“Not yet,” Marie says casually, as if she didn’t just spin a tale of wish fulfillment that makes it clear she’s already planning Shannon and Declan’s kids’ birthday parties to look like Royal Family affairs and arranging playdates with Princess Charlotte for 2020.
“Never.”
“Everyone says never. I quit my job after we had Carol.”
Shannon goes quiet.
“And your father barely made anything. Those were lean years. You’ll never have to go through what we went through, honey. I know way too many recipes for Ramen noodles, potatoes and government cheese.”
This conversation, like so many with Marie, has taken a U-turn, two corkscrews, a sudden reversal and included a surprise sinkhole, along with nothing but one-way roads.
“I’m, um...right,” Shannon whispers, the wind definitely taken out of her outraged sails.
“And that’s how it should be. Now, about that rehearsal dinner party. Two weeks before the wedding should do it. We’ll invite all the groomsmen and bridesmaids. Parents. Siblings. I think it will be fun. Why don’t I just call Grace and get her to arrange everything?” Marie has Grace on speed dial now.
But Grace has Marie’s number set to dump directly into voice mail. Marie doesn’t know that yet.
“Um, no, Mom. I can make the arrangements.”
“You need to learn to let other people do these things for you. It’s one of the secrets of the rich.”
A chill runs through me. That’s exactly what I was thinking about last night with Andrew.
“Plus, I’m sure Grace will do a better job. You aren’t exactly polished, dear.”
“Huh?”
“When you have your friends over, Thai food and ice cream is fine. But an elegant dinner for twelve people means hiring caterers and taking this to a whole new level.”
“Twelve?”
“Me. Daddy. James. Terry. Andrew. Carol. Amanda. You. Declan. Amy.”
“That’s ten.”
“Declan mentioned his delicious Scottish football-playing cousin as a groomsman. He’ll be in New York in two weeks for a photo shoot for Sports Illustrated’s naked athlete edition.”
The drool factor in the room just jumped by three thousand percent.
“That’s eleven.”
Marie looks at me and says, “And your mother.”
“My mother? Mom’s not in the wedding.”
An uncomfortable silence follows. “Actually, she kind of is, Amanda. I owe her a debt.” Marie’s uncomfortable. “So I’d like her there.”
“A debt?” I’m perplexed. “What did she do?”
“Bagpipes.”
“Bagpipes?”
“Your mother went to Carnegie Mellon University and she helped me to round up the twelve final bagpipe players we’ll need.”
“TWELVE?” Shannon roars. “Are you trying to have my wedding broadcast live to Scotland, without microphones?”
“Twelve out of forty-one,” I swear Marie whispers. But that’s impossible. Forty-one bagpipes? It’ll sound like Godzilla with a vibrator.
“My mom helped with that?” I ask faintly.
“Yes.”
Shannon turns away and picks up her phone. Within seconds she’s talking to Declan, her face turned down in a kind of dawning confusion, as if she wants to argue with her mother yet it slowly seeps in that maybe Marie has a point. While she speaks with Declan in hushed tones, I watch Marie’s hands manipulate all the paperwork she’s brought with her, writing check marks on some papers, shaking her head while reading others, and slipping estimates into folders marked Yes, No and Maybe.
Within minutes, Shannon’s off the phone, her face filled with shock.
“Declan,” she says slowly, “agrees with Mom.”
“Did he recently experience head trauma?” Amy asks, her face lined with concern.
Marie gives her a sour look. “I do have good ideas sometimes.” She’s holding up a sample piece of McCormick tartan fabric against Chuckles’ haunches.
Chuckles gives her a look that says, Not really.
“He’s having Grace arrange everything,” Shannon adds as she descends, slowly, into an arm chair, sinking into the upholstery with the air of someone hearing bad news. “He said I just need to give her a few basic ideas and she’ll manage the rest.”
“Told you.” Marie’s words are so smug it’s like she’s channeling Donald Trump. “Let’s make a Pinterest board for your rehearsal dinner party!”
See?
Pinterest really is the tool of Satan.
My phone buzzes.
“Is that Andrew?” Marie asks with a leer.
I look.
“Yes.”
His text reads, simply: Tomorrow. Nine p.m. I’ll pick you up.
My reply is one word.
You can guess what it is.
Chapter Sixteen
The Pinterest board Shannon makes for the big rehearsal dinner party starts to look like every episode of Kitchen Confidential shoved in a blender and poured over mashed potatoes. After a while, I give up looking. At one point, someone pins a picture of a can of ball sweat powder in there.
Whoops.
I spend the day alternating between freaking out about tomorrow’s date (hint: the word was yes), wondering how Shannon’s going to pull off a fancy dinner party (her idea of “elegant” is adding guacamole to her taco order at Chipotle) and thinking about Amy’s offer to move in with her.
I mull over all this as I struggle to fall asleep, slumber finally overtaking me, my stupid naked-in-public dream—the one I’ve had for more than twenty years—making its boring old appearance, yet forcing me awake in darkness, clutching the sheet to my chest, my skin crawling.