Scot on the Rocks Page 16

  “Yes, our tour guide told us that,” Mrs. Martin said. “What else?”

  “Did you know that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, author of the Sherlock Holmes series was a Scot?” He was sounding more and more like Alex Trebek with every tiny fact he offered.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Martin said, eyes wide with anticipation for Jack’s next tidbit of information.

  “Yes, of course, what else? What else, indeed. It’s just, goddamn. I’m sorry. I’m afraid that I can’t really talk about it. It’s times like these when you really think of family, you know. I just miss me mum so damn much!” And with that, he started to cry. While I stood in wide-eyed horror, it looked as if Mr. and Mrs. Martin really bought it. I guess he really is a pretty decent actor.

  “Let’s make a toast,” Mr. Martin cried out, throwing his arms around Jack’s shoulders and walking him toward the bar. “A toast to Scotland!”

  “Yes, of course!” Mrs. Martin said. “A toast to Scotland. To your mum! I’m sure she misses you as much as you miss her!” Mr. Martin put his arm around Jack and Mrs. Martin took my arm. They walked us to the bar as if they were our chaperones.

  “We should get some sort of traditional Scottish drink,” Mr. Martin said to Mrs. Martin.

  “Douglas, what should we get?” Mrs. Martin asked as we caught up with Jack and Mr. Martin at the bar.

  “Traditional Scottish drink, ay?” Jack said. “Well, of course — that would be — Scotch!”

  “Yes, Scotch!” Mrs. Martin cried as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Of course! Bartender, four glasses of Scotch on the rocks, please!” We all lined up at the bar as the bartender set down our drinks.

  “The water of life,” Jack said as he grabbed his glass.

  “To Scotland!” Mr. Martin cried out.

  “To your mum!” Mrs. Martin said, tipping her glass to Jack.

  “God save the queen,” Jack said, downing his Scotch. Not knowing what else to do, I downed mine, too. It burned my throat, but I was careful to stay cool, as if I downed Scotch all the time with my handsome Scottish fiancé. “Now, if you good people would excuse me, I should be spending some quality time with my fiancée now.”

  “Well, yes, you should,” Mr. Martin said. “Lucky girl.”

  Jack turned to leave and, like the gentleman he was pretending to be, put out his arm for me to take.

  “Close call,” I whispered to Jack, just as we were approached by a waiter.

  “My fellow countryman!” the waiter called out in an accent I couldn’t quite place.

  “Excuse me?” Jack asked in his American accent.

  “I don’t meet too many fellow Scotsmen out here in La La Land. This is a real treat for me!” the waiter told Jack. Jack nodded his head, clearly doing his best not to speak, for fear of the real Scotsman hearing that his accent was a fake. “Do you run into many Scots in New York City?” the waiter asked Jack. Jack nodded again and used some hand gestures as if to say so-so. “That is where I heard you were from, isn’t it?” he asked, looking at Jack’s kilt. Jack vigorously nodded yes.

  “May I please borrow my date?” I interjected. I felt it best to get the fake Scotsman away from the real Scotsman.

  “Why, of course,” the waiter said. “Right then. I’ll see you later.” Jack and I both nodded and smiled and walked away.

  “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” Jack said to me, once we were safely out of the Scotsman’s earshot.

  “Oh, my God,” I said. “I had to get you away from that guy. He’s Scottish.”

  “I’m aware,” Jack said.

  “But you’re not,” I whispered back.

  “Again, duly noted,” Jack said.

  “But you’re pretending to be,” I whispered.

  “Okay, Brooke, where are we going with this?”

  “So, I just wanted to get you away from him. You obviously don’t want to be speaking in front of him.”

  “That’s why I was nodding a lot in lieu of speaking.”

  “Good move,” I affirmed, adding a thumbs-up signal for emphasis.

  “So, what’s our plan?” he whispered, brushing his shaggy brown hair from his eyes.

  “Plan?” I asked. Didn’t he just see me deftly get him away from the real Scotsman? How much more of a plan can a girl be expected to have?

  “Yes, plan. I mean, I can’t keep nodding all night and you certainly can’t keep excusing us every time he comes by.”

  “That was my plan,” I said.

  “Oh. Works for me.”

  “I really had no idea that all of these guests would be so well traveled and educated,” I said. “I mean, I thought that Americans were supposed to be ignorant about other cultures.”

  “Well, I think that it’s clear that you and I are the only ones who are ignorant about other cultures.”

  “True,” I said. “Okay, I think that it’s safe to say that we should drop the whole title thing. I mean, if we can’t even handle the basics of being a Scotsman, we certainly can’t take the pressure of pretending that you have a title.”

  “Agreed. Okay, do you know where Edinburgh is in relation to Perth?” he asked me. I looked back at him blankly. “Well, then, did you bring the outline?” he asked me, eliciting yet another blank stare. My outline was fifteen pages long. Did he really think that it would fit into my tiny evening purse that could barely fit my lipstick and gloss?

  “How long did you date this freaking guy that you have no idea where he is from?”

  “I know where he’s from,” I said. “He’s from Perth.”

  “Yes, I’ve got that part.”

  “Well, I’m sorry that I didn’t spend more of the relationship brushing up on my Scottish geography!”

  “I just can’t believe that you know nothing about where this guy is from,” he said.

  “Where was Penny from?” I asked.

  “Penny?”

  “Yes, remember her? The woman you were dating that summer I met you?” I was quite certain that he couldn’t have forgotten Penny. No man could forget Penny. All long legs and pouty lips, even I couldn’t forget Penny. All she ever wanted to talk about was her so-called love of sports and how much she hated shopping. As if she could fool me. Please! I made up that whole “I love sports” trick! Not like I was jealous of her or anything.

  “Yes, I remember her,” he said. “Cleveland.”

  “Cleveland, Ohio?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Jack answered, as if I had just asked him if the capital of the United States was Washington, D.C., or something equally as obvious to a big-time lawyer like him.

  “Cleveland, huh? And, how close is that to Columbus, Ohio?” I asked. Didn’t I tell you that sometimes it’s annoying when all of your friends are litigators? My razor-sharp wit and amazing sense of irony was completely lost on Jack.

  “Are we at a wedding pretending that you are from Ohio?” he asked me.

  “Aberdeen is where Paris ought to be,” I said through clenched teeth. “Aberdeen!”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “You said Edinburgh,” I said, “but the quote is Aberdeen! The quote is ‘Aberdeen is where Paris ought to be!’ I told you to study your cards!” Jack looked back at me and began to laugh. It made me begin to laugh, too.

  “Well, I didn’t attribute it to Stevenson, so maybe the Martins just think that I feel very strongly about Edinburgh,” he said, still with a chuckle in his voice. “Anyway, how did you know that I needed rescuing?” he asked.

  “You looked a little squirmy in that skirt of yours,” I said. He shot back a look. “More so than before,” I clarified.

  “This was much easier last night with the girls, you know,” he told me.

  “Brooke, my dear!” I heard calling from just a few feet away. I could practically hear the theme song to Jaws as the voice got closer. “Why, hello, Brooke.”

  “Hi, Aunt Muffin,” I said, putting on my fake country-club smile that I reserved strictly for my opposing part
ies in tough litigation and members of Trip’s family. It was Trip’s aunt and uncle. Decked out in South Sea pearls the size of golf balls and a ball gown the circumference of which rivaled any Southern debutante’s, Trip’s aunt very much looked every bit like you would imagine a “Muffin” would look. Blond hair arranged like a football helmet and heavily made up so that you could barely tell whether or not there was an actual face underneath, she matched Trip’s uncle perfectly, with his capped teeth and cheeks that were red from one too many prewedding martinis. I used to joke with Trip that the only reason they called her Muffin was that Buffy had already been taken.

  I could barely lean over and air kiss her because of the massive amount of floor space her dress was taking up. Uncle John, clearly drunk since picture taking earlier that afternoon, had his crisp white dinner jacket already wrinkled and looked as if he was mere minutes away from being ready for a nap.

  “John, you remember Brooke, don’t you?” Aunt Muffin said to Uncle John. “The one who dated Trip during law school?” She was speaking very loud, as if he couldn’t hear her.

  “The Jewish girl?” he asked Aunt Muffin. I wondered if he thought that I couldn’t hear him, or if like his sister, Trip’s mother, he simply didn’t care.

  “Shalom,” I said, which gave Jack a bit of a laugh.

  “Oh, yes, Brenda!” Uncle John said. “You were the funny one, weren’t you? You were very funny, right? This new one’s not so funny. Very nice, though. But not funny.”

  “Brooke, dear,” Aunt Muffin said. “It’s Brooke.”

  “What?” Uncle John asked. I was certain that he would be calling me Brenda for the duration of the evening.

  “Aunt Muffin and Uncle John, please let me introduce you to my date. This is my fiancé, Douglas.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Uncle John hiccupped.

  “Fiancé? You’re not married?” she said, glancing down at my hands. Her eyes immediately flew to my left hand and she took a quick peek at my faux engagement ring. Thankfully, her dress took up so much square footage that she was unable to get close enough to me to realize that the ring was fake. She nodded her head. “Oh. Well,” Aunt Muffin said, grasping her hands together in a way that I was pretty sure she thought showed that she cared, “this must be a very hard day for you. No offense,” she said, turning to Jack. And then, turning back to me, she asked: “Does he speak English?”

  “None taken,” Jack said.

  “Actually, Muffin,” I explained, “Trip and I are still very good friends.”

  “Trip asks you to move to California, you say no. He asks Ava, and look what happens,” she said, waving her arms to indicate that she was talking about the wedding. Then, grasping my hand again, she whispered, “It’s good that you’re not bitter about it, though.”

  “Bitter?” Jack asked under his breath, “No. Insane enough to make her best friend dress up as a Scotsman and pretend to be her boyfriend? Yes.”

  “What was that, dear?” Aunt Muffin asked him.

  “He was just saying how very happy we are for them,” I explained.

  “Well, that’s sweet,” Aunt Muffin said. “See, my generation, we didn’t really stay friends with former beaus. I wasn’t really happy for any of them.”

  “Well, we’re still friends,” I said. “I even helped Trip get his first job out here as an entertainment lawyer. Working for one of my father’s friends.”

  “Goddamn Jews control all of Hollywood,” Uncle John said, waving his arms to indicate that he was talking about the wedding. “But I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “No, you don’t,” I said. “I only wish that you wouldn’t.” And I was pretty sure that half of the guest list wouldn’t want him telling them that, either.

  “Are you Scottish?” Uncle John asked Jack.

  Jack looked down at his kilt. Uncle John didn’t say a word and simply continued looking at Jack for his answer.

  “Yes,” Jack said.

  “So, tell me about this tartan of yours,” Uncle John said.

  “Well, it’s blue for starters.”

  “I know that the Scots are particularly proud of their tartans,” Uncle John said. “Family thing, and all. I do business with tons of Scots.”

  “What type of business is that?” Jack asked.

  “So, tell me about yours,” Uncle John said.

  “Me? Well, I’m a lawyer.”

  “About your kilt, silly, not your business,” Uncle John said.

  “Well, it’s also got some red in it,” Jack said.

  “Used to have this one business colleague of mine who was a Scot,” Uncle John said. “Asked him about his kilt once and he talked about it for damn near a half an hour! So, don’t be shy. You can tell me all about yours.”

  “Well, it all started centuries ago when my family —”

  “Will you two please excuse us?” I said, cutting Jack off. “I see some old friends that we absolutely must say ‘hello’ to.” As we walked away, I heard Uncle John comment to Aunt Muffin: “Those Scots really love to talk.”

  We navigated the rest of the cocktail hour with relative ease, stopping only time to time to engage in such delightful exchanges as this:

  Wedding guest: So, are you Scottish?

  Jack: What gave it away?

  Wedding guest: Do you know Evan McCullough?

  Jack: He’s from Perth, is he?

  Wedding guest: No, Scotland.

  Jack: It’s a big country, you know.

  Wedding guest: Oh, okay. You should get to know him, though. He’s a nice guy.

  Jack: Right.

  Before we knew it, it was time to go into the main room for the reception. And we didn’t even get a chance to sample the potato bar.

  20

  “Oh, my,” I practically gasped as we walked into the room where the reception was being held. I looked in disbelief at the breathtaking space that was before me. It was another master-piece — another cavernous banquet room, completely transformed. Like the room we had just left, this room was decorated beautifully with fragrant flowers, lush fabric and candles everywhere you looked. It was all at once formal, yet entirely comfortable — done up to the hilt, yet understated.

  A wraparound balcony hovered above the two-story walls, tea lights lining its banister. Each table had a very complex, very beautiful floral arrangement floating on its tabletop. Huge glass candelabras held up miles of ivory roses and lilies, surrounded by tall, majestic candles, standing at full attention like the guards at Buckingham Palace. Somehow, I knew that the candles would not dare to drip. Each chair was magnificently dressed in a very thick, luxurious ivory satin with a bow tied around the back.

  The dance floor had been painted white with Trip and Ava’s monogram elegantly adorning its center. I had never seen anything like it before in my life — I could have sworn I even saw a dove or two flying around the room.

  “Do you think that this is what heaven looks like?” Jack asked, looking up and around as he walked.

  “I hope so,” Vanessa said, trailing off as she brushed her hand against one of the chairs.

  “Speak like an Aussie just once during this reception and you will soon find out,” I told Jack.

  “So,” a wedding guest asked Jack as we tried to find table eleven, “what do you think of the political situation in Scotland?” Jack and I shot each other blank stares. My goodness, a guy puts on a kilt and all of the sudden, everyone expects him to be an expert on all things Scottish….

  “Well,” Jack said, “what do you think I think of it?” The man nodded back at Jack knowingly.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the bandleader bellowed. His voice was equal parts Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett. “Would you please give a large round of applause to Mr. and Mrs. Trip Bennington!”

  Ava and Trip came gliding into the room, smiling. The bandleader stepped aside and made room for a singer wearing a little silver cocktail dress, covered in sequins. The band played “At Last” and the singer, giving Billie
Holiday a run for her money, sang along.

  “At last,” the singer began to sing slowly, crooning about the end of her lonely days.

  One more song to knock off my list of songs that I want played for the first dance at my own wedding. It seems that every wedding I go to, I lose one more. (Except for that one wedding I went to where the couple danced their first song to Guns N’ Roses’s “November Rain.” I think that the happy couple missed the fact that it was actually a sad song.) At the rate I’m going, if I don’t get married soon, my betrothed and I will be dancing our first dance to “The Piña Colada Song.”

  After Trip and Ava had danced through about half of the song, the bandleader returned to the mike to invite guests to join the bride and groom out on the dance floor. I didn’t make a move. It’s an unspoken single-girl pact: you do not, under any circumstances, let your single girlfriend sit alone for the first dance. Even if you have a date, you sit with her. Now, Vanessa is married, I know, but I thought that the rule should still apply.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Vanessa asked Jack. “Ask her to dance!” she said. Jack and I looked at Vanessa. “Yes, I’m all right. Go!” she said, with a smile on her face. I guess when you’re married it makes no difference to you if you sit alone for a dance or two. You know that you’ve got a dance partner for life, even if he’s not there to dance with you right at that very moment.

  “M’lady?” Jack asked in his Scottish accent, taking my hand in his. He kissed it gently.

  “How come you do the accent perfectly with me, but with everyone else you lapse into the Australian?” I asked him, spoiling the mood.

  “Shut up and dance,” he said as he led me onto the dance floor. He spun me around and I fell right into him. There was something very definite about the way he held me in his arms as we danced.

  “This room is really beautiful,” he said, looking around.

  “Do you think that Vanessa is okay?” I asked, subtly spinning Jack around so that I could look over his shoulder to check on Vanessa at our table.

  “She’s fine,” he said, leaning into my ear.