“How long will you be?” A twenty-something in a navy slicker slides past Josh into the driver’s seat. The back of his jacket says Beacon Valet. He slams the door, rolls down the window and clicks down the gearshift. “Overnight? Or just dinner?”
“Dinner,” Josh replies. He barely gets the words out before the valet steers the blue sedan into Boston’s Back Bay murk.
The maître d’ of the Brasserie flickers recognition as we approach her desk. Elegant in a navy suit, an updo and pearls, she says something into a silver-and-white phone before turning to greet us.
“Miss McNally, the Brasserie is delighted to welcome you.” There’s a trace of the Caribbean in her voice. Her name tag says LaVinia. She gestures us to follow her through the crowded restaurant, winding our way past white tablecloths, crystal decanters of wine and shimmering candelabra. “Your table is ready, of course. And Miss Tolliver is on her way.”
A silver bucket of champagne, dripping with condensation, is displayed on an ornate pewter stand next to our table. I look at Josh, surprised. I’d made the reservations for our tomorrow-our-engagement-goes-public dinner, but I did not order champagne. And who is Miss Tolliver?
Josh pulls out my chair. I’d specified dinner for two. But this is a table for four.
I’m juggling the unexpected champagne, the hovering maître d’ and the mysterious Miss Tolliver when another glossy navy-suited woman arrives. She’s carrying a sleek briefcase and holding a bulging Filofax and hefty expensive-looking pen.
“Renata Tolliver, the Paramount’s wedding consultant.” LaVinia performs the introductions, then returns to her post.
I look at Josh, questioning, but he’s shaking hands with the newcomer.
The consultant smiles at him, then me, then Josh again. She’s my mother’s age, just as well preserved and even more professional. Chunky gold earrings, conservative pearls. Her platinum hair is snipped into a flawless bob, which swings effortlessly as she motions to a nearby waiter. She points him to the champagne. Instant hostess. Instantly in charge.
“Champagne with the hotel’s compliments, Miss McNally,” she says. “Your fiancé called me, thinking you might be interested in having a brief chat before dinner. As I’m certain you know, Paramount weddings are the crème de la crème.”
We’re each handed a crystal flute, and Miss Tolliver raises hers in our direction. “To your own wonderful ceremony. We would be delighted to arrange the most perfect Paramount event for the two of you.”
I’m still flummoxed. My Josh? Made an appointment with a wedding consultant? I take a wary sip. I’m so not buying that.
“Your mother called. I happened to mention our dinner here tonight. The rest is history,” Josh says. He touches a quick kiss to the top of my head, then pulls out his own chair. “She who must be obeyed.”
Twenty minutes later, champagne half-gone and Josh still looking amused, Miss Tolliver is winding up the sales pitch for her vision of our wedding: the Paramount Platinum Package. My first wedding, twenty-five years ago, was the City Hall Package: fluorescent lighting and flowers from the vendor outside the Government Center subway stop. Sweet Baby James and I didn’t last a year. Now, I’m struggling to stay skeptical, but every luscious photograph of pink-peony garlands and intricate butter-cream frosting exposes some long-forgotten, deep-seated wedding fantasy. I know I should want to elope or do something simple. But I feel more like simply signing on the dotted line.
Miss Tolliver pulls a glossy white folder from her briefcase, points her pen to the embossed Paramount lion on the cover.
“My card is enclosed. Here are suggested menus. Flower arrangements. Tablecloth swatches. Photographs of cakes. The Platinum Package, as your mother suggests. And she says to tell you-” Miss Tolliver pauses, purses her lips “-well, I don’t understand it, but she says to do this.”
She holds up two fingers in the peace sign. “Is that right?” she asks.
“Mother is pulling out all the stops,” I say. Even long-distance, she can never quite let go. “That’s our sign that means ‘the two of us, in it together.’”
“She seems to love you very much,” Miss Tolliver says. She hands me the folder and stands to leave.
“She loves that I’m getting married,” I reply.
“So do I,” Josh says. He holds up his glass, saluting me.
So do I, I think. So do I.
“I can’t believe she gave us samples of wedding cake to take home.” I’m clutching my white wedding folder and two beribboned boxes of cake and psyching myself up for the big moment. And it’s not just about our wedding.
“I can. The woman’s a wedding machine and your mother is relentless,” Josh says, teasing. “Much as we love her.”
We peer through the front doors of the hotel, waiting for the parking valet to return. Josh had nothing new to report about Bexter, no more menacing phone calls. No matter how creatively I inquired, it seemed as if he’s really told me everything he knows. Which gets me nowhere.
There was no time during dinner when it felt right to bring up New York. We promised each other no secrets. I’m determined to keep my promise, but I refuse to pull another all-nighter discussing our future. So during the car ride home it is. Fifteen minutes, Boston to Brookline, and I’m dropping the bombshell. Life is suddenly very complicated.
“There’s the valet with our car.” Josh points outside. “Finally.”
We race through the snow, past the marble lions and into the car. The doors slam.
Here we go.
“So I have news,” I say as we pull away from the hotel. Trying to keep my tone light. “Guess what Kevin told me today?”
“He’s quitting,” Josh says. He punches a few buttons on the dashboard radio, tuning it away from raucously grating sports talk. “Who changed the station? Anyway, I predict he’s giving up TV to become a used-car salesman. Why not use his skills where he can really-”
“Yeah, well, funny. But yes, Mr. Clairvoyant. He’s quitting.” I adjust the boxes in my lap, hoping it won’t be the only time I get wedding cake, and turn to Josh. I hadn’t planned to say it this way, but it’s kind of ironically sweet. “Can you keep a secret?”
It took five minutes to tell Josh about my New York offer. And almost every minute after that, he’s been silent.
“Let me think” was his only reaction. In TV news, we often have to make split-second decisions. And when it’s not necessary to decide instantly, we debate the pros and cons until the very last minute. With Josh, I’m still trying to learn his rhythm and not be afraid of quiet. The comfortable jazz from the radio disappears. Chatty voices from some talk show now make his silence more profound. But I can wait. And it won’t be long. We’re almost there.
We turn onto Bexter Academy Drive. Penny will be asleep, Annie waiting up for us. Josh will leave to drive her home. Here we go.
The porch light is on as we pull up to the curb. Josh turns the key and unbuckles his seat belt. As I’m trying to read his expression, the ceiling lights click off. We’re in the darkness, snowfall ending, a few final flakes disappearing as they hit the hood of the car.
“Victoria left Penny and me because of her job.” Josh is staring out the windshield. “Is that what you’re going to do?”
I grab his hand. One box of wedding cake tumbles to the floor. “No. No. No, no, no. We just need to talk about it. I don’t even know what I want to do. It’s just-sudden. And big. And I wasn’t supposed to tell you. And maybe I shouldn’t have.”
My chest tightens. This is new territory for me. Am I already lost?
“Maybe I should have worked it all out by myself,” I continue. “But we promised, right? No secrets?”
“Sweetheart, I can’t ask you to give up your dreams. You’ve wanted this for your entire career.” Josh looks at me, as if he’s trying to smile. Then he shakes his head. “I adore you. You know that. But you know Penny and I can’t move to New York.”