I look in the mirror, draw a deep breath, and catalogue the woman I see. Bold, honest, strong, outgoing. The dress is my best me too. A chiffon A-line, it swishes around my ankles, with cap sleeves showing off my arms. It’s simple, white, classy.
We’ll exchange our vows at five against the backdrop of the ocean and the Golden Gate Bridge, then we’ll head into the art museum for a reception, surrounded by more than seventy Rodins in the galleries.
No axe-throwing, but hey, I like art too, so it’s all good.
A deep, fortifying breath lets me put my mother all the way behind me.
Time to go.
My friends and I make our way through the Legion of Honor toward the lawn. But nature calls, and the last thing I want is to think about peeing while I’m saying my vows.
“Let me just pop into the ladies’ room,” I say to the bridesmaids when I spot the restroom.
Emerson slashes an arm in front of me like a human stop sign. “That one is too close to where the men are getting ready.” She turns me by my shoulders and ushers me down the hall the other way.
“We definitely don’t want to bump into them. Whatever would we do?” I ask in exaggerated horror. “You superstitious creature.”
She shrugs impishly. “I am what I am.”
“I’m not worried if I see him before the wedding. I don’t believe in all that stuff,” I say, as we reach the other restroom.
I stop with my hand on the door because faint voices carry from the end of the hall.
A man and a woman.
Sounding . . . worried.
They’re familiar, but muffled, so I strain to make them out.
“I tried,” the woman whispers.
“Of course you did,” the man says, gentle, caring.
Ohhh.
That’s definitely a voice I know.
I swallow roughly, trying to understand what they’re talking about.
Emerson asks me questions with her eyes, and I bring my finger to my lips.
Gathering up the skirt of my dress, I pad as silently as possible to the corner, where I can hear more easily.
“So what now?” the woman whispers.
“There’s only one thing to do,” he says.
The rustle of clothes. The sound of lips touching lips.
My skin crawls.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
All the breath flees my lungs when I peek around the corner for confirmation.
It’s twenty minutes before my wedding, and the man who’s supposed to become my husband is kissing another woman.
2
Harlan
“Elvis Presley is in the house!” I shout as I crank up the volume to “Hound Dog,” and Abby lifts her chin to howl at the moon.
I clap, keeping rhythm as my six-year-old uses a wooden spoon as a microphone, crooning along with Elvis’s tune.
She breaks off to grab a rubber spatula from the flour-and cherry-covered kitchen counter. “You need a mic too, Daddy,” she says, thrusting it at me.
I take the instrument and we slide into our best imitation of The King as we wait for the pie to bake.
We finish our daddy-daughter duet as the timer bleats, and Abby points wildly to the oven. “It’s ready! We can eat it now.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You know the drill. You’ve only made, what, ten million pies with me? We have to let it cool.”
“Ten million and fifty!” She bats her lashes. “But I was just hoping maybe this time.”
I ruffle her curly brown hair, chuckling at her attempt to make me bend. “Hope is a good thing, little bear,” I tell her as I turn off the timer. “But pies don’t cool with hope. They cool with time. Also, you know this pie isn’t for us.” I grab a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer potholder, open the oven door, and slide out the cherry pie. I set it on a rack on the counter, then use my hands to direct the scent of sweet and tart fresh fruit and crumbly crust our way.
“It smells so good,” Abby says, bouncing on her toes as she inhales.
“Course it does. We made it. We rock. And your mom is going to love it.”
Abby arches a mischievous brow. “What if I eat it all first?”
I bend to drop a kiss onto her nose. “Then you’re going to have the biggest bellyache in all of San Francisco,” I tell her, then rub her tummy.
“Fine. I’ll wait. But I hope she lets me have some tonight,” she says with a touch of worry. “I really, really hope so.”
Ah, the dilemmas of youth.
I worry whether this city’s NFL team will offer me a contract next season and if I’ll even want it, whether my kid is making friends at school, and whether she’ll want to find a new gymnastics class, since she decided to quit the one she was taking.
She worries about pie.
It’s a fair tradeoff.
An hour later, we’re ready to go. I grab a pie box from the stash I keep, pop in the tasty treat, and tell Abby to find her overnight bag.