The Bride Wore Size 12 (21 page)

I don’t bother asking why Hal’s headed down there because there’s only one reason: the basement is where Cooper keeps his gun safe.

The only reason Virgin Hal is here and headed downstairs to the gun safe with a duffel bag is that . . . that . . .

I can’t think straight because Nicole won’t stop talking.

“So I thought if I could get you and your mom to talk it out, you would have a tearful reunion and make up after all these years of estrangement. I didn’t think you would be so . . . so . . .”

“Angry?” I ask her. My head is pounding. “Bitter? Resentful? Or that my mom would be such a backstabbing, conniving bitch?”

Tears begin to trickle from the eyes behind the silver bow. “Heather, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were that mad at her. You never talk about your mom. I thought you were over it.”

I tell myself to breathe. Everything is going to be fine. Sure, I haven’t heard from Cooper in hours, and he’s sent one of his buddies here to protect me—and also go through his gun safe—but that doesn’t mean anything is wrong.

Yeah, right. And I’m still number one on the record charts.

“Just because someone doesn’t talk about something doesn’t mean they’re over it, Nicole,” I say in the most even tone I can muster. “It might mean they’ve chosen to move on, but it doesn’t mean they haven’t been wounded, or that that wound, though partially healed, can’t be ripped open again, very easily.”

Nicole’s face crumples. “Oh God. I’m so stupid.”

The younger girl lets out a mournful cry, then turns to run away from me. Unfortunately, since she’s hardly able to see where she’s going thanks to the gigantic wedding gift in her arms, she runs down the hall farther into the house, and not toward the front door to leave.

Great. Now I’ve done it.

Sighing, I reach into my handbag and pull out my cell phone.

Coop,
I text.
Hey, not to be a nag, but where are you? Both your sisters are here, and so is Virgin Hal. He says he’s here to protect me, but it seems like he’s hiding in the basement instead. Ha ha just kidding. OK maybe not. Love you. CALL ME. Heather.

24

I
find Nicole sitting at the huge wooden table in the atrium kitchen. She’s slumped next to her gift, sobbing, her head dropped onto her folded arms.

“Nicole,” I say, going to stand next to her. “Come on, it’s okay. I didn’t mean it. It’s not that bad.”

This is a lie. I did mean it, and it
is
that bad.

But I realize we’re going to be part of the same family soon, so I’d better figure out a way to get along with her, or holiday dinners with the Cartwrights are going to be impossibly awkward.

Nicole doesn’t reply. She simply continues to weep.

“Come on, Nicole,” I repeat. “I’m angry, but not that angry.”

“You
are
angry,” Nicole sobs into her arms. “I’ve ruined everything. And now you aren’t going to marry C-Cooper and become a C-Cartwright.”

“Well, I was never going to become a Cartwright in the first place, but I’m still going to marry Cooper.”

Nicole’s head jerks up. She regards me with wide, tear-filled eyes.

“You’re not taking Cooper’s last name?” she asks in horror.

“Of course not,” I say. “I’m Heather Wells, not Heather Cartwright.”

“But—” Nicole sniffles noisily. There are no boxes of tissues in the kitchen, so I reach for a roll of paper towels and hand it to her. She tears a sheet from the roll, then noisily blows her nose. “But you realize Wells is your
father
’s last name. You’ll still be keeping some man’s last name, only your father’s instead of mine.”

“Yes, I am aware of that.” My feelings about Cooper’s father are similar to my feelings about my mom, only maybe slightly less volatile. Only one of them is related to me, but both of them ripped me off. Cooper’s dad did it by owning the record company for which I used to work, that’s all. All record companies rip off their artists.

“But.” Nicole blinks rapidly. “Why would you do that? Less than ten percent of women in this country keep their own names when they get married. And I thought you loved Cooper.”

“I do,” I say, pulling out a chair from beneath the table and sitting down beside her. “But I don’t see why loving him means I should have to change my last name to his when we get married. I have a choice, and I choose not to. I like my name. Heather Wells is who I am. Maybe if we had kids, it would be different—”

I think, fleetingly, about the perfectly behaved ghost children I used to imagine Cooper and I would have one day: Jack, Charlotte, and Emily Wells-Cartwright, in their navy-blue-and-red-plaid school uniforms. Or maybe Cartwright-Wells. I’m not sure which sounds better. Since they’re only ghost children, I have the luxury of never having to decide. That’s the comforting thing about ghost children: they aren’t real, so you never have to make the hard decisions, as opposed to real children, like the one growing in Lisa’s belly.

“But we don’t have kids,” I finish with a shrug, “and I doubt we will anytime soon. So until we get to that road and have to cross it, I prefer to stay Heather Wells, and let the burden of carrying on the Cartwright name fall on Jordan and you and Jessica.”

“That’s my name, bitch,” Jessica says affably, drifting into the kitchen like an overly tanned, raven-haired wraith. “Don’t wear it out. Where do you keep your glasses?”

“Cupboard above the sink,” I say, curious as to why she wants to know.

Jessica opens the cupboard. “Bingo. Ice in trays or ice maker?”

“Ice maker is in the bottom drawer of the fridge. There’s a scoop. And please do make yourself at home, Jessica.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Now that she’s relieved herself and reapplied her ink-black eyeliner—which had become a bit smeared in the heat outdoors—nothing seems to be bothering Jessica. Well, almost nothing. “What’s with the waterworks over there, Baby Huey?” Jessica is addressing her twin sister, Nicole.

“I’ve told you not to call me that.” Nicole looks even more upset.

“Well, stop wearing rompers so you look like a baby duck in a gigantic diaper, and I will.”

“My therapist says you’re responsible for my low self-esteem,” Nicole accuses her.

“Has your therapist ever seen the outfit you have on right now? Because it seriously explains a lot.”

“Girls.” I check my cell phone. Still no response from Cooper, which isn’t like him. Unless he’s driving or in a meeting with a client, he usually calls back within a half hour. “Remember when I mentioned outside that I have a personal life? Well, you two are seriously infringing on it right now.”

“I’m sorry, Heather, but you have to let me apologize about the extra invitations I sent out,” Nicole says. “Especially the one to your mom. Jessica, did you know Heather isn’t even taking our last name after she and Cooper get married?”

Jessica lets out a whoop of sarcastic laughter as she scoops hefty amounts of ice into three tall drinking glasses. “Why would she? I’d rather be Jessica Wells than Jessica Cartwright. Why would anyone want to be related to
us
? Have you even seen the promos for
Jordan Loves Tania
? Jordan looks like the world’s biggest douche bag in those white jeans. More like Jordan Cart
wrong
than Jordan Cart
wright
.”

Nicole looks scandalized. “Mom’s going to be really upset when she hears Heather’s not taking our last name,” she declares. “There’ve been Cartwrights dating all the way back to the
Mayflower.
”

“Too bad it didn’t sink,” Jessica mutters, then asks in a louder voice, “How’s Mom even going to know Heather isn’t taking our last name? Unless some Baby Huey quacks about it.”

Nicole looks prim. “She might notice at the wedding reception when the DJ says, ‘Announcing Mr. Cooper Cartwright and Mrs. Heather Wells for their first dance as a married couple’ instead of ‘Mr. and Mrs. Cooper Cartwright.’ ”

“We’re having a cover band,” I say, “not a DJ. But we’re having the lead singer say, ‘Here’s Cooper and Heather for their first dance as a married couple.’ It’s more intimate that way.”

“Ha!” Jessica cries, her catlike eyes narrowing with delight. “She got you there, Nic. How come Heather isn’t opening the tasteful gift you got her?”

“Oh.” Nicole leaps up, her tears forgotten, and shoves the huge, ornately wrapped box at me. “Here, Heather. I know this can never make up for what I did, but I wanted you to know I’m not only sorry, I want to make amends. So I bought this with my own money, even though I’m unemployed, broke, and probably prediabetic. My parents didn’t help pay for it at all, and neither did Jessica.”

“I didn’t help pick it out either,” Jessica says. She’s been digging around for something in her purse, an enormous white designer tote with metallic-gold accents. “Nicole did this one
all
on her own.”

“Wow, Nicole,” I say, reaching up to detach the large silver bow. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” Obviously, I don’t mean this.

“Actually I did,” Nicole says. “It was wrong of me to call your wedding planner and give her all those extra names and addresses that I stole from your Rolodex and address book. Although, to be fair, I did it because there seem to be so many more guests on the groom’s side than the bride’s, which I felt was unfair, even though Cooper explained to me that’s how you wanted it. And it was seriously unprofessional of your wedding planner to believe that it was okay with you, and not to call you and check to make sure it was okay before going ahead and sending the invitations out. If you think about it, there’s something wrong with Perry.
I’d
make a better wedding planner than her. At least I have your best interest at heart.”

“It’s hard to dispute that,” I admit, especially since the stupid woman still hasn’t returned any of our calls. I’ve torn the wrapping paper from Nicole’s gift and now I can see what it is she’s gone to so much trouble to lug all the way from the penthouse apartment in which she lives with her sister and parents. “Oh. My. How thoughtful of you, Nicole.”

“It’s a juicer,” Nicole says unnecessarily, since I can see perfectly well by the picture on the side of the box. “According to the personal shopper who picked it out, it’s the top of the line. So now you and Cooper can start juicing things, like kale and celery and carrots and spinach. It’s way healthier than the stuff you guys normally eat.”

“Oh,” I say, staring at the juicer. A juicer was not on the list of wedding gifts for which Cooper and I registered. I had not wanted to register for any wedding gifts at all, but Lisa, who’d been married in the spring, warned me that if we didn’t register, we’d receive gifts anyway, gifts we did not want. Such as juicers. “How lovely, Nicole. Thank you.”

Nicole beams happily. “I’m glad you like it. When you juice vegetables, as opposed to cooking them, more of the nutrients are absorbed into your system right away. In only a matter of weeks, you’re going to begin to see a difference. You’re going to lose weight, because you’ll be too filled up from drinking all the healthy vegetable juice you’ll be having to eat instead of all that nasty junk food you guys like, such as pizza and cookies, and your hair and skin are going to begin to glow.”

“Wow.” I can’t think of anything else to say. I thought my skin was already glowing thanks to my exfoliating brush, but apparently I was mistaken. “That’s so thoughtful of you, Nicole.”

I want to punch her in the face, but I figure this will be even worse for Cartwright family relations than refusing to speak to her anymore, my previous plan for exacting revenge on her.

“Oh, I’m so happy you love it!” Nicole rushes over to throw her arms around my neck. She’s crying again, but this time they’re tears of joy.

I hug her back. What else can I do?

“Yeah,” Jessica says in a sarcastic voice from behind us. “Just what you always wanted, huh, Heather?”

I hear the sound of ice being shaken in a glass. After Nicole lets go of me, I turn around to see that Jessica has pulled several bottles from her voluminous purse and poured their contents into the glasses she’s set along the kitchen counter. Now she’s shaking each individual glass with a salad plate over the top to keep the contents—which are very pink—from spilling out. A cocktail shaker would have been a more appropriate gift from Nicole—there is one on our registry—but apparently she did not consider that to be healthful enough.

“Jessica,” I say curiously. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you a present you’ll really appreciate,” she says. “Key West lemonade. Vodka with triple sec, lemonade, and a little cranberry juice. I figured everyone could use a drink.” She pauses her shaking to eye me. “Unless you’d like me to run down to the deli to buy some kale. We could juice that up really quick, if you’d prefer.”

“No. It’s okay. The lemonade sounds great.”

Trust Jessica to drop by with a portable bar in her purse.

“Jess,” Nicole says disapprovingly. “You know I don’t drink hard alcohol. Why did you make one for me?”

“It’s not for you, dummy,” Jessica says. “It’s for Rambo downstairs.”

Jessica lifts two of the drinks like she’s procuring one for herself and intending to take the other down to the basement for Hal.

I know this is a really bad idea, not only because it will freak out Hal, who has always seemed a bit uncomfortable—to say the least—around women, but also because of what I suspect she’s going to find in the basement. Not that I think Jessica will disapprove. On the contrary, I’m pretty sure she will like it . . . so much that she’ll probably snap photos and post them all over her many social media networking sites. Then Cooper will be hauled up in front of whatever private eye board reviews these kinds of things and stripped of his license, and also probably sent to prison.

“You know what,” I say, snatching both glasses from her hands. “Let me. You stay here and make one for Cooper. He should be here any minute.”

Nicole brightens. “Really? You’ve heard from him?”

“And isn’t he more of a scotch drinker?” Jessica asks. Sometimes, even as different as they are, the twins think uncannily alike.

“Oh, no, he just texted,” I lie, moving quickly down the hall in the direction of the basement door. “He’s on his way. And no, he loves fruity drinks.”

If there’s a hell I’m going straight to it for all the lies I’ve told in the past hour alone.

I have to nudge the basement door open with my foot because my hands are filled with sweaty-sided drinks, but I’m able to make it down the dark, narrow staircase unscathed. Cooper’s brownstone was built around the same time as Fischer Hall, so it has many of the same odd features as the dorm, such as a basement that was originally used to store coal and ice and possibly even dead bodies—or at least hanging carcasses of meat—so it’s dark and creepy down there, and has a tendency to flood because of an underground stream that runs beneath Fifth Avenue, Washington Square Park, and most of Greenwich Village.