Neanderthal Marries Human

I could only blink at this statement.

She didn’t wait for me to invite her in. Instead, she turned and said to Stan, “You there, please help me with this.” She gestured to a garment rack on which were hung five large garment bags. Then she turned back to me, linked our arms together, and pulled me into the suite.

“Niki is absolutely fantastic. We love her. Adorable. So when she called and explained the situation, Donovan simply had to help. She promised us that you were stunning; of course she was right. But, no matter either way, we would have helped—of course. However, you can imagine how convenient it is for us that we’ll be able to shoot the wedding.”

“Shoot the wedding?”

“Yes. Is this the groom?” She stopped in front of Desmond, eyeing him up and down.

“What? No. No, this is my father-in-law.”

“Oh.” She smiled at him.

He frowned at her.

Then the woman turned to me. “That’s excellent news, assuming your groom looks like his father. Well done. Now where will we do this? I’ll need light, lots of light.”

“Uh….” I glanced at Desmond. He was watching me, and his face was devoid of expression. I closed my eyes, sighed, and lifted my hand to the bedroom. “In there. I can try them on in there. The room has a large window.”

“Fabulous!” She said, air kissed both my cheeks then turned back to Stan. He was loitering by the door with the portable garment rack. “You, darling, come with me. Just bring it in here.”

I watched her disappear into the bedroom with Stan close behind, and I listened as she called out instructions on where everything should be placed.

Hesitantly I turned back to Desmond. His expression was inscrutable. I felt the deluge of my explanation pressing against my throat, and I couldn’t hold it back.

“Quinn saw me in my wedding dress, and it was terrible—not Quinn, the dress. It isn’t actually terrible, but it’s made from very practical synthetic fibers. Really, it’s lovely, but Quinn had no reaction. None. And I was disappointed so I….”

“You called for more dresses?”

“No. I visited my sister in prison and asked for advice, if you can believe that. They have her on medication. I looked it up, a neurotoxin derived from snake venom. It seems to be working for her.”

“And your sister…helped you find a dress?”

“No, she said that I should stop worrying about what I think I should want and just do what I actually want. I agree with her in some respects. But I believe, as an overall life philosophy, that it can’t be adapted to one hundred percent of situations.”

He nodded. “I agree, with her and with your application of her advice.”

I smiled at this statement, feeling better for some reason that he’d given me his blessing. “Thank you. That means a lot to me. I just…I just want to be beautiful for Quinn. I want to look my best.”

His eyes moved between mine, and I got the sense that he wanted to say something. At length, he exhaled a large breath and said, “Can I give you some advice?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, please do. I could use some advice.” My head was bobbing up and down because I really, really wanted someone to give me advice. My whole life I’d been advice-bereft, except for the ladies in my knitting group. I loved advice. It was like free data.

“I’ll tell you what I told Shelly when she was going through a hard time in middle school.” He returned my smile with a small one of his own. “Be beautiful for yourself, Janie. And only if you want to. If a man is worthy of you, he’ll see more beauty in who you are than in what you look like.”

I thought about this, saw an enormous amount of wisdom in his words, and subsequently started to cry.

This only made him smile wider. Then he pulled me into his arms and gave me a hug.

“Why are you crying?” he asked softly. I could tell he was still smiling.

“I don’t know,” came my watery reply. I shrugged, but pressed my face closer to his chest, my hands gripping the back of his shirt. “I guess because that was such a good dad thing to say, like how they show dads in TV shows and movies and in great books, and it felt nice.”

“Didn’t your dad ever give you advice?”

“He likes to forward me funny emails every month or so.”

“Not even when you were a teenager?”

I shook my head. “He told me to ask my therapist.”

I felt Desmond’s chest rise and fall, his arms squeeze tighter just before his hands moved to my arms. He set me a little distance away so he could look into my eyes.

His gaze was impossibly kind as he said, “Then, daughter dear, call me Dad.”

I burst into a new bout of tears. This made him laugh. He brought me forward and hugged me again. He let me hug him for a long time. He even hugged like I thought a dad would hug, all soothing and wise and a little awkward because he was so big; like he didn’t want to crush me with his ginormous Boston police detective arms, so he held me carefully.

“All right, that’s enough,” he said at length, setting me away again. “That crazy woman in there will be back any minute, and I have something for you.”

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands and sniffed. “You don’t have to give me anything.”

He reached for the bag he’d brought and took out a small wooden box. The outside was carved with what looked like Celtic symbols.

“I want to,” he said, handing the box to me.

I twisted my mouth to the side and gingerly opened the little treasure box. Inside was a yellow-gold Claddagh ring. I gasped, my eyes lifting to his.

He wasn’t exactly smiling, as his mouth was flat. But when I saw the crinkling around his eyes, I knew that for him, this was probably a smile.

“It was my mother’s ring, and her mother’s before that. Quinn should have used it when he proposed, that’s the order of things, the tradition in my family. I’m not asking you to replace your engagement ring. I’d just like it if you wore it and carried on the tradition when the time comes, with your son.”

“Of course.” My chin wobbled.

His smile was plainly visible as he said, “Don’t cry.”

I shook my head. “I’m not crying. I just have something in my eye.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Darling!” The woman in black poked her head out of the door. “Everything is ready, and I’m bursting to get started! Tell your daddy-in-law to wait here. We need an audience for our fashion show.”

I nodded, plucked the ring from its home, and slid it onto my right hand middle finger. It fit perfectly.

I whispered to him, “You don’t have to stay. This will be boring for you.”

Desmond shifted on his feet, glanced at the door, then studied me for a short moment. Abruptly, he turned and sat in a nearby chair. “Nah, I’ll stay until after lunch.” He swallowed, and I noted he looked resigned. “What am I going to do instead? All I had planned was a pastrami sandwich.”

I gave him a closed-lipped smile and tried not to cry or laugh at how uncomfortable he looked. But I decided to accept this gift he was offering me. I crossed to the room service menu and plucked it from the table.

“Here.” I handed him the folder. “We’ll multi-task. Order two pastrami sandwiches.”

***

Desmond stayed and helped me pick out my wedding dress.

To his credit, and perhaps even our mutual astonishment, he was a tough critic and voiced his opinion when I came out in each of the seven options. Of course, his opinion was curt, blunt, and less than ten words. This was glorious for me, because where I would have been polite, he spoke up and insulted some of the more ridiculous elements of the gowns.

Ramona, the woman in the black suit, pretended to be offended, but I could tell she was enjoying the challenge.

I’d read several articles in wedding magazines about the phenomenon experienced by brides when they found The Dress. It was like angels singing, they said. A dress that might look unremarkable on a hanger would be put on the bride-to-be and the clouds would part, the heavens would open, and little cherubs would sprinkle magical rose petals from their place in the sky.

I thought this was ludicrous wedding propaganda. Weddings were big business; billions of dollars a year were spent trying to create a fairy tale day in a consumer-driven world. The perfect dress didn’t exist. It was a myth, like Bigfoot or string theory—which everyone but wackos knows is more of a philosophy than a science.

That was, I thought it was a myth until I tried on the fifth dress.

The heavens opened, the sky parted, and the cherubs must’ve gotten rose petals in my eyes because I had trouble believing the reflection in the mirror was me. It was the perfect dress.

My suspicion was confirmed when I walked out of the room and Desmond glanced up from his cell phone, poised to insult with as few words as possible whatever travesty Ramona had put me in now.

Instead, he did a double take, started, stared, his eyebrows meeting his hairline. Then he whistled, but not a catcall. He whistled a single note, low and long.

“Whoa.”

Ramona grinned. “Yes. Well said, you beastly man.” Then she turned to me. “We have two more to try on, but this one I think will be it.”