The smile that spread over my face was instant, and broad. “Oh. Simon is most certainly my guy.”
“So relax. Enjoy it. Worry about you two, and let your friends do their own thing. Marriage is different things to different people, and not everyone needs it. Some people want the piece of paper, some don’t need it. Who’s to say which is the right choice? Not me, that’s for damn sure.”
She finished her tea and signaled for the waiter. “Now, if you want to ask me which choice is correct for Peggy Wimple’s sectional in her new theater room, I’d be happy to tell you. Because you got it wrong, little miss protégée.” She laughed, slapping down a tear sheet from a project I’d in fact just ordered the sectional for. “Let me show you why I’m the Jillian in Jillian Designs.”
And she proceeded to do just that. And when she was finished, I had no choice but to agree with her.
Back home, a few nights later.
“Babe, where’d all the little golf pencils go?”
“No one has ever said that sentence before, Simon.”
“You know, the little pencils that came with Scattergories? Where are they?”
“Oh. Right, I think Mimi broke them all at the last game night. You know what a sore loser she is.”
We were having everyone over to the house tonight for game night, since Jillian and Benjamin were home from Amsterdam. We knew it would be harder to plan these once the baby came, so we wanted to all get together while we still could.
“Why do we always get stuck hosting this night?” Simon asked, poking his head around the door to the bathroom, where I was trying to get ready.
“Because we have the biggest house now, the best entertaining space. That’s why,” I said, applying my mascara.
“You look like a fish.”
“Huh?”
“When you put mascara on. Your mouth hangs open and you look like a fish waiting for bait, every time I’ve ever seen you put that stuff on. Why is that?”
“It’s the only way to put it on.”
“But why?”
“No one knows, Simon; it’s just what you do when you put mascara on.”
“Like as a rule?”
“Stop talking to me while I look like a fish and let me get pretty, for goodness’ sake,” I squawked, and he disappeared around the corner. I finished putting on my face, and I did actually try to finish my mascara with my mouth closed, but it just wasn’t possible. I was reaching for my lip gloss when his head popped back around the doorframe.
“By the way, we’ve been invited to Philadelphia.”
“Where the cheesesteaks live? Whatever it’s for, we say yes!”
“Yes to cheesesteaks, or yes to the invite?’
“Wasn’t kidding at all when I said whatever it’s for, we say yes. But now that you mentioned it, what exactly are we invited to?” I hoped he didn’t notice that the drooling had officially begun.
“Trevor, my old friend from high school? You remember his wife, Megan, right?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Okay?” he said, squinting at me in a curious way.
“Megan was able to get me the single most important item in this entire house.”
“She got you that new vibrator?”
“Jesus . . .”
“Oh, the cookbook, right,” he said, remembering.
Megan used to work for the Food Network, and was able to secure me a signed copy of the original Barefoot Contessa cookbook. By Ina Garten. Signed to me by the way; one of those “Best wishes, Ina” deals. It honest-to-God said:
To Caroline—
Best Wishes,
Ina
Go ahead and be jealous. I’ll wait.
Simon, on the other hand, would not.
“Okay, so you remember Megan.”
“Remember her? Did you not hear me say single most important—”
“I got it, babe. Are you at all curious about hearing what they’re up to, or are you just going to spend some head-space time dreaming of Ina and her kitchen?”
“And me in her kitchen. If you’re going to get into my daydream, you have to set the scene correctly. I’m there with Ina, in her kitchen in the Hamptons, and we’re cooking up something wonderful for you and her husband, Jeffrey. Something with roasted chicken, which she’ll teach me how to carve perfectly. And roasted carrots, which she’ll pronounce with that subtle New York accent of hers, where it sounds like she’s saying kerrits.”
“I worry about you sometimes,” Simon said, reaching over to feel my forehead.
“I’m perfectly fine. Don’t worry about me, I’ll continue my fantasy later. So what’s up in Philly?”
“Oh, we’re back to my story now?” he asked, and I leaned in and kissed him in apology.
“Sorry, babe, tell me all about Trevor and that wonderful wife of his,” I said. I was playing with him, but I actually liked both of them. We’d gone back to Simon’s hometown for his tenth high school reunion last year, and he was welcomed back like a conquering hero. He hadn’t been back since he graduated high school, not long after both of his parents were killed in a car accident. No one had seen him since, and while he was initially nervous about how he’d be received, he was very quickly convinced that everyone was just thrilled he was back. In high school he’d been the homecoming king and everything that you’d assume comes with it. High school Simon was big man on campus. He’d had his own posse of what I called the apostles (his old pals Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John), headed by his old bestie, Trevor. We’d spent a lot of the reunion evening with him and his new wife, Megan, who was then pregnant with their first.
“How are they enjoying their new life with baby?”
“Enough that she’s pregnant again,” Simon said, and I dropped my lip gloss.
“What the hell is in the water these days? I’m switching to vodka. Always.”
“I’ll vote yes to that—vodka makes you crazy, and horny. And adventurous. You go on an all-vodka diet, and I’m pretty sure I can convince you to try that thing that you never let me do.”
“All the vodka in the world isn’t getting you in there, so forget it Simon,” I said, poking him with my lip gloss as he pouted. “So, Megan’s pregnant again—wow. Tell them congratulations from me.”
“That’s what started this whole thing. They’ve invited us out for the christening of baby number one, and to help celebrate baby number two. It’s next month; think you can get some time off?”
“So relax. Enjoy it. Worry about you two, and let your friends do their own thing. Marriage is different things to different people, and not everyone needs it. Some people want the piece of paper, some don’t need it. Who’s to say which is the right choice? Not me, that’s for damn sure.”
She finished her tea and signaled for the waiter. “Now, if you want to ask me which choice is correct for Peggy Wimple’s sectional in her new theater room, I’d be happy to tell you. Because you got it wrong, little miss protégée.” She laughed, slapping down a tear sheet from a project I’d in fact just ordered the sectional for. “Let me show you why I’m the Jillian in Jillian Designs.”
And she proceeded to do just that. And when she was finished, I had no choice but to agree with her.
Back home, a few nights later.
“Babe, where’d all the little golf pencils go?”
“No one has ever said that sentence before, Simon.”
“You know, the little pencils that came with Scattergories? Where are they?”
“Oh. Right, I think Mimi broke them all at the last game night. You know what a sore loser she is.”
We were having everyone over to the house tonight for game night, since Jillian and Benjamin were home from Amsterdam. We knew it would be harder to plan these once the baby came, so we wanted to all get together while we still could.
“Why do we always get stuck hosting this night?” Simon asked, poking his head around the door to the bathroom, where I was trying to get ready.
“Because we have the biggest house now, the best entertaining space. That’s why,” I said, applying my mascara.
“You look like a fish.”
“Huh?”
“When you put mascara on. Your mouth hangs open and you look like a fish waiting for bait, every time I’ve ever seen you put that stuff on. Why is that?”
“It’s the only way to put it on.”
“But why?”
“No one knows, Simon; it’s just what you do when you put mascara on.”
“Like as a rule?”
“Stop talking to me while I look like a fish and let me get pretty, for goodness’ sake,” I squawked, and he disappeared around the corner. I finished putting on my face, and I did actually try to finish my mascara with my mouth closed, but it just wasn’t possible. I was reaching for my lip gloss when his head popped back around the doorframe.
“By the way, we’ve been invited to Philadelphia.”
“Where the cheesesteaks live? Whatever it’s for, we say yes!”
“Yes to cheesesteaks, or yes to the invite?’
“Wasn’t kidding at all when I said whatever it’s for, we say yes. But now that you mentioned it, what exactly are we invited to?” I hoped he didn’t notice that the drooling had officially begun.
“Trevor, my old friend from high school? You remember his wife, Megan, right?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Okay?” he said, squinting at me in a curious way.
“Megan was able to get me the single most important item in this entire house.”
“She got you that new vibrator?”
“Jesus . . .”
“Oh, the cookbook, right,” he said, remembering.
Megan used to work for the Food Network, and was able to secure me a signed copy of the original Barefoot Contessa cookbook. By Ina Garten. Signed to me by the way; one of those “Best wishes, Ina” deals. It honest-to-God said:
To Caroline—
Best Wishes,
Ina
Go ahead and be jealous. I’ll wait.
Simon, on the other hand, would not.
“Okay, so you remember Megan.”
“Remember her? Did you not hear me say single most important—”
“I got it, babe. Are you at all curious about hearing what they’re up to, or are you just going to spend some head-space time dreaming of Ina and her kitchen?”
“And me in her kitchen. If you’re going to get into my daydream, you have to set the scene correctly. I’m there with Ina, in her kitchen in the Hamptons, and we’re cooking up something wonderful for you and her husband, Jeffrey. Something with roasted chicken, which she’ll teach me how to carve perfectly. And roasted carrots, which she’ll pronounce with that subtle New York accent of hers, where it sounds like she’s saying kerrits.”
“I worry about you sometimes,” Simon said, reaching over to feel my forehead.
“I’m perfectly fine. Don’t worry about me, I’ll continue my fantasy later. So what’s up in Philly?”
“Oh, we’re back to my story now?” he asked, and I leaned in and kissed him in apology.
“Sorry, babe, tell me all about Trevor and that wonderful wife of his,” I said. I was playing with him, but I actually liked both of them. We’d gone back to Simon’s hometown for his tenth high school reunion last year, and he was welcomed back like a conquering hero. He hadn’t been back since he graduated high school, not long after both of his parents were killed in a car accident. No one had seen him since, and while he was initially nervous about how he’d be received, he was very quickly convinced that everyone was just thrilled he was back. In high school he’d been the homecoming king and everything that you’d assume comes with it. High school Simon was big man on campus. He’d had his own posse of what I called the apostles (his old pals Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John), headed by his old bestie, Trevor. We’d spent a lot of the reunion evening with him and his new wife, Megan, who was then pregnant with their first.
“How are they enjoying their new life with baby?”
“Enough that she’s pregnant again,” Simon said, and I dropped my lip gloss.
“What the hell is in the water these days? I’m switching to vodka. Always.”
“I’ll vote yes to that—vodka makes you crazy, and horny. And adventurous. You go on an all-vodka diet, and I’m pretty sure I can convince you to try that thing that you never let me do.”
“All the vodka in the world isn’t getting you in there, so forget it Simon,” I said, poking him with my lip gloss as he pouted. “So, Megan’s pregnant again—wow. Tell them congratulations from me.”
“That’s what started this whole thing. They’ve invited us out for the christening of baby number one, and to help celebrate baby number two. It’s next month; think you can get some time off?”
