“Right,” I say, “then it was Patricia.”
“That is so like her,” he says, baby blues narrowing.
“Really?” I ask, excited to get some Solomon family gossip. Jack never speaks badly about any of his family members. Ever. Come to think of it, he never really talks about his family at all, so I was excited to get the inside scoop. As an only child, there’s really not much to talk about with each other (Dad: Did you hear that your mother is making meat loaf for dinner again? Again? Me: Why don’t you just ask her about it? She’s standing right there.) I mean, what’s the point of being part of a big family if you don’t get to gossip about each other?
“No,” he says, “not really. I just thought I was still doing that whole ‘you have to agree with me all the time thing.’”
“Yeah,” I say, giving him a peck on the lips. “That’s pretty much always in effect.”
“Maybe you called her the wrong name and that’s why she wasn’t that excited about it,” he says, looking down at me with a smile.
“Um, still in effect!” I say and Jack smiles even wider.
We sit in silence, looking out our respective windows, me leaning on Jack, as the cab drives through the Helmsley building over Grand Central Station and into midtown Manhattan. The florist is on 61st Street, between Park and Madison, so we’re almost there. But that’s not the reason why we stop talking. We stop talking because there’s nothing to actually talk about. We can’t talk about work—the Monique case is the biggest case that either of us is working on, and we can’t talk about the wedding. Jack knows I’m still ever-so-slightly on edge about the fact that my parents have been bullied into having a wedding at the Pierre when what they really wanted for me was a traditional Jewish ceremony at a conservative temple on the South Shore of Long Island.
Our taxi stops right in front of Maximo Floral Concepts and I hop out as Jack pays the fare. The entranceway to the floral shop is done up to the hilt, with massive vines of ivy intertwined with crimson-red roses completely covering the stone-wall entranceway. As you walk through the cherry-wood doors, the delicious aroma of lilacs and lavender hits you and you can’t help but stop and take a deep breath. The second we get inside, Jack squeezes my hand and leans over to give me a kiss.
“The newlyweds!” my mother cries out as we walk inside.
“We’re not newlyweds, we’re recently engaged, Mom,” I say as I look around for the bottle of champagne.
“Ah, the couple of the hour!” the florist says, walking over to us with two glasses of champagne.
So,
“I am Maximo,” the florist says in grand style, throwing his arms out wide as if he were a magician, with an accent that is definitely either Spanish or Italian. He bows slightly before extending his hand for us to shake. He shakes Jack’s hand first and then takes mine delicately and gives it a little peck as only a Spaniard would. Or an Italian.
“Oh, Maximo,” my mother titters. I give Maximo a tightlipped smile and then shoot another glare in my mother’s direction. I’m not sure why she’s flirting with him since it’s well known that Maximo owns this shop with his life partner, Federico.
“So, I was thinking white roses,” my mother says, taking my hand and leading me through the showroom. “Maximo has a gorgeous display back here that’s even in our price range!” She throws her head back and says the “price range” part loudly for Maximo to hear. He politely laughs at her lame joke.
“My guy on the island can do it for cheaper,” my father says, leaning against a very expensive-looking trellis.
“We can’t have Long Island flowers for a New York City hotel wedding,” my mother says, dropping my arm from hers and walking over to my father. Since deciding to have the wedding at the Pierre, she has very much embraced the idea of a New York City hotel wedding. I’m just happy that she has something to brag about to her mah-jongg game now that Monique’s not designing my dress anymore.
“What?” my father asks, “now
“No one hates Long Island,” I say with a smile as I walk over to Jack and pull his arm close to me.
“Oh,” my father says, “then it’s just the Long Island
“No one hates anything, Mr. Miller,” Jack says, breaking from my grip and walking over to my father. “It’s just that, well, it’s silly. You see, my parents always dreamed that I’d be getting married at the Pierre. When they got married, they had just graduated from college and they didn’t have a dime. Their parents could barely afford to throw them a proper wedding and they weren’t even allowed to invite all of their friends. Now that they’ve worked so hard to achieve so much, they just want me to have the wedding that they never had. I hope you can understand.”
“Our Jackie is such a mensch,” my mother says and throws her arms around Jack. My father looks over to me and we just look at each other. I know that he’s thinking:
Truth be told, I’m sort of thinking the same thing, too.
“Let us give the lovebirds some time to walk around and see our selection,” Maximo says, coming between all of us and taking Jack’s and my hands. “Now, go, lovebirds. Go and get inspired.” But, since he’s Spanish (or Italian), he says the “inspired” part as if in slow motion: een-spy-yeyrd. Which sort of does have the effect of inspiring me.
Jack takes my hand and we begin to walk through the showroom. From the outside, it was hard to tell how large Maximo’s showroom would be, it looked like it would be the size of any regular Manhattan store, but as we walk through it, it keeps getting larger and larger, like one of those dreams where you discover that your very own house has extra hidden rooms that you never even knew about.
“Why couldn’t you have been this diplomatic the other night when we were at your parents’ house?” I ask Jack, as we walk through a gazebo lined with pink hydrangeas.
“You’re right,” Jack says, as he guides me toward a tiny bridge with a stream of running water flowing under it. “I agree with everything you just said and you are always 100 percent right. About everything. Always. Ever.”
“I’m serious, Jack,” I say, looking down at the water. The waves are so delicate, so beautiful and the sound of the trickling water makes me wish that I could see the bottom of the pond.
“You know how hard it is for me to have a relationship with my father,” Jack says, tugging at my arm so that I’m forced to turn and face him. “You know how hard it is to stand up to him. My family isn’t like yours.”
Jack looks at me, baby blues deep and dark as night, and runs his fingers through his hair.
“I know, Jackie,” I say. “I know.”
“They are nothing like your family. And I’m just doing the best that I can with him,” Jack says. “Can’t you try to understand that for me?”
“I know,” I say. “I just wish that you knew what was important.”
“I know what’s important,” he says, mouth fighting back a smile, “Didn’t I tell you that you can buy as many Manolos as you want?”
“And baby Manolos,” I say. “Which don’t even exist. You promised me those, too.”
“Even baby Manolos. So, does this mean that you’re dropping the case?” he asks, eyes wide with anticipation.
“God, no, Jackie,” I say, “this is the first client I’ve ever brought in and my first shot at being the lead attorney. Why should
“But, this is a high-profile client,” Jack says, “and I need to show the big boys at the firm that I can handle the big clients. Especially Mel. How can I tell him now that I don’t want the case he brought in especially for me?”
“Mel loves me,” I say, “just explain the situation to him.”
“Mel would not understand. And anyway, word on the street is that Old Man Trattner is going to be coming in to visit the firm at the end of the month, and I want to make sure that I’ve got this high-profile case on my desk.”
