I look around the group, seeing no further discussion. Eitan catches my eye, and I mouththank you. In response, he smiles at me. It’s like clouds parting.
“Ruby?” Louise asks.
“Hmm?” I turn to her, disoriented.
“What’s next?” She raises her eyebrows at my laptop.
“Right, yes, next we have the smaller vendors: photobooth and hair and makeup.” For how manic my research was before this, the actual decision-making process is relatively quick. We go with the more expensive hair and makeup option, all agreeing that their reference photos look more natural. For the photobooth, Louise has me bring the laptop toward her, and she closes her eyes, hovering her finger randomly.
She opens one eye to see her finger landed on the second option, Windy City Photos. “Done,” she says. “Is that all?”
Calliope jumps in with the plan for the joint-bach weekend. I’m temporarily saved from having to bring up the florals. Apparently, for the joint-bach, we will be working with an outdoor rec company called Outventures that is leading us on a private camping trip. I school my face into neutrality, not betraying the fact that I haven’t camped since summer camp, and was much more open to it at the age of twelve. Eitanadds some small notes here and there about activities and alcohol budget, all of which Louise nods along to. He looks rather pleased at this significant improvement in performance compared to the previous meeting.
“It’s going to be fun.” Louise reaches over to pat Calliope’s knee.
“Should we airlift you in?” Calliope jokes.
Louise scoffs. “I wish. I’ll just have to settle for a solo trip to Vegas.”
Calliope makes an affronted noise. “You said you would take me next time you went!”
Louise’s face breaks into a pot-stirring grin. “Only kidding, darling. Our trip will be after the wedding craziness is over.” She glances back at me. “Anything else?”
“There’s the, uh, small matter of the florals.”
Louise rubs her chin. “I don’t want to pay for a head-to-toe chuppah and a dance-floor ceiling,” she says. “I don’t care if it’s in budget. I don’t want to be responsible for that many dead flowers.”
I squeeze my lips together nervously, sensing Penelope’s displeasure from thirty-thousand feet. “The ceiling is a real statement, it would be a—” I remember what the florist said. “Showstopperin the reception.” I’m reaching. “It will be the talk of the town!”
Louise perches her chin on her hand. “Tell me, Gem, what do you think?”
I swallow. “I think the ceiling is a statement?—”
“No.” Louise shakes her head fiercely. “Not what Pen thinks. What doyouthink?”
“It would be…pretty,” I say, not entirely convinced. “It’s what Pen wants.”
“She can have the chuppah or the dance-floor ceiling, but not both.”
My stomach sinks. I know she wants both. “We can, um, table that decision,” I say, trying to employ the same tact I have to exercise with my CEO.
Outside, lightning flashes—a lot closer than when this meeting started—followed by a crack of thunder. A mere second between them.
Louise glances at the window. “You better get back to the city before this storm really gets going.”
Calliope lays down on the couch. “Mind if I stay for dinner?” she asks. “Storms always make my pain flare up.”
“Of course, Callie.” Louise claps her hands. “Off you two go!” She shoos Eitan and I out the door, abrupt as can be. I’m left under the cover of the carport, with the whiplash of failing to secure the one thing that seems most important to Pen.
And to top it off, it’s pouring.One of those summer storms where the clouds unzip and pour out an entire heaven’s worth of hot rain, flooding the streets and saying damn it all to the power lines. It’s the kind of storm you want to take off your clothes and run through, let it soak you, and emerge a new person, anointed by water and heat.
Unfortunately, I’m wearing leather shoes and a silk shirt beneath my sweater vest. So, I am—as the French say—fucked.
With Calliope staying behind, Eitan and I are alone.
“That went well,” he says.
For you, I think dryly. I’ll have to do damage control with Pen tonight. I imagine what I’ll say:Louise wants us to pick one, between the garish chuppah and excessive dance-floor ceiling. I know they’re bothsuperimportant, but Louise has made up her mind.And, honestly, I don’t blame her.
