Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [64]
“She’s practically ready for Harvard,” Henry said, raising his glass for a mock toast.
“Speaking of which, we should talk about preschool,” I answered.
And so it went. Two people who had spun concentric circles around the lives they’d created with each other, and now, the only thing that anchored us down, that anchored us together, was our daughter. So round and round we went. On the road to nowhere.
Chapter Eighteen
The time has come, I realize in late October, to annihilate my closet. Every morning, I’m lost in a sea of mismatched, crumpled clothes, unmoored shoes, and discarded coats and scarves and handbags. Declutter your space, declutter your mind, I tell myself on a soggy Saturday afternoon (Woman’s Day!).
Since our return from Miami two weeks earlier, we’ve been thrown into a tornado of wedding planning, courtesy, primarily, of Vivian.
2:00 P.M., Thursday, just as I’m heading into a crucial meeting on the winter Coke campaign: “Jillian dear, just when are you going to set a date? Tick tock! If we don’t nail down the country club now, we’ll never get it! How does April 9 sound?”
8:47 A.M., Monday, just as I’m stepping off the subway to head to the office: “Darling, it’s me, Vivian. If we’re going to do a spring wedding, I’m thinking that we should do coral roses and white lilies. It will be just lovely!”
9:29 P.M., Friday, just as I’m finally leaving work and meeting Megan and some college friends for a girls’-night-out much-needed drink: “Yoo-hoo, dear, it’s imperative that we book a gown appointment ASAP! We’re pushing this a bit too close already, and you absolutely need six months to get your dress before the big day!”
After Henry and I got engaged, we called my father and shared the news, then phoned Henry’s parents to do the same. And then we both agreed that we wanted the event to be as intimate and non-frenzied as possible.
“Less of a circus, more of a celebration,” he said at the time, and I nodded my head concurring. So I casually flipped through Brides and I conferred with him on simple flower choices, and I asked Ainsley and Megan along to try on gowns, but mostly, I let my father and Linda, his girlfriend, work out the fine print. It all seemed so unnecessary—stephanotis versus baby’s breath, butter cream versus fondant, chicken versus steak. Did anyone ever look back at a wedding and say, “Thank God we opted for the cherry swirl in the middle of the cake because without it, it would have been a disastrous evening for all involved!” No. At least, that’s what I told myself at the time, and with Henry’s rational, always rational, opinion sounding in the background, it was easy enough to believe.
Now, maybe it did matter, I think, as I’m knee-deep in sweatpants that I hadn’t seen since college graduation. Maybe the enthusiasm that you put out for the planning trickles over into your early days of marriage, and maybe if I’d seemed a little more game, a little more intoxicated with love for Henry, our relationship wouldn’t have backfired so roundly. Besides, years of reading Martha Stewart and InStyle Weddings had led to near untoppable vats of knowledge: For an unhappily married woman trapped in suburbia with no hope of throwing a wedding anytime soon, I knew more than I’d earned the right to know about nuptial planning. So, after vetting Vivian’s relentless calls, I agreed to meet her later this month to discuss details with the planner she’s hired.
How did I live like this? I say to myself, spinning around the wreckage of my walk-in. How did opening the closet door each morning not make you lose your mind?
I stand on my tiptoes and reach for some partially folded sweaters, their arms hanging loose like a dead man’s, which I hadn’t worn since the year that Jack and I met. Tugging on the only one I can reach, I’m suddenly pelted with raining objects. The entire wire shelf comes careening