or humiliation and miscalculation likely to end in crushing defeat.
Holy crap! It can’t be—
A ring! He’s thrust it before me, nestled in dark green velvet in a box sprung open on what must be two and a half, maybe three carats.
“—Not a deal-breaker. Terms are negotiable. But you’re a sweet deal I won’t let get…”
“No, no! Put that away!” I whisper as I reach out and snap the lid shut.
I must be looking at him as if he’s offered me the finger instead of a ring because he flushes a deep red as he jerks the box back and shoves it into his pocket.
The whiplash of patrons looking away sends shockwaves of silent sympathy toward the poor bastard who couldn’t close the deal.
“Oh, Harrison, I’m so sorry.” I reach for his hand, which is clammy. “I didn’t mean to react that way. It’s just, you took me by surprise.”
He doesn’t even look at me. He fumbles with his fork as sweat runs in rivulets from his brow. “Obviously, it wasn’t a pleasant surprise.”
“I apologize. I do. But a ring? It was the la—least—something I didn’t expect. We’ve known each other such a short time.”
He looks up and if possible I feel even worse as the red-faced humiliation I’ve caused stares back at me. “Fifteen months, Liz. Nearly a year and a half of our lives has gone into this relationship.”
“So much?” Good grief! Time flies when you’re not having fun.
“But this wasn’t that kind of a real relationship, Harrison. I had no idea you thought it was.”
He glares at me. “We’re sleeping together.”
“Did. Once. It was a mistake.” He flinches like a dog struck on the nose with a rolled newspaper.
Dear God! What happened to my no fault/no foul speech?
“I mean, we agreed, we were just keeping each other occupied. Casually. This was never a romance and…and we both deserve a chance at more.”
He pauses with a forkful of pasta near his mouth. “You’re seeing someone else?”
“No. I wouldn’t…” Well, maybe I would, if there was someone else. “I’m not seeing anyone else, but we should. That’s the point. You should, and I should. Okay?”
Instead of answering he just stuffs his mouth with pasta, and I guess I should be grateful.
We ride home in a silence only mortal enemies could appreciate after I insisted on paying for a steak I couldn’t eat.
I go in, pour myself a well-aged Scotch, knock it back like it was cheap bourbon, and then go to bed, facedown in my dress.
About 2:00 a.m. I awaken unable to breathe. My dress has twisted so tightly around my waist it feels like a tourniquet.
I rise, dress for bed and return to a slumber where, in my dreams, farts instead of words issue from Harrison’s mouth.
“Liz! Have I got something to show you!”
It’s rare that Celia arrives early enough to open. Obviously something else has brought her in today because she goes right over to the TV-VCR perched above the counter and pops in a tape. Occasionally we watch a movie after hours as we clean up.
“I’m not always out of the shower in time to catch the local weather report so I tape and replay it while I dress. I’m so glad I did this morning.” Celia picks up the remote and points. “Now watch.”
For a few seconds the jerky movements of fast-forward animate the screen and then under the direction of Celia’s thumb, It pauses and starts again in Play mode. There is our local weather guy chatting with the co-anchors of the show.
“For all of you who’ve ever wondered about the hype at North Jersey Lexus, I’ve got a scoop. Yes, an eyewitness account of my very own. It seems not even the famed Negotiator can close every deal, even if it’s diamond-clad. Stay tuned—”
“Oh…my…God!” I turn in horror to Celia.
“So it’s true?” Celia’s Betty Boop face goes all wide-eyed with surprise. “Harrison proposed to you?”
“Er, sort of. But how did they hear about that?” I look back at the screen. “And why is it on TV?”
Celia shushes me, fast-forwards the tape through the commercials, hits Play again.
“Harrison ‘The Negotiator’ Buckley is well known to Jerseyites as the man who will not take ‘No deal’ for an answer. Well, old Harrison, car dealer par excellence, was certainly off his game last night. While dining at a local establishment…”
I turn away, feeling woozy. Who knew the local weather guy was at the restaurant last night, or that he’d make my proposal—no, refusal—the topic of his water cooler spot on the morning news?
“—So go by and give Harrison a break. ’Cause some little lady broke his heart.”
“Your old man proposed?” Shemar has come out from the back. “And you shut him down in public. Ouch! Now, that’s cold.”
“He wasn’t my old man. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m only saying, Miz T, you could be driving the hoopty of your choice off his lot, chilling and thrilling at this very moment.”
I turn to Celia. “Isn’t there a law against invasion of privacy?”
“John calls it a reasonable expectation of privacy.” Celia’s husband has twice qualified for Jeopardy and is waiting for the call. “He says Harrison proposed in a public place. He could have no reasonable expectation of privacy.”
“What about me? I was totally blindsided. Don’t I have a right to privacy?”
“Least that chump weatherman didn’t catch the 411 on you, Miz T,” Shemar offers as consolation.
I clutch at this realization. I wasn’t named. No one will know it was me. So, maybe no real harm was done, except to Harrison. Poor Harrison! He’s going to be in all alone in the spotlight of shame.
That fantasy lasts as long as it takes for the door to open.
“Who’s Miss Picky this morning?” Mrs. Morshheimer actually simpers as she comes up to me. “I thought he was just right for you.” She pats my arm. “At a certain point in life a girl can be too particular. Security and companionship are better in the long run.”
She leans in really close to whisper. “The s-e-x never lasts.” She looks up at me with a little shake of her head.
Great. Just great!
Chapter 8
Who marries on a Friday? This is a mercy wedding. At least my attendance is.
With the Fine Arts and Crafts Show opening tomorrow I should be at the bakery taking care of a hundred last-minute details. But I promised Celia. And this is Jenna Harris’s wedding.
Jenna Harris is, by Celia’s account, a whippet-size baby-blonde, the ethereal kind found only in Manhattan. Celia is “baby’s mum” blond, meaning she’s often too busy to keep the roots touched up. If Botticelli drew her she’d be one of the Three Graces of ample hip and stomach curves. But a bigger psychological barrier is that Celia and John eloped while Jenna’s wedding is rumored to be the wedding of the season—even if it is being held in New Jersey. I say there’s something fishy in that, but what do I know?
“You look lovely,” I assure her for the fourth time. She’s wearing a champagne silk dupioni sheath. “I can tell you’ve lost weight.”
“And you. Sexy, sexy!” Celia seems as delighted