Cold Feet (27 page)

CHAPTER 28

W
henever Liv came to town, we went to our favorite Mexican restaurant, Casa Sanchez. It had a mariachi band, delicious margaritas, and—the best part—free guacamole. This anomaly kept us coming back despite the fact that the location was a bit far and the wait a bit long. That was why when we got into the car and Liv took the driver's seat as usual, I was surprised when she didn't start heading east on Washington. After all, free guac is the ultimate in comfort food, and comfort food was above all what we needed.

“Did you forget the way?” I said, trying not to sound too demanding given the fact that she was driving my car.

“Nope. We're not going to Casa Sanchez and before you ask, it's a surprise.”

After hopping on the freeway, she exited on La Brea and traveled
North for a while before starting down a side street in Hollywood, on a stretch of road where there aren't any restaurants or bars, only the Hollywood Forever Cemetery.

“What are we doing at the Hollywood Cemetery?” I asked. “Are we lost?”

Liv pulled the car over to the side of the road. “Nope. This is your stop.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Emma, can I give you one piece of advice?” she said, ignoring my question. The car went quiet with the engine off and the radio silenced. “Give Sam another chance.” I felt instantly thrown for a loop. I was doing my best to forget my ex-fiancé and canceled wedding, even though to be honest it was never more than several jumps from the center of my thoughts. Why in the world was she bringing it up?

“I know you like Sam, Liv. But it's too late. It's ruined. I mean, our rehearsal dinner was supposed to be tomorrow, and if you hadn't noticed, he's not exactly begging for one,” I said pointedly, looking down at my hands and swallowing the lump in my throat.

“I wouldn't be so sure about that.”

Without warning the car door on my right swung open. I jumped what felt like three feet in the air and let out an unattractive yelp. Standing on the curb, with the car door handle in one hand and a picnic basket in the other, was Sam.

Walking through the Hollywood Forever Cemetery at dusk, escorted by Sam, who was careful not to touch me or say too
much, was completely surreal. For one thing, there wasn't another living soul around. Ha. I'd seen the cemetery pretty quiet before, when they had concerts or outdoor movies and shut the rest of the place down, but it was never this dead. Okay, that was enough.

“Are we having a picnic?” I asked, stretching out the words, looking for clues as to what he was thinking or feeling. He nodded but didn't elaborate. He looked incredibly nervous, wearing the long-sleeved blue collared shirt he always wore when he had a meeting with his agent. The last time he left the house in it, I remarked how cute he looked. I wondered if that was why he wore it.

We walked quietly through the wide paths, past crumbling white tombs, some at the head of narrow reflecting pools, and elaborate bronze crypts. When we finally got to the carpet of green grass in front of the Cathedral Mausoleum, the central building on the grounds, Sam put down the basket. Removing a blue-and-white-striped linen blanket and placing it in front of a weeping willow, he sat down.

“We're here,” he said, motioning for me to join him. I followed instructions, sitting next to Sam against the wide tree. He opened the basket and poured us each a glass of wine from a corked bottle. Not chardonnay, I noted. It was starting to get dark and I could barely see his expression.

“Shouldn't we sit facing each other? It might make this less awkward,” I said.

“Nope. There's something I want you to see.” Sam pointed to the white walls of the mausoleum. Without warning, a large projection lit up the wall.

“What is this?” I exclaimed. “Are they showing a movie tonight? Where is everyone?” I had the nervous feeling you get when you wonder if maybe there was a zombie apocalypse reported on the news and you missed it.

“Watch and see.” On-screen, an old-fashioned countdown to a movie reel began to play. When it hit one, it went fuzzy for a second before coming into focus. Sitting there, on the front steps of his house in the exact same spot I'd sat selling books on the day of their yard sale, was a twenty-foot Sam.

“Hi, Emma,” the huge Sam on-screen said, his voice echoing through the cemetery. It was kinda spooky with the double Sams, but I liked it. “We're getting married in a couple weeks, and if you're watching this, that means you actually went through with it. First of all, thanks for that.” There was some talking off-screen, as if the cinematographer was reminding him of something. I recognized Dante's low accented murmur. “Right, or I did something horrible and I'm showing this to you in a last-ditch effort to win you back. Either way, I hope you like it.” He paused and added in a low, sweet voice, “I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you.” He faded out and I turned to the real Sam, who looked pained.

“The last line was meant to be a joke. I was going to show this at the rehearsal dinner, but I figured I better find a way to show it to you now, so we have a chance of actually making it there.” For perhaps the first time in my entire life, I was speechless. I felt my mouth open and close a few times like a fish, but nothing came out.

“It's okay, you don't have to say anything,” he said nervously.

Out of nowhere, Ray LaMontagne's “You Are the Best Thing”
started ringing out of speakers all around us. On-screen, the images flashed. Sam had compiled a montage of film clips from his numerous siblings, parents, and grandparents videotaped all over the world. Each different family member held a sign that displayed a different word or phrase. His brother lay next to his sign in Costa Rica while he drank a beer on the beach. His regal British grandmother perched in a hard-backed chair holding a formal, printed card. His parents sat cross-legged in their backyard in Rye, New York, one at either end of a poster board, with their dog, Smokey, running in circles around them. It went on. As the clips passed, the words started to form a sentence. The last scene was the entire family, spliced together, each member holding his or her own sign.

Together they all shouted out the words they'd been stringing together. “Welcome to the family, Emma and Caro!” Then they all cheered and danced around to the same song, which was coordinated to play in real time with the music in the video.

I was floored.

I turned to him, shaking my head in shock, tears shining in my eyes. “This is amazing. How did you pull this off?”

Sam looked at me strangely. “You do realize I'm a filmmaker, right, Em? Plus, I called in a few favors. And some blackmail.” Sam looked at me and squinted his eyes, the way he did when he was very focused, or drafting his fantasy baseball team.

“Emma, I want to say something, and let me finish. I'm glad you like the video, but I don't expect you to forgive me because of that. I need you to know that I'm incredibly sorry about what happened in Charleston. I can swear to you right now that nothing like that will
ever happen again. But I think you know that.” He paused and looked at me, waiting for this part to sink in. “Please forgive me, and let's move on. Let's move forward, stronger than ever. Together.” Again, he stopped for a minute, as if considering whether to continue. I waited patiently. “And whatever did or didn't happen in San Francisco last week with any other guy, I don't want to know. I know you were staying with some guy from Airbnb and that you went back there by yourself. Don't be mad at Liv for telling me—she was worried and talked to Caro. Then, when she found out you were still with them, she was more worried, which made me worried. Did I just say ‘worried' too many times?” I started to laugh, but stopped when I saw how serious his face was. “If you were talking to some other guy, or felt comfortable staying with him or whatever, I assume it didn't compare with what we have. Correct me if I'm wrong.”

Dusty. Did it compare? I knew the answer before I even finished the question.

“No, it didn't.” The truth is, my feelings for Dusty had faded completely. He was an amazing person, who supported me at a time when very few could. But that was the extent of it: gratefulness and affection. I felt guilty for Dusty's sake, and hoped he didn't feel used or hurt in any way, but then I remembered how MyLocal was probably going to make him a billion dollars and how tall he was. He would be fine.

Sam took both of my hands in his and looked at me closely. “I love you, Emma. Will you please still marry me?”

I wanted to say yes immediately, to jump into his arms and shout that I couldn't wait. He was right, I did know deep down he would never do anything like that again. Some part of me knew that the
past week I'd been using a mistake he'd made years before—an awful one, don't get me wrong, but an outlier for sure—to protect myself. Relationships, marriage, long-term love, it always seemed so scary, and the existence of other people in your life so temporary. But maybe I was wrong about that, I considered for maybe the first time ever. Or at least, maybe there were exceptions. After all, look at Liv and me, best friends no matter what. Look at Caro, protecting her daughter to her own detriment. Look at Sam, loving me through it all. If we got past this, we could probably get past anything.

Something was still bothering me, though. “What about the chuppah?”

“What?” Sam responded, baffled.

“The canopy. For the wedding. Why did you cancel it? I got a confirmation e-mail. I thought that meant it was really over.” I trailed off, fully aware that this officially made me crazy. After all,
I'd
told him it was really over.

“Oh, that.” Sam burst out laughing. “I canceled it because my cousins built us one this week when they were bored. I think they got sick of watching me cry into my beer, so they needed something to occupy their time. And they thought it might change the outcome.” He tilted his head to the side, smiling to himself, perhaps thinking about how nuts I was, but loving me for it anyway.

“You really cried?”

“Emma Moon,” Sam said warningly. “Are you gonna marry me or not?”

EPILOGUE

T
wo days later, we walked out onto the makeshift dance floor, which was really a closely clipped grass clearance, for our first dance to Van Morrison's “Sweet Thing.” As I hugged Sam close and felt his warm body enfold me, I saw Liv standing on the side, flirting with Dante. I also spied Sam's brother trying to get a girl from my firm a drink as her boyfriend fumed. And Caro sat at a table, tapping on her phone, but at least stopping every few seconds to take a sip of champagne.

The weekend was perfect, full of lovely mistakes. My rehearsal dinner dress looked like it was made for me, until I spilled an entire glass of champagne down the front. That afternoon, the pastor accidentally called me Anna repeatedly when she read us our vows, which made Sam and me crack up every few minutes throughout
the entire ceremony. Minutes earlier, one of our recently separated friends made a drunken speech with the closing line, “Never get a divorce, because fuck that shit.” (“Never use the
D
word at a wedding,” I heard Dante murmur. “Or the
FTS
word,” Sam added.)

I even got a text from Dusty that said,
Have a wonderful day. You deserve it.
What an amazing guy. I could recognize this but at the same time, it didn't bring my crush back. I couldn't have fallen in love with him, anyway. It was impossible. I was already in love. Speaking of, Sam seemed pretty happy, too. He had the permanent dopey grin on his face that he always got when he'd been day drinking.

Dancing together closely and reflecting on the day, I suddenly remembered there was one more mystery left to solve.

“Sam, I almost forgot. Where are we going on our honeymoon?”

“That's a funny story, actually,” Sam said with a laugh.

“What?” I said, fully ready for him to tell me he'd forgotten to buy the tickets, or he'd purchased them for the wrong year.

“We're supposed to go to Italy,” Sam said reluctantly.

“Italy! Sam, that's incredible! What's wrong? Why do you sound so nervous?” When he hesitated I squeezed him. “Tell me!” I demanded, using my “I'm the bride; you have to do anything I say” voice. It had been surprisingly effective all day.

“I planned the whole thing, found little bed-and-breakfasts, and got the train schedule worked out. The plan was to travel around northern Italy, around Florence.”

“That's amazing, Sam. I love that idea! And I've never been!” I exclaimed.

“I know.”

“Then why are you acting so weird?”

“Well, the trip is kind of organized around the towns the Rigazis and their relatives originally came from. That was the plan, that we could, you know . . .”

“What?”

“It's kind of anticlimactic now. But when I planned the trip I was thinking while we were there, we could do some research and . . . I don't know how to say this.”

“Research? For what, a movie?”

“No, Em.” He pulled me back to arm's length and looked at me, smiling sheepishly, curly hair crushed on the side I'd been pressed against, his eyes crinkled in his typical smile. “I was thinking we could try to find your family.”

I put my head on his shoulder and turned it to the side. I didn't want him to see the tears in my eyes. We'd only been married an hour; I didn't want him to know what a basket case I was, at least not yet.

As I pressed my eyes tightly shut, I felt the tears of happiness, of rightness, roll down my cheeks. I hugged my husband, my partner, my love. I was wrong about him the entire time. As it turns out, he got it all along.