He had proposed at her mother’s funeral. Not at it, but just after it. I had a sense that it had happened in the parking lot of the cemetery, but I wasn’t clear. She was crying and grieving, mucus everywhere, and he had gotten down on one knee, and he had said something like, “Now this can’t ever be the saddest day of your life.” Gross. Again, I suppose he had meant well, but this was truly the worst thing I’d heard about him yet. For God’s sake, some days are meant to be the saddest days of your life. Also, should she have been making major life decisions when her mother had just died? I didn’t know these people, but it was almost as if he had preyed on her when she was at her most vulnerable. I was starting to hate Wes West. A little bit, I was starting to hate him. I often ended up hating the groom, but not usually so fast.
“Oh, it is weird,” she said. “It is weird, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t weird, but it was awful. It was awful, but it was ordinary. I didn’t know her, and it was not my business. To make the moment about something other than what I had been thinking and what my face may have betrayed, I did something that was unlike me. I reached across my desk and I grabbed her hand. “I’m so sorry about your mother,” I said.
Her lip quivered, and her large blue eyes teared. “Oh gosh,” she said. “Oh gosh.”
I handed her a tissue.
“I’m a big baby,” she said.
“No, you’re grieving,” I said. “You must feel so unmoored.”
“Yes, that is exactly what I feel. Unmoored. Is your mother alive?” she asked.
“She is, but we don’t see each other much,” I said.
“How awful,” she said.
“I have a daughter,” I said. “So I can imagine something of—”
“And your mother doesn’t want to see her? Her own granddaughter? I can’t believe that!”
“Maybe she does. It’s complicated,” I said.
“Nothing’s that complicated.” Franny smiled at me. “I’ve overstepped,” she said. “I’m sorry. You have a very comforting way about you, so I forgot we aren’t friends.”
She was sweet. “Did you do your homework?” I had asked them to assemble an inspiration board for their fantasy wedding.
She took out her tablet from her purse. They had pinned a bride in cowboy boots and a groom wearing an ascot and tails; a buffet of pies and a seven-tier wedding cake; a silver bucket of gerbera daisies and a three-foot-tall arrangement with white lilies and roses; gingham tablecloths and white linen tablecloths; barbeque chicken and filet mignon. It was the wedding of City Mouse and Country Mouse.
“We didn’t get very far. Some of these are his ideas and some of these are mine.”
“I can tell,” I said.
“He wants it to be elegant, but I want it to be more rustic,” she said. “Can you do anything with this, or are we hopeless?”
“You’re hopeless,” I said.
Franny laughed and flushed. “We kind of had a fight about it. Only a little fight. He says my taste is basic,” she said, “but I want our guests to feel relaxed and comfortable. I don’t want it to feel all—” She searched for a word before settling on “corporate.”
“Elegant and rustic. Let me think. Chandeliers and white tablecloths in a barn. Or, considering it’s going to be December, mason jars with red-and-white gingham ribbons and baby’s breath and pine boughs and burlap tablecloths in a crisp hotel ballroom setting. Twinkly white Christmas lights strung across the dance floor and place cards written on tiny chalkboards. Tulle canopies and white linen napkins. BBQ and pies. A crackling fire. Yes, I see it.” And I literally had seen it. Everyone wanted elegant and rustic lately.
“It sounds so beautiful,” she said.
The bells on my door jingled, and Ruby came in, dumping her backpack on the floor. “This is my assistant,” I told Franny.
Ruby shook Franny’s hand.
“I’m Franny,” Franny said. “You look pretty young to be an assistant.”
“Kind of you to say, but I’m fifty-three years old,” Ruby said.
“She’s very well preserved. Franny wants a wedding that’s elegant and rustic,” I told Ruby.
“You should have an ice cream truck,” Ruby said. “Mom did a shabby chic one with an ice cream truck. Everyone loves an ice cream truck.”
“You’re not supposed to call me Mom at the office,” I said. “You’re supposed to call me Boss.”
“Everyone went out to the parking lot,” Ruby continued, “and they could pick any ice cream they wanted for free. It was pretty much the best thing.”
“It was great, but Franny’s wedding is in December,” I told Ruby.
“True,” Franny said. “But it sounds so fun. Couldn’t we do it in December? It’s not like everyone stops eating ice cream just because it’s December. And it’s almost more fun to have an ice cream truck in December. Like, shouldn’t we embrace the cold?”
That night, I got a call from Wes letting me know that he didn’t “get” the ice cream truck thing. “I think it looks like foolishness,” he said. “These people I’m inviting, some of them may have to vote for me someday and some of them might even have to donate to my campaign, and I don’t want them thinking that I’m the guy who had an ice cream truck at a winter wedding.”
“Fine,” I said. “No ice cream truck.”
“I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but it seems . . . feckless.”
“Feckless,” I said. “That seems strong.”
“Feckless,” he said. “Not considered and the product of a disorderly brain. I love Franny, but she can get ideas.”
Yes, I thought, she has a brain and those do peskily tend to make ideas. “You obviously have strong feelings about this,” I said. “Honestly, it was only at the brainstorming stage, Wes. We hadn’t rented the truck or anything.”
“Well, the thing is,” Wes said, “would you mind telling Franny that you aren’t able to get an ice cream truck in winter? Because she has her heart set on it now. She thinks it’s whimsical, I don’t know.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier for you to tell her you don’t like it yourself? I mean, she liked it, yes, but I don’t think it was that big a deal to her. She likes a lot of things. She’s a very positive person.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think you should do it. If I do it, I’m the guy who is taking the fun out of the wedding. If you do it, it’s just a fact: the wedding planner can’t get an ice cream truck in December.”
“But I probably can get an ice cream truck,” I said.
“Well, sure, but Franny doesn’t know that,” Wes said.
“Actually, I’m not comfortable lying to your fiancée,” I said. “I try never to lie to my couples. And it seems silly to me for either of us to lie over something as inconsequential as an ice cream truck.”
“Since it’s silly, why does it matter? And it’s not really lying. You’re executing the wishes of the person who is paying for your services,” Wes said. “I believe in you, Jane.”
I thought about telling this weenie that he could take his business elsewhere, but I did not. I didn’t mention it before but my bookish and lovely Ruby had been having trouble with bullies at her elementary school. I had done all of the things you are supposed to do when your child is being bullied. I had met with school administrators. I had called other parents. I had monitored her online activity. I had enrolled Ruby in a variety of purportedly self-esteem-boosting activities—gymnastics! Girl Scouts! I had talked to Ruby extensively about strategies for dealing with unpleasant people. Nothing had worked. I was thinking of transferring her to private school, but that cost money. Money meant you didn’t have the luxury of liking everyone you worked with.
“Jane,” he said, “do we have an agreement?”