“We’re not sure yet. It’s complicated, given the fact that we’re of different faiths.”

“Not to mention the fact that Dumbarton House is run by the Daughters of the American Revolution. I can’t imagine they’re that comfortable with the idea of a chuppah.”

“I know,” I said.

“Me, too.” She smiled knowingly. “I’m half-Jewish.”

“Really? Which half?” Like it mattered.

“My father is a German Jew; my mother is French.”

“French-French, or Canadian-French?” I couldn’t help myself.

“French-French,” she replied. “She is from France.”

Catherine Deneuve; not Celine Dion.

Missing the mean-spirited subtleties, as always, Gayle looked perplexed. “Of course Adrienne is French-French! Very few Canadians would have the courage to select—let alone carry off—a coat like hers. I mean, this is an incredibly sophisticated coat.”

Again with the coat. And the hyperbole.

“Now, the French have some wonderful wedding traditions, don’t they?” Gayle continued.

“Actually, we do. There’s the coupe de mariage, a special cup the bride and groom drink from when they make their special toast. Then, of course, there’s the fact that, like French meals, French weddings are incredibly long and drawn out. And then there’s poster les bans.”

“What’s that?” Gayle asked on cue.

“A few weeks before a French couple is married, they put up a notice at the city hall to make sure there are no objections.”

I imagined Adrienne putting up such a sign and a stampede of men crashing into the bulletin board, ripping and tearing at the sign and voicing their desperate objections in the hope that she’d change her mind and marry one of them. Then I imagined putting a sign up myself and Adrienne begging Donald to ditch me and marry her.

The waiter approached, refilled our water glasses; took our lunch orders. Which were all the same: Cobb salads. None of us, it seemed, wanted to have a protruding paunch later in the afternoon while trying on clothes at Embellish.

“And what’s the date?” She looked at Gayle, her new best friend, and rolled her eyes. “I couldn’t get anything out of Donald the other day when we spoke. It was like he was guarding state secrets.”

“April,” I said. “April fifteenth.”

Adrienne stared at me, then stirred her iced tea. “April fifteenth,” she said. “How funny.”

“Why is it funny?”

“Well, it’s funny because, as I’m sure you know, that was our wedding date, Donald’s and mine. What was to be our wedding date, I mean,” she said, “before we broke it off.”

Shocked to the core, my heart pounded, my hands shook. To calm myself, I busily wiped nonexistent crumbs off the pristine heavy white linen tablecloth. Which reminded me suddenly that I hadn’t yet picked our table linens.

The table linens for the wedding.

Our wedding.

Donald’s and mine.

The one that was to be held on April fifteenth of this coming year with me and him, not April fifteenth of seven years ago with him and Adrienne.

My mind raced, searched for a response. Miraculously, one (a big huge ballooning lie) appeared.