Escape From Bridezillia

by Jacqueline deMontravel

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

"I will not turn into one of those Wedding Girls. . ." This is Emily Briggs' mantra from the minute her boyfriend, Henry, proposes. Although she's crazy in love and has waited for this moment since she was a little girl, she is dead-set against becoming the Bride from Hell. She is not going to wallpaper her kitchen with wedding magazine tear sheets. She is not going to obsess over the date, tracking weather patterns for the slightest hint of rain. But as her Town & Country mother tries to pick out her wedding night lingerie, and Henry grows obsessed with "let's-do-lunch" work meetings, Emily is turning into a bridezilla, leaving no part of Manhattan--from Bergdorf's dressing rooms to Tiffany's sparkling cases--unscorched. The only person who seems to understand is J3 Hopper. Easy-going and easy-on-the-eyes, with a love of art and a habit of turning Emily's crazed tirades into delirious laugh-fests, J3 is the sort of man every manic bride needs--and wants. J3 listens to her woes, laughs at her jokes, and even compliments her clothes. In fact, he's making her feel just the way Henry made her feel when they first met--and that just may be the biggest problem of all! But is this just a jittery bride-to-be's nerves or could this be something more? "DeMontravel's style is smart and sassy. . .her wit is as sharp as her characters. This is a fun romp." -- Romantic Times

Release date: February 1, 2007

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

“Let’s do it.”

This was how Henry said it to me. Delivered from behind the screen of the Times travel section as we finished our Sunday morning just-used-up-my-calorie-count-for-the-month brunch at Silver Spurs diner. I wore sweats, glorified by the trendy label branded on my butt, while Henry had on the same sweater as the captain on a fish box.

This was how Henry said it to me? The most recounted story of your lifetime. Sitting, surrounded by a moat of grandchildren, the first stitch to crochet their impressions of love and romance I’d have to narrate would be this? I’d lie. Already thinking of stories to deceive my unborn progeny.

“Do what?” I asked, my tone pressuring Henry to take an alternative route.

“Get married!”

This was when it became a bit problematic.

“Is this some kind of joke? Are you asking me to marry you over frittatas and coffee with free refills at Silver Spurs? What? Were you just inspired from some godforsaken Nike ad? You did get a new pair of sneakers yesterday. Were you like ‘I’ll take the Air Icarus and, now that I think about it, just go ahead and ask Emily to marry me!’”

The Times slipped from his grasp, now jumbled in peaks and clefts from draping the used tableware. Henry’s body slumped against the window; the lighting swayed from the late morning shadows punched by traffic activity outside; a curious reflection worked upon him.

Impassive. Perhaps he had a trace of curiosity. I couldn’t quite tell, nor did I really care to know. The important fact being that this was standard Henry Philips to Emily Briggs freak-out behavior. His ability to remain composed when I had one of my minor outbursts, how he never found the need to scold me on these occasional overreactions, or to offer a few pointers on how to better control my soft lapses of verbalized irritation, something others have unsuccessfully attempted, may be why Henry had made it to this point.

It had proven to be a valuable skill of his, this facility to tune me out, which pleased me immensely. Gave me the license to be as ridiculous as I was able and not crucified as a result. That I never had to give some schmaltzy apology with promises of sexual favors later. (He’d get those regardless.)

Henry also had the good sense not to ask me as I took a swig from my decaf hazelnut, saving him and our neighboring diners from being pelted by my coffee-tainted spit. That would have been very rude of me, not to mention gross.

Exhaustedly, I took a ladylike sip from my decaf hazelnut.

“Sure, why not? I’ll marry you.”

I couldn’t be happier, though I had no idea how Henry took it.

I made a pact with myself ages before I even had a boyfriend. That if some higher being from above did intend on my living with someone other than dogs or misfit family members and actually making this solemn in-sickness-and-in-health promise—whatever that meant—I made this internal pact that I would not become one of those “Wedding Girls.” Turn into the dreaded “Bridezilla.” The bride that floated past the sundial movements of flowered heads toward a groom who successfully fulfilled his given task by showing up.

I wouldn’t be that girl that bought all of the bridal magazines minutes after the proposal. (Though I did buy a few, seven actually, this morning. Just a day after Henry proposed and that was only because it was a Monday, newsstand day, so naturally I just had to pick them up. Quite standard really—precisely the same thing as buying a Fodor book before a trip. Though I’ve never been one for travel books, as that’s too touristy.)

I’d never turn into the Bridezilla that plunged her freshly ringed finger into her bag for her mobile, speed-dialing all of her friends and family, sharing the news while her future husband drummed his utensils on the linen-clothed table. (I didn’t have my cell and the table was Formica.)

I wouldn’t obsess over the date. (Mentally set for the weekend after Labor Day, as I have been tracking the weather patterns for the weekend after Labor Day for the past six years and every Saturday has been positively perfect. There was one rainy day, but it was just for a few twilight hours where the drops fell from the most glorious lavender sky feathered with brushes of rose. And why had I been tracking weather patterns for the past six years for this particular weekend? Perhaps we should consider the peculiar people who went to such extremes as installing computer chips in the back of a bird’s neck.)

I wouldn’t obsess in searching for distinctive party favors and bubbles in sterling containers with a baby blue toile ribbon. And I absolutely would not become completely manic over my dress. My cousin Anne Briggs-Whitten had that covered, since we were related and I had insider intelligence for her penchant for matching polyester Izod outfits and how she never swam in the deep end with excuses of delicate eardrums. Anne married for professional reasons, and this was her area.

In some ways, I could look to her services as a comparable exchange for my introducing her to Jason, her husband most likely chosen for his high earning factor by working in the financial sector. The added bonus, to Anne’s delighted discovery, was the hidden fortune generated from a wallpaper design Jason had created when fulfilling his service in his father’s home distribution company.

The wallpaper pattern, a pale blue ticking stripe bordered with a beaded edging like sugar dollops on a wedding cake, used to add flair to antiseptic rooms seen in hospital corridors and the reception nook of a nationwide tax office. Each order of his paper earned him the kind of royalties more associated with failed musicians who write pull-the-trigger tunes played when a baseball player hits a home run.

They met through me, though I would never do something as irresponsible as intentionally match my cousin with another human, especially someone as warm and good-natured as Jason—destined to be the kind of man who calls boys who aren’t related to him “son.” Introduced at one of New York’s benefits that bring out all the professional husband hunters, their courtship progressed into marriage with the easy process of buying presents with computerized shopping carts.

She now lavishes expertly, a self-described sybarite. (Anne practices new words like a boy with a new golf club.) I’ve seen her go through caviar like sandwich spread. She puts together Botox parties with friends like it’s a lunch at Pastis. Her most recent addition to this sybaritic lifestyle being the Palm Beach home, so massive you have to drop crackers to find your way around. And though they’ve yet to even spend a night there, HG already shot their gardens with a year exclusive to feature their pond brimming with human-sized lily pads that guide you over exotic fish that swim to the water’s surface at the brush of your hand and suck on your finger like a baby’s lips on a pacifier.

Anne had already made appointments for Vera Wang, Badgley & Mischka and Valentino—and Bergdorf’s, of course. Had to remember to call Anne and make sure that we had an appointment at Bergdorf’s, as they carried the most beautiful Carolina Herrera georgette silk, drop waisted, cap-sleeved gown that I found while glancing at one of my bridal magazines.

The location was the easy part—to be held at my childhood summer home in Bridgehampton.

“Bridgehampton is out,” barked my mother, sticking out her cheek to interrupt me from the mental lists I had been composing while waiting in her kitchen.

Did she just say that Bridgehampton was out? Okay. I am not one of those Wedding Girls, I said like a mantra.

“What the hell do you mean Bridgehampton is out? It’s not the Plaza for God’s sake.”

“Oh yes. The Plaza. I have a date secured for the second Saturday in November, which makes perfect sense. Seven months to plan a wedding is purely preposterous. And I do think it is far more elegant to have an autumn city wedding.”

Why doesn’t she just rent a supermodel daughter and have her perform the wedding to her specifications, as she had essentially been autopiloting her parenting of me for the past thirty years.

Mother took the seat next to mine and reached for a magazine from her stack of bridal publications and books. Flipping through the magazines with that these-pages-are-so-privileged-to-be-graced-by-her-touch manner of hers, Mom started in, “I’m afraid that the house will still be rented through the end of October.”

My family—the all-American 2.4-kid kind with a father, mother, and brother who happened to be more than twenty years younger than me—had just returned to the city after spending a year in Prague, where my father had expanded his company. They kept their East Eighty-fourth Street townhouse and rented out the Bridgehampton home, which had been of no inconvenience to me since I had to spend most of last summer in L.A. working on a film Henry and I created based on our cartoon alter egos.

Henry is a cartoonist and I am an illustrator. Or, more precisely, was an illustrator. After a year working in Hollywood, I had taken an early retirement from my drawing career to focus strictly on my painting. I am more about my art than the art of furthering my career through shallow measures, now allowing for Henry—the now provider, which I think I will enjoy immensely—to maintain this high earning necessity to keep our family robust. He also works the Hollywood hustle brilliantly, his I-won’t-drop-to-their-level unintentional game plan playing to his advantage. I will now be much happier as a result, my happiness being the contribution to our family.

I peered at my mother, amazed by how beautiful she could remain despite her persnickety demeanor. She was the kind of woman that would look natural sipping in smoke from a sterling cigarette holder. (Though she quit smoking in ’86 for fear of yellowing her teeth.)

Her classic sense of style and devotion to exercises that come with a spiritual philosophy like it’s a gift bag after a great party have prevented her from having a consultation with a surgeon who makes line drawings on your face. She had the refined bone structure of a doe without that stretched like Silly Putty skin, which had always amazed me because I didn’t know if I was the little kid calling the emperor on his new, nonexistent clothes, as these women really do look like a Batman villain.

Catching something of interest to her in one of the bridal magazines, she reached for a pair of heavy rimmed circular glasses that looked like two black condoms secured with a curved piece of wire. With her crisp cotton shirt, cashmere cardigan, and gray flannel pants, she was either dressing for a Harry Potter party or recently took fashion inspiration from FDR.

“Apparently your father stands to make a substantial return just by extending the rental for the month of September. And there’s another caveat you should know. The house is on the market.”

She has got to be kidding me.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“No love, I’m afraid I’m not. We don’t use the house anymore, now that we spend summers in Europe.”

She says this like she’s fired her longtime florist because they stopped using frosted vases.

“Don’t look so expired.”

“This is beyond tragic. I’m devastated. What a bad day. Michael Jackson at his sentencing bad day.”

“Stop being so melodramatic. We have great options, and I’ve already secured Maidstone, Wolffer Vineyards and, as mentioned, there’s always the Plaza.”

“But I don’t want to get married on some herringbone parquet floor where guests get real psyched to do the electric slide or get my dress dusted from saying my vows in the middle of a grape field. I don’t even like wine—I’m more of a vodka girl. I want to get married in my house. What’s the point of having a childhood home if it won’t be properly commemorated, sold just before I get married?”

I thought of Jackie (Jacqueline Bouvier, more specifically).

“Like Hammersmith.”

“We need to hammer what?”

“Hammersmith! Where Jacqueline and John F. Kennedy were married.”

“You are such the dreamer.”

My mother just then patted me on the head. Like a dog. Which happened to come yapping into the kitchen. A pug with an alarming nasal infection moved toward me with the waddle of a fair-skinned tourist after their first day in the Galapagos and missed patch of sunblock behind his knees.

This pug approached me or, more precisely, my foot and fell instantly in lust.

“What the hell is this?” I asked, toeing it off me unsuccessfully.

“That’s Mao, part of Oliver’s package to return back to New York.”

Package? Oliver, my younger brother, had the life of a GE CEO before the days of Enron.

“And don’t get too attached, darling. I am just testing Mao out.”

“Testing him out? He’s not an espresso machine.”

Just then, Mao took a break from violating my leg to give a few sneezes and a burp.

“Then again, he certainly sounds like an espresso machine,” I said, watching him return to his conquest.

“Mom, can you please tell Mao to ease up on the PDA. What’s he on? Doggie Viagra? Can’t you get him some dog dildo?”

“Emily. You know fine and well that an animal of ours would never display PDA,” she said, enunciating key words. She then tried shooing him with little flutters of her hand not strong enough to whisk away a dusty gnat.

“Besides,” she started in with that matter-of-fact way of hers, “you’re entirely not his type. Completely wrong for him.”

“Right. Of course. Possibly because I’ve had my allergy shots this season.” I extended my legs to create a slingshot, clamped Mao and centered him, deeming him a pellet that I thrust across the room, successfully splattering this blobby pug against the prewar concrete wall. His skinny legs extended from his paunchy belly like a shocked Humpty Dumpty just as he was about to fall.

This made me laugh.

“Oh, Emily!” Mom scolded. “Oh, Mao!” she cried. Mother ran over to Mao, tending to him like he was her slain war hero. The image made for an unusual picture of one of those Fabio-covered romance novels, painted by the same velvet canvas artist who brought you the dogs smoking cigars while playing pool.

She was stroking his fur and whispering soothing words into his ear, so now the dog and younger brother in this family had garnered more of my mother’s maternal instinct than her firstborn. I’ve entertained the idea of being illegitimate, searching for the man that delivered our mail in the early seventies to seek a paternity test.

“This is ridiculous,” I huffed. “And why not get a real dog, the kind that doesn’t come with hidden costs from the thousand-dollar carrier cases and jeweled chokers? You’re not getting all Auntie Peg on me.”

Auntie Peg was the great-auntie who will never cease to exist. Darkening the festive mood of a holiday gathering with the obligatory ten-minute chitchat, trying to remain composed by her automated reply of “as long as you like it, dear.” Seated in her mobile armchair, a tartan blanket draped on her lap and a swarm of pugs that nipped about the tassels of her blanket like misbehaved children.

“Please don’t compare me to Auntie Peg, darling, that’s extremely inconsiderate.”

I found it interesting that Auntie Peg had the power to penetrate the hierarchical rungs set in my mother’s self-absorption.

“I’m off to the museum,” I snipped.

“The museum?”

“Yes. A public institution exhibiting paintings and other works of art.”

“Why, Emily, you couldn’t very well go to the museum dressed like that.”

I looked down to evaluate my appearance in a chiffon blouse with a cross wrap, gray pants with camel pinstripes, and a suede coat with fur trim.

“Um?”

“Emily, just look at your shoes,” she said, saying “shoes” like it was the name of the scandalous gossip target of the day.

I peered down at my just-violated toe, which had on a brown suede Puma with an orange stripe.

“I’m not going to the Costume Institute ball. I’m just getting in a bit of the arts. Since when did the museum have a dress code?”

But this was useless. I was speaking to a woman who still wore a navy blazer, ballroom gloves and Ferragamo bowed shoes every time she traveled on a commercial flight. She honored a past time when manners showed your status better than the limited edition LV bag bought after your name was crossed from a waiting list. Mom, skilled in bar car-chatter, versed in the kind of social skills where the hostess mingled with her guests while holding a tray of stuffed artichokes.

“And, Emily, we must discuss the wedding. The wedding!”

With that said, I lifted myself from my chair, gave Mao an apologetic scratch behind his ear where he returned the affection with a lick to my face (the animal was truly infatuated), a peck to my mother’s cheek as she gets kissed, never kisses, and walked out of the house with no regard to her curious rumbles that trailed me.

Feeling insecure about my sneakers, I decided to forego the Met for a little window indulging. I walked along Madison, passing the display booth boutiques with storefronts peddling clothes propped on invisible silhouettes in the same positions featured in the shopping pages of the fashion magazines. I zigzagged through other walkers in congested midtown. Looked up as the buildings stretched to the sky while we clambered at their base.

I passed the imperious lions that guard the New York Public Library, walked under the shadowed gleams of the Chrysler. Chose the left breach imposed by the Flatiron and stopped to buy an apple at the farmer’s market in Union Square. With the sustenance gained from chomping on a picked-from-Amish-hands piece of fruit, feeling quite wholesome and cleansed with proletarian ethics, I finished off the last leg of my city walk to Henry’s apartment, which I’ve casually pitched as my primary residence for the past few months—living in the proverbial sin before giving my housing situation the loaded “living together” label.

Walking down East Twelfth, and if you ever assumed that a pigeon pecking in the middle of a street would be able to fly to safety from a mad city cab driver, you haven’t lived in New York, where cabbies literally pencil in road kills on that chit you assumed recorded passenger fares. I had to quickly look away when I saw that this particular fatality had trampled more than a few feathers.

Slowing my pace, Tide-scented air puffed from the basement grates of an apartment complex, slapping my ankles with that unbalanced wave of humidity you feel after stepping outside an overly air-conditioned office building. As I approached my favorite townhouse, I became exhilarated, faintly making out the owner exiting the red-painted door like a diver swimming to surface. She closed the door too quickly for me to look inside. Her dog, more appropriate for the Moors with a few ducks stuffed in its mouth, poked his muzzle in sensitive areas until she snapped a few commands in Italian. He retreated, sat and looked at her obediently until she shouted the name of a pasta sauce to switch him back on. The dog clearly understood Italian. I didn’t know Italian. In some ways, this dog was more intelligent than me.

Reaching the apartment, I had somehow forgotten about the paper trail of torn magazine pages I had left in the kitchen. Henry’s nose focused on the page that had been given the highest honor, fridge door placement. It was a picture of the most perfect butt, an extreme close-up shot barely clad in boy-cut Eres turquoise bottoms and a few specks of sand.

“Let me guess,” mused Henry. “This is your way of telling me that you’re a lesbian.”

I walked over to the refrigerator door to give the picture a closer inspection. It was truly the most spectacular piece of butt I had ever seen. A woman’s body, when perfect, blew away a male physique of rock star Rolling Stone cover proportions.

“Possibly,” I said easily. “In a repressed kind of way. But the original idea was to achieve that butt, causing guilt of extreme portions every time I opened that door for an unnecessary scoop of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie. Lowfat.”

Henry opened the freezer door so it gave a lip-smacking suction, pulling out the very container of ice cream I had been trying to avoid—it was frozen yogurt, to be specific, but I had my suspicions of the labeling as semantic marketing.

“I love your butt,” he said, slapping my butt. “Now get two teaspoons and let’s polish this thing off.”

Which seemed a great idea in theory, but I was surprised that Henry had not been aware that the container was considerably light, absent in its contents aside from a teaspoonful left (a ploy one uses so you could soothe yourself by saying you were not a fully grown, oinking pig because you didn’t actually finish the entire pint), having been devoured after a night of looking at magazines, feeling inadequate with myself and resorting to the comfort of Ben & Jerry’s.

Henry peeled off the lid, his lips breaking into a supercilious smirk as he must have made a mental visual of my actions last night.

“Hmm.” I poked my head in the container. “The maid did it.”

“Maid my ass, or, truthfully, it’s your ass that’s in question here.”

I gave Henry a wounded princess look.

“And speaking of this ass,” he said, scrutinizing the picture on the fridge. “I think I know her.”

“Know her? Right. Of course. People are now recognized by their butt cheeks.”

“No. Really!” he laughed. “That’s Carmenia’s butt. You remember Carmenia, she’s that Brazilian, or is it Argentinean? That model that dated Gil Stephens.”

Gil Stephens was one of the FOX producers whom Henry and I, now strictly Henry, worked with.

“You see that raisin-shaped mole?” Henry pointed to a mole, indeed the size and shape of a raisin, just under the fold of her right cheek. My fiancé was touching a woman’s butt—the most perfect butt on the planet. The boy was basically committing adultery before my eyes.

“Henry!” I scolded, swatting his index finger away from Carmenia’s butt. “This is wrong on so many levels. First, I don’t like you ass-picking Carmenia so brazenly before me, and then why? How could you identify this glorified freckle? You must have been doing some hard-core poolside scanning to pick up that blemish.”

“Oh, Emily.”

I’ve clocked in a lot of “Oh, Emilys” today.

“Carmenia’s mole is to butt like Cindy’s mole is to upper lip,” Henry said as if reading from a legal document. “She had it surgically attached so she could ‘make her mark’ in the butt modeling business, so to speak.”

I then swiped Carmenia’s butt off the fridge and threw it into the garbage.

“She’s trash,” I said, feeling like the last unwanted squished cupcake at the end of a bake sale.

Henry opened up his arms. I had the vague impression that my body was meant to be folded into the vee he created. But I am completely uninterested in being all sweet and cuddly based on my current agitated state. His stare acted as beams, magnetizing me into his outstretched arms.

“Listen, Emily. We need to discuss our living arrangements.”

“But. But. But.”

“But what? Emily, you really must get your mind out of the trash—though Carmenia’s butt does have that effect.”

Oh, for God’s sake—enough with Carmenia’s butt, which had about as much artificial padding as my first bra (I was a late bloomer, very self-conscious back then).

“Seriously Em, now that you’re painting and with us doing the big marriage thing, it’s time we stopped living like VW Vanagon drifters. L.A. one month, my post-grad apartment a few months. We need to put down our roots. Get a warm, sunny place that we can grow with.”

“You sound like a tour guide at the Botanical Gardens.”

“I was thinking SoHo or TriBeCa—a loft perhaps. So I’ve made some appointments for us, tomorrow at four.”

“Four?”

“Four.”

I began to think of the day I had planned—buying new canvases, brushes, and supplies with no place to put them. The calls to potential wedding locations, planners, and did I want ecru invitations with a Palatino typeface or white with Caslon Open face? Should I get a personal trainer or just do an added workout from my Buns of Steel tape?

“Emily—no buts. And no butts!”

But?

A rising a few hours earlier than usual, I headed straight for my newly purchased box of Frosted Flakes. I was very excited about this, getting up a few times last night hoping it would be morning so I could have breakfast, only to notice that, while it was still dark outside and not because we were still in March, there were hours to go before I’d break open that new box.

I’ve been going through a sugary cereal phase, with kid-tested mother-approved choices so that my breakfast would not be completely deficient of the essential vitamins and nutrients I needed for a balanced day. Choosing cereals like Kix and Frosted Flakes over Fruit Loops and Lucky Charms. (I am also an avid reader of cereal boxes.)

As a kid, my mother had acted as Lady Capulet to my love affair with Cap’n Crunch, not allowing me to have him because she put this in the “junk” category. Now that I’ve broken through the bondage of eating based on parental consent, perhaps I’d reacquaint myself with this unrequited love. Do they still even make Cap’n Crunch? Panic. Could it be—Cap’n Crunch was no more? Completely tragic. Considering that I’d most likely be seen in the comedy section of a video store over tragedy, I quickly laid to rest any remorse over Cap’n Crunch’s untimely demise and reminded myself how lucky I was to have Tony.

Tony the Tiger had always been in such good spirits—possibly from all of those fortified vitamins and minerals. And after all these years, he hasn’t gone through the protean transformations as other noted spokespersons. He must have had the same fitness trainer as Dick Clark. Tony was the kind of cover model that I found especially welcoming in my current mood.

I poured myself a bowl, sliced up some bananas, added the milk, and began inhaling my breakfast. Twirling the box around for something to read besides another bridal magazine that would only underline how unprepared and ineffective I was in my wedding duties, I became thrilled upon finding a game of logic—promoted as an intelligence test used from the days of Mesopotamia.

The questions were written in grape over a golden pyramid with two sphinxes bordering the edges; the geometric puzzles gave it a hieroglyphic feel. Now this was why I really loved kid cereal, for the fun games that I could ace, giving me a strong dose of self-confidence before I began my day. Clever marketing from the team at Kellogg’s. I should really send them a note.

My preoccupation with the game eclipsed my former bliss of eating my cereal. The first question showed numbers that clung to the sides of differently colored triangular peaks like clouds to a mountain. I had to figure the missing number on the last one. Moving to the next problem, as these games always began with a harder question to show it involved some mental exercise, this question had a few boxes with various lines crossed in them where I needed to choose the shape that didn’t belong. Figuring that they were all in the same color, I picked the one with too many lines, as that did not appear to be as symmetrical and harmonious in that Mondrian way. Mondrian would have chosen box “D.” The next question, I had to apply the same logic but with triangles—very simple, almost too easy, as it had the same properties as the earlier question. Lazy people, these Mesopotamians, the messy one naturally got my nix.

Then I read the answers and tallied my score so I could be reminded of how brilliant I was.

Okay. But perhaps if I just retook the exam now that I understood the questions. I mean they really weren’t written all that clearly.

This game was purely ridiculous.

Okay. I am stupid and have a giant butt.

Hearing the phone, I glanced at the microwave clock illuminated in neon—8:36 AM. The caller was my mother, as warned by the brilliant invention of caller ID, ranking right below the electric toothbrush and Dustbuster. Considering that calls this early have familial latitude, I resolved to remove all bad karma at once and picked up the phone rather than have the machine be victimized by the rant of her voice-mail therapy.

“Emily, darling,” she said, her tone more in sync with an alpha wife than a submissive homemaker, which caused me to fumble the phone out of nervousness until the droop of Henry’s pajama sleeve skimmed my coffee, the stain creeping up the cotton fibers igniting an alternate anxiety.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” I shrieked, turning on the faucet to soak the sleeve under the running water.

“Emily, you really should control your anger. Here I am, calling you in the most cheerful manner with the most divine news. Perhaps I should just catch up with you at another time after you’ve dealt with your repressed issues.”

“Sorry, Mom. It’s just that I spilled coffee on Henry’s pajamas.”

“My goodness, is he all right? You know about that woman who sued McDonald’s because the coffee was so hot it burned her. She should be embarrassed for herself.”

“McDonald’s coffee? Lawsuits? What are you talking about?”

“Well, Emily, dear, it really isn’t polite to spill coffee on your fiancé.”

As opposed to someone else?

“Mom, I’m wearing Henry’s pajamas.”

“Excuse me!”

I could just picture her horrified expression—think eyes popping out of their sockets on bouncy coils, tongue sticking out, and flecks of sweat popping from her head—after imagining that Henry and I do indeed sleep together.

“And you really should attend to the stain before it sets in. There was this program on that home and garden channel with this crafty lady who used vinegar water. A Portuguese woman, from…” She paused, and I heard the snap of her fingers so she could jog her memory.

“From Portugal?”

“Precisely!

“And you should check out the Intimates Section at Barney’s. They have the most lovely nightgowns. Proper sleepwear. Especially important now that you will be a married woman. No more pajamas. Lingerie, darling. That’s how you keep your man from straying. And if he does stray, at least you’ll find out from the relationships you will cultivate with the lingerie shops. That’s how Mrs. Coleman found out Charles was cheating. The sales help at LaPerla ratted on him after selling him a thong that wasn’t in her size. Mrs. Coleman would never wear a thong—that’s an under-40 piece.”

If you ever sat in on one of my mother’s lunches, these were the kind of topics getting the heavy play, even during a national crisis of sending U.S. troops proportions.

“Didn’t you mention you had some news to share? I believe you even said ‘most divine news’?”

“Oh, right! I am giving you and Henry an early wedding present.”

Present! The most divine word.

“Mom, that’s really unnecessary, with all of your help in the planning,” I said, lying.

“Don’t be preposterous, take everything that you can get—from me and everyone, darling. Now, as you know it’s been a sort of family tradition to have our wedding portraits done. Your great-grandparents on my side, both your grandparents, and your father and I have all had our wedding portraits painted. As you know, your granny even sat for Sargent.”

That had been a striking mark on my mother’s docket, that her mother was painted by John Singer Sargent. No matter how badly Oliver or I screwed up, at least we had lineage, and this painting secured evidence to prove the impressive bloodline.

These wedding portraits all hung in the Traditional Room, the one room in the house that had never undergone a make-over from one of my mother’s decorating whims. From Hampton to Hagan, she had about as many renovation incarnations as Britney had publicity stunts. But in the Traditional Room, you experience the sort of time travel one would have when visiting Graceland, without the kitsch and with more chintz. There are hand-me-down works of art, porcelain knickknacks of fooffy dogs, and a pincushioned couch upholstered in my mother’s family plaid, which has the misfortune of hues in an appalling brown, green, and yellow (though she did look into changing the pattern, apparently forbidden by the plaid people).

Really she should just will those things to Oliver, as I’d auction them off and use the cash toward one blowout year of living the rock-star life. Travel, hotels, and fun restaurants for 365 days of carefree existing that no descendant would ever be able to match with all of their maintenance of a respectable, genteel life. Collecting inanimate luxuries with curatorial discernment only so they could be passed down and remembered through some silver teapot whose only use was holding a bundle of calla lilies for that John Pawson meets Shabby Chic effect.

Mother added, clearly impressed with herself, “I found a wonderful discovery. He lives in Brooklyn, but apparently has a studio in SoHo.”

The SoHo studio legitimized the Brooklyn part, I gathered.

“This Linus Heller,” she continued, “he painted the Lowell sisters and is just finishing up Autumn Benson’s portrait, having time to fit you and Henry in!”

“Okay. Let’s slow down here. First off, you know how uncomfortable I feel when having to pose, even for getting my passport picture taken. I’m reduced to a gerbil being stared down by a python. And as sure as I am that this Linus guy is quite talented, his painting Summer and all, I just don’t think Henry and I have the time right now. With his work, finding a new place—the wedding! Sitting around to have some foppish artist who gets his gigs because his mother plays bridge with women who have a day of beauty every day, it just seems an indulgent expenditure of our time.”

“Oh, Emily, you’re being quite the prima donna. ‘Indulgent. . .