Page 8 of Fathers of the Bride
“At your graduation.”
“Really? You saw him? We were in a stadium.”
“Raj brought opera glasses.”
“Well, you should see himbeforenext week in Malibu.”
“What’s next week in Malibu?”
“Avery’s family has invited us out. It’s an in-laws meet and greet.”
“Well, I’ll have to check my schedule. Itisshort notice.”
“Papa, you need to do this.” She gently stared me down, her eyes large and warm. And then she played her trump card, the one every child holds, “For me.”
3
Miles Kettering-Lane
The weekafter Kelly made her announcement, I had a horrible realization. My daughter was getting married and that meant one important thing. I was going to have to go on a diet. Actually, I should simply stop eating for, well, forever. I’m sure I could live on my body fat well into retirement.
Unfortunately, even the thought of dieting makes me hungry, so I was rifling through the refrigerator trying to decide on an after breakfast sweet, should I have gluten-free lemon cake or dairy-free vanilla ice cream—or both? They really were better together. When suddenly Kelly was standing on the other side of the refrigerator door. With as much dignity as I could muster—not much I assure you—I said, “I think we’re out of lettuce.”
“Has Papa called you?” she asked, reaching into the fridge for a bottle of chilled coconut water. She had on her exercise clothes and had slung a gym bag over one shoulder.
“I don’t know, I’ll have to check with my lawyer.”
“Your lawyer?”
“Yes, dear, that’s how divorcing people communicate. And at four hundred dollars an hour on each side we do our best not to communicate.”
“Daddy, you’ve been divorcing for almost three years.”
“Two years. Five months. These things take time.”
I shut the refrigerator door, noticing the very thoughtful look on my daughter’s face. “What? It looks like you’re plotting something.”
“So… maybe this isn’t the right time, but Avery was asking me how you and Papa met.”
“Darling, you know how we met. You’ve heard the story enough. You could have just told him.”
“Yes, but the story is different every time. I thought maybe you could tell me therealstory.”
I sighed deeply. “In a galaxy far, far away, sometimes called the nineties, I was working for a caterer called Potpourri—ridiculous name, don’t you think? Potpourri not being edible and really having nothing to do with food at all. Anyway, I was managing a wedding in the Hollywood Hills and P.J., the woman who owned Potpourri, brought in this new cater waiter she wanted me to train. Your father. He was working as an agent’s assistant during the week—they pay those poor children next to nothing, so he needed a second job. Anyway, he was on me like a bad rash and by the end of the wedding we were a thing.”
“Hmmmm,” she said, judging me. “I like the way you told it toLadies’ Home JournalFebruary 1999 better. ‘He walked into the kitchen, and it was love at first sight’.”
“Fine. Tell Avery that then.”
“But isthatthe truth?”
“Of course, it is. The 1999 version of it.” She gave me a scathing look. “What? Everyone embellishes.”
“I’ll talk to you later,” she said, as she went out the side door to the garage. I remembered something and followed her.
“Hey, I got some protein bars. You should take one with you.”
“Yougotsome?”
