I fought the impulse to succumb to my usual pessimism. Instead, moved by Donald’s touching effort to always understand me even when I didn’t understand myself, I grabbed his hand, held it tightly to my forehead like a cool compress and closed my eyes.

Then I excused myself and went next door to the CVS and bought twenty pounds of bridal magazines to try to get myself in the mood.

But that was months ago.

Worlds ago.

The matrimonial wheels were set in motion, now; there was no going back.

Our deposits, for one thing, would not be returned; all our hordes of friends and family, for another, were expecting invitations, not cancellations.

And so, in the weeks that followed Adrienne’s visit, I turned inward; forged ahead. I called, faxed, emailed, decided, finalized, confirmed, wrote checks.

Of course, all of this nose-to-the-grindstone business had to be negotiated, and then cleared, with the Evil Twins. With the specter of Adrienne lingering in the house (her French perfume; the moping, lovesick dog who seemed to have no more use for me since being reunited with her true mistress) and the “souvenir” of her visit I’d managed to save—a white cloth napkin she’d used at dinner and which held, like a fly in amber, a perfectly preserved smudge of her stunning lipstick, which I simply had to have (I planned on taking the napkin with me to Saks, or Neiman’s, or even to Barneys in New York if I had to, in a quasi-forensic quest to try to match it), the Twins were on high alert for intelligence. Their insatiable need for information would have to be met, I knew. With my back up against the wall, in complete desperation, I struck a deal with their lidless ids:

Once the wedding planning work was done, the spying shenanigans could resume with a vengeance.

They agreed: since Adrienne hadn’t even moved yet, we wouldn’t really be missing much anyway.

Chapter 17

17

Adrienne’s move was scheduled to take place on Saturday, January fifteenth, but don’t think for a second that just because she hadn’t arrived yet she was out of sight or out of mind.

Every few days or so after she left our dinner table that late November evening, and with the alarming unpredictability of an inflicter of random violence (no set pattern could be established for when she would call, and why), she would leave a message for us on our answering machine: