My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding Page 6

  But the truth is I could be out burgling houses or doing some other shocking thing that no one would ever expect of me, and no one would believe it even if they stumbled across me wearing a stocking over my head and climbing into someone’s window.

  I walk to the front of Title Waves and prop open the door to let in the fresh air and sunshine, bothered by the fact that they’re right. I never do anything unexpected. Or wicked. Or unacceptable. I am a people-pleaser. Knowing that you’re this way because your parents virtually abandoned you doesn’t help you stop bending over backward to satisfy others. Or encourage you to go on a local crime spree. (Not that you could get away with anything here, where the population is still shy of 1,500 and everyone would recognize you during your B and E despite a mask, a hood, or any other disguise you might come up with.)

  When the members of the Classics Book Club arrive at noon sharp, we settle at the round table in the front window and spread our Regency era–themed potluck meal across its scarred maple top. We kicked off our reading of Jane Austen’s classics five months ago with a special screening of The Jane Austen Book Club at the Pioneer, which has the distinction of being the longest-running family-owned movie theater in the country.

  Today we’re discussing Persuasion, the last novel Austen completed before she died. In my opinion it’s the most beautiful of her works even though it’s not the witty drawing room comedy of manners she was known for. A number of the club members have followed recipes from Cooking with Jane Austen and Dinner with Mr. Darcy, cookbooks that I ordered to complement the reading.

  Mrs. McKinnon has brought a “pigeon” pie, the center of the crust decorated with slash marks meant to look like pigeons’ feet. We also have cold meats and cheeses as well as biscuits and jam, which we wash down with a modern version of elder wine as we talk. For dessert we enjoy the same plum cake that was served at Mrs. Weston’s wedding in Emma, and a lemon cake, because it was Mr. Darcy’s favorite.

  The food is delicious and the discussion lively. We linger until the members with young children have to head out for after-school activities. Mrs. McKinnon, who also belongs to the three other book clubs I host at the store, including the somewhat rowdier B’s, short for “books, broads, and booze,” stays to help me clean up.

  “Did you finish?” Mrs. McKinnon isn’t the first person who’s asked whether I’d typed The End before my fortieth, and I give her the same answer I’ve given everyone. “Almost. But I decided that after all the time it’s taken me, I don’t want to rush the ending.”

  “Of course, dear. I understand completely.” Her smile is kind, but I can see that she doesn’t understand at all. Even I am not sure how it’s taken me a decade and a half to write this book.

  “I imagine it will be difficult to let go of it once it’s done.”

  This observation strikes home like an arrow to the heart. Am I afraid of finishing? Is it that and not my family, or my business, or the other demands on my time that have stretched it out all these years? Do I have a fear of failure? Or is it a fear of success? Or am I just afraid of competing with Lauren? If no one ever sees Heart of Gold, I can tell myself it’s the best thing ever written. Once someone else reads it I may have to accept that it’s not.

  “It will be odd, that’s for sure.” I hug her good-bye and am still thinking about her question and my lack of a definitive answer as I settle at the front desk and open my laptop. I’ve written the “black moment” when everything falls apart and it seems as if there’s no hope, and rewritten it more times than I can count. All I have to do now is craft a satisfying resolution for my characters that demonstrates how much they’ve grown and changed. In my experience characters that stay the same are never really interesting. Neither are people.

  I skim through the last chapter I finished, trying not to think about how little I’ve changed over the years. How much my life stays the same. It takes a few minutes before I manage to shake these thoughts off and sink into the story. I feel welcomed by old familiar friends—friends I’ve tortured and forced into situations they were ill equipped for—and whom I now have to bring out the other side.

  Just when I’m about to give up, I see the way I can bring the threads together. I feel a small thrill of anticipation as I lower my fingers to the keyboard, and I barely breathe as they begin to move of their own accord. I’m typing dialogue without conscious thought as if my characters are living the scene and I’m just trying to capture it. I am sucked into the story. I occupy their heads. After all these years I know them in ways I may never know myself.

  My shoulders unclench and so does my jaw. Everything, including the store, disappears. Although I’m following their lead, I feel powerful. I have control over everything. Who lives and who dies. Who is beautiful and who is loved and cherished. Who discovers they’re so much more than they realized. Who discovers they’re less.

  Whitney is direct and sassy and asking for what she wants. Making it clear that she doesn’t need Heath even though she loves him. Demanding that Heath live up to his promises.

  As the scene plays out, I lose myself in the culmination of their journeys. But then, after two full pages of witty, yet heartfelt, dialogue my fingers falter. If I finish their story Heath and Whitney won’t need me anymore. And I’ll have nowhere to disappear to. My eyes close as I try to push myself to continue.

  Which is when I hear footsteps and a clearly masculine clearing of the throat. “Excuse me.”

  I look up and see a nice-looking stranger somewhere in his early to mid sixties.

  His eyes are brown. There’s something in the way he holds his body and cocks his head that seems familiar, but he’s definitely not a local. “Do you have any books by Lauren James?”

  I do sell Lauren’s books. In fact, I sell a ton of them since she’s a native and occasionally uses the Outer Banks for her settings. I always smile when someone asks about her, though most people who’ve been here long enough know not to ask.

  I have, of course, read all of them, including Sandcastle Sunrise, the book we plotted and were planning to write together. That was possibly the most painful thing I’ve ever done. And I’ve been through natural childbirth.

  The entire time I was reading it I kept imagining how I would have written it and how different, maybe even better, the book would have been if I’d coauthored it. Not that any of the reviewers, even those who didn’t love it, seemed to think there was anything missing.

  “I understand she grew up around here. My wife has always been a big fan of hers and I thought I’d stop and see if you had any signed copies.”

  I put on “the smile.” I do, in fact, have signed copies. Lauren’s publisher sends me a certain number of each new release, which delights my customers and which I’m very careful not to point out is probably Lauren simply trying to rub her success in my face.

  We chitchat a little as he selects then buys signed copies of every one of Lauren’s books that I have on hand, and I think what a nice gesture it is for a man to make toward his wife. I doubt Clay knows my reading taste well enough to choose a book for me. But I do know he’d know not to bring me one of Lauren’s.

  “I’ve always believed that you can tell a lot about an author by their characters. Would you agree?”

  “I think it varies,” I say honestly. “Especially if an author is prolific.”

  “Do you know Lauren James?”

  “Mm-hmmm.” My lips purse as if I’ve sucked on a lemon. And I’m nodding for some unknown reason. “We went through school together. We were friends before she moved to New York and all.” I attempt to unpurse my lips, but they’re stuck so I just keep nodding.

  “Well, thank you very much.” He takes his box of books and turns.

  “Thank you. I hope your wife enjoys them.”

  His shoulders flinch slightly but he keeps walking. After he’s gone I manage to get my lips unstuck. The temperature h
as started dropping, so I close the front door, move back to the counter, and return to the manuscript.

  I feel my brow furrow as I try to count up the scenes I still need to write. Maybe five or six. Maybe one final chapter and an epilogue could do it. I won’t really know until I get the words on the page, but still I feel a rush of excitement.

  If I bear down and push myself, I could be finished in a matter of days. I imagine the exhilaration of finally typing The End. The euphoria that will follow. I’ve never done it as an adult, and I’m desperate to prove I can.

  But this tiny voice that I recognize as my most insecure self pipes up with, Not so fast. Once you type The End, then what?

  * * *

  Lauren

  New York City

  The best part by far of writing a book is getting to type The End. Of course it doesn’t really mean you’re finished. The End is just the prelude to revisions, which can be anything from a few small tweaks to a gut job. Then come the copyedits, which require you to address any query the copy editor assigned to review the manuscript has noted. (This can be anything from the incorrect day of the week based on their assessment of the timeline that they have taken the time to lay out on an actual calendar, to the questioning of the accent you’ve given your character even though you’re the one who grew up with this accent and they’ve never left Manhattan.) They used to work with red pens, now they make their comments electronically on the manuscript in a little balloon off to the side. After that you’ll proof the galleys, which requires another complete read-through while you look for small typos and mistakes. And don’t even get me started on the regret you sometimes feel over a word choice or a missed opportunity that you can’t go in and fix.

  This is why by the time all of these passes are over a lot of authors can’t bear to even look at their creation again. Afterward, when readers start e-mailing about the typos they’ve noticed, I’m always surprised. All I can tell you is it’s not due to laziness or a lack of concern. It’s just that people are not perfect and shit happens.

  With a groan I reach for what I’m pretty sure is my fourth cup of coffee, though I know from years of experience that while caffeine can help you stay awake it doesn’t make you more talented or creative any more than alcohol makes you wittier and more entertaining.

  My engagement ring sparkles on my finger as I lift the cup to my lips, and I catch myself wondering if it has somehow sucked all my creative energy into it. As if I could blame a beautiful piece of jewelry when it’s clearly what the ring represents that’s thrown me. Between the surprise proposal and my declining sales figures, I’ve barely written a usable paragraph.

  Part of the problem is that it’s been three days since we called my mother to tell her about the engagement, and I know she’s waiting to hear from me. Only I have a hard time lying to her and given that I’m still processing things, I’m not sure I’ll be able to sound as happy and excited as I should be.

  I write one more sentence then waste another hour waffling. Finally I slap a grin on my face—I’ve read that pretending to be happy can actually produce endorphins that make it so—and pick up the phone.

  “Lauren?”

  “Hi, Mom!” I say cheerily.

  “Hi, darling!” she exclaims back, and I know I need to dial it back a notch. “I can’t stop thinking about your good news.”

  “Yeah, it’s really great, isn’t it?” I’m still grinning like a crazy person.

  “Yes, it is.” I know that she’s smiling and I suddenly wish we were in the same room. “How are you feeling? Has the excitement simmered down to a dull roar?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. I was just so taken by surprise I’m having a hard time sorting it all out.”

  “So you’d discussed marriage, but you had no idea he was going to propose that night?”

  “Not exactly. We had discussed living together, but not in any really serious way.”

  “I can’t believe he did it in front of an audience and with backup singers.”

  “Yeah, well, you know that question about if a tree falls in the forest and no one’s there to hear it, did it make a sound? With Spencer if there’s no audience then it probably didn’t happen.”

  There’s a silence on the other end. She knows just how much I hate being the center of attention and I have no doubt that she’s already seen through the grinning. But she’s a bit off her game, too. Normally she’d already be all over the positives of the situation.

  “But you are glad? I mean, you do want to marry him, don’t you?” she asks more tentatively.

  “Who wouldn’t want to marry Spencer?” I say even though we both know this is not actually an answer. “Of course I want to marry him!” I add the exclamation point because it’s true and because my grin is slipping. “I just wasn’t expecting it. And you know me, I don’t really like surprises. Plus, the cast was singing and everyone in the restaurant was watching.”

  “It does sound like a very significant romantic gesture.” There’s the positivity I’m used to.

  “Yes,” I reply, my grin slipping further. “But I guess I would have preferred some warning. And maybe a little more privacy for such a private moment.”

  “Aww, honey.”

  Her understanding makes me want to cry. “Well, I suppose one person’s romantic moment can be someone else’s uncomfortable one.” My attempt at humor falls flat. And there’s another silence on the other end.

  “You do realize that you’re allowed to change your mind and your answer. Until you walk down the aisle. And even sometimes after you do.” She pauses and something I can’t identify steals into her voice. “There are people who suddenly change their minds even at the altar. I read a statistic somewhere that five percent of marriages get called off on the day of the wedding.”

  I snort. “Where in the world did you read that? I mean, who keeps those kinds of statistics and who besides a crackpot would show up and then change their mind?”

  There’s another silence on the other end. I gather that I’m missing something, but I can’t imagine what.

  “Have you talked about where you’ll get married?” she asks.

  “No, not yet.” I’ve given up on the smiling and am now going for matter-of-fact.

  “Well, you know I can’t wait to meet Spencer. When could you bring him for a visit?”

  “I agree it’s definitely time for you and Spencer to meet. But why don’t you fly up here?” I try not to beg, but the very last thing I want to do right now is come down and parade Spencer around. And how will I explain the ex-best friend I’ve barely mentioned and the former boyfriend she’s married to? “You could meet his family and we could discuss possibilities. There’s plenty of time to work out wedding details. It’s not like we’ve set a date yet or anything.”

  “I’d really prefer that you come here, Lauren. It’s been far too long and I’m sure Spencer would like to see where you grew up.”

  It’s unlike my mother to insist. She’s the last one to push or prod and she’s generally been willing to come to New York or meet me somewhere before. We’ve had “girls’” trips to Charleston and New Orleans. Once we spent a week in the Keys.

  “Is everything okay?” Suddenly I’m imagining all kinds of worst-case scenarios. “Are you all right? You’re not . . . sick or anything, are you?” I can’t handle even the idea of my mother being ill. I swallow. (A turbocharged imagination is a much bigger asset when you’re writing fiction than it is in real life.) Within ten seconds I go from illness to incurable. She is my entire family. We are all the other has. Is forty too old to be an orphan? Clearly all that grinning has turned me into a crazy person.

  “Of course I’m not ill,” she says. “I’d just really love for you two to come down so that Spencer and I can get acquainted and we can show him around. Maybe we can even look at venues. And, of course, that way you can try on TH
E DRESS.”

  She has just dangled the ultimate carrot in front of me. And given how rarely my mother ever asks for anything, it’s not as if I’m going to refuse. “All right. I’ll check Spencer’s schedule and see how soon he can get away.”

  Eight

  Lauren

  Spencer’s parents, Gene and Nancy Harrison, are very lovely people who sometimes seem to forget that New York City is part of a larger country. In their early seventies, they look and act younger—which is easier when you are wealthy, of course— and get on remarkably well for people who met in grammar school and started dating when Nancy was only fifteen. They have a wide circle of friends, enjoy good food, see every show and performance worth seeing, are almost fanatic supporters of the arts, and serve on numerous boards and committees. They live in an incredible brownstone on East 65th between Fifth and Madison, just a block from Central Park, that’s been in the Harrison family for a couple generations. While they have traveled extensively in Europe and Asia and parts of the Middle East, if they had a family motto it would be “If you can’t do it or get it in New York it is most likely not worth doing or having.”

  All in all they’ve been very welcoming and I’ve grown increasingly comfortable in their home, but I don’t see myself sprawling on the Louis XIV sofa anytime soon.

  Tonight we’re celebrating Spencer and my engagement with a family dinner that includes Gene and Nancy, Gene’s mother, Grace, who is in her early nineties and has a private suite of rooms that take up half of one floor of the five-story home, and Spencer’s younger sister, Molly, her husband, Mac, and their two-year-old twins, Matthew and Mariah. (Who could totally appear on Sesame Street the next time the letter M is presented.) Spencer’s older sister, Anna, along with her second husband and his children from a former marriage, lives in San Francisco. A city these dyed-in-the-wool New Yorkers visit on occasion, but about which they seem ambivalent.