Read Online Jack with a Twist by Brenda Janowitz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brenda Janowitz
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able to get here for the big day.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Jack’s mother says. Unfortunate? My mother looks immediately at me and I look at Jack. Jack looks down into his halibut and pretends he didn’t just hear his mother say that. Or that it didn’t really mean anything. Before meeting me, Jack had been engaged to a woman for three and a half years without ever having set a wedding date. You’d think his parents would be more appreciative of the fact that I’ve at least nailed their son down to a season.
“March could work,” brother-in-law #3 says, mouth full of salmon, “March is part spring, part winter.”
“Sometimes there’s still snow in March,” brother-in-law #1 says, as he motions to a servant for more wine to be poured.
“No, there’s not, Adam,” Elizabeth says, looking at light-blue Loro Piana. My system would be back on track, but for the fact that I’m not a hundred percent sure whether she actually just said Adam, or if she may have said Aaron instead. Or Alan, for that matter.
“Sometimes there is, Elizabeth,” Lisa says. “April sounds great, Brooke.”
“How is he going to have a wedding in April,” brother-in-law #2 says, nodding his head in the direction of Jack’s father, “when he’s working like an animal on his caseload?”
“Maybe he doesn’t have to work like an animal,” Elizabeth says, looking at her father. Edward clears his throat loudly.
“No, Adam’s right,” I say, trying to be diplomatic, “we can do March if that would work best.”
“I’m Aaron,” brother-in-law #1 says.
“Didn’t I say that?” I say, taking a huge gulp of wine.
“Yes,” Jack says, putting his arm around the back of my chair and brushing his fingers against my shoulder, “that’s what she said.”
“Anyway,” brother-in-law # 3 interjects, “the date is usually influenced by the venue. You have to pick from the dates that your venue has available.”
“That’s not going to be a problem,” my father says.
“It’s not?” Joan asks, taking a sip of wine.
“Our rabbi is so happy to see our BB getting married that they’ll do anything we ask. They’re even going to give us a huge discount on the reception room at the temple,” my father proudly tells Jack’s dad. Bragging about the discounts he brokers is one of my father’s greatest pleasures in life. “And, of course, I’ll be supplying all of the meat—my best cuts, of course—so we’ve got the venue and the catering covered.”
“A temple?” Jack’s father says. His voice is big and strong and everyone seems to notice at the same time that this is the first word he’s uttered during this entire debate. Which only makes his few words that much more powerful and scary. I can tell that this is a strategy he uses with attorneys in his courtroom—lying in wait until you’re ready to pounce and make your word gospel. Which, if you’re an appellate court judge, is pretty much any time you speak. I look at Jack and he’s still got his head down in his plate. Man, he must really love his halibut. “Joan and I were thinking about a New York City hotel wedding. Weren’t we, dear?”
“We love the Pierre,” Joan says softly. I look at my mother and she is trying to maintain a gracious smile with her mouth frozen in place and teeth gritted together.
“Jackie?” I say.
“We like the Pierre, too,” Jack says, looking up from his plate, “remember, we went to that charity event there this summer?”
“I forget,” I say. Jack regales the table with a story about how we couldn’t find a cab after the charity event and ended up taking a horse-drawn carriage at 1:00 a.m. all the way down Fifth Avenue from 59th Street to 23rd. I take the cocktail napkin that has been underneath my wineglass since we came from the salon to the dining room out from under my wineglass. It’s an ivory napkin with a large S embossed on the front. I tear it into two pieces. And then into four.
“But,
“That’s unfortunate,” Jack’s mother says. Unfortunate? My mother looks immediately at me and I look at Jack. Jack looks down into his halibut and pretends he didn’t just hear his mother say that. Or that it didn’t really mean anything. Before meeting me, Jack had been engaged to a woman for three and a half years without ever having set a wedding date. You’d think his parents would be more appreciative of the fact that I’ve at least nailed their son down to a season.
“March could work,” brother-in-law #3 says, mouth full of salmon, “March is part spring, part winter.”
“Sometimes there’s still snow in March,” brother-in-law #1 says, as he motions to a servant for more wine to be poured.
“No, there’s not, Adam,” Elizabeth says, looking at light-blue Loro Piana. My system would be back on track, but for the fact that I’m not a hundred percent sure whether she actually just said Adam, or if she may have said Aaron instead. Or Alan, for that matter.
“Sometimes there is, Elizabeth,” Lisa says. “April sounds great, Brooke.”
“How is he going to have a wedding in April,” brother-in-law #2 says, nodding his head in the direction of Jack’s father, “when he’s working like an animal on his caseload?”
“Maybe he doesn’t have to work like an animal,” Elizabeth says, looking at her father. Edward clears his throat loudly.
“No, Adam’s right,” I say, trying to be diplomatic, “we can do March if that would work best.”
“I’m Aaron,” brother-in-law #1 says.
“Didn’t I say that?” I say, taking a huge gulp of wine.
“Yes,” Jack says, putting his arm around the back of my chair and brushing his fingers against my shoulder, “that’s what she said.”
“Anyway,” brother-in-law # 3 interjects, “the date is usually influenced by the venue. You have to pick from the dates that your venue has available.”
“That’s not going to be a problem,” my father says.
“It’s not?” Joan asks, taking a sip of wine.
“Our rabbi is so happy to see our BB getting married that they’ll do anything we ask. They’re even going to give us a huge discount on the reception room at the temple,” my father proudly tells Jack’s dad. Bragging about the discounts he brokers is one of my father’s greatest pleasures in life. “And, of course, I’ll be supplying all of the meat—my best cuts, of course—so we’ve got the venue and the catering covered.”
“A temple?” Jack’s father says. His voice is big and strong and everyone seems to notice at the same time that this is the first word he’s uttered during this entire debate. Which only makes his few words that much more powerful and scary. I can tell that this is a strategy he uses with attorneys in his courtroom—lying in wait until you’re ready to pounce and make your word gospel. Which, if you’re an appellate court judge, is pretty much any time you speak. I look at Jack and he’s still got his head down in his plate. Man, he must really love his halibut. “Joan and I were thinking about a New York City hotel wedding. Weren’t we, dear?”
“We love the Pierre,” Joan says softly. I look at my mother and she is trying to maintain a gracious smile with her mouth frozen in place and teeth gritted together.
“Jackie?” I say.
“We like the Pierre, too,” Jack says, looking up from his plate, “remember, we went to that charity event there this summer?”
“I forget,” I say. Jack regales the table with a story about how we couldn’t find a cab after the charity event and ended up taking a horse-drawn carriage at 1:00 a.m. all the way down Fifth Avenue from 59th Street to 23rd. I take the cocktail napkin that has been underneath my wineglass since we came from the salon to the dining room out from under my wineglass. It’s an ivory napkin with a large S embossed on the front. I tear it into two pieces. And then into four.
“But,
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