verify Gram’s sources.
After dinner Stephen and I drove an hour to his mom’s house for dessert. I’d forgotten how beautiful it is. It makes me crazy to think that I’m begging to have my wedding reception in the dismal Americana of my parents’ backyard when we could be celebrating in style at Mrs. Stewart’s Shangri-la.
My parents’ house is functional and clean. My mom’s always decorated like she taught: quick and to the point. If you need a chair somewhere—boom, you’ve got a chair. So what if it doesn’t match anything else in the room. It’s got four legs and a seat. Now sit. But Mrs. Stewart treats her house like a showroom. Everything matches and shines and inspires a cozy sense of financial security and an endless supply of nourishing homemade meals. And the place is enormous. The three kids each had their own bed AND bathroom. Then there’s the front lawn, the back lawn, and the clay tennis court. If only!
But no.
Mrs. Stewart served us homemade pecan pie and ice cream. Stephen’s sister, Kimberly, was there, so we were four. But instead of sitting in the bright and happy breakfast nook, we sat in the dining room at the huge formal table for twelve. The only light in the entire room was a single candle. It was like dining at the haunted mansion at Walt Disney World.
I am beginning to understand Stephen’s position about NOT having our reception at his mom’s house. Mrs. Stewart is clearly experiencing post-divorce depression. Some days she’s up, up, up—but most of the time she’sdown and irritated. It’s impossible to watch without feeling terribly sorry for her. Not to mention the fact that it’s hardly a desirable temperament in the person whose personal space you’re about to invade with caterers and ninety wedding guests—including the architect of her devastation and his perky young girlfriend. Yes, I was beginning to see Stephen’s point.
As Mrs. Stewart listlessly continued to feed her pie to Chuffy, Kimberly talked a blue streak about the new sofa she bought for her living room. Despite her self-absorbed monologue Kimberly did manage to get a few digs in at me: A disparaging reference to
Round-Up
and a pointed comment about women who hit thirty and marry out of desperation. I’ve always politely suffered her vacuousness, but her aggressive behavior really pissed me off.
So I called her on it as we were getting ready to leave. “Is something wrong?”
Kimberly looked at me, surveyed the room for witnesses, then turned back with an expression I can only describe as what Amy Fisher must have looked like before shooting Mary Jo Buttafuoco in the head. “Yeah.” She pointed an accusatory finger at my engagement ring. “That’s what’s wrong. My grandmother must have been high on Citrucel to give it to you. That emerald belongs to me. It’s been in our family for four generations. It’s worth a
shitload
of money. And it should’ve been
mine.
”
I wanted to tell the Honda-driving brat to kiss my ass and then some, but just then Stephen appeared, forcing me to smile and end our conversation with a terse “Tough luck, Kim.”
After all, how dare she?
Then, waving good-bye to Stephen’s depressed mother,his bitter sister, and the sugar-high family pet, we drove across town to see his dad.
Mr. Stewart and Misty had eaten Thanksgiving dinner at a local restaurant with Tom. By the time we arrived at the condo, Mr. Stewart and Tom were splayed on the couch in food comas while Misty was in the tiny galley kitchen brewing coffee. Not surprisingly, Stephen opted to join his father on the couch and steer clear of Misty.
I’d only met Misty once, a few months ago when Stephen and I dropped something off at Mr. Stewart’s apartment. But it was brief and we certainly didn’t have a conversation. So all I knew about Misty was what Stephen had told me—she was a sick and manipulative woman in search of a father figure—and what I could tell by looking at her—she was
After dinner Stephen and I drove an hour to his mom’s house for dessert. I’d forgotten how beautiful it is. It makes me crazy to think that I’m begging to have my wedding reception in the dismal Americana of my parents’ backyard when we could be celebrating in style at Mrs. Stewart’s Shangri-la.
My parents’ house is functional and clean. My mom’s always decorated like she taught: quick and to the point. If you need a chair somewhere—boom, you’ve got a chair. So what if it doesn’t match anything else in the room. It’s got four legs and a seat. Now sit. But Mrs. Stewart treats her house like a showroom. Everything matches and shines and inspires a cozy sense of financial security and an endless supply of nourishing homemade meals. And the place is enormous. The three kids each had their own bed AND bathroom. Then there’s the front lawn, the back lawn, and the clay tennis court. If only!
But no.
Mrs. Stewart served us homemade pecan pie and ice cream. Stephen’s sister, Kimberly, was there, so we were four. But instead of sitting in the bright and happy breakfast nook, we sat in the dining room at the huge formal table for twelve. The only light in the entire room was a single candle. It was like dining at the haunted mansion at Walt Disney World.
I am beginning to understand Stephen’s position about NOT having our reception at his mom’s house. Mrs. Stewart is clearly experiencing post-divorce depression. Some days she’s up, up, up—but most of the time she’sdown and irritated. It’s impossible to watch without feeling terribly sorry for her. Not to mention the fact that it’s hardly a desirable temperament in the person whose personal space you’re about to invade with caterers and ninety wedding guests—including the architect of her devastation and his perky young girlfriend. Yes, I was beginning to see Stephen’s point.
As Mrs. Stewart listlessly continued to feed her pie to Chuffy, Kimberly talked a blue streak about the new sofa she bought for her living room. Despite her self-absorbed monologue Kimberly did manage to get a few digs in at me: A disparaging reference to
Round-Up
and a pointed comment about women who hit thirty and marry out of desperation. I’ve always politely suffered her vacuousness, but her aggressive behavior really pissed me off.
So I called her on it as we were getting ready to leave. “Is something wrong?”
Kimberly looked at me, surveyed the room for witnesses, then turned back with an expression I can only describe as what Amy Fisher must have looked like before shooting Mary Jo Buttafuoco in the head. “Yeah.” She pointed an accusatory finger at my engagement ring. “That’s what’s wrong. My grandmother must have been high on Citrucel to give it to you. That emerald belongs to me. It’s been in our family for four generations. It’s worth a
shitload
of money. And it should’ve been
mine.
”
I wanted to tell the Honda-driving brat to kiss my ass and then some, but just then Stephen appeared, forcing me to smile and end our conversation with a terse “Tough luck, Kim.”
After all, how dare she?
Then, waving good-bye to Stephen’s depressed mother,his bitter sister, and the sugar-high family pet, we drove across town to see his dad.
Mr. Stewart and Misty had eaten Thanksgiving dinner at a local restaurant with Tom. By the time we arrived at the condo, Mr. Stewart and Tom were splayed on the couch in food comas while Misty was in the tiny galley kitchen brewing coffee. Not surprisingly, Stephen opted to join his father on the couch and steer clear of Misty.
I’d only met Misty once, a few months ago when Stephen and I dropped something off at Mr. Stewart’s apartment. But it was brief and we certainly didn’t have a conversation. So all I knew about Misty was what Stephen had told me—she was a sick and manipulative woman in search of a father figure—and what I could tell by looking at her—she was
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