Triple Love Score (21 page)

T
HEY STOOD AT THE DOOR to Danielle’s apartment, afraid to knock. They didn’t want to interrupt, but the dinner started at seven on the other side of the city, and frankly, neither one of them had been paying too much attention to where they were or how they got there.

“I don’t even know the address of the house we are staying in,” Scott said. “I never thought to ask. I’ll knock. We have to.”

“We have to,” she repeated.

Before he could finish a third rap against the door, Omar threw it open with two glass bottles of Coke, one in each hand. He thrust the bottles at them. “Finally. Come in. Finally. We need to make a toast!”

Danielle sat on her eggplant-colored couch with one leg folded on top of the other like a yogi. In that pose, Miranda could see the faint outline of her belly starting to push forward at the top of her pants. She, too, held a bottle of Coke.

“My last one,” he said. “No more caffeine until after the baby comes.” Danielle held up her bottle to clink against Miranda’s.

“So it’s okay?” Miranda asked.

Omar spun to face her. “Okay? So much more than okay. We finally are a family. A real, honest family.” Omar tapped his bottle to Scott’s and then Miranda’s.

“So your parents are cool with this? Wonderful,” Scott said.

Danielle and Omar both looked down.

“You aren’t telling them?” Miranda asked.

“Not until after the wedding,” Omar and Danielle said together. This caused the smiles to return to their faces. Now it was their turn to clink bottles. “It just wouldn’t be worth it,” Danielle continued. “It took us a long time to get to this day; why ruin it for them?”

“Because everyone thinks you are really sick. Dying, maybe.”

“Not everyone knows about that.”

“Who knows then?”

“Omar’s parents. And his sister. And her husband. And the seamstress.”

“The seamstress is coming to the wedding?”

“Of course, how else do you think we got all of those dresses at the last minute? She loves a party. None of this will even come up. It will all be about the wedding.”

“Who would mention dying at a wedding anyway?” Omar asked. Omar picked up Danielle’s hand and kissed it. His lips made an exaggerated smacking sound. “It will be the best day ever. And then my family will be doubly relieved when they get the news the day after.” Then he pulled her to her feet, kissed her on the lips with less comedy and more passion, and then plunged her into a dip that would rival the conclusion to any tango.

“The baby,” she said. She struggled back up to her feet.

“Now that’s the kind of thing you want to avoid saying tomorrow,” Scott said.

“Yup, wouldn’t want that to slip out right after the first dance,” Miranda added. “And don’t we have to go? We aren’t even dressed yet. I don’t think you can wear yoga pants to a rehearsal dinner, Dani.”

Danielle looked down. “It’s not a rehearsal. More like a blessing. But you’re right,” she said. “Let me pack a bag, and we can get dressed together at the house. We need to have a fitting for your bridesmaid dress when you get there. Omar’s mom just texted me that your dress is ready at their house.”

“A fitting now? The wedding is tomorrow.”

“How did you think they were making you a dress?”

“I thought it would be loose. One of those pant sets or something elastic.”

“You didn’t show her the picture?” Omar asked.

“I was trying not to,” Danielle said.

Miranda didn’t actually care what her dress looked like. But she loved seeing her friend like this. “It’s okay, Dani, I don’t care what kind of dress it is. Anyway, I’m your old, married sister, right? You met my husband, Scott?”

“That’s me,” Scott said, picking up Miranda’s hand. “Your husband.”

Miranda forgot to turn away and instead caught his eye as he said it.

“Husband,” he said again.

Miranda let the word roll through her mind, remembering childish teenaged fantasies about marrying him and living in New London or Mystic in one of those huge Victorians that hadn’t been converted into apartments yet. Or maybe in New York City in a tiny apartment like she had the night he visited for her birthday. Maybe that very apartment, had he come back the next day. The Scrabble board would have always been out on the coffee table, ever ready for their next game. She shook her head to dislodge the thought.

There was more to the equation now than geography. There was Lynn. Her job. His job. Their families. And the last six years. And all the years that came before that. People always accused poets of being romantic and easily swept away; Miranda wished she could tap into that for a moment and enjoy his eyes locking with hers or how good it felt to hold his hand. She wanted to entertain the thought of that apartment, a bigger one, though, with Lynn racing in after school. Lynn. Miranda could love her, too. Probably already did love her and the joy she brought every time she bounced into a room, excited about something new. But she knew enough about the world to know it didn’t work this way. Life wasn’t a poem. It didn’t always rhyme and come out even at the end.

“Did you call Lynn?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said. “when we stopped golfing for lunch, I caught her before they hit the slopes for day two—the bunny slope.”

It occurred to Miranda that she would have liked to hear Lynn’s voice, too.

“You have a daughter,” Omar said. He tapped himself against the side of his head with both hands. “I knew that. But, man, now I have questions for you!”

“I’d be happy to answer them on the ride back to your parents’ house—we are really going to be late.”

Omar’s parents’ house stood out even more so tonight among the other houses on the block for the strings of white light bulbs illuminating the side yard and the bustle of people carrying out tables and chairs and bottles and serving dishes to the yard. Miranda hadn’t appreciated how unique the house was until after seeing more of Istanbul with its modern high rises and banks of town homes crushed together on tight streets. This house reminded Miranda of the children’s book about a little house that stayed the same as the city grew up around it. She knew that wasn’t true, that the rest of the city was much older than this house, but she smiled at the improbably of it. Much like the improbability of this entire week.

Danielle struggled to tow her suitcase behind her and issued a thinly veiled stream of expletives under her breath.

“I’ll take that,” Miranda said. “Maid of honor at your service.”

“Matron, remember?” Danielle said, handing over the suitcase. “And what’s the deal with that? I thought you said you guys weren’t an item. But all I see is him staring at you.”

Omar’s mother saved her from answering the question. “Come girls, come. Yonca is waiting for you. Randa, you must try on the dress.”

Danielle stood up a little straighter when Omar’s mother spoke. Selin was a woman who demanded attention, and tonight, in a midnight blue crepe pant suit dotted with matching seed pearls and heels higher than most Jimmy Choo’s, Miranda could see why. Selin was poised, beautiful, and smiling. This wasn’t the monster protecting her youngest son from the ugly American that Miranda had expected.

“I’m glad you are here,” Selin said as Miranda passed her. “Dani needs to relax and enjoy this. She’s marrying my son. Why shouldn’t she be happy?” She said the last part loud enough that Danielle blushed.

“Selin,” Danielle said softly, trying not to chide her almost mother-in-law too much.

“Mother,” Selin said. “Please get used to that. No excuses. Yonca is in Miranda’s room already. We shooed the men to the attic.” And sure enough if you stopped to listen over the din from the kitchen, you could hear the laughter of strong men and the stomping of feet radiating down through the ceiling above them.

“Turkish Super League,” Selin said. “Football. Omar’s father may not forgive him for getting married during the season, but the priest promises to keep the ceremony short tomorrow.”

“Nothing short about a marriage. I’ll not hear of it. It should all be long. Bad luck to do less,” Yonca said. “Try this.” She thrust an emerald green pile of chiffon and satin toward Miranda. It reminded her of a 1980s prom dress. Miranda caught Danielle’s gaze. Danielle looked down at the bedspread and began picking at imaginary lint.

“I couldn’t decide, so I let Omar’s cousin pick.”

“His cousin?”

“You met her at the airport. Jellie.”

“But she’s twelve.”

“And a junior bridesmaid. The only other bridesmaid. Someone needed to pick.”

Yonca sighed. “Just put it on. Can’t fix it if you don’t put it on.”

The word sculpture for this moment would use satin, lace, and somehow Molly Ringwald.

But the dress wasn’t that bad. Nor did it need any fixing. The skirt fell right to the middle of her ankle at the most dainty spot. The satin bodice with sweetheart neckline and slightly off-the-shoulder long sleeves formed to her body like it was sewn on. She chose to ignore the skirt, an explosion of ruffled layers of chiffon with peaks and swirls like frosting on a cake. The crystals, all hand sewn as Yonca pointed out, dotted each ruffled layer every few inches, making ignoring the skirt a tall order. Bling, Miranda thought, she would need to add that to her word sculpture. And cousin. “Jellie will look great in this dress tomorrow,” Miranda said, gratefully changing back into her own clothes for the dinner party downstairs.

A
FTER ALL THE GUESTS finally left the garden save for a few passed out in lawn chairs, Miranda and Scott surveyed the wreckage of the party. Selin picked through the piles of plates and discarded cups. She looked elegant even with a black plastic garbage bag billowing at her side.

“Go,” she said, making a shooing motion with her hands. “I like this part best. Everyone is quiet, and I can finally enjoy the party. Omar and Roger will be back soon. They will help with the rest.”

“But please, let us help,” Miranda said. She moved to pick up a pile of used napkins.

“I’ll not have it. You are guests, and tomorrow is a very important day. First, the town clerk, then the church, and then the reception. Which, praise be, is being held in a catering hall.” Selin smiled at them. “Tomorrow night, I will be like that.” She pointed to an older woman in a pink suit snoring loudly in a lawn chair. “My youngest son, married.”

“Married,” Scott repeated. It seemed to be one of his favorite words this week. Each time he said it Miranda felt her skin get hot like her entire body was blushing. The word sculpture that came to her mind was the sappiest yet. Married. Ideal. Love. Forever. Ambrose would want her to write that down. She could see his email in her mind chiding her about greeting cards for weddings. If her phone worked, perhaps Miranda could see those emails and send along some of these sculptures. But really, she didn’t want Scott to see them, especially not a humdinger like Married, Ideal, Love, Forever. Not yet anyway. Miranda hoped there would be time for that later.

“Go,” Selin said again. “I’m serious. To bed.”

Upstairs, they didn’t quite know what to do. Each stood on opposite sides of the bed, the same side they each had claimed the previous night.

“I’m tired,” Miranda said. “Big day. First tumors, then a baby, now a party. And the lying by omission. It really takes a lot out of a person.”

“Randa, stop.”

“Stop, what?”

“Being nervous. You don’t have to do this. And we aren’t going to do this.” He made a sweeping gesture over the bed. “I’ve had years to think about this. And I don’t expect things to just change in one day.”

“You don’t?”

“No, I don’t. I’ve waited this long. I can keep waiting.”

Miranda sat down on the bed, kicked off her heels, and settled back against the pillow. Her whole body sank deliciously into the soft, feather bed on top of the mattress. Either the bed was that exquisite, or she was just that tired. “I wish I had known you were waiting. I know I was.”

“You were?”

Not even the comfort of the bed could hold her down. She bolted upright. “What did you think? I followed you around like a lost dog, oh, I don’t know, my entire life. All I ever got for it was you with one of Avery’s interns in a white bikini playing horse in the pool. In my own pool.”