-bye and leave. I'm ready for anything.

He makes his approach, awkward and rickety, the picture of discomfort. I know he'd rather just run and put this whole moment behind him.

He says his good-byes to family on the dock, then leans down and shakes my hand, like I'm an acquaintance and not the girl he ran up and down mountains with. This is so not like the ending of
A Little Princess
, where the daughter and father finally reunite. A few years ago, this handshake might have made me cry and spend many hours in the therapist's office. This time, I just chuckle.

I have this eerie feeling this is the last time I'll see him.

Once he drives away, the cloud lifts. Sam and I relax and play with the cousins, their children, and various pets.

“Sam's sexy,” my cousin Leigh whispers to me, smiling.

Her husband, Jason, comes up thirty seconds later. “He's hot, isn't he? If you don't marry him, I will.”

They are so awesome. I will invite all these Smiths to my wedding. Especially when my uncle Will, my father's brother, asks me in that laid-back Smith voice, “So what kind of date do you have for this wedding?” He pulls out his iPhone.

“January sixteenth.”

He smiles as he notes it in his calendar. “Great. You're locked in.” I get that rush of paternal warmth from Uncle Will that I've been missing all day.

We say good-bye after eight hours of reunioning. Even though seeing my father wasn't a heartfelt affair, my relatives are genuinely caring and welcoming. I want them with me at my wedding, family strife be damned.

 • • • 

“What about this one?” I ask Mom, knowing deep down I can't wear this short, sequined, tired-hooker dress to my own wedding. But we're in Bergdorf's. If it comes from here, it must be proper (and crazy expensive).

Mom winces. She likes the drapey Eileen Fisher dresses. I like gaudy showgirl dresses that I should never wear in public. It's my wedding, right?

I put back the tired-hooker dress, and we saunter around all the departments in the store. Nothing. All high-end fashion or too bridal. This choice is going to be terrible. For me, there's a short window of time since I hate shopping for clothes. What would a forty-two-year-old bride wear? A big white pantsuit. Oh God. Not me!

“Okay. I have a proposition: Macy's and then maybe some Soho boutique. There has to be a dress,” I say. It's already September now. The save-the-date cards have been sent—even one to my father and that woman.

I hear that dresses are the next urgent item after the venue since they take forever to make. Why is that, unless you need beading? My grandmother whipped up a dress in minutes. I don't need the marshmallow puff. Just a fun, simple bridal gown for a middle-aged bride. Doesn't have to be white or complicated.

My mother, the queen of fashion in our family, seems at a loss. For once, she's stumped. If it's not a black pantsuit, she's in the wrong galaxy. She is statuesque—with
great
showgirl legs—and I'm shorter and curvaceous. Shopping for me is hell.

We race down to Macy's and I know I could easily have a panic attack. There are swarms and swarms of people in Macy's at any given moment. Luckily, the bridal boutique is practically empty.

And out comes Tanya, the sassy historical romance writer from the local Romance Writers of America chapter who taught me all the romance rules more than ten years ago. This must be the work of divinity. I remember her so well out of everyone I've met since then. Now she's going to help me with my wedding dress? She's exactly the same, with her nicely kept shoulder-length ash-blond hair, mischievous eyes, and quick wit.

I know she doesn't recognize me, so I reintroduce myself. Her eyes light up.

“You're right! I remember you. Well, congratulations!” she says, then goes into her bridal-dress spiel.

Even though I'm sure she still has no idea who I am, I listen and hang on her every word. There's no doubt in my mind that I'm going to get my marshmallow bridal dress from
this
woman and no one else. It's fate.

Mom follows, stunning me with her reticence. Usually, she has an opinion, and it's humbling that she's letting me make the decisions. Or maybe she hasn't the foggiest idea what to do. We're navigating virgin territory, but we dive in, loading up on bridal gowns, ones I think might not be too Casper-ish on me and other, less hideous garments. I take one huge taffeta meringue just for fun.

Mom sits on a couch, a difficult thing for her to do. She crosses her legs, as if tamping down her own energy, which would otherwise compel her to scurry around the store. She waits and watches as I go from rack to rack.

The first, second, and third “ivory” meringues make me look like one of those old-fashioned ghosts in
Poltergeist
, like a dead lady looking to find her way back to this century. I can already hear the guests remarking, “Why is she so pale? She must be nervous.”

That does it. No white. Not even freaking “ivory,” which everyone recommends. But I turn to see Mom's reaction. She nods her agreement: White and ivory suck.

“Maybe I need to wear a real color,” I say to Mom and Tanya.

“Let's look at the bridesmaid dresses,” Tanya answers.

We go through dress after dress, all perfectly fine but not bridal enough for me. It seems hopeless, that shapeless ivory pantsuit a whisper away, when I see it.

The
dress.

A long, sleeveless, strapless, nearly backless black gown with a fitted bodice and less fitted skirt. It calls out to me. I love the shape, especially with how it would fit to my curves and hide a few fat deposits.

The attendant finds my size and sets me up in the dressing room. My senses are heightened, sort of like what happens to humans when they become vampires. I notice the soft light in the boutique, the cool air conditioner relieving the intense heat from outside. Magic begins.

With the errant thought that now Tanya has seen me in my underpants, I slip off my clothes and just as quickly put myself in the gown. Then I see myself in the large mirror and gasp.

This is the dress.

It rests against my body like a beloved blanket, snug and comforting. The black complements my skin, bringing out my paleness in a better way, highlighting the red hair. Though I know I can't wear a black wedding dress.

“It comes in dark blue,” Tanya says.

“Perfect!” Just like the blue dress I wore to the winter formal where I first danced with Sam. In this gown, I am astonishingly beautiful, the gorgeous goddess I'm meant to be, always intended to be.

With some trepidation, I step out into the waiting area. If my mother doesn't like it, well, what can I do? It's my day, right?

But the moment my mother sees me, she doesn't wince. She eyes me with curiosity, as if thinking,
Huh, I can work with this
.

There's no crying. No big hugs over this milestone. But I'm filled with pleasure when the saleswoman puts a veil over my head . . . and my mother gasps.

Later on Facebook, I post:
I said Yes to the Dress!

 • • • 

Having the dress doesn't alleviate the tension at home. Sam and I are still close, but there's a distance between us. I try to let the tension slide because I overreact anyway. Weeks pass with my trying to adopt a bright, sunny, wifely attitude. We continue our separate agendas (agendae?). Our marriage is only a few months away, and we might be disintegrating as a couple. Sam wouldn't dare leave me, would he? I would recover, but he's changed my life so drastically in a few short months. I want to keep up this fun time he's shown me.

As I peer around my studio, a small space that has housed me for seven years, the place I swore to die in, I try to imagine what it would be like without him, my romantic hero. This feat is near impossible now. That's the problem with meeting Prince Charming. If he vanishes, there's no going back to what you once were.

With Sam, I'm always in the moment (unless I'm distracted by work or TV). I want to go for walks along the river and even travel with him. He
did
that. Now we're on shaky terms. At night, we touch base but rarely speak about this upcoming milestone. Several weeks pass in a blur and my nerves remain close to the surface. This is what couples mean when they talk about a widening gap in marriage. Any minute now, I expect a phone call releasing me from this relationship.

But for some reason, I feel as if this will work out. My love for Sam makes me happy, not so afraid. It makes me want more for myself and for us. Life is easy with his smile and constant jokes. His absence would create a giant hole, and this is hard for me to admit. In the past, I would pride myself on the walk away, the excising and blubbering over a bad person. It would be mind-numbingly painful if Sam left. Sam is the right person, and I wish he would just come over and say how hard it's been for him. We could be close like we were at the beginning.

 • • • 

I escape through television until, one night, when I can't stand it anymore, I ask him again: “What's wrong?”

“Well, you might remember that I've done this before,” Sam answers.

Oh right,
that
. The ex-wife is always a problem. My mother is an ex-wife and she's been a ghost in my father's second marriage. In romance novels, the ex is usually pernicious or dead. Every now and then Jake Hunter is friends with his ex and they amicably share custody of their child. Of course, Jake Hunter's ex left him because she was a cheating whore, but she's nice.

Sam's case is one I don't quite understand beyond masochism and a need to be honorable. His first marriage started out okay but deteriorated over time. The relationship ended with an ugly string of events, after which, Sam fled.

For several years after his divorce, Sam left no forwarding address and no phone number, and lived under the radar. No one could find him. He was vague with people about his whereabouts, though he remained self-sufficient and productive in his field. Any inquiries about Sam went directly to his father or older brother. Sam tried to be invisible. Anytime his ex wrote to him, he ignored it.

It dawns on me powerfully that by marrying me, his life as a nomad will have to change. He'll have to be Mr. Bloom, resident of Manhattan. Which means his nightmare could find him again. Luckily, I look over my shoulder, too. Two people looking out for each other are better than one, right?

For once, I really listen to Sam and add up the evidence of a tattered soul, a guy who flinches sometimes when touched, who has nightmares several nights a week. I doubt he was a model husband (who is?), but he did what he could over a long period of time. I know it's a painful subject. Sam's not the type to talk extensively about his feelings, though he's aware of why he is the way he is.

I give him as much support as he'll accept, then try to work on my own neuroses. If I bug the crap out of him these last couple of months, he is sure to bail.

So, I distract myself by doing one of the most frightening things ever: I sign up for National Novel Writing Month (www.nanowrimo .org), which is where you write a book in a month, during November. As with my initial romance with Sam, I don't broadcast my new project, except to one person.

Dear Beloved Editor, you're crazy,
Marie Ferrarella writes to me.
You don't want to put added pressure on yourself. You're about to get married.

I know, Marie. It's totally insane, but if you only knew how scrambled my brains are. I need this outlet to wipe out my mania. I have one hell of a book to write, where I say good-bye to ghosts and invite this handsome, caring new stranger into my life.

 • • • 

“He won't come to the wedding,” Sam said after that Smith reunion. “It would cost him.”

I know he's right, which is why I write to Dad after he expresses some distress over my save-the-date card:
I will understand whatever you decide to do.