Jack With a Twist

cheeseburgers at the cocktail hour!”

“Well, we are from Philly,” Jack’s mother says.

All I can think is, Please don’t say Philly cheese steak. Please don’t say Philly cheese steak.

“You are not serving Philly cheese steak at my only daughter’s Jewish wedding,” my mother says, now leaning onto the table.

See why we’re related?

“Well, of course we wouldn’t serve cheese steak at the wedding!” Jack’s mother says, laughing, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Those crazy Solomons! They almost had us going there for a minute. But, she was just kidding! And thank God, since there is no one thing in the world that is quite as offensive to a kosher butcher from Long Island than a cheese steak from Philly. Eating meat and cheese at the same time is enough of an offense to a kosher butcher as is, but the thought of using Steak-Umms in a sandwich is really just too much for my father to handle.

But, she was kidding! Which means that this thing can turn around in an instant. We can still salvage this day. In fact, we’ll probably all end up going out to dinner after this appointment. We’ll have lots of laughs and drink too much and after a while, we won’t even be able to remember a time where we didn’t all get along famously.

“But,” Joan says calmly, “we may do a little Philadelphia homage at the rehearsal dinner we’re planning for the night before the wedding for our out-of-towners.”

Almost under his breath, my father says: “You are going to serve meat and cheese at my daughter’s rehearsal dinner?” My mother and I lock eyes, both afraid to look at my father, whose face is probably bright red by now, fists clenched into tiny little balls under the table.

“Let’s move on to the cake,” the wedding coordinator asks, changing the subject. “What price range are we thinking about for the cake?”

Yes, cake. That’s it—let’s talk cake. That Catherine is good. Nothing can divert one’s interest quite like baked goods. Maybe she even has samples for us to taste and we can all have some and get on a huge sugar high and become the big happy family that I just know in my heart that we are destined to be.

Hell, at this point I’d even let my mother chug a glass of champagne if it would defuse some of the tension.

“We don’t want anything too outrageous,” my father says, “right, BB?”

“Yes,” I say, happy that my father and I have regained our composure, “something understated and moderately priced.”

“We don’t have to go moderate,” Jack’s mother whispers to me from across the table, “why don’t you just let us take care of the price of the cake?”

“It’s not just the price of the cake,” my father says, even though Joan’s remark clearly wasn’t meant for him, “I just don’t want it to look overdone and tacky.”

“Will we be giving out lamb chop party favors?” Jack’s dad asks. “That’s not tacky at all.”

“People love lamb chops,” my mother says. “Especially my husband’s. There are people who drive all the way from Westchester just to get a taste of Barry’s chops.”

“Jack,” I say, staring at my fiancé, still concentrating very hard on the albums Catherine has laid out for us, “do you have anything to contribute to this conversation?”

“Whatever you guys decide on,” he says, “is fine by me.”

“Just put us down for the most outrageous one you’ve got,” Joan says. And then, in a whisper, “on us!”

“I think we’ve made it clear,” my father says, taking a deep breath as he does, “that there is no greater pleasure in our life than to pay for BB’s wedding entirely. So Mimi and I would really appreciate it if you would let us do that.”

My mother smiles a Stepford wife smile and says: “Really. It’s our dream to throw BB the wedding she’s always dreamed of.”

“Thanks Mom and Dad,” I say, “you know, Catherine, there are so many wonderful choices you’ve got here for us. But, unfortunately, I’ve got a ton of work to do at the office, so I’m finding it hard to focus right now. I’d very much like to think about it and then come back with my parents and make my final decision.”

Wow. Don’t I sound, like, totally lawyerly?

“That sounds like a great idea, Brooke,” Catherine says, closing her notebook and giving me a warm smile. “Call me to set up the next appointment.”

“I think I’ll go powder my nose,” my mother says, pushing her chair back and getting up from the table.

“I think I’d like to come with you,” I say, as I stand, too, and round the corner to the other side of the conference room table. I give fake air kisses to Jack’s parents and ignore the fact that they try to draw me in closer for a hug. My mother does the same. When I come to Jack, I give him the same air kiss I gave his parents and I can see in his eyes that he knows why I don’t kiss him. My father reluctantly stands and says a proper good-bye to the Solomons.

“See you at home,” Jack says to my back as I’m already half-way out the door.

“See you at home,” I say without turning around. It’s the first time since Jack and I got together that I don’t kiss or hug him good-bye.

Once my mother and I determine that the coast is clear (read: Solomon-free—thank God I didn’t invite the siblings!), we go back to the conference room to pick up my father. The plan is for me to walk them to the parking garage and catch a ride back to my office on their way back to Long Island.

My father stands up as my mother and I walk into the room—he always stands when a lady enters or leaves a room—and I throw my arms around him for a big hug. As he hugs me back, I realize that I’m crying.

“I hope those are tears of happiness, BB,” my father says, “because I’m going to throw you the most beautiful wedding in the world.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, running my fingers along my eyelashes to catch the tears.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” my mother says, patting my head and then kissing it. “This will all work out. Jack will come through, just like he always does, and everything will be smooth sailing.”

“I know,” I say, but for some reason, the tears keep coming. My father takes his handkerchief out from his inside pocket.

“We’re just around the corner from Barneys,” my mother says. “Why don’t we duck in there and see what wedding dresses they’ve got?”

“I don’t think I really feel like it, Mom,” I say, as we begin walking downstairs toward the lobby.

“Call Ripley’s Believe it or Not,” my father says, “Our BB actually doesn’t want to shop. I thought that shopping was the cure to everything for my little Miller girls?”

“I just have too much work to do,” I say, carefully wiping my eyes and handing my father’s handkerchief back to him. My mascara covers the ornate monogram that my mother has put onto all of my dad’s hankies.

“Hey,” my father says, “I have an idea. Let’s all go to Don Peppe’s for dinner. There is nothing in this world that a little homemade red wine can’t fix. After a tiny glass of red and a huge plate of pasta, you’ll feel a world better. And after a cappuccino and cannoli, I promise to drive you back to your office. Whaddya say, BB?”

It would take a forty-five-minute car ride to get to Queens from midtown and even if we were seated right away, it would still take at least an hour and a half to order and eat. And you never get seated right away at Don Peppe’s. Then it would be another forty-five minutes to get back into the city, assuming we don’t hit any traffic, so that means I couldn’t possibly be back at my desk any sooner than three hours. And then eighty to one hundred hours of work awaits me.

But, then again, I’m not exactly rushing to go home to see Jack tonight, so what’s the hurry to get back to work?

“Sounds perfect,” I say as we reach the parking garage. We all pile into my father’s car and head toward the Midtown Tunnel.

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