Page 75 of Fathers of the Bride
“This is Helene,” she said almost before I could finish dialing.
I quickly explained the situation or at least I tried to. She stopped me even before I said bridesmaid.
“Mr. Lane, I’m living at a research facility in the north pole. I’m studying the effects of climate change on invertebrates.”
“Invertebrates?”
I was hoping she meant slimy politicians but instead she said, “Yes, crustaceans, mussels, annelids, bryozoa… that sort of thing.”
“That’s awful,” I said before I could stop myself.
“It’s my life’s work.”
“I’m sorry, I meant that it’s awful you can’t be in the wedding.”
“Up to a hundred and fifty species vanish every day.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, though it wasourloss.
Well, that was that. I’d failed completely. I began to say goodbye but Helene said, “Wait a minute. Hold on. Did you try Kayla?”
“Kayla?”
“Kelly’s best friend through school.”
I hadn’t seen her number in the phonebook. Had I just missed it?
“How do I reach her?” I asked.
“They emailed me a contact sheet. What’s your email? I’ll forward it to you.”
I gave her the address and five minute later I was skimming the list looking for Kayla’s information. There was only one Kayla on the list so, crossing my fingers, I called her. She picked up and in short order I discovered she lived in Brentwood, adored Kelly though hadn’t been in touch in quite some time, and—most importantly—would love to talk about being in the wedding. We arranged to meet at the Beverly Center that same day.
Around one o’clock, I arrived at a restaurant on the first floor near the valet entrance. It had been about twenty-five different restaurants in the last ten years. I could never remember what was there, and even suspected that some of the restaurants had been pop-ups. Currently, it was called The White Stag and was themed after a British pub. The stench of failure was nearly as strong as the smell of beer and burnt meat.
I ordered a top shelf scotch and tried to make a joke with the waiter about it’s not being exactly English. He didn’t get it. I was close to ordering a second glass, when a tall, elegant young woman crossed the restaurant on her way to my table. She arrived weighed down by shopping bags from Versace, Tiffany, Prada and Dolce & Gabbana. Flopping down in the seat across from me, she said, “Hi, I’m Kayla.”
I couldn’t help but ask, “Oh my God, what have you been buying?”
“Buying? Not a thing!”
“What’s in the bags then?”
“Nothing really. A couple of sweaters I’ll probably throw away soon.”
“Okay,” I said, not really getting it.
She waved the busboy over and said, “Calastoga, no ice, lemon slice—slice not a wedge. I can’t stand wedges.”
“I’ll have another scotch.” Then I thought better of it. It was only lunch time. “Um, you know what, I’ll have a Calastoga too.”
After the boy left, Kayla sighed and said, “The bags are props. Twice a year I drag them into Macy’s, Bloomingdales, Sephora… any place with a perfume or makeup counter. When the salespeople see the bags, I’m inundated with free samples of only the best perfumes, only the trendiest make-up colors, and moisturizer for days. In a few hours, I’ve got six months of scents and roughly the same in makeup and it doesn’t cost me a dime. Not an itty-bitty dime.”
And that’s when I knew she would be the absolute perfect maid of honor. Miles might even appreciate the help.
“That’s very clever,” I said.
“Thank you. Is Kelly late?”
