and left it there.
All I could do was just sit in the car and breathe. I hadn’t realized
it, but I’d been holding my breath—for the last two years. I’d been
hoping Ethan would remember the promises we’d made to each other and come
running back, full of remorse. I’d never been one to revel in others’
misfortune, but there was something inherently karmic about the fact that the
business that took priority over me, let him down. I was the one woman who
loved him inside and out, yet he chose the cheap thrills and hollow vows that
only a life of greed could dangle out front and fail to deliver. But, the
weight of his apology made me feel light and airy, elated. Then, the smile that
M
om always knew was
lurking beneath the gravel of pain decided to show itself. I laughed aloud. A
vibrant, rumbling, funny-to-the-gut, chuckle erupted from somewhere deep in my
soul, releasing me. I was tickled pink with joy that was caged by my own
self-inflicted wounds.
Floating so high on my cloud, I was tempted to flake on Mom. She had
a knack for pointing out the negative, and I didn’t want to be brought down.
But, thoughts of the diminishing time left until the wedding, kept me grounded.
I needed to get on track with my
maid of honor
duties.
My mind was still roaming as I curved through a second roundabout.
Mom and Dad lived on the edge of Summerlin , the most
affluent master-planned community in the county. A little too
ritzy for my budget. Really it
would
be cheeky to call the house merely a
home. With lush landscapes surrounding several thousand square feet of ruggedly
beautiful ledge stone siding, the gorgeous monstrosity was more akin to an
estate.
Before, I could even get out of the car, the front door opened and
Mom fluttered toward me in her zebra print moo-moo. A tumbleweed of teased
black hair
and
red lipstick—insignia of the drama queen, oozing with Hollywood glamour.
With her, it’s always a production. To her, someone is always watching
—
ever she is the
thespian since her debut as Blanche DuBois in the Las
Vegas Theatre in the Park rendition of A
Streetcar Named Desire .
Feeling playful, I sashayed toward her and swooped her into an
Oscar-worthy embrace, “Blanche!”
“As I’ve always said, you’ve missed your calling. Broadway’s waiting
for you.” She bragged on me. After all, I
was
her daughter and therefore perfect in
every way.
There was a champagne-colored Impala parked in front of the
neighbor’s house
, which
I figured belonged to the photographer. There wasn’t a person, car, or visitor
on the block, she didn’t know or make it her business to find out about. “Is
this the photographer’s car?” I asked for the sake of conversation and my own
sanity, trying to keep the visit moving along at a timely pace.
“Yes. He’s already here,” she confirmed. Gushing, she continued
,
“
H
e’s on time and professional. Just another thing I love about him.”
He’s a man, which automatically put him in
M
om’s good graces as she tried them on for
son-in-law size. I’d imagined the photographer in a sleek black Mercedes S-
C
lass. Something more
fitting of a flashy paparazzo who pick
ed
up seasoned women in the
post office in his spare time. Given the Impala, he could’ve either been a
middle-aged Mr. Mom on a break from all his domestic duties or the
distinguished gentleman with salt
-
and
-
pepper Sir Sean Connery hair. It didn’t
mesh. Mom knew my type
—
tall,
dark, and handsome. But what would she do to marry me off and get some
grandkids?
Suddenly I was overtaken with
curiosity
—and nervous. If it were just
photography that the mystery man had to offer, she would’ve gladly taken the
lead and jumped on the opportunity to take credit for yet another item on
Lena’s list. More than anything, she liked being in control
—
and holding it over our heads. But,
her willingness to let me handle “the details,” as she called them, made me
worry. She was up to no good for sure.
All I could do was just sit in the car and breathe. I hadn’t realized
it, but I’d been holding my breath—for the last two years. I’d been
hoping Ethan would remember the promises we’d made to each other and come
running back, full of remorse. I’d never been one to revel in others’
misfortune, but there was something inherently karmic about the fact that the
business that took priority over me, let him down. I was the one woman who
loved him inside and out, yet he chose the cheap thrills and hollow vows that
only a life of greed could dangle out front and fail to deliver. But, the
weight of his apology made me feel light and airy, elated. Then, the smile that
M
om always knew was
lurking beneath the gravel of pain decided to show itself. I laughed aloud. A
vibrant, rumbling, funny-to-the-gut, chuckle erupted from somewhere deep in my
soul, releasing me. I was tickled pink with joy that was caged by my own
self-inflicted wounds.
Floating so high on my cloud, I was tempted to flake on Mom. She had
a knack for pointing out the negative, and I didn’t want to be brought down.
But, thoughts of the diminishing time left until the wedding, kept me grounded.
I needed to get on track with my
maid of honor
duties.
My mind was still roaming as I curved through a second roundabout.
Mom and Dad lived on the edge of Summerlin , the most
affluent master-planned community in the county. A little too
ritzy for my budget. Really it
would
be cheeky to call the house merely a
home. With lush landscapes surrounding several thousand square feet of ruggedly
beautiful ledge stone siding, the gorgeous monstrosity was more akin to an
estate.
Before, I could even get out of the car, the front door opened and
Mom fluttered toward me in her zebra print moo-moo. A tumbleweed of teased
black hair
and
red lipstick—insignia of the drama queen, oozing with Hollywood glamour.
With her, it’s always a production. To her, someone is always watching
—
ever she is the
thespian since her debut as Blanche DuBois in the Las
Vegas Theatre in the Park rendition of A
Streetcar Named Desire .
Feeling playful, I sashayed toward her and swooped her into an
Oscar-worthy embrace, “Blanche!”
“As I’ve always said, you’ve missed your calling. Broadway’s waiting
for you.” She bragged on me. After all, I
was
her daughter and therefore perfect in
every way.
There was a champagne-colored Impala parked in front of the
neighbor’s house
, which
I figured belonged to the photographer. There wasn’t a person, car, or visitor
on the block, she didn’t know or make it her business to find out about. “Is
this the photographer’s car?” I asked for the sake of conversation and my own
sanity, trying to keep the visit moving along at a timely pace.
“Yes. He’s already here,” she confirmed. Gushing, she continued
,
“
H
e’s on time and professional. Just another thing I love about him.”
He’s a man, which automatically put him in
M
om’s good graces as she tried them on for
son-in-law size. I’d imagined the photographer in a sleek black Mercedes S-
C
lass. Something more
fitting of a flashy paparazzo who pick
ed
up seasoned women in the
post office in his spare time. Given the Impala, he could’ve either been a
middle-aged Mr. Mom on a break from all his domestic duties or the
distinguished gentleman with salt
-
and
-
pepper Sir Sean Connery hair. It didn’t
mesh. Mom knew my type
—
tall,
dark, and handsome. But what would she do to marry me off and get some
grandkids?
Suddenly I was overtaken with
curiosity
—and nervous. If it were just
photography that the mystery man had to offer, she would’ve gladly taken the
lead and jumped on the opportunity to take credit for yet another item on
Lena’s list. More than anything, she liked being in control
—
and holding it over our heads. But,
her willingness to let me handle “the details,” as she called them, made me
worry. She was up to no good for sure.
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