He’s perfect. Brad. Maya’s boyfriend.
It was ever her way. In high school, she had a string of cute, smart, loving boyfriends. My string consisted of the geeky boys in my fourth-period chemistry class. Bunsen-Burner-du-Jour and I would get drunk on Saturday night, fool around, then pretend we hadn’t touched each other on Monday. I got a C-in chemistry.
Perfect Brad. Charming, handsome, always says the right thing. Not in an Eddie Haskell way, but as if he really cares. For someone like me, who’s fairly certain no one would hold a funeral if she died, the effect is…effective. Okay, it’s cataclysmic. But I decide not to fall in love with him, on the grounds that it would be incestuous—and, honestly, if you’re living with Maya, why switch to Elle?
He is waiting when we get home from the airport. He gives Maya a welcome-home kiss, and me a nice-to-finallymeet-you peck on the cheek. He offers a nightcap. I take a ladylike slug of bourbon while they sip wine.
“You must get a good price on alcohol,” I say, because Maya owns a bar downtown with her father.
She yawns before agreeing. “Yep. We drink wholesale.” She sits on the couch with Perfect Brad, curled into the crook of his arm. It’s late and I know they’re ready for bed, but I don’t want to be alone. I knock back my bourbon so I can ask for another before they finish their wine and leave me.
They look so content and normal that I don’t know what to say. The price of liquor was my only conversational gambit. And I’m afraid that Maya’s going to ask about my life: what happened to Washington, what happened to Louis, what happened to the aborted wedding and the non-existent career? Certain she’s going to pounce, I distract her with Fodors-type questions about new restaurants in town.
“There’s a neat tapas restaurant on the Mesa,” she answers. “And a couple new Mexican places on Milpas. Superica’s still there, but the line’s around the block. L.A. people discovered it, so—”
I blurt: “The breakup was fine.”
She looks at Perfect Brad. He refills my glass. They’ve been talking about me.
“Good,” Maya says. “I’m glad.”
“I mean, perfectly amicable, reasonable, mature…”
“Okay, Elle. What happened?” she asks.
See? I knew she was going to ask.
“We realized we’d been growing apart. We had different goals, different priorities.” Like I wanted a wedding, and he wanted an Iowan. “It was very, he was very, I was very, we were very…civilized!” I gesture wildly with my drink, and a bit sloshes out. I clean the side of my glass with my tongue. Klassy. “Anyway, there’s nothing to say, really.”
They look at me, faces wreathed with pity and sympathy. I manage not to bawl.
“What about the wedding?” Maya gently asks. “We were all set to come…”
“Oh, that. It’s nothing.” I dismiss it with a wave of my hand. “But it was going to be beautiful. The flowers were hot-house peonies, the linens pale peach, the confetti cannon was rented.” Tears come to my eyes. “I’d even hired Mr. Whistle to cater.”
“Mr. Whistle?”
Yeah. Mr. Whistle.
It happened at Citronelle, in Washington, D.C.
I love Citronelle—the glass-front kitchen, the witty food, the elegant people. Plus it’s fun to say chef Michel Richard’s name with a cheesy French accent: Meeshell Reesharrrd.
I sat at one of the few tables with a view of the kitchen, sipping iced tea and watching one of the cooks fry shitakes, waiting for Louis. I’d come from Mr. Whistle’s, where he and I had discussed the wedding menu. The oppressively expensive menu I couldn’t afford. In fact, Mr. Whistle was this close to canceling my catering reservation. He’d run my credit card—never a good idea.
Which brings us to Louis, who is an attorney and makes buckets of cash. His buckets were the only reason Mr. Whistle had agreed to see me. I’d left him with a promise that I’d return after lunch with Louis and his platinum card.
Problem: Louis didn’t know he was paying for the wedding.
I’d tried to get my father to pay. But when I’d called him with the news, what did I get? No “congratulations, darling.” No “when’s the date?” Not even an “it’s about time.”
I got: “I hope you don’t expect me to pay, Eleanor. I’ve spent enough on marriage. Why don’t you elope?”
Dad’s had five wives, and is never so generous as during divorce proceedings.
Louis, on the other hand, is always cheap. But he’s almost an associate partner, so paying for my perfect wedding wouldn’t financially wound him—just sting a bit.
I was watching the shitakes sizzle when the maitre d’ showed Louis to our table.
“Allo, Lou-ee.” I always pronounced his name the French way when at Citronelle. I kissed him with a bit more oomph than usual. “I missed you,” I said.
He’d been in Iowa for two weeks on business, and I’d been lonely. Worth the sacrifice though—I knew nothing about the deal, but his bonus was meant to be significant. Maybe enough to cover the wedding.
“Hi, Ellie.” He hugged me, sans oomph.
It was good to see him. Tired and rumpled, his presence was an immediate comfort. He was my personal grounding rod: solid and true. He made me want to be a good wife, like, say Barbara Bush. Though, obviously, not so conservative, curly white-haired, or, well…old.
“Ellie. Are you listening?”
“What?” Oops, good wives pay attention. “Yes! I’ll have the chicken.”
“I said I’ve been trying to call you for a week. You never answer.”
“They have scallops today,” I said—his favorite. I didn’t want to tell him I’d been avoiding the phone because a credit card company or two might be wondering about payments. But his face clouded, and I knew he wouldn’t let me change the subject that easily. “Sorry I didn’t call back,” I said. “I’ve been so busy planning.”
“Planning?”
“Helloooo.” I laughed. “Our wedding.”
“Oh. Right. Um, listen—”
“Will you come to Mr. Whistle’s after lunch? We need to finalize the menu, and I want your opinion.” And your wallet.
“No. I can’t go to the caterer.”
Nuts. “Have to get back to work so soon?” Maybe I could slip his Visa from his wallet when he went to the bathroom. The scallops are spicy, and he always visited the men’s room to blow his nose after eating them. But how could I get him to leave the wallet?
“Ellie,” he said. “I’ve met someone else.”
Should I ask him to leave his wallet, so I could pay the bill? Maybe I should pretend I wanted to check he still had my picture—what?
“You what?”
“In Iowa. I met someone.”
“In Iowa you did what?”
He flushed. “I—I met someone else.”
“A woman? You met a woman?”
“We can’t get married, Elle. I’m sorry.”
A deep breath. Calm, calm. Six years is a long time, it was only natural he’d be getting cold feet. We’d laugh about this in a month. After he paid dearly.
“Of course we can still get married. Don’t be silly. It’s only one last flirtation.” The word flirtation