LITMIR.BIZ

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that many other decent places to choose from, so…”

      Oops.

      I said too much, starting with the word booked.

      But instead of asking the obvious—how can you possibly know that, if we’ve been engaged less than an hour and we’ve spent every moment of that time together?—Jack asks, “What number-one place is that?”

      “Shorewood Country Club. In Brookside,” I add at his blank look.

      “We want to have our wedding in Brookside?”

      “My hometown,” I clarify, realizing there must be a crack enclave in the South Bronx also called Brookside. No wonder he’s mixed up and wearing that are-you-out-of-your-mind? expression.

      “We never said that,” Jack informs me as he sneaks another glance at the television, where an ESPN reporter is animatedly recapping some game.

      “I know we didn’t say that. We never said anything because we never talked about it before,” I point out.

      I neglect to add, That’s because you once said something along the lines of “getting married is for assholes.”

      Pardon his French.

      “I just assumed we’d get married in Brookside,” I say instead.

      “Why?”

      Realizing a crash course in Nuptials 101 is in order, I patiently explain, “Because weddings are usually held in the bride’s hometown. Kate and Billy’s was in Mobile, remember?”

      To Jack’s credit, he doesn’t point out that there’s a tremendous difference between a charming Gulf Coast city and a tiny blue-collar town south of Buffalo on Lake Erie.

      To his discredit, he says instead, “Well, since we happen to live in New York, where there are millions of decent places to have a wedding, why wouldn’t we just get married here?”

      I’ll admit this gives me pause.

      Because, when you come right down to it…he has a point.

      Why not just get married here?

      Back when I was certain I would eventually marry my ex-boyfriend, Will McCraw—which, unbeknownst to me, Will McCraw never once considered—I assumed the wedding would be right here in New York.

      That’s because Will didn’t like Brookside. He didn’t like my family, either, I suspect, although he never said it. What he did say, frequently, and in their presence, was that he didn’t like Brookside. Pretty much in those words.

      Just one of the many reasons I suspect that all those novenas my mother sent my way for years were probably her pious Catholic answer to voodoo. If there’s any truth to the power of prayer, my messy breakup with Will can be attributed to Connie Spadolini’s direct pipeline to God. Imagine what she could accomplish if she converted all that maternal energy to global causes.

      “Well?”

      Oh, yeah. Jack is still wondering why we shouldn’t just get married here in New York. “Cost, for one thing,” I say. “Do you know how much we’d pay for a sit-down dinner for three hundred in Manhattan?”

      “Three hundred?”

      I have his full attention now—and he certainly has mine, because it looks as though I may have to administer CPR any second.

      “Tracey, you’re not serious about that, are you?”

      “A sit-down dinner? Well, we can look into a buffet, but sometimes it’s more cost effective to—”

      “No, I’m talking about the head count. Come on. Three hundred?”

      “I have a huge family, Jack. And then there’s your family, and all our co-workers, and our friends from New York, and our high-school friends, and college roommates…”

      “And don’t forget my old Cub Scout den leader or Jimmy the doorman,” he says dryly.

      I decide this is probably not a good time to mention that Jimmy the doorman was on my initial guest list—the one I pared down from just under five hundred to the aforementioned three, and with considerable angst over every cut.

      “Hey,” he says suddenly, “if we had it here in New York, I bet a lot of your family wouldn’t come.”

      I bristle at that. “So we want to have the wedding in the most inconvenient place as possible? Is that your point?”

      “No. That was definitely not my point. Forget I said anything.”

      “Listen, Jack…we don’t have to decide all of these details right now. We’re supposed to be basking in the moment, remember?”

      “I was basking,” he says defensively, and gulps some beer. “You’re the one who’s scheming.”

      “Not scheming. Planning.”

      “Planning to turn our simple little wedding into an extravaganza.”

      Our simple little wedding?

      Correct me if I’m wrong, but did I ever say anything about simple? Or little?

      Granted, the guest list is somewhat negotiable…to a certain point.

      But if there’s anything I learned from my six months of reading Modern Bride on the sly, it’s that weddings are anything but simple.

      However—how could I have forgotten?—if there’s anything I learned in the last few years of living with Jack, it’s that you don’t just spring things on him.

      He has always needed time to get used to new ideas—like, say, ordering brown rice instead of white with Chinese food. Or setting the alarm clock to radio instead of that annoying high-pitch bleating sound.

      He’s not going to instantly embrace the notion of a gala event for three hundred as opposed to a “simple little wedding.”

      The trick is to let an idea seep in and simmer for a while. If I’m lucky, and I let enough time go by, he’ll wind up thinking he came up with it himself.

      “Let’s just back-burner the wedding discussion for tonight,” I suggest. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”

      “Tomorrow?”

      “Not tomorrow?”

      “I was thinking in a few days,” he says. “Or maybe, I don’t know, next weekend? We can schedule a time when we can sit down and discuss it.”

      “You make it sound like a client meeting,” I say, only half amused and not the least bit surprised.

      As I said, he’s not the most spontaneous guy in the world, unless you’re talking about home-entertainment technology.

      Then again, a lifetime commitment to TiVo doesn’t involve a public religious ceremony, a wide circle of witnesses or exotic canapés.

      In any case, I decide to let Jack off the hook tonight. Between Raphael’s wedding and the engagement, we’ve experienced enough drama for one day.

      I go over to the couch, plop down beside him, sling my legs across his lap and my arms around his neck, and ask, “So how do you think we should celebrate our engagement?”

      “And Valentine’s Day,” he reminds me.

      “Right. I almost forgot.” I have a card and a gift-wrapped sweater for him hidden under the bed. I bought the sweater on winter clearance at Bloomingdale’s.

      Had my raise already kicked in—or had I suspected I’d be getting a delightful diamond ring today—I probably would have sprung for a nice shirt from Ralph Lauren’s spring collection for men.

      But I had no idea this was the big day. How could I? Even Jack didn’t realize it.

      So I guess he can be spontaneous after all. I mean, the man got down on his

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