Yvonne’s predictably dry take on the situation before she downs the last swallow in her martini glass. She doesn’t go for “girlie drinks” like margaritas and cosmopolitan.
“Well, Susan knows I’ve got to leave early tomorrow for Keera’s teacher conference,” Latisha says firmly. She’s fiercely devoted to Keera, the now-teenage daughter she raised as a single mother before she met and married her husband, Derek. They have a child together, too, a boy Latisha the New York Yankees fanatic named after her favorite player, Bernie Williams.
Latisha has her hands full these days. Poor Keera was just diagnosed with dyslexia. Latisha has been absorbed with trying to get the right services for her while constantly doing battle with Bernie, who is a terrible two now.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I wouldn’t count on Susan letting you go early,” I tell her reluctantly. “Adrian’s on the warpath and everyone’s going to be going nuts. It’s going to be all hands on deck until the Client approves this thing.”
Is it my imagination, or is there suddenly tension in the air?
I can’t help but suddenly find myself all too aware that I’m now privy to information that isn’t readily available to the three of them, with their administrative jobs and joint cubicles down the hall.
They must be aware of it, too. But trust me, when I was promoted last month, nobody was more thrilled for me than they were.
Well, maybe Jack was—since he not only loves me but gets to reap the salary benefits.
But these three were the ones who encouraged me to ask for a promotion, and they were the ones who took me to Tequila Murray’s to celebrate the moment it came through.
Just as they insisted on taking me out tonight after Brenda shared the big news about me and Jack. I haven’t seen the others yet, thanks to the ongoing Client meeting from hell, and it was a little disappointing that I didn’t get to tell them in person. I didn’t even have time to ask Brenda to save the news for me to share—let alone time to revel in her thrilled reaction.
But I was touched when I returned to my office at last to find a bunch of congratulatory e-mails from the girls and orders to meet them here for happy hour.
“Well, anyway, I’m really sorry I’m so late,” I say apologetically, reaching for a broken-off tortilla chip from the nearly empty basket on the table and dredging it through what’s left of the salsa. “If I’d have known I was going to be stuck there this late, I would have said we should celebrate another night.”
“It’s okay…Here, we ordered you your raspberry margarita.” Brenda hands it over. “Actually we ordered one when we first got here, but we had to drink that. This is your freebie second. It’s a little melted.”
It’s pure liquid, but who cares? I take a sip and the tepid tequila burns its way down to my empty stomach. Pure heaven after a hellacious day in Account Exec Land.
“Come on, come on, give it over.” Latisha snaps her fingers and beckons for me to show her my left ring finger. “Let’s see what Jack did.”
I grin and thrust out my hand, wiggling my fingers and admiring the way the marquis-cut diamond catches the red and green neon light reflecting from the Tequila Murray’s Semi-Kosher Mexican Restaurant sign in the nearby window.
“Mmm, mmm, mmm. Look at you!” is Latisha’s satisfyingly appreciative response. “Girlfriend, that is some serious bling.”
Yvonne lifts a raspberry-colored eyebrow—tinted to match her raspberry-colored hair, which just so happens to match my melted raspberry margarita—to indicate her approval.
“Did I not tell you it was go-aw-jus?” Brenda asks in her Jersey accent, which always becomes more pronounced after a margarita or two.
“You even got a manicure,” Yvonne observes, knowing my fingernails are usually a mess.
“Don’t look too closely.” I withdraw my hand. “I did it myself last night. And I messed up a few nails trying to type while they were wet.”
“Typing?” Latisha shakes her cornrows in dismay. “Please don’t say you were working on a Sunday night.”
“I wasn’t working, I was online looking up wedding stuff.” I reach into the black tote bag and rifle around for the manila folder that doesn’t contain statistics geared toward constipated barbecue-goers.
“When are you going shopping for your dress?” Brenda asks. “Because I can come with you, if you want.”
“I already found my dress.” I pull out a dog-eared, months-old clipping from Modern Bride. “What do you think?”
Two agree that it’s beautiful, the other—guess who?—declares it go-aw-jus.
“The ad lists stores that carry it and there’s one on Madison, so I’m going to go up there as soon as I can and order it so it’ll be in on time.”
I’m about to tell them that I’ve also picked out the bridesmaids’ dresses—navy velvet sheaths—but first, I have to officially ask them to be in the wedding.
Before I can do that, Brenda asks, “Did you set a date yet?”
“Honey, she set a date last year,” Yvonne comments.
Which is true.
Still…
“Jack and I are thinking the third Saturday in October would be good.”
Rather, I’m certain the third Saturday in October is when we’re getting married, because I called Shorewood on the sly yesterday. I didn’t even give my name, because I don’t want the news of my engagement to leak back to my family through the small-town grapevine.
Although the banquet manager, Charles, wasn’t in, the waitress who answered the phone checked the book for me and said it looked like the date had been booked by someone else then crossed out. I was supposed to call Charles back today to check, but of course, I never had time.
So, yes, I’m fairly certain that we’re getting married on the third Saturday in October.
I tried to discuss the details with Jack a few times yesterday, but got nowhere. Still in the basking mode, he kept asking why we had to worry about details now.
Let me tell you, it’s a relief to be able to discuss the details with someone, even if it isn’t the actual groom.
“This is where I want to have the wedding,” I say, passing around a photo I printed off Shorewood’s Web site last night. “It’s a country club up in my hometown, right on the lake.”
“Lake Tahoe?” Yvonne asks cluelessly.
“No. Lake Erie,” I say. “Lake Tahoe is out West somewhere. California. Anyway—”
“It’s in Nevada,” Latisha cuts in. “I know because Derek wanted us to elope there at one point.”
“No, it’s in California,” Yvonne rasps, holding somebody’s margarita straw like a cigarette. I can tell she’s itching for a smoke. Who isn’t at this point?
