“See, here’s whereyoucome in. The only reason I hired Miri is because she specializes in Jewish weddings, and I donothave time to find a replacement planner?—”
“She’s just sick, right? She’s not, like, dead?—”
“But I figure, hey! Mygreatfriend Ruby is Jewish too, and just offered to help! I bet she’s free and can take Miri’s place—just for this meeting of course. You know, like you can tell my aunt about the chair thing, and the wedding tarp and all that. Right?”
Wedding tarp?“Are you talking about…a chuppah?”
“Yes! Exactly. That. See? This is why I need you.”
“Can’t Josh help you?”
Penelope laughs. “Oh God no, of course not. He’s such a momma’s boy. If he gets involved, his mom gets involved, and you know how Jewish moms are. I can’t deal with that.” I instantly feel defensive of Josh’s mom and my own mom. But I reason that she doesn’t mean anything by it. She’s just trying to prevent too many cooks in the kitchen.
“You’d be able to help me, right? As one of my closest friends?”
A staticky pause. I didn’t realize I still qualified as a ‘close friend,’ considering that before Izumi’s wedding, we hadn’t seen each other in six months. But who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? I want to reconnect with friends, and here is one of those friends knocking on my door.
“Yes, of course, I’d love to help?—”
Penelope squeals so loud I have to move the phone away from my ear. “You’re the best! I knew I could count on you. Tea is this afternoon. We’re going to cover wedding planning, and then Joshie is bringing his best man so that Aunt Lou can meet him.”
“Great, when?—”
“It’s at four o’clock. I’m coming from a mani in Highland Park, so I’ll have to meet you there.”
I look at the clock on my microwave. It’s 1:54 p.m.
“That’s not a problem, right?”
“No, it’s” —I scramble to reschedule the meeting I have at four— “fine, I can totally make that work.”
“Great, I’ll send you the Google Doc Miri has everything organized in, so you can get up to speed. Thank you so much, Ruby!”
“No problem, I’m happy to—” The phone call ends. “Help,” I say to the silence of my apartment.
chapter
five
Penelope sendsme a contact for anAuntLou, whose address is in Winnetka: a simple bus to a train ride to a fifteen minute walk away. Not a problem.A small price to pay for a very strong step in the direction of Be Yourself Goal #2, I tell myself as I race to change out of my sweatpants, into a gingham mini dress and Mary Janes, in time to make the bus. This is an in. I need to reframe it as an opportunity to make brunch plans or maybe even get squeezed into a dinner reservation. Things could turn a corner as early as this weekend.
I read my printout a few times on the train, trying to memorize the details, since the only thing on the Save the Date was the date and location. Apparently, the rehearsal dinner will be at The Chop House, which gives me a good sense of this wedding’s budget. The wedding and reception is being held at Lake Shore Country Club, a Winnetka club in a massive Tudor estate on Lake Michigan with vaulted ceilings and stained glass. There are reference photos with a chuppah decked head to toe in florals, Chiavari chairs wrapped with satin bows, and a fourteen-piece band. It…definitely feels true to Penelope. Which is good, I guess, because it’s her wedding.
It shouldn’t surprise me that Aunt Lou lives in a ritzy mansion masquerading as a Cape Cod off of Sheridan road, complete with a carport. By the time I find her house, I’m coated in a thin film of sweat. My hand drifts to my dress’s pocket, the corners of the printed pages curling beneath my palms. It’s 3:45. I debate circling the block, allowing the sweat to really pool behind my ears, before I concede that it’s better to arrive early and semi-clean smelling.
Two solid cherry doors sit at the top of slate steps. The mansion does not have a doorbell—it has a brass knocker in the shape of a lion. I pull the lion’s jaw back from its base and the ring resonates like I’ve hit a gong, disrupting a nearby flock of birds.
“It’s open!”someone hollers from inside.
Strange, if I had a mansion I would most certainly lock the doors.
I have to put my whole shoulder into pressing the door open, and I practically stumble headfirst into an atrium that is an Architectural Digest shoot come to life. The floor is travertine, the ceiling is double height, and the chandelier is some avant-garde Chihuly-looking glass structure. The air is perfumed with lavender and not a single vase or shoe is out of place. On the right, there’s a huge painting of bold blocks of color that stretches up eight feet. Wait a minute, is that a Rothko? I look back up toward the ceiling and consider that it might not be a Chihuly-looking chandelier, it might be anactualChihuly.
I see now what Penelope meant byvery rich. No wonder she’s able to fund a wedding like this.
“Hello.”
I startle at the voice that popped out of nowhere. There’s a person breezing through the atrium toward me, with long black hair that’s pulled back in half-up braids, wearing pink overalls and lavender eyeliner. They wipe their hand on their pantsbefore offering it to me. Her nails are long and decked out with shimmering pink pearls.
