Jack With a Twist bm-2 Page 11

  With a smile, I put the cover letter back in the box, tape it up and then call Federal Express to pick it up.

  13

  As I cab across town to meet Jack at a loft on 37th Street to hear a wedding band play, all I can think about is Jack’s reaction to the big lipstick kiss I planted on my cover letter.

  When the cab stops at the building, so far west that it’s almost on the West Side Highway, at first, I think that the cab driver’s made a mistake. There is just no way possible that there is a big fancy black-tie wedding going on inside this building. The entranceway is bordering on industrial—classic nondescript 1970s-style construction with just a single door entrance. As I walk in, I announce myself to the security guard, who really looks as if he couldn’t care less who is coming or going. I get into the elevator and try to figure out which button is for the penthouse. Most of the buttons have their numbers worn away from use, so I just hit the one for the last floor in the lineup and hope that it takes me to my destination.

  I look down at the silk organza gown and open-toe satin shoes I’m wearing and feel a bit overdressed as I look around at my surroundings. But as the elevator lets me off on the seventeenth floor, I realize that I’m in the right place.

  The elevator doors open into a beautiful entranceway, elegantly decorated with an antique armoire and rug. I walk through to the area where the reception is being held and it is a vast space—fourteen-foot ceilings if they’re an inch—with white-lace-tableclothed tables set up around the perimeter and a medium-sized dance floor in the middle. Enormous crystal chandeliers hang from up above, and the floor-to-ceiling windows are dressed with delicate white fabric which pools at the bottom, flowing onto the floor.

  Why didn’t Jack and I think about having a wedding like this? A hidden Manhattan space, big enough to fit both of our families (and just our families and closest friends, mind you) that’s nestled in a tiny corner of the city. It occurs to me that we never once tried to figure out what we wanted as a couple. Instead, we just deferred to what our parents wanted—Jack’s parents, a big New York City hotel wedding, and mine, a traditional Long Island temple wedding—to disastrous results. I wonder what we would have chosen, if we had made the decision all on our own.

  “Come here often?” a low voice behind me asks.

  “Well, no,” I say, spinning around. “But maybe I should.”

  “Can I kiss you hello or are you still wearing that awful flashy lipstick?” Jack says, with a sly smile.

  “Oh,” I say, giving him a kiss on the lips, “just admit that you loved it.”

  “I loved it,” he says, taking my hand and leading me into the room where the reception’s being held. I take a glance over at the band, Moore Music. They’re playing an old big band number that is exactly the type of thing that I want for our wedding. The band is absolutely perfect.

  “Did you really love it?” I ask. “Or are you just saying that because that’s what I want to hear?”

  “I thought it was adorable,” he says, “I love it when my woman stakes her claim on me.”

  “What?” I say, putting my hand on my chest for dramatic effect. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Let’s see,” he says, “you were the junior associate on all of my matters five years running, so I’m pretty sure you knew that Miranda would be opening the documents for me and would be the first to see your grand declaration of love.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” I say, “I must have forgotten. Now that I’m at a law firm where I have tons of responsibility, I must have forgotten about big firm bureaucracy entirely. I hope that Miranda didn’t mind.”

  “To the contrary,” Jack says. “She told me to ask you what shade of lipstick that was. She’s thinking of buying herself the same one.”

  “Cute,” I say. It takes all of my energy not to say something catty about Miranda and how she probably has her own stash of loud, flashy lipsticks to choose from. But saying something like that would make me seem jealous. Or threatened. Which I most certainly am not. Because Jack’s not like my last serious boyfriend who left me for a loud, flashy man stealer. So what’s there to be jealous of?

  “Well, I try,” Jack says, pulling on the lapels of his tuxedo. We’d decided that, since we were coming to see the wedding band at a black-tie affair, we should dress up so as to blend in with all of the other wedding guests. “How did I do?”

  “Very well,” I say, putting my hand on his chest and leaning in for a kiss. I smell his aftershave and it goes down my spine. I keep my eyes closed for a moment longer than I should.

  “What do you think of the band?” Jack asks, with his arms still around me.

  “I love them,” I say, “you?”

  “Same,” he says, “That was easy enough. See, I told you planning our wedding would be a breeze.”

  I hold my tongue.

  The band announces the happy couple, for the first time as husband and wife, and the groom grabs his bride’s hand to begin their first dance.

  “So, how was your day?” Jack says as we watch the bride and groom dance in the middle of the dance floor. Her white tulle gown becomes a huge blur to my tired eyes as she spins around and around.

  “Great!” I answer a bit too quickly. One thing that Jack always taught me—never let your adversary know where your head is at in a litigation. I certainly don’t want him to know that I was in any way fazed by his incredibly rude litigation tactic. Yes, rude! It’s one thing to use that tactic on other lawyers, but it is quite another to do such a thing to your fiancée who really has better things to do with her time than review ninety thousand pages of discovery documents and get tons of paper cuts. Doesn’t he know that when you’re engaged, people ask to see your hands all the time? Note to self: must seriously talk to the judge about the paper cut/hand issue.

  But, I won’t let Jack see me sweat. I will just act like the tough no-nonsense attorney that I am. I am woman, hear me roar!

  Although he probably figured out how hard he made me work on that document production since I came home three hours after he went to bed last night.

  But, come on, I ask you, who was the one who was really punished in that scenario?

  “You look a little tired, Miller,” he says, grabbing my hand and leading me out onto the dance floor, as the first dance ends and the dance floor begins to fill with wedding guests.

  “Tired?” I say, “why, no. I slept like a baby. Didn’t you?”

  “Well, I would have slept better if my fiancée had been there to keep me warm,” Jack says, drawing his arms around me even tighter.

  See? I told you so. Loss of consortium is always harder on the man than it is the woman. Although, I must admit, Jack is very good at keeping me warm. In fact, I’m getting a bit warm right now, the closer and closer he holds his body to mine.

  “Well, I would have been home sooner,” I say, “but I’ve got this big case that I’m working on. The guy that I’m litigating against is a real animal.”

  “Growl,” he whispers into my ear and then takes a little nibble. Animal, indeed! “Well, if you can’t handle such a large-scale litigation, maybe you should just concentrate on keeping your fiancée warm and drop the case.”

  “Am I hearing that you’re ready to talk settlement already, counselor?” I whisper back into his ear.

  “No way in hell, Miller,” he says, and spins me. I almost lose my footing as I come back to face him.

  “Why not?” I ask with a smile, now on steady ground, “Isn’t it in both of our clients’ interests?”

  “My client isn’t settling,” he says, drawing me in close.

  “You have an ethical obligation,” I lecture Jack, “to go to your client with any settlement offer that I make to you.”

  “That rule only stands if there is an actual offer,” Jack lectures me right back. “You haven’t made me any sort of firm offer.”

  “Oh,” I say, sidling up to him, “I’ll give you a firm offer.”

&nbs
p; “That’s my line,” Jack says, looking down at me, baby blues shining.

  “Right,” I say, feeling my face heat up, “I confess, maybe I am just a touch tired.”

  “I knew it,” he says, “I knew that the document request would work. I must admit, I figured you’d just come home to me and convince me to drop the suit in a very, very unethical way, but—”

  “What way did you have in mind, counselor?” I ask, as he spins me and then pulls me in to him. Our faces are so close that his features all begin to blur into each other right in front of my eyes.

  “Something,” he says, voice lower, “that I can assure you the Bar Association would frown upon.”

  “Do tell,” I say, putting my cheek next to his.

  “Surrender,” he whispers back.

  “Never, Jackie,” I say and pull back. We stare each other down, each one waiting for the other to back down, but we both stand firm.

  “Never say never, sweetie,” Jack says, “Now, I know I taught you that.”

  I try to formulate a response, but just then, Savannah Moore, the bandleader of the band, comes over to introduce herself.

  “Everyone’s about to sit down for the first course,” she says, “let’s sneak into the caterer’s office for a few minutes to talk about your wedding.”

  We follow Savannah out of the reception room and down a long hallway. She’s a tiny little thing, dressed in a black bias-cut cocktail dress, just like the other two female singers in her band. I like that they are all dressed the same, even though Savannah is clearly the star. Doing it this way makes the band look like a cohesive unit and she obviously understands that. All of the singers dance to the music in unison, and they are all clearly having a blast up on stage, which is another thing I like. If the band is having fun, I can’t help but think that our guests will be having a great time, too.

  Savannah turns around, her bouncy red hair flipping over her shoulder, as she gets to the caterer’s office door. She looks just like Ann-Margaret with her lithe frame and thick red hair. I can practically see her singing along with Elvis to “Viva Las Vegas.” Actually, that might be a really cute dance number for the wedding. I wonder if Jack’s dad would think that an Elvis impersonator at our wedding would be considered tacky.

  Savannah knocks gently on the caterer’s office door, and then, not hearing a response, motions for us to come in. I detect a slight Southern accent that she’s trying to overcome as Savannah begins to tell us about how many pieces come standard in her band (eleven—four singers, four strings, drums, piano and a flute player), the price (so expensive that I’m embarrassed even to say it here, God knows how I’ll stir up the courage to tell my dad), and how many hours they play (four, with an additional hour for the ceremony for a nominal fee). Even as she explains the most mundane of details, Savannah is high-energy and sweet.

  “You know who you remind me of?” Jack asks her, after she’s completed her spiel on the basics.

  “Yes,” Savannah says with a smile, “I get that a lot.”

  “You do?” Jack says, “Well, I was actually thinking of this associate I work with.”

  He’d better not be talking about who I think he’s talking about.

  “Right, sweetie?” Jack says, looking at me. “She’s just like Miranda!”

  “She is most certainly not like Miranda,” I say a little too quickly, smiling widely as if the comparison doesn’t bother me one bit. Which it doesn’t, of course.

  Only, Jack’s been raving all week about how fabulous she is. Savannah, not Miranda, I mean, but it’s almost the same.

  All I can think is, Why couldn’t he have just said Ann-Margret like a normal person?

  “Well, you remind me of Ann-Margret,” I say, hoping to change the subject.

  “Why, thank you, Brooke,” Savannah says, smiling, “I’m very flattered. I get that a lot, and I consider it to be such a huge compliment. She was really largely talented, and—”

  “Ann-Margret was from Sweden, Brooke,” Jack says, cutting Savannah off without even realizing it, “I detect a slight Southern accent from Savannah. Am I right?”

  When did Jack become such an expert on Southern accents? Is this what Miranda’s been helping him with under the guise of working on the Monique case together?

  “Guilty!” Savannah says. “I’m from a tiny little town outside of Savannah. But my father always wanted bigger things for me, so he named me for the biggest city he could think of.”

  Clearly, Savannah isn’t sure whose family is paying for the wedding yet, so she’s trying to be equally nice to both of us.

  Big mistake.

  “Well, it’s time for me to get back up there and do my thing,” Savannah says, “you two can take as long as you’d like in here to talk things over, and then you can feel free to come back out and listen to a few more numbers. Sound good?”

  “Sounds great,” Jack says, rushing up to his feet to shake Savannah’s hand.

  “Thanks so much,” I say, “thank you for everything.”

  “My pleasure,” Savannah says, as she walks out the door and shuts it quietly behind herself to go back to the party.

  “Maybe we should see what else is out there,” I say, once the door has closed. “Just to make sure that there aren’t any other bands that we missed. We wouldn’t want to sign with someone so quickly that we regret it later.”

  “She’s the only female bandleader in the entire Tri-State area,” Jack says. “For some reason, I like that. It’s so cool that she’s a woman doing it in a man’s industry. And doing it so well. She brings a certain grace to the whole thing. And, of course, there’s her stellar reputation.”

  “I still think we should see other bands,” I say, picking at a stray cuticle.

  “But I thought you were sold? Didn’t you just say a half hour ago that they play the exact type of music that you want for our wedding?” he says.

  I shrug in response.

  “And, her band looks great. Don’t you want a good-looking band that’s fronted by a gorgeous woman like Savannah?” Jack asks.

  “We’re finding another band.”

  “You know what I think? I think your judgment is clouded because of this litigation,” Jack says, pulling his chair closer to mine. “Why don’t we talk settlement on our case and then that will clear your head for more important things—like our wedding?”

  “Well, I didn’t want to do this, but—” I say as I lean back in my chair from Jack and put my hand inside my dress.

  “No, please do,” Jack says, his eyes following my hand intently as I fish around the inside of my dress. “I insist. Do you need some help with that?”

  “No, I think I’ve got it,” I say, as my fingers wrap around the thing I’d been groping for. Jack stands in front of me, eyes wide and glued to my chest like a sixth-grader as I pull out the papers. Now, I don’t know exactly what Jack expected me to pull out from the inside of my dress. How exciting could a thing that would fit inside of the folds of my dress be? I guess it was just the excitement of seeing my hands so close to my breasts.

  But, unfortunately for Jack, the thing that I was looking for wasn’t anything sexy or spicy—it was a set of discovery requests of my own.

  “Counselor,” I say, pausing for effect and giving the statement the requisite pageantry that such a statement deserved, “consider yourself served.”

  14

  “I hate that one,” Vanessa tells me, “it makes your finger look fat.”

  “Have you been hanging out with my mother?” I say, looking up at her.

  “I called it fat,” she says, “not fleshy. There’s a difference.”

  “Which is worse?” I ask as she takes the ring I’ve just tried on and puts it onto her own slender finger.

  “See? Fat,” she reports. “And I have very thin fingers.”

  I knew I shouldn’t have brought someone who’s skinnier than me shopping. Even if it is only ring shopping, who ever wants to look fat? I should have just br
ought Rosalyn. The other day at lunch, she volunteered to come with me, but it was hard to get a word in edgewise throughout the whole lunch as she regaled me with tale after tale of how she works a full caseload, but still manages to carve time out from her work for each and every one of her son’s Little League games.

  Anyway, I thought it was more appropriate to bring Vanessa, my maid/matron of honor. Even if I haven’t asked her yet to be in my wedding party, she’s still my best friend.

  We’re on 47th Street, the Diamond District, at a friend of my father’s who is supposed to be giving us an amazing deal on wedding bands. (“If he doesn’t discount it by at least half,” my father cautioned, “you are to call me immediately.”)

  It’s been difficult to find something that will match Jack’s grandmother’s engagement ring. An Asscher cut diamond with regal trillions flanking it on either side and channel-set diamonds around the rest of the platinum band, I’m finding it difficult to match its old-fashioned traditional style with the more modern wedding bands that I like. Moishe (his real name) told me that it will be impossible to find a ring that’s in my personal style to match the engagement ring, but I just know that if we try hard enough, we’ll be able to make the two styles come together beautifully.

  “That one’s no good,” Moishe says, taking the ring from Vanessa and putting it back in the showcase. “Let me run downstairs and take a look at the other stuff we’ve got. You two look at earrings while I’m gone.”

  I should mention here that I find it very disconcerting that an Orthodox Jewish man with a painful comb-over who weighs more than Vanessa and me combined has better taste in diamonds and assorted other baubles than Vanessa and me combined.