Page 92 of Holiday Wedding
I move close and whisper, “I’m fine.”
A quick peck on his cheek has all the cameras flashing, from paparazzi who want the shot for tomorrow’s cover. Caleb releases me, and I walk over to the horde of microphones. Walk might be too generous of a term—at nine months pregnant, it’s more of a waddle.
Apparently, we had a little too much fun on our honeymoon, because a couple of weeks after we returned I started to feel sick. Alvina took one look at me and declared that I was pregnant. I took a test just to prove her wrong, but, much to my surprise, there were two pink lines. When I told Caleb we were pregnant, he was thrilled, happier than I’ve ever seen.
“Mrs. Lawson,” shouts a female reporter with Ariel hair, long and red. She yells louder than the rest of them. “What do you think about your husband’s return to the big screen?”
“First of all, it’s Dr. Wright, not Mrs. Lawson,” I correct, softening thewords with a smile. I don’t want to be rude or pretentious. As much as I’ve accepted that there are times when Caleb’s fame overshadows our day-to-day life, I’ve learned that it’s still important for me to hold on to the pieces of me that are distinct from him. My name is symbolic of that.
“Sorry about that,” the reporter says.
“No problem,” I answer smoothly. “I’m proud of anything my husband does, whether it’s acting in a movie, performing on Broadway, singing on the radio, or cooking me a meal. He does it all well.”
“Will there be more movies?” a gray-haired man who reminds me of Wayne asks.
My mind drifts to Wayne and Alvina. They’re off on their RV adventure, going wherever the wind takes them. They send us postcards from each stop, a tradition that’s got me running to the mailbox every day. Caleb and I have a map at home, where we track their progress with a yellow highlighter. It’s fun to live vicariously through them since I won’t be traveling anytime soon. Not with the baby due any day now.
“Caleb’s decided to do one movie a year, if our schedule allows it,” I say to the man.
After the wedding, I sat Caleb down and forced him to tell me more about the project his producer friend was offering him. After a long conversation, he admitted that he wants to make movies again, but only if it works in our lives. He made this film during my second trimester but doesn’t want to do more until the baby is at least a year old.
Caleb refuses to miss out on time with this child. He’s been working on his relationship with his dad. They’ve been doing more activities alone together, but still, he wants to be a different kind of father than the one he had. More hands-on, more involved, and I love him for that.
“What designer are you wearing tonight?” asks another reporter, shoving her microphone at me.
I glance at the glittery red, wrap-style dress that flows over my bulging stomach and hangs down, brushing the floor. It’s deep cut, revealing a tantalizing flash of cleavage. When I had come down the penthouse stairs earlier, Caleb’s eyes had snapped wide. He had whistled and said, “Pregnancy looks good on you.”
I respond to the reporter, saying, “I’m not sure about the designer. I got it at the mall.”
There’s a stunned silence from the press, which I use as my excuse to retreat. I kindly thank them for their time and walk away.
Dean shadows me, chuckling. “You love to surprise them, don’t you?”
My hand covers my mouth as I giggle. “I can’t help it. It’s too fun reminding them that there are a lot more people who shop at local stores than on Rodeo Drive.” I understand what’s expected of me—to be a well-behaved princess, married to Hollywood royalty. For Caleb’s sake, I play that role, but on my own terms. That’s how I’ve learned to live with his fame. To allow it into our lives without it consuming who we are as individuals and as a couple.
I’m lucky. Caleb doesn’t want me to be the picture-perfect celebrity wife. He just wants me, therealme, and I want the real him. It’s what he was looking for when he came to my mother’s house in L.A. all those years ago.
Surprisingly, the public has embraced my irreverent responses to the press. After events like these, social media comments discuss how “down to earth” and “relatable” I am. Caleb teases me that soon I’ll be a bigger celebrity than he is.
Dean laughs along with me.
“Are you seeing Jenny after this?” I ask him.
I swear his steps get more bounce as he answers, “She’s coming over when she’s finished here.”
Jenny’s also on the red carpet tonight, but farther down on the other side of the rope. She and Dean had done long distance for six months, getting to know one another, before Jenny made the move to New York. Now she works forThe New York Times,still in the entertainment department, but she has an interview with the investigative team next week. There’s a good shot she’ll get the job. They’ve already told her they’re impressed by her computer skills and by her part in cracking the case of Caleb’s stalker.
Dean lowers his voice and confesses, “I’m thinking about telling Jenny I love her. Do you think she’ll say it back?”
I swallow my grin, knowing for a fact that Jenny loves him because she’s been complaining to me for the past month, wondering when he’ll say the words. Can’t make it too easy for Dean, though. I scrunch my nose and tapa finger against my lip, pretending to ponder. “Not sure. I guess you’ll have to see what she says.”
He sets his jaw and nods once, the motion resolute. “I’ll do that.”
We’ve reached Caleb, who winds an arm around my waist and draws me close. He presses a kiss to my temple amid the flashing of cameras.
“How’d it go?” he asks, still nervous about letting me handle the press on my own.
“She did fine,” answers Dean with a note of pride.
