CRITICAL PRAISE FOR WENDY MARKHAM’S
Slightly
SERIES

SLIGHTLY ENGAGED

“[Tracey’s] confusion about what she wants to do with her life rings true; and when she comes to a major realization about her career, it’s a gratifying moment…. Readers who liked the previous two books will flock to this one.”

—Booklist

“Well-written with realistic characters and dialogue.”

—Romance Reviews Today

SLIGHTLY SINGLE

“An undeniably fun journey for the reader.”

—Booklist

“Bridget Jonesy…Tracey Spadolini smokes, drinks and eats too much, and frets about her romantic life.”

—Publishers Weekly

SLIGHTLY SETTLED

“Readers who followed Tracey’s struggles in Slightly Single, and those meeting her for the first time, will sympathize with this singleton’s post-breakup attempts to move on in this fun, lighthearted romp with a lovable heroine.”

—Booklist

“Tracey is insecure and has many neuroses, but this makes her realistic…And like many women, Tracey needs to figure out when to listen to her friends and when to listen to herself.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

WENDY MARKHAM

is a pseudonym for New York Times bestselling, award-winning novelist Wendy Corsi Staub, who has written more than sixty fiction and nonfiction books for adults and teenagers in various genres—among them contemporary and historical romance, suspense, mystery, television and movie tie-in and biography. She coauthored a hardcover mystery series with former New York City mayor Ed Koch and has ghostwritten books for various well-known personalities. A small-town girl at heart, she was born and raised in western New York on the shores of Lake Erie and in the heart of the notorious snow belt. By third grade, her heart was set on becoming a published author; a few years later, a school trip to Manhattan convinced her that she had to live there someday. At twenty-one, she moved alone to New York City and worked as an office temp, freelance copywriter, advertising account coordinator and book editor before selling her first novel, which went on to win a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award. She has since received numerous positive reviews and achieved bestseller status, most notably for the psychological suspense novels she writes under her own name. Her Red Dress Ink title, Slightly Single, was one of Waldenbooks’ Best Books of 2002. Very happily married with two children, Wendy writes full-time and lives in a cozy old house in suburban New York, proving that childhood dreams really can come true. Visit her at www.wendymarkham.com.

Slightly Married
Wendy Markham

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dedicated with love to my sons Morgan and Brody,

but most of all to my husband, Mark—

in some cosmic coincidence I finished writing the last page

of this book on our fifteenth wedding anniversary.

Cent’anni.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

1

Meet Jack Candell, the man who bought a lifetime subscription to TiVo without first trying it out, yet spent six painstaking months in possession of an heirloom diamond engagement ring and no clue how—or when—or, I suspect, if—he should propose to me.

But all that excruciating will-he-or-won’t-he suspense is behind us now. Jack has finally committed to a lifetime subscription to Tracey Spadolini, live-in girlfriend of two-plus years.

What can be more romantic than getting engaged on Valentine’s Day?

I’ll tell you: getting engaged on Valentine’s Day on the heels of your best friend’s gay wedding while wearing a red-and-black brocade bridesmaid’s gown, your scalp coated with sleet and the Aussie spritzed remnants of an elegant updo, as your fiancé kneels in the slushy gutter on West Broadway.

Maybe you had to be there.

Well, I was, and believe me, hearing Jack’s long-awaited, heartfelt proposal—and saying yes—was the most romantic, exhilarating event of my life.

The afterglow has lingered all the way uptown on the subway and throughout the short walk home from the Ninety-sixth Street station to our building. At this point, I’m bursting with joy, anxious to share the news and show off the ring. Too bad Jimmy, our favorite doorman, is off duty most Saturdays.

In his place tonight is Gecko, a dour old chatterbox who, if you say anything more than a polite hello in passing, will hold you captive in the lobby for hours with his ongoing monologue about his gout and diverticulitis, what he can and can’t eat these days, and graphic detail about the effect on his various bodily functions if he disobeys the gastroenterologist’s orders.

I wisely keep my hand in my pocket and afterglow to myself as we pass him.

But the glow resumes as Jack puts his arm around me on the journey up to our floor, even though we’re sharing the elevator with a trio of yapping terriers and Quint, the effete neighborhood dog walker, clad in what looks suspiciously like lederhosen.

You know how some things in life can never quite live up to the anticipation? Like Christmas, losing your virginity and biting into your first Hostess Twinkie after a week on Atkins?

Well, for once, I’m not even slightly disappointed. I’m pleased to report that so far, being engaged is every bit as exhilarating as I thought it would be.

I walk on air toward the door to apartment 9K with a marquis-cut diamond newly twinkling on the fourth finger of my left hand and my future husband—husband, people!—by my side.

My mental string orchestra is launching into yet another lilting version of “Isn’t It Romantic” when my beloved glances down, grimaces and informs me, “My feet are soaked. They’re going to stink to high heaven when I take off these shoes.”

Yeah, well, better stinky than cold, I think, undaunted, and my private orchestra plays a little louder to drown out any other unromantic proclamations Jack might be inclined to spout.

At least he hasn’t informed me that he has to piss like a racehorse, which is a frequent mood-dampening line of his.

Jack retrieves his keys from the pocket of his overcoat as we cover the last few steps to our apartment. I do my best to focus on the afterglow lest my thoughts wander to his potentially stinky feet or my own throbbing ones crammed into fugly bridesmaid’s shoes.

You’re getting married! You’re finally engaged!

Amazing. Does life get any better than this?

I imagine that from here on in, everything is going to be different. Food will taste more delicious, sex will be more fulfilling, plans of any sort will be more meaningful.

Watching my fiancé—I so can’t wait to use that word out loud—literally unlock the door to our one-bedroom apartment, I can’t help but feel as though he’s figuratively opening it to our future together.

As we cross the threshold, I prepare to see our place in a whole new light.

Not that there is much actual light, this being a sleet-drenched February dusk.

Everywhere I look are signs that we raced out of here at the last minute this morning. My pajamas are in a heap on the floor in the doorway of the bedroom. The jelly and butter are still out on a crumb-littered countertop. On the small dinette table amid piles of sorted and unsorted mail and newspapers sit two untouched mugs of tea with the bags still in them.

Tea…for two…two…for tea, plays the jaunty orchestra in my head.

“Home sweet home,” Jack announces with a contented sigh, tossing his keys on the table and throwing his sopping trench coat over the nearest chair.

“Uh-huh, we’ve got to move,” I can’t help but blurt in response.

This isn’t an impulsive inspiration. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while now.

Nor is this the first time I’ve shared the thought with Jack.

His gaze is promptly steeped with panic, same as it always is when I bring up trading our little love nest for something a little less—well, nesty.

Not that I have anything against nesting. Hell, I’m all for it. But I’d prefer a two-bedroom nest, at the very least. I’d love a heating system that isn’t prone to clanging or wafting the aroma of other people’s ethnic cooking. A view would be nice, too. Doesn’t have to be of Central Park or the river, even—just something other than the ugly, claustrophobically close building next door.

Jack runs an agitated hand through his hair, which is normally the color of melted milk chocolate, but right now is more like dark baking chocolate because it’s soaked with sleet. When we met, he wore it longer and it was kind of wavy. These days, it’s really short and a little spiky on top, kind of retro-little-kid.

“Listen,” I say reassuringly, “we don’t have to move right away—”

“That’s good, because one major life change per year is my quota.”

Okay, this year’s life change is obviously going to be marriage.

I can’t help but wonder, though, what was last year’s major life change? TiVo?

“But Jack,” I proceed gingerly, unwilling to let it go yet determined to tread carefully in the wake of today’s momentous occasion, “look at this place.”

He does, quickly, before his brown eyes settle again—somewhat warily—on me. “What about this place? It’s great.”

“It’s tiny.”

“I thought you said it was ‘cozy.’”

I did, but that was back when I was trying to convince him that we were better off going for a one-bedroom in an Upper East Side doorman building than a more spacious Junior Four so far out in Queens that we’d have to take a bus to the subway.

“It is cozy,” I agree, “but we’ve outgrown it.”

Kind of like I’ve outgrown these dyed-to-match pointy red satin bridesmaid’s pumps, which I kick into a corner of the living room. They collide with a heaping plastic basket of laundry that’s been there for at least forty-eight hours. I wonder whether it’s dirty, or clean and waiting to be folded, and note that I’m in no rush to find out.

“Yeah, well, this place is rent controlled.” That’s Jack, of course. Under the assumption that I may need to brush up on my New York real estate glossary, he adds, “Meaning, we can afford it.”

“I know—” duh “—but I just got that raise with my promotion.”

Yes, you read that right. As of a few weeks ago, I, Tracey Spadolini, former waitress and aspiring copywriter, am now account executive at Blaire Barnett Advertising.

I know, I have a hard time believing it myself. But I have the business cards and frequent stress headache to prove it.

“You haven’t seen a penny of it yet, though,” Jack points out re: my big raise.

“It should kick into my next paycheck. Or the one after that,” say I, the eternal optimist. “And anyway, Carol said it would be retroactive.”

Jack, who has been employed at Blaire Barnett since before I ever even started temping there, looks dubious.

It occurs to me that maybe he just doesn’t want to face the fact that as an account exec for McMurray-White, a major packaged-goods client, I’ll be making more than he does as a media supervisor. I read somewhere that some men are intimidated by their wives out-earning them. But not Jack. He doesn’t have a chauvinistic bone in his body, I assure myself.

Wife! I’m going to be Jack’s wife!

“Come on, we’re getting married,” I remind him gently. “Don’t you think it’s time to get a real apartment? Maybe even buy a place?”

Jack doesn’t answer for a moment.

That’s because he’s pretty much hyperventilating.

When he can speak, he chokes out, “Do you know what Manhattan real estate costs?”

“Who said anything about Manhattan? We can always look in the suburbs…or not,” I add hastily, lest he hurtle himself out the nearest window.

“Come on, Trace, you were the one who convinced me that we had to live in Manhattan in the first place. I would have been more than happy to stay in Brooklyn—”

“You wanted to look in Queens.”

“Or Queens,” he says amenably. “But you had your heart set on the Upper East Side. Remember?”

“I do remember. But that was a long time ago, you know? I’ve changed my mind since then.”

“About Queens?”

“Queens. Living there? No.” I suppress a shudder.

It’s not that I’m opposed to the outer boroughs in general. I’m the first one to hop on the subway to Yankee Stadium or the Staten Island Ferry for a weekend outing at my friend Brenda’s.

Maybe not the first one. But I’m generally open to visiting the boroughs, with good reason, advance notice and nothing better to do.

I’m just not open to moving to a borough at this stage of the game. I mean, if I’m going to live in the city, it’s going to be Manhattan. And if I’m priced out of the city…

“I can see us in the suburbs, can’t you?” I ask Jack, who grimaces. “Like Westchester or Long Island, Jersey, maybe…”

For a second he just looks at me. Then his famous dimples reappear in his lower cheeks at long last as he laughs. Hard.

Maybe a little too hard.

Okay, maniacally.

When he stops, he says, “We’ve been engaged less than a half hour, and you’ve already got us buying a house in the suburbs, Trace.”

“Or a condo.” Two bedrooms, two baths and a permanent parking spot for the car we’re going to get the second we move. Nothing fancy. Maybe a little sporty, but not red. Sleek and black might be nice….

“House, condo, whatever.” Jack shakes his head. “Why are you suddenly worrying about moving?”

“Because not only are we running out of room here, but things keep breaking down on a daily basis.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“Not really.”

“Name one thing that broke down today.”

You, I think, when you decided to pop the question at last.

Bwa-hahahahahahaha…that’s one quip meant for my personal amusement only. No need to remind Jack that he dragged his feet all the way to the fateful waterlogged gutter where he finally proposed.

“The toaster.”

Jack blinks. “The toaster?”

“It refused to pop after I shoved it down this morning. I scorched three pieces of bread.”

“But the toaster isn’t part of the apartment. That’s ours. Let’s just buy a new one. It’ll be cheaper than a colonial in Scarsdale by, like, one point four mil and change.”

I crack a smile, but also point out, “The toaster wouldn’t be on the blink if there weren’t something wrong with the wiring in the kitchen outlet.”

“Who are you, Bob Vila? How do you know that?”

“I just know. Come on, Jack. There’s a lot of stuff that needs to be fixed around this place, and every time something crashes, we have to wait for other people to do something about it. Wouldn’t you rather have a place of our own?”

He tilts his head. “You mean, would I rather be the one calling the electrician and paying him than the one calling the guy who calls the electrician and pays him? Or, better yet, would I rather be the one who gets a bad shock trying to figure out if an electrician is necessary in the first place?”

“You don’t have to be so negative. You’ve never gotten a shock in your life.”

“I’ve gotten plenty, since I meant you.”

His tone is light and I can’t help but grin. “You mean the little lightning bolts of passion, right?”

“Definitely.” He grins and kisses my forehead affectionately. “Whoa. Sparks.”

I make a face at him.

“Come on, Trace. Do we have to discuss this right now? Don’t you think you should try and live in the moment a little? You know…bask in the glow?”

“I’m glowing,” I protest. “Sparking, too. Remember?”

“Maybe on the outside. Inside, you’re fast-forwarding, scheming real-estate strategies…”

“Scheming makes it sound like I’m doing something wrong.”

“Planning, then. Is planning better?”

“Much. And I can’t help it. I’m excited.”

“So am I. Let’s just enjoy it for a while. This is the only time in our lives we’re going to get engaged. So tonight, let’s bask, dammit.” The Candell dimples deepen charmingly.

“I’m basking. I’m definitely basking,” I say with a laugh, feeling a little sheepish. “Basking, glowing, sparking…”

“Good.” Jack gives me a squeeze, kisses my forehead again and opens the fridge.

What I don’t dare admit aloud is that in my heart, I’ve been engaged to him for months—ever since his mother, Wilma, told me he had the heirloom ring in his possession.

We…will raise…a fa-mily…a boy…for you…a girl…for me…

See, I like to be proactive. Not only have I got our entire future mapped out, but I already picked a wedding date. Which reminds me…

“While we’re basking,” I say to Jack, “what do you think of the third Saturday in October?”

“For what?”

He didn’t really say that, I tell myself, watching him grab an Amstel Light, then head to the living room to fish the remote from beneath the toppled stack of magazines on the coffee table.

What he really said was, I would love to marry you on the third Saturday in October, darling.

And he isn’t really turning on the television and flipping the channel to ESPN.

No, in reality, he’s heading for the shower to wash his stinky feet for the romantic candlelight dinner we’re going to have tonight to celebrate our engagement.

Except, he’s not.

“Jack—” I am incredulous, watching him bend over to unlace his dress shoes, one eye on the television “—are you watching TV?”

His gaze flicks in my direction.

“Yes?” he says tentatively. “Why?”

“It’s just—” I break off and try to think of a way to phrase it. A delicate way. Or at least a way that doesn’t involve any four-letter words.

I settle on, “I thought we were basking.”

“We are. I just wanted to check a couple of scores.”

“But…” The mind boggles. “We just got engaged, remember? For the only time in our lives. Don’t you think we should…celebrate? And maybe…talk about the wedding?”

“You mean, plan it?” he asks, wearing the same expression he might have if I asked him to knock over the Bank of New York branch on the corner to prove his love for me.

“Not the whole thing right this second, but we definitely need to set a date.”

“Okay, the third Saturday in October. That sounds good.” He pries his shoe off his foot, then peels off his black dress sock and sniffs it.

Watching him, I have to remind myself that I am head over heels in love with him. So what if he behaves, on occasion, like a caged primate at the Bronx Zoo?

You find him endearing, faults and all. You really do.

You have to, because the moment his little quirks cease to be endearing, it all goes to hell in a handcart.

“I told you my feet were going to stink,” he tells me before tossing the sock in the general vicinity of the laundry in the corner, which I hope to God is dirty.

I smile to show that I have absolutely no problem with stinky feet. No problem at all.

I’m in love, dammit.

“About the wedding…” I say as he bends over his other shoe.

“Yeah?” The other shoe comes off and he’s sniffing that sock now.

Okay, I’m sorry, but he just crossed the line from endearing to freakish.

“Jack…cut it out.”

“What?”

“Please stop smelling your sock.”

“I’m just seeing if it stinks.”

“The other one did. What are the odds that this one doesn’t?”

He makes a face and it sails through the air after its partner. “Zero.”

Mental Note: you are in love with this man. Quirks others might find unappealing—disgusting, even—are charming to you. Going to hell in a handcart is not an option.

I allow myself a moment to get back into a romantic frame of mind before saying again, “If we do go with the third Saturday in October—”

“I thought we just agreed on it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“The number-one place we’d want to have it at is booked all the other Saturdays in October, actually, and by now it’s probably booked that day, too. There aren’t that many other decent places to choose from, so…”

Oops.

I said too much, starting with the word booked.

But instead of asking the obvious—how can you possibly know that, if we’ve been engaged less than an hour and we’ve spent every moment of that time together?—Jack asks, “What number-one place is that?”

“Shorewood Country Club. In Brookside,” I add at his blank look.

“We want to have our wedding in Brookside?”

“My hometown,” I clarify, realizing there must be a crack enclave in the South Bronx also called Brookside. No wonder he’s mixed up and wearing that are-you-out-of-your-mind? expression.

“We never said that,” Jack informs me as he sneaks another glance at the television, where an ESPN reporter is animatedly recapping some game.

“I know we didn’t say that. We never said anything because we never talked about it before,” I point out.

I neglect to add, That’s because you once said something along the lines of “getting married is for assholes.”

Pardon his French.

“I just assumed we’d get married in Brookside,” I say instead.

“Why?”

Realizing a crash course in Nuptials 101 is in order, I patiently explain, “Because weddings are usually held in the bride’s hometown. Kate and Billy’s was in Mobile, remember?”

To Jack’s credit, he doesn’t point out that there’s a tremendous difference between a charming Gulf Coast city and a tiny blue-collar town south of Buffalo on Lake Erie.

To his discredit, he says instead, “Well, since we happen to live in New York, where there are millions of decent places to have a wedding, why wouldn’t we just get married here?”

I’ll admit this gives me pause.

Because, when you come right down to it…he has a point.

Why not just get married here?

Back when I was certain I would eventually marry my ex-boyfriend, Will McCraw—which, unbeknownst to me, Will McCraw never once considered—I assumed the wedding would be right here in New York.

That’s because Will didn’t like Brookside. He didn’t like my family, either, I suspect, although he never said it. What he did say, frequently, and in their presence, was that he didn’t like Brookside. Pretty much in those words.

Just one of the many reasons I suspect that all those novenas my mother sent my way for years were probably her pious Catholic answer to voodoo. If there’s any truth to the power of prayer, my messy breakup with Will can be attributed to Connie Spadolini’s direct pipeline to God. Imagine what she could accomplish if she converted all that maternal energy to global causes.

“Well?”

Oh, yeah. Jack is still wondering why we shouldn’t just get married here in New York. “Cost, for one thing,” I say. “Do you know how much we’d pay for a sit-down dinner for three hundred in Manhattan?”

“Three hundred?”

I have his full attention now—and he certainly has mine, because it looks as though I may have to administer CPR any second.

“Tracey, you’re not serious about that, are you?”

“A sit-down dinner? Well, we can look into a buffet, but sometimes it’s more cost effective to—”

“No, I’m talking about the head count. Come on. Three hundred?”

“I have a huge family, Jack. And then there’s your family, and all our co-workers, and our friends from New York, and our high-school friends, and college roommates…”

“And don’t forget my old Cub Scout den leader or Jimmy the doorman,” he says dryly.

I decide this is probably not a good time to mention that Jimmy the doorman was on my initial guest list—the one I pared down from just under five hundred to the aforementioned three, and with considerable angst over every cut.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, “if we had it here in New York, I bet a lot of your family wouldn’t come.”

I bristle at that. “So we want to have the wedding in the most inconvenient place as possible? Is that your point?”

“No. That was definitely not my point. Forget I said anything.”

“Listen, Jack…we don’t have to decide all of these details right now. We’re supposed to be basking in the moment, remember?”

“I was basking,” he says defensively, and gulps some beer. “You’re the one who’s scheming.”

“Not scheming. Planning.”

“Planning to turn our simple little wedding into an extravaganza.”

Our simple little wedding?

Correct me if I’m wrong, but did I ever say anything about simple? Or little?

Granted, the guest list is somewhat negotiable…to a certain point.

But if there’s anything I learned from my six months of reading Modern Bride on the sly, it’s that weddings are anything but simple.

However—how could I have forgotten?—if there’s anything I learned in the last few years of living with Jack, it’s that you don’t just spring things on him.

He has always needed time to get used to new ideas—like, say, ordering brown rice instead of white with Chinese food. Or setting the alarm clock to radio instead of that annoying high-pitch bleating sound.

He’s not going to instantly embrace the notion of a gala event for three hundred as opposed to a “simple little wedding.”

The trick is to let an idea seep in and simmer for a while. If I’m lucky, and I let enough time go by, he’ll wind up thinking he came up with it himself.

“Let’s just back-burner the wedding discussion for tonight,” I suggest. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow?”

“I was thinking in a few days,” he says. “Or maybe, I don’t know, next weekend? We can schedule a time when we can sit down and discuss it.”

“You make it sound like a client meeting,” I say, only half amused and not the least bit surprised.

As I said, he’s not the most spontaneous guy in the world, unless you’re talking about home-entertainment technology.

Then again, a lifetime commitment to TiVo doesn’t involve a public religious ceremony, a wide circle of witnesses or exotic canapés.

In any case, I decide to let Jack off the hook tonight. Between Raphael’s wedding and the engagement, we’ve experienced enough drama for one day.

I go over to the couch, plop down beside him, sling my legs across his lap and my arms around his neck, and ask, “So how do you think we should celebrate our engagement?”

“And Valentine’s Day,” he reminds me.

“Right. I almost forgot.” I have a card and a gift-wrapped sweater for him hidden under the bed. I bought the sweater on winter clearance at Bloomingdale’s.

Had my raise already kicked in—or had I suspected I’d be getting a delightful diamond ring today—I probably would have sprung for a nice shirt from Ralph Lauren’s spring collection for men.

But I had no idea this was the big day. How could I? Even Jack didn’t realize it.

So I guess he can be spontaneous after all. I mean, the man got down on his knee in the streaming gutter on the spur of the moment.

Then again, how spontaneous is a proposal after six agonizing—at least, for me—months of his having the ring in his possession?

Not that he has any idea that I already knew about the ring, thanks to his mother’s inability to keep a secret. He’ll never know that I had actually laid eyes on it once already, when I stumbled across it while rummaging through his suitcase during our Caribbean vacation last month.

No, I wasn’t shamelessly snooping around for the diamond.

I’m not that sneaky.

I only wanted to borrow his sweatshirt and stumbled across the ring box accidentally.

Yes, I opened it and snuck a peek.

Yes, I am that sneaky.

Anyway, I was genuinely surprised by his proposal today. So surprised he’ll never suspect that I’ve been waiting for him to do it since Labor Day weekend; that every gift-giving occasion since then has had me anticipating a diamond, and being crushed with disappointment.

Sweetest Day brought a Chia Pet; Christmas, a Gore-Tex Mountain Guide Gold parka…

Need I say more?

Like I said, though, that’s all behind us now.

“Listen, I made reservations a few days ago for a nice dinner tonight,” he informs me, putting his arm around me as I snuggle close to him on the couch. “Do you still want to do that?”

“Sure.” I’m relieved that he at least had a plan for Valentine’s Day. A plan that doesn’t involve a zip-out fleece lining or a creepy, living green Afro. “Where are we going?”

“To that new bistro you wanted to check out on West Fourth Street. I heard the French onion soup is amazing.”

“That sounds great.”

“Hey! Maybe we can have it at our wedding!” he suggests enthusiastically.

“Maybe we can!” I say just as enthusiastically, but I’m thinking there’s no way in hell I’m going to surround myself by three hundred people with onion breath at our once-in-a-lifetime event.

“So what time are those reservations?” I ask Jack.

“Eight-thirty. Why? Are you hungry now?”

“Not really. I’m sure I will be by then, though.”

“Yeah, I can think of a great way to work up an appetite,” he says suggestively, and in a swift, smooth move, flips me onto my back.

He nuzzles my neck with his stubble-studded face. “Your hair is sticky.”

“That’s hair spray.”

“And it’s all pinned together.”

“That’s my fancy hairdo from the wedding. Don’t you like it?”

“No. I like it better down. Don’t wear it like this for our wedding, okay? It doesn’t feel…normal.”

I laugh, thinking this is one of the things I really love about him.

You know, that he’s such a…typical guy. That, aside from sock sniffing, he’s unabashedly into sex, and sports, and beer, and me…unlike the late thinks-he’s-great Will the Metro-sexual.

I really have come a long way from that one-sided relationship with a man—and I use the term loosely—who was head over heels in love with somebody else. Not another woman. Not even another man. No, Will McCraw was deeply in love with himself. That’s the only thing we ever had in common. It just took me a couple of years and a whole lot of heartache to figure that out.

Jack Candell, however, is indisputably in love with me. Only me. And he’s promised to love me forever.

I am definitely basking now.

So much so that I’m positive we’ll be able to agree on the details of our wedding.

What counts more than anything is that we love each other, and we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together.

Nothing else matters.

2

Okay, so I take back what I said last night.

Other things do matter.

Things like head counts and menus and which end of New York State gets to host the big event—and that it will, indeed, be a big event.

So no, this getting-married thing isn’t just about being in love.

I figure that out the moment I awaken on my first Sunday morning as a fiancée to realize that A) I’ve got about eight months to plan my dream wedding, and B) the afterglow-basking must come to an abrupt end if I’m going to get this show on the road.

I slip out of bed quietly so that I don’t disturb Jack, who’s sleeping soundly at last. He was up and down for most of the night, blaming the hour delay in getting our reserved table at the bistro and the rich pasta dish he scarfed down after a fried-cheese appetizer.

I, however, suspect that last night’s extreme case of agita could be attributed to the cause célèbre for our dinner, rather than the food itself, or the hour.

This, after all, is a man who regularly comes home from late nights at the office to unwind with family serving–size Chef Boyardee beef ravioli—often gobbled cold from the can—topped off by an entire row of Double Stuf Oreos.

There was a time when I, too, could have chowed through that midnight spread, and more—and followed by a Salem Lights chaser.

Thank goodness my days of binging-without-purging are long behind me. My stint as a human chimney is more recent history, but after a couple of false starts I ultimately kicked that habit, too. I know I definitely won’t go back now because there’s something unsettling about envisioning myself as a bride with a cigarette butt hanging out of her mouth.

Somehow Jack, who never smoked, has always managed to avoid both a weight problem and indigestion despite his lousy late-night eating habits.

So like I said, I think his upset stomach last night was due to the shock of actually being engaged.

Oh, well. I’m sure he’ll eventually get over it. And while he’s lingering in the recovery stage, I really do need to get busy with the planning stage.

I open the closet and swiftly pull my lilac-colored velour robe over my comfy red-plaid flannel pajamas, then slip my bridesmaid-blistered feet into a cushy pair of green terry-cloth scuffies.

Yes, I clash. Who cares? I’m a fiancée.

And Jack—unlike Will McCraw—cares about who I am, not what I’m wearing.

You know, I can’t believe there was ever a time when I thought it was normal to have your boyfriend offer fashion pointers—or that I dutifully followed Will’s.

Wait until he hears I’m engaged. I can’t wait to tell him.

For that matter, I can’t wait to tell someone. Anyone.

Too bad Raphael is currently winging his way toward Africa and his safari honeymoon.

I wonder if it’s too early to call Kate. She likes to sleep in.

Who cares?

This is big news. I close the bedroom door behind me, grab the phone and quickly dial her number.

“Is Kate there?” I ask excitedly when Billy answers on the third ring.

“She’s throwing up.”

Oh. Right. Morning sickness. I forgot all about Kate’s new pregnancy. She’s due in late September…which means we’ll have to increase the guest list to three hundred and one. Two, if she insists on bringing a nanny. Three with an accompanying wet nurse, which, knowing Kate, isn’t all that far-fetched.

“Can you have her give me a call when she’s done?” I ask Billy, who mumbles something that might be an agreement.

To be sure, I say, “Can you tell her it’s urgent?”

“Yup.” Billy hangs up.

You’d think he might at least have asked me if everything is okay.

No, you wouldn’t think that. Not if you knew Billy, anyway.

Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t that I can’t stand him—although sometimes I really can’t. But that’s just because he can be an arrogant, prejudiced, elitist prick.

When he’s not being an arrogant, prejudiced, elitist prick, he’s fine. More or less. He’s just not my kind of person. We simply have nothing in common other than his being married to my best girlfriend.

Anyway, I really should be glad he didn’t inquire about the urgent nature of my call, because I might have been tempted to blurt it out.

And I really don’t want Billy, of all people, to be the first to hear the big news.

I consider calling Buckley O’Hanlon, my best straight guy friend. Then I remember that after Raphael’s wedding, he and his fiancée, Sonja, were heading out to spend the remainder of Valentine’s Day weekend at some romantic inn in the Hamptons. They won’t be back until tomorrow.

I could call Brenda, Latisha or Yvonne, but I’ll see them at the office first thing in the morning. It will be much more satisfying to stick out my hand and show them.

But I have to tell someone, and soon.

I’ll just wait for Kate to call back. I’m sure it won’t be long. How long does it take to barf, brush your teeth and dial the phone?

In the kitchen, I brew a big pot of coffee, throw on a Frank Sinatra CD—and promptly find myself homesick.

Between the fragrant hazelnut grounds and Frankie baby singing “My Kinda Town,” I could close my eyes and imagine I’m sitting at a vinyl-covered chair in my parents’ kitchen. No, it’s not in Frankie baby’s Chicago.

It’s in Brookside, New York, just south and west of Buffalo—which might as well be in the Midwest. My father frequently plays Frank Sinatra on Sunday mornings as we lounge around in our robes with coffee. The only thing that’s missing is the aroma of something frying. Bacon or pork sausage, pancakes or eggs in butter, onions and hash browns in olive oil—there’s always something frying in my parents’ house.

Suddenly, I’m desperate to share my big news with them—the news I told Jack just last night should wait until we see our families in person.

Since my future mother-in-law lives a short train ride away, in Westchester County, we can tell her anytime. Wilma is the one who gave Jack the heirloom diamond in the first place, so she’s not likely to be very surprised.

My parents, on the other hand, gave up any hope of my getting married the day I moved in with Jack. That’s because, as everybody knows, people—namely, men—don’t buy cows who give milk for free. At least, everyone in Brookside knows that. Probably because Connie Spadolini told them.

What my mother never did understand is that in Manhattan, where cows are as scarce as affordable apartments and a gallon of milk is as expensive as a gallon of gasoline, living together is a prelude to marriage, not an alternative.

I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she sees my ring and witnesses the end of the shameful era she refers to as Tracey Lives In Sin. It was only slightly less traumatic for my family than the previous eras known as Tracey Turns Her Back on Her Family (i.e., Relocates to New York) and Tracey Falls in Love With a Flaming Homosexual.

Not that Will actually was. Gay, I mean.

But as far as my father and brothers are concerned, if you’re going to wear black turtlenecks and expensive cologne and have an affinity for show tunes and fresh herbs, you’d damn well better be a middle-aged Italian man. Or have a vagina.

Poor Waspy Will, sans vagina, obviously had to be closeted, according to the macho macho men in my family.

Anyhoo, the only thing Team Spadolini would find more disturbing than my living with—and not marrying—Jack, would be my marrying Will McCraw.

No danger of that. Will never was the marrying type. He told me that right from the start. I just chose not to hear him. I didn’t stick my fingers into my ears and sing “Love and Marriage” at the top of my lungs whenever he opened his mouth, but I might as well have.

If Jack had told me from the start that he wasn’t the marrying type, I wouldn’t have believed him, either…but not because I was delusional. I’ve just never had any real doubt that Jack loved me and would marry me sooner or later.

Okay, I may have had some doubt.

And all right, at one point, I may have suspected him of having a secret girlfriend in Brooklyn to whom he was planning to give the ring.

But like I said, that’s all behind me now.

The diamond is on my finger. Mine.

I’m a fiancée, tra la!

Amazing what a difference a day makes.

You know, if I thought there was any chance I’d find my mother at home right now, I’d call her and tell her my news if for no other reason than to ease her worries about my eternal salvation.

But a glance at the clock ensures me that my parents are currently at their regular Sunday-morning mass at Most Precious Mother. My mother is probably praying for me and my sins at this very moment. I know she does that every week because she likes to keep me apprised of her religious intentions.

The sooner I tell my mother the news, the sooner she can resume praying for something more relevant, like world peace, or a price break in imported almond paste.

Last night, I suggested to Jack that we try to get a cheap Jet Blue flight to Buffalo for next weekend, and he agreed.

What I strategically neglected to tell him is that while we’re up there, we can also find a caterer, talk to the priest, choose a band or DJ and start the paperwork with the florist, videographer and photographer.

Over the next few days, I’m positive Jack will come to realize that we should absolutely get married in Brookside, in which case firming up our plans while we’re there will be an added bonus of the trip.

I pour my coffee, grab a notepad and sit down on the couch to get the basics on paper.

Fortunately, I’m really good at organizing details.

Or maybe a better way to put it is, A control freak.

Whatever. The important thing is to approach this wedding with a cohesive plan of action.

That’s why I immediately decide to use a technique I learned back in junior high when I started writing for the school paper. As I recall, the key to researching a solid article is answering the five W’s: Who, What, When, Where and Why.

Can the same formula be applied to a wedding plan?

Why, I believe it can.

In this case, Who would be the guest list.

Oh, and the bridal party—though I’ve already picked out my eight attendants. Yes, eight. You don’t expect me to leave anyone out after the way they’ve all stood by me, do you?

My sister, Mary Beth, will be my matron of honor, of course. Then there’s my sister-in-law, Sara; Jack’s sister Rachel, and my friends Raphael, Kate, Brenda, Latisha and Yvonne. I’ve even matched them up with the guys Jack will be having. Not that he’s ever said who his groomsmen would be, but I have a good idea. So I jot down their names on the list, opposite each of my bridesmaids—or bridesman, as the case may be.

I’m careful not to match up Raphael with any of my homophobic brothers or Jack’s old frat brother, Jeff, whom Raphael once insisted is a closeted gay man. I shudder, remembering how he attempted to give Jeff a lap dance in an effort to prove the point.

I strategically link Raphael with Buckley, who is as comfortable with his sexuality as he is with Raphael’s. The only possible hitch would be if Jack protested to having Buckley as an usher, but I doubt he will. Buckley might have started out as my friend, but now he’s a pal of Jack’s, too. We hang out together a lot as couples.

Not that I’ve got any intention of having Buckley’s fiancée as one of my bridesmaids. It isn’t that I dislike Sonja, or that I’m jealous, which would be so My Best Friend’s Wedding.

Really, my relationship with Buckley is strictly platonic and always has been.

Except that we kissed a few times. Passionately. But that was over two years ago.

And yes, I may have, on occasion, wondered if Buckley and I were falling in love.

But that speculation ended the moment Jack came along.

Okay, maybe not the moment.

But definitely within a few weeks.

Naturally, I ended it because of Jack.

Naturally, Jack will never know that I had an unplatonic era with Buckley while I was embarking on a relationship with him. Presumably, Sonja is equally clueless.

And I like her. I really do. There might just be a part of her that’s secretly, instinctively jealous of my entirely platonic-these days friendship with her fiancé. Or maybe on some subconscious level she suspects that there might have been something between us at one time.

Whatever it is seems to keep Sonja from ever entirely opening up to me—not that I want her to, because then I’d have to.

I’ll admit it: there might be a teensy part of me that wonders if Buckley and I might have wound up together if the timing had been different. If Jack hadn’t come along just as Buckley and I were starting to notice each other in a different way.

None of that matters now.

Because we’re both in love with other people.

We’re both about to get married.

And what happened between us wasn’t exactly unresolved.

Not really.

Faced with the choice between Buckley and Jack, I chose Jack. Buckley handled it just fine, and went back to Sonja shortly afterward anyway.

In any case, that’s all ancient history. And I’m sure Jack will want Buckley to be in our wedding party, as long as he doesn’t find out that we kissed.

More about that later. Now is not the time to be dwelling on past loves. Not that Buckley was ever my “love…”

Oh, let’s drop it.

Next on the list is What. This one will have to wait for Jack, but I do make some notes. Afternoon or evening reception? Sit-down dinner or buffet? Black-tie optional or out of the question?

When? I can answer that right now: the third Saturday in October, if at all possible. I’ve had my heart set on an autumn wedding since before I ever laid eyes on Jack, so as far as I’m concerned, the timing is nonnegotiable, provided we can find a place. The last time I checked, Shorewood Country Club in my hometown was available that particular day, but that was a few months ago. I’m sure it’s since been booked.

Which leads me to…

Where? I write Brookside and underline it three times. Then, in case Jack wants to read my notes, I add an obligatory question mark. Then, to be fair, I put down NYC and, of course, follow it with a question mark. A few of them, actually, to reflect my imaginary doubts about that particular locale.

And now we’ve arrived at…

Why?

What the hell kind of question is that?

Since I’m asking myself, I guess I can’t complain.

Okay, so why are Jack and I getting married?

The answer is obvious: because we love each other. Because we want to spend the rest of our lives together.

Nothing else really matters, I remind myself with a guilty glance at the pad in my hand.

Not who, what, when or where.

Nothing but the why.

The phone rings as I’m contemplating that profoundness.

I grab it, and it’s Kate, of course.

“Where have you been?” I ask, glancing at the clock.

Good thing I wasn’t bleeding to death and calling on her to save my life.

Not that I ever would, because she’s not good with blood, or heroics. She’s the kind of person who runs screaming from the room if there’s an insect, loud noise or the slightest hint of gore….

Which makes childbirth an interesting prospect for Kate, to say the least.

“I was throwing up, Tracey.” She always pronounces my name “Trice-ee.” Today, her Alabama accent is laced with misery.

“For an entire half hour?”

“Pretty much. I can’t do this.”

“You can’t do what?”

“Be pregnant.”

“I hate to tell you this, Kate…but it’s kind of too late to change your mind.”

She’s silent.

Ominously so.

“Kate, you’re not considering—”

“No!” she says indignantly. “Of course not. I didn’t say I’m not going to do this, I just said that I can’t,” she says as if that makes the slightest bit of sense.

“Sure you can.”

“I really don’t think so. It’s horrible. All of it. My boobs are huge…”

No, my boobs are huge. They’ve always been huge, regardless of my weight fluctuations. I inherited my grandmother’s famous Bullet Boobs, and I shudder to imagine what will happen to them when I find myself pregnant someday. They’ll be instantly transformed into dangerous Missile Boobs, I’m sure.

Kate’s boobs, however, went from twin chest freckles to twin mosquito bites, if that. I know, because she insisted on showing me her new “cleavage” when we were having our final bridesmaid-gown fitting for Raphael’s wedding.

“I hate feeling sick all the time, too,” she grouses on. “And I hate getting so big and fat—”

Mind you, as of Friday night, she was still zipping her size zero jeans, and you could have stuck the Manhattan White Pages between her belly button and the snap.

“Plus, I’m so tired all I want to do is sleep.”

I should probably point out that the last issue isn’t necessarily a huge problem since all she has to do, really, is sleep. She’s a stay-at-home wife thanks to her family’s money and Billy’s Wall Street salary with staggering bonuses. She has always spent a lot of time sleeping.

“I know how hard this is for you, Kate.”

I say that because I’m a good, loyal friend.

I also say it because it’s the truth.

But mostly I say it because I’m anxious to move on to my news.

As always, however, Kate is the main topic of conversation and she isn’t eager to relinquish that role.

“Do you know what makes me throw up in the mornings, Tracey?”

No, and I really don’t want to.

But I daresay that doesn’t matter, because I bet Kate is going to tell me.

“Everything.”

See?

I murmur my sympathy, glad that at least she didn’t elaborate.

“Billy’s breath is the worst,” she says then, and it takes me a moment to realize we’re still talking about morning-sickness triggers and haven’t moved on to a new topic, i.e., Billy Has Halitosis, in which case I’d be more comfortable changing the subject to my engagement.

“I make him get up and brush his teeth the second the alarm goes off every morning. And I make him open the refrigerator whenever I need something because the smell of it just does me in.”

“Good idea,” I say, rather enjoying the image of arrogant Billy as foul-breathed refrigerator doorman at Kate’s beck and call.

“And then there’s the thought of meat—any meat…Oh, God, Tracey, I feel like I’m going to hurl just talking about it.”

“Then let’s change the subject,” I say quickly. “I’ve got news for you.”

“What is it?” she asks feebly.

Realizing she’s fading fast, I blurt, “Jack and I got engaged last night.”

“Oh my gosh! I’m so happy for y’all!”

I have no doubt that Kate means that from the bottom of her heart…even though she follows it up with a horrible gagging sound and throws down the receiver with a clatter.

I hang on, hoping she’ll return momentarily so that I can regale her with the romantic saga of Jack on his knees in the gutter.

But it’s Billy who a good minute later picks up the receiver and asks, “Hello? Tracey?”

“Yeah…?”

“Listen, Kate’s got her head in the toilet again. She told me to tell you congratulations and she wants to take you out to lunch next weekend to celebrate.”

“Okay…thanks. And be sure to tell her the wedding won’t be until after she has the baby, so not to worry.”

“What wedding?”

“Mine and Jack’s,” I say, miffed that Billy would offer secondhand congratulations without even asking Kate the reason.

“Oh, that’s great,” he says in exactly the same fake-enthusiastic tone he might use if somebody’s six-year-old niece gave him an ugly crayon drawing.

“Well, see ya.” Billy hangs up.

Wow. First time I get to make my big announcement, and one audience member pukes, and the other doesn’t give a damn. Where do we go from here? I just hope it isn’t an omen of some sort.

I can’t help but feel sorry for poor Kate.

I also can’t help but feel the distinct need to share my news with somebody who won’t be dismissive. Or vomit.

But there’s nobody to tell, unless Jimmy the doorman is on duty…and I’m not dressed for the lobby at the moment.

Talk about anticlimactic.

Maybe I was wrong last night about getting engaged at last being different from Christmas, or losing your virginity, or eating a post-diet Twinkie.

Maybe there is just a hint of letdown after all….

Or maybe I’m just experiencing a momentary lapse, because when I hear Jack stirring in the bedroom, my heart does an excited little flip-flop.

I go in to find him lying on his back, stretching. He was staring at the ceiling but his eyes flick immediately to me, and he smiles and pats the mattress by his hip.

It looks like he’s over his panic-infused gastric attack.

“Hey, good morning,” I say, and sit on the edge of the bed beside him, one leg curled underneath me. “Want to get up? I’ve got coffee made, and I think we’ve got a couple of eggs I can scramble…”

“In a few minutes, maybe. Or you could just come back to bed…”

He pulls me down and kisses me.

I kiss him back, but I’m thinking of all the wedding details I need to get moving on; the plane tickets that need to be bought; the shower I should be taking…

“I don’t know,” I hedge.

“Come on…it’s Sunday morning…”

Then Jack kisses me again, and I decide that everything can be put off a little longer. What’s another hour when I waited six months to get engaged, and we’ve got a lifetime in front of us?

3

My friend Brenda materializes by my desk the moment I sit down in my office Monday morning.

Yes, my office. Not my tiny cube down the corridor, where I spent the first few years of my advertising career. My own office, not spacious but definitely less tiny than the cube, with my own window. So what if it’s just on the seventh floor and overlooks a solid brick wall across a narrow alleyway occupied by a Dumpster?

It beats cube life, as I’m sure Brenda would attest if you asked her.

I wouldn’t. Ask her about cube life these days, that is. Ever since I got promoted a few weeks ago, I’ve found myself feeling oddly guilty and undeserving. Kind of like that guy who escaped the Titanic wearing a dress.

“Well?” Brenda asks. “How was it?”

For a second, I think she’s talking about my engagement and wonder who could have possibly spilled the beans. Did Jack, that rascal, tell my co-workers we would be getting engaged on Valentine’s Day?

No, he did not, because he didn’t know himself, remember? Brenda is obviously talking about something else.

Because I seem to have developed Alzheimer’s regarding recent events other than my engagement, I say, “Huh?”

“The wedding! How was it?”

Um, should I be worried that I’m still drawing a complete blank?

“Tracey! Don’t tell me you forgot about Raphael’s wedding already?”

“Of course I didn’t forget! It was a beautiful wedding.” And it was. However, it wasn’t my wedding, and I can’t wait to tell Brenda that I’ll be having one.

But before I can thrust my ring finger at her, my supervisor, Carol, says, “Tracey? Good, you’re here.”

I look up to see her round face poking around the doorway, framed by her perfectly curled-under pageboy that I’m sure is all the rage—in, say, Lincoln, Nebraska. Or some foreign land where people dance in clogs.

Here in Manhattan, not so much. Yet despite her hairdo, Carol worked her way up to management rep here at Blaire Barnett. And I will be forever indebted to her for promoting me to account executive on McMurray-White’s All-Week-Long Deodorant and Abate Laxative accounts.

All right, so it’s not the junior copywriter position I’ve been coveting all my career, but it’s definitely a stepping stone.

“The Client thought our Abate meeting was at ten instead of two today, so they’re on their way over!” Carol informs me, obviously alarmed.

“What?” I blurt, instantly alarmed, as well.

It seems that alarm is a frequent state of mind here in Account Exec Land, where people frequently exclaim—and sometimes even shout and curse. Here in Account Exec Land, Client is always spelled with a capital C, deodorant and laxatives are life-sustaining products and the Client is always, always, always right. Even when they’re wrong. Which they often are.

So naturally, I don’t suggest to Carol that we simply call the Client and tell them the Abate meeting is at two, not ten, as one might in any other—sane—industry.

I just bellow, “Oh my God!” like someone who has just witnessed a violent explosion.

“I know! We’ve got to get our tushies up to eight and go over the presentation with the Creatives right now!” Carol shrieks like a fire warden evacuating the floor after the violent explosion.

“Oh my God!” I shout again and bolt from my seat, grabbing my presentation folder with my right hand and pretty much shoving Brenda out of the way with my left…

Which she seizes. “Oh my God!” she screams, and not because the Client is on their way to a premature laxative-planning meeting.

“Tracey! When did this happen?”

“What? What happened?” Carol demands frantically.

“What’s going on?” Adrian Smedly, the director of our account group, has come out of the woodwork. In his custom suit and tie, as impeccably stylish as, well, as Carol is not, Adrian is poised just outside my office, waiting for a reply.

“I got engaged,” I explain as dispassionately as possible, because of course Adrian is putting a damper on the whole damn thing.

Brenda, still clutching my freshly manicured ring finger, squeals and hugs me.

“Congratulations!” Carol hugs me, as well. “That’s wonderful news!”

“Thanks.” My mouth is muffled by hair: Carol’s brown mushroom do and Brenda’s teased, sprayed one.

“When did he pop the question, Tracey?” Brenda wants to know, bouncing up and down, still wearing her white commuting Reebocks with her suit and stockings.

“Valentine’s Day!”

“At Raphael’s wedding?”

“No, but right after, when we…were…” Having caught sight of Adrian’s lethal expression, I trail off into sheepish silence.

I think it’s safe to assume that our group director won’t be gushing over my ring or asking me where I’ve registered.

“Ladies?” is all he has to say, and Carol and I snap to it.

The three of us scurry to the elevator, where a bike messenger is waiting for a down elevator. Susan, my friend Latisha’s boss and a fellow account executive on the Abate account, is already there, on her way to the same meeting we are.

I loathe her.

All right, loathe is a strong word, especially on this joyful post-engagement day, when I am basically loving the world.

But Susan, whom Yvonne calls Miss Prim among other less charitable nicknames, is hard to love: all buttoned up in her gray suit and black pumps with tasteful makeup and no jewelry other than a gi-normous engagement ring.

We all—meaning all of us gossipy office underlings—noticed that it appeared over Christmas, but nobody wants to ask Susan about it because, frankly, she’s cold and dull and staid and nobody really cares who’s marrying her. We’re just surprised someone wants to.

I guess that goes to show you that there’s someone for everyone.

Anyway, Susan sucks up to Adrian with a big cheery hello, and offers a slightly less stellar one to Carol. Me, she ignores.

To my satisfaction, Adrian all but ignores Susan. He jabs the Up button repeatedly and glares at the messenger, obviously holding him personally responsible when a lobby-bound car is the first to stop.

As that elevator departs, Adrian turns to Carol. I fully expect him to order her to do something about the elevator situation.

He just asks, “Did John tell you they’re having a fat-trimming meeting over on the Choc-Chewy-O’s account tomorrow?”

“No. I thought they were going to let that go for now.”

She looks disappointed. Well, judging by her figure, she’s not exactly one to watch her weight.

On the contrary, I notice that Susan has absorbed this news and looks pleased.

Secretly, I am, too. I love Choc-Chewy-O’s—this great cereal that tastes like Twix bars. But at ten grams of fat per half-cup serving, I never let myself eat them. Which is a shame because my friend Julie, who’s an administrative assistant in that account group, furnishes all of us with free boxes from the Choc-Chewy-O’s supply closet.

Hey, now that it’ll be lower in fat, I can actually eat it, not just watch Jack dig in.

Ho-hum.

Still no elevator.

We wait, collectively on edge. I’m sure the three of them are thinking about the meeting. I’m thinking about Choc-Chewy-O’s, wondering if the low-fat version will be out anytime soon, because I want to lose a little more weight before the wedding, especially if we decide to go to some fabulous beach resort for our honeymoon.

Actually, I’ve already decided we should. And I mentioned it to Jack last night as we were watching a commercial for some luxury hotel in the Carribbean. You know, the kind of commercial where they show clear aqua water, sumptuous food, tropical foliage and a buff couple strolling hand in hand on the beach, contemplating their future amid steel-drum music.

“Doesn’t that look amazing?” I asked Jack, who had once mentioned something about his family’s cottage up in the Catskills being the perfect spot for a honeymoon. He needs to be reprogrammed ASAP, as far as I’m concerned.

“It looks expensive,” Jack replied maddeningly, barely looking up from the TV Guide, and I knew I’d better drop the subject before he vetoed it altogether.

“Tracey, did you remember to bring our task force notes?” Carol asks me now, interrupting the steel-drum music in my head.

“Right here.” I wave the folder in my right hand. My left, which has become so happily conspicuous these past few days, is now wedged unhappily into the pocket of my black blazer. I have no desire to flash it around in front of buzzkill Adrian and that pill Miss Prim.

“What about the pork ribs nutritional data?” Carol asks me.

“Got it.”

“Good.” She nods with approval.

Miss Prim primly stares into space.

I sneak a peek at Adrian to make sure he knows that I’m not all about my wedding. No sirree Bob, I’m entirely on board with the upcoming summer campaign for Abate laxatives.

We’re going after the barbecue crowd in a big, aggressive way. All that meat, very little fiber…well, it’s a natural target audience for our product.

Unfortunately, Adrian is too busy glaring at the closed elevator bank to appreciate my uberefficiency.

An upward-bound elevator finally arrives and the four of us stride on board, where we ride in stony silence to the eighth floor.

Well, Adrian and Susan are stony. Carol is stony by association.

Me, I’m just pondering my bridal bouquet, wondering if I should go for a circular nosegay–type arrangement, or more of a cascade.

Either way, I’ll need roses. Lots of them. In red. Or maybe off-white. But not yellow, because my Sicilian grandmother says yellow roses are bad luck.

The elevator stops, dings, and we step out onto the eighth floor.

I used to think it was my imagination that the Creative Department’s offices were bigger and better than ours downstairs. I also thought Jack was just being paranoid when he claimed that the Media Department’s space two floors below—which is where he works—is dingy and small compared to the other departments.

Guess what? All true.

How do I know, you might ask?

Because my friend Latisha and I went out to Duane Reade for a tape measure one day when we were bored. We snuck around wearing our trench coats, measuring offices, taking notes, cracking ourselves up with our spy routine.

None of our underling peers—except Jack—was amused when we told them what we’d done. In addition to being amused, Jack was all, “I told you so.”

On the Creative floor, which occupies all of eight, the paint is a fresh and soothing shade of off-white. Ceilings are lofty and higher than on other floors, and most of the window offices face Lexington Avenue or the side street, where there’s a partial view of the Empire State Building.

In direct contrast: the media floor, which is all the way down on five and shares space with an architectural firm. There, the offices are painted phlegm yellow, a few square feet smaller with drop ceilings, and even some of the supervisors don’t have windows. Those who do have windows overlook views that are even more dismal than mine.

If you were going to compare the agency heirarchy to, let’s say, jeans: the Creative group would be your 7 for all mankind, the Account group would be Ralph Lauren, and Media would be Wranglers.

Wait, do they still make Wranglers?

See? That’s exactly what I mean. Media is definitely Wranglers. They exist (I’m pretty sure), and they’re functional, but nobody really notices them.

Mental note: share clever jeans/agency department analogy with Jack, who will appreciate it.

On the eighth floor, we Account people rush to the sleek and subtly lit exposed-brick and glass-walled conference room where the Creatives are waiting.

I am struck with a familiar longing to be on their side of the room. I resist the urge to sidle up to them and whisper, “I’m really one of you.”

Because technically, I’m not.

Not on the outside, anyway.

The women are collectively thin, black-clad and attractive, with sleek short haircuts, most in trendy glasses that make them look erudite and chic.

The men—most of them good-looking with longish hair—are carelessly stylish in jeans and turtlenecks with blazers. They tend to remind me of my friend Buckley, who also happens to be a freelance copywriter. They have that quick-witted, funny-sexy-smart thing going on, just like Buckley.

Jack has it, too, but in a quieter, more subtle way.

Jack. My fiancé.

Hallelujah! I actually have a fiancé!

Yet as we take our seats around the conference table, I sneak my left hand out of my pocket for a quick glimpse of my ring, just to make sure it’s really there and I didn’t imagine the whole thing.

Nope, the diamond’s there, all right—and Adrian just caught me staring lovingly at it.

Oops.

I ingeniously pretend there’s a bug crawling on my knuckle and slap at it with my right hand, saying loudly, “Ouch!”

Everyone stops talking and moving chairs to look over at me.

“Mosquito,” I explain, scratching as if I’ve just been bitten. Then I wave the air in front of my face for added authenticity. Then I remember that it’s February in a Manhattan office building.

Then I note that if I don’t stop this charade right now, I might as well keep on waving…goodbye to my brilliant advertising career.

Adrian is watching me with this expression that’s…well, I guess you’d describe it as a fascinated frown. Not in a good way.

“Tracey?” Carol interjects, looking from our boss to me. “Do you have that nutritional data for pork ribs that we’d like to add to the presentation?”

What she is really saying is, “I’m saving your ass. Now prove that it’s worth saving and show us what you’ve got.”

Good old mushroom-headed Carol.

“I have it right here,” I inform her and the rest of the group, some of whom—cough, Susan, cough—look vaguely disappointed at my efficiency. They were probably hoping to watch me slide slowly into madness. It happens all the time in this industry. I’m sure it starts with slapping at imaginary bugs, frequently on Monday mornings.

But it doesn’t happen to me.

No, I, Tracey Spadolini, account executive extraordinaire, am hell-bent on maintaining my sanity.

I whip out my manila folder and open it briskly, scanning the top document. “Pork ribs…pork ribs…pork ribs…”

…are available at Shorewood Country Club with a smoked hickory or honey-mango barbecue sauce for the cocktail hour, not the main course, at an added $5 per head.

Oops.

I stare at the reception catering menu I printed off the Internet last night, then slowly lift my head to find a roomful of expectant faces.

“Wrong folder,” I say in a small voice, pushing back my chair. “I’ll just run back down and get the right one.”

Then I bolt for the elevator, clutching the folder whose tab is labeled Wedding and decorated with lopsided red-Sharpie-drawn hearts.

It’s a little anticlimactic to walk into Tequila Murray’s that night just as two-for-one margarita happy hour is ending, where Yvonne, Brenda and Latisha are waiting to toast my engagement.

The four of us have been working at Blaire Barnett together for a few years now. Well, actually, Yvonne—who is well past retirement age—has been there a few decades, working as Adrian’s secretary. Before that—well before that, I’m sure—she was a Rockette. She still has a dancer’s lithe body and has been known to demonstrate a few kickline moves when pressed…and smashed.

I slide into the fourth chair at our regular table before hanging my bag over the back. The chair would tip over without me in it to counterbalance the weight in the black leather tote. It’s jammed with stuff—some of it work related, but most of it wedding related. Modern Bride alone is like lugging a brick doorstop around on your shoulder.

“I’m so glad you guys didn’t leave,” I tell the three of them.

“No, you’re so lucky we didn’t leave.” Brenda checks her watch. “I’ve got fifteen minutes, tops, to hang out, and Paulie said the baby is already sound asleep. I missed his bedtime nursing for the second night in a row—last night was my cousin’s baby shower and I didn’t get home till eleven. Poor little Jordan’s going to wonder where his mommy is.”

“I hate to say it,” I tell her, “but Carol and Adrian are still at the office now, making a gazillion changes to the campaign, and we have to present it again on Thursday…You’re probably all going to be working late all week.”

“Paulie might as well grow a tit,” is Yvonne’s predictably dry take on the situation before she downs the last swallow in her martini glass. She doesn’t go for “girlie drinks” like margaritas and cosmopolitan.

“Well, Susan knows I’ve got to leave early tomorrow for Keera’s teacher conference,” Latisha says firmly. She’s fiercely devoted to Keera, the now-teenage daughter she raised as a single mother before she met and married her husband, Derek. They have a child together, too, a boy Latisha the New York Yankees fanatic named after her favorite player, Bernie Williams.

Latisha has her hands full these days. Poor Keera was just diagnosed with dyslexia. Latisha has been absorbed with trying to get the right services for her while constantly doing battle with Bernie, who is a terrible two now.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I wouldn’t count on Susan letting you go early,” I tell her reluctantly. “Adrian’s on the warpath and everyone’s going to be going nuts. It’s going to be all hands on deck until the Client approves this thing.”

Is it my imagination, or is there suddenly tension in the air?

I can’t help but suddenly find myself all too aware that I’m now privy to information that isn’t readily available to the three of them, with their administrative jobs and joint cubicles down the hall.

They must be aware of it, too. But trust me, when I was promoted last month, nobody was more thrilled for me than they were.

Well, maybe Jack was—since he not only loves me but gets to reap the salary benefits.

But these three were the ones who encouraged me to ask for a promotion, and they were the ones who took me to Tequila Murray’s to celebrate the moment it came through.

Just as they insisted on taking me out tonight after Brenda shared the big news about me and Jack. I haven’t seen the others yet, thanks to the ongoing Client meeting from hell, and it was a little disappointing that I didn’t get to tell them in person. I didn’t even have time to ask Brenda to save the news for me to share—let alone time to revel in her thrilled reaction.

But I was touched when I returned to my office at last to find a bunch of congratulatory e-mails from the girls and orders to meet them here for happy hour.

“Well, anyway, I’m really sorry I’m so late,” I say apologetically, reaching for a broken-off tortilla chip from the nearly empty basket on the table and dredging it through what’s left of the salsa. “If I’d have known I was going to be stuck there this late, I would have said we should celebrate another night.”

“It’s okay…Here, we ordered you your raspberry margarita.” Brenda hands it over. “Actually we ordered one when we first got here, but we had to drink that. This is your freebie second. It’s a little melted.”

It’s pure liquid, but who cares? I take a sip and the tepid tequila burns its way down to my empty stomach. Pure heaven after a hellacious day in Account Exec Land.

“Come on, come on, give it over.” Latisha snaps her fingers and beckons for me to show her my left ring finger. “Let’s see what Jack did.”

I grin and thrust out my hand, wiggling my fingers and admiring the way the marquis-cut diamond catches the red and green neon light reflecting from the Tequila Murray’s Semi-Kosher Mexican Restaurant sign in the nearby window.

“Mmm, mmm, mmm. Look at you!” is Latisha’s satisfyingly appreciative response. “Girlfriend, that is some serious bling.”

Yvonne lifts a raspberry-colored eyebrow—tinted to match her raspberry-colored hair, which just so happens to match my melted raspberry margarita—to indicate her approval.

“Did I not tell you it was go-aw-jus?” Brenda asks in her Jersey accent, which always becomes more pronounced after a margarita or two.

“You even got a manicure,” Yvonne observes, knowing my fingernails are usually a mess.

“Don’t look too closely.” I withdraw my hand. “I did it myself last night. And I messed up a few nails trying to type while they were wet.”

“Typing?” Latisha shakes her cornrows in dismay. “Please don’t say you were working on a Sunday night.”

“I wasn’t working, I was online looking up wedding stuff.” I reach into the black tote bag and rifle around for the manila folder that doesn’t contain statistics geared toward constipated barbecue-goers.

“When are you going shopping for your dress?” Brenda asks. “Because I can come with you, if you want.”

“I already found my dress.” I pull out a dog-eared, months-old clipping from Modern Bride. “What do you think?”

Two agree that it’s beautiful, the other—guess who?—declares it go-aw-jus.

“The ad lists stores that carry it and there’s one on Madison, so I’m going to go up there as soon as I can and order it so it’ll be in on time.”

I’m about to tell them that I’ve also picked out the bridesmaids’ dresses—navy velvet sheaths—but first, I have to officially ask them to be in the wedding.

Before I can do that, Brenda asks, “Did you set a date yet?”

“Honey, she set a date last year,” Yvonne comments.

Which is true.

Still…

“Jack and I are thinking the third Saturday in October would be good.”

Rather, I’m certain the third Saturday in October is when we’re getting married, because I called Shorewood on the sly yesterday. I didn’t even give my name, because I don’t want the news of my engagement to leak back to my family through the small-town grapevine.

Although the banquet manager, Charles, wasn’t in, the waitress who answered the phone checked the book for me and said it looked like the date had been booked by someone else then crossed out. I was supposed to call Charles back today to check, but of course, I never had time.

So, yes, I’m fairly certain that we’re getting married on the third Saturday in October.

I tried to discuss the details with Jack a few times yesterday, but got nowhere. Still in the basking mode, he kept asking why we had to worry about details now.

Let me tell you, it’s a relief to be able to discuss the details with someone, even if it isn’t the actual groom.

“This is where I want to have the wedding,” I say, passing around a photo I printed off Shorewood’s Web site last night. “It’s a country club up in my hometown, right on the lake.”

“Lake Tahoe?” Yvonne asks cluelessly.

“No. Lake Erie,” I say. “Lake Tahoe is out West somewhere. California. Anyway—”

“It’s in Nevada,” Latisha cuts in. “I know because Derek wanted us to elope there at one point.”

“No, it’s in California,” Yvonne rasps, holding somebody’s margarita straw like a cigarette. I can tell she’s itching for a smoke. Who isn’t at this point?

Brenda starts to protest. “No, it’s in—”

“California!” Yvonne cuts in. “I was there once, a long time ago, and the only time I was ever in Nevada was when I was a showgirl in Vegas.”

“You were a showgirl in Vegas?” Brenda asks incredulously. “I thought you were a showgirl in New York. A Rockette.”

“Well, I was a showgirl in Vegas, too. Just for a few months,” she adds ominously, and I gather that stint didn’t have a happy ending.

“Well, you were also in Nevada more than once,” Latisha informs her, “because that’s where Lake Tahoe is.”

“Maybe it’s in both states,” Brenda interjects. “Like the Grand Canyon.”

“The Grand Canyon isn’t in California and Nevada!” I protest, wondering why we’re talking about western geography in the first place. I use it to segue neatly into eastern geography with, “Getting back to Lake Erie, though—”

“No, I know, the Grand Canyon’s in Arizona and Utah,” Brenda cuts in. “Jeez, I’m not as dumb as I look. What I meant was, it’s in two states, and maybe Lake Tahoe—”

“I don’t know…is the Grand Canyon really in Utah?” Latisha asks. “I’m trying to picture it on the map. I don’t think it’s in Utah.”

“Paulie went out there to hike the canyon a few years ago with his buddies right before we got married,” Brenda says, “and I know he said they were going to Utah because I remember I told him not to let those polygamists out there give him any ideas.”

“Oh, for the love of God.” Yvonne pulls out a cigarette and her lighter and heads for the door.

“What?” Brenda asks with an innocent little frown.

“Come on, baby girl…” Latisha shakes her head. “Do you really think Utah is swarming with polygamists who want to brainwash a bunch of hiking cops from New York?”

Who cares about any of this? is what I want to scream.

“Speaking of New York cops, Paulie’s on the night shift, so I’ve got to get home.” Brenda throws down a couple of twenties and pushes her chair back. “That covers me and my share of Tracey’s.”

“Thanks,” I say, “but you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Brenda stands over me and gives me a big squeeze. “This is your engagement celebration, remember?”

Yeah.

Only I forgot.

“Hey, wait, Brenda—”

She turns around, en route to the door. “Yeah?”

“I want you to be a bridesmaid. Will you?”

She grins broadly. “Of co-awse. It would be an hon-ah.”

Left alone at the table with temporarily abandoned Yvonne’s coat and purse and Latisha, I hastily add, “You, too. Will you be my bridesmaid?”

“Hell, yes,” she says, and hugs me hard.

I catch her checking her watch as she releases my shoulders.

“You should go,” I say, checking my own. “It’s getting late. Go tuck your kids in.”

“Ha, you think Keera lets me do that these days?” She shakes her head. “I’ve been hangin’ out here until it’s safe to go home. Which it isn’t until I know Bernie’s in bed and sound asleep. Because if he’s still awake and he hears me come in, he gets all wound up and he’s awake for another two hours, wanting to climb all over me.”

“Jack is kind of the same way,” I say with a sly smirk.

“Yeah, that won’t last.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once you’re married, everything gets to be old hat. And I mean everything. Trust me on that.”

“You mean…?”

“I do.” Latisha shakes her head. “Me and Derek used to have some big ol’ sparks goin’ on, morning, noon and especially night. Now all I want to do when I get into bed at night is sleep.”

She reaches out and pats my engagement ring. “But don’t worry, those days are way down the road for you. You just have fun planning your wedding.”

With that, she’s gone, and I’m left wondering when the fun is going to begin.

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