Made Of Honor

I rubbed my arms. Between the tight sleeves and the cold air, it was a wonder my blood was still circulating. “You got me about the living alone thing. In my defense though, I did suck it up—with the help of a Lane Bryant cheetah girdle no less—and put on this dress. There has to be some points for that. Do I look like Miss Piggy with cornrows or what?”

Rochelle’s eyes turned into brown, wet suns. She covered her face in anticipation of wild laughter.

I shook my head. Rochelle could be so silly. Tracey, too. And I was being serious here. When I actually went for funny they just looked confused. “For real, though, did you see anything when my dress flew up?”

She choked back a giggle. “Not a thing. It looked like a pink sailboat…covered with roses.”

I pinched her arm. Hard.

When I turned back, there was Tracey. And the punch bowl. Perhaps I should have taken more time with my cup selection. When would this awkwardness go away?

Lord, let me be wrong. Let them live happily ever after. Somebody around here needs to.

Hard to believe the svelte beauty was once chubby, innocent Tracey, whose first experience with men was the warm touch of our personal trainer. Well, her personal trainer. I fired him after the fourth session. Why pay somebody to call you a failure? That’s what friends are for.

I should know.

Tracey gave me a “be good” look as her mother-in-law filled my cup halfway. She never did like me and probably never would. No cause to be stingy with the punch though. It was a wedding, after all.

Ignoring the full serving plus a napkin that Rochelle received, and observing that the mother of the groom had somehow managed to pick a cute dress for herself while uglying up the rest of us, I headed for the nearest chair, tied back neatly in ivory linen. I had picked those chair covers, way back at the beginning, but nobody seemed to remember that. I sat down and brought the cup to my lips, and then froze, half sitting, half standing. Sure the liquid had been yellow instead of red, but I never thought…. The secret punch. She didn’t forget me.

Rochelle’s hand pressed into my shoulder. I eased down into the chair. Tears stung my eyes. “Tracey used my favorite punch for her wedding?”

We sat quickly, pretending strangers didn’t flank us on all sides. Rochelle took a long sip, almost longer than my first. “Another drink was planned, but when you never showed up to any of the wedding functions, she thought you were upset and fought with Ryan’s mother to serve your favorite, Pineapple Passion Fruit.”

I dried my already raw eye. “But how? Daddy doesn’t give anybody the recipe—”

“He made it himself. Ten gallons. And the ice sculpture, too.”

That dolphin. I knew it looked familiar. A sob stalled in my throat. That old man. Just when I want to give up on him, on myself, he does something like this. And Tracey, too.

“Yoo-hoo!” My assistant Renee called to me from where she sat squeezed in between my boss and one of Ryan’s big bosomed aunts, in a dress barely zipped up. They were two tables away, but still too close. Naomi nodded slightly, wearing her game face, permanently plastered on, no matter the occasion.

And so she should after the way we’d both been kicked out the conference room a few days ago. I’d recovered—with the help of a few bear claws—but Naomi was still sulking over the cancellation of the Java Lava scent project. Apparently, people liked to drink coffee, but weren’t too crazy about smelling like it. I’d have to absorb Naomi’s whirlwind anger on Monday at Scents and Savings, but there was no sense rushing into a tongue-lashing from her now. I stayed put, despite Rochelle’s elbows, also known as hospitality prompts, digging into my ribs—well, the fat covering my ribs.

“Good to see you two. Some wedding, huh?” Despite my attempt to sound casual, even businesslike, my desire to run screaming to my car was apparent.

The deejay’s bellowing voice swallowed Naomi’s terse reply, leaving me free to shrug and turn away, savoring the deliciousness of my last sip of punch. The tangy sweetness reminded me of Daddy’s Sunday afternoon dinners and lazy summers. Reminded me of a man who smelled like this punch tasted.

My first love.

It’s official. I’m losing it. Can’t even give me wedding punch now. I’m turning into Rochelle.

I pressed my wrist to my nose, as if trying to exorcise the memory of Adrian Norrell, the man never spoken of in the Sassy Sistahood. The original heartbreaker. Though my sister and ex-boyfriend did a pretty good job following up behind him. Still, that fiasco didn’t compare to me losing Adrian, who seemed always to be at the edge of me on days like this, even though he was long gone. Vanilla Smella, the bestselling scent in my line of homemade bath and beauty products and Tracey’s favorite, met my nose with notes of honey and crème brûlée, a warm blend that seemed to remove the chill starting to nip at my skin. At times like this, my I-don’t-have-a-man-but-I-can-make-stuff tendencies came in handy.

If only I could get Rochelle to stop trying to make me quit my job and open a shop when she wouldn’t even use my products. Maybe by the time I was making her honeymoon basket, she’d want to do more than decorate her bathroom with my stuff. As uptight as she could be sometimes, she’d still be married before me. Naomi would probably even beat me to the altar with her mean self.

I’d long since stopped trying to make sense of it. It’s just the nature of things. Some girls get married and some girls get…

Flowers in their hair.

The reception dragged on, though I never felt received. People from BASIC, our church singles group—it stands for Brothers and Sisters in Christ, but it I secretly call it Brothahs and Sistahs in Crisis—stopped to speak to Rochelle and me, dropping not-so-subtle hints about who might wed next. My name was never mentioned. In the present company, that was a relief. Alone again, Rochelle and I indulged in girl talk, something we hadn’t had time for in a while. Not face-to-face anyway, though we volleyed e-mails like Venus and Serena.

Rochelle saw me peeking at her punch and poured some into my cup. She wasn’t into the sharing of food or drink, even when we were growing up (“disgusting”) but she knew how badly I wanted more punch. And how much I didn’t want to face Ryan’s mother to get it. What happened to having a hostess pour the punch anyway? Some folks just have to control everything.

Rochelle tugged at one of my cap sleeves and, seeing how tight it was, went for another sore spot instead. “Have you used that half-off coupon for the body wrap yet?”

“Nope.” I stared into my cup but didn’t drink. Years of Rochelle’s germ speeches had worn off on me. I just couldn’t do it. Who knew I was actually listening? “Rochelle, the only thing that body wrap melted was my wallet.” Fifty percent of a hundred bucks was no sale in my book.

She pinched her eyes shut. “You are certifiable.”

No use disputing that one. We were all a little crazy. Isn’t anybody who’s worth knowing? “If you know of a cure for these red lines spidering up my sides, then we’ll talk. Because if I get in an accident on the way home, I’ll have to tell the paramedics I was clawed by tigers.”

Or thorns.

Rochelle let punch ribbon from her mouth back into her cup instead of spewing it everywhere like I might have done. Not one drop got onto her dress. Oh, well, at least my contacts were still in. Rochelle made a face that let me know not to say anything more if I wanted to avoid a scene. For all her ladylikeness, that woman laughed like a farm animal when I got her going. Tracey, who was walking towards us now, was no better.

Ryan, the mysteriously absent groom, intercepted Tracey inches short of my chair. “Give me the garter, babe. The men await.” His voice, the standard Fortune 500-speak, mixed with love talk, gave me the willies. It was like hearing Ralph Nader sing a Barry White song. Just wrong.

So wrong that when they started fumbling with the garter, I tossed back Rochelle’s possibly-riddled-with-E. coli punch and turned to Rochelle. “Why do men get to fight over satin while I have to defend myself against thorns? It just doesn’t seem fair.”

Rochelle didn’t respond, but her cheeks inflated like a blowfish’s. If I didn’t stop, she was going to have an all-out fit, but at this point, I didn’t care. I pressed on. “Throwing lingerie at a bunch of guys from BASIC, who have either never seen a woman’s thigh or at best haven’t seen one in a very long time, is just cruel, don’t you think? Why raise a guy’s hopes?”

I certainly didn’t raise mine at these things. Probably because it was at a wedding that I was crushed, swallowed whole, watching while the love of my life married someone else, someone I’d thought to be a friend. The upside is, when my sister betrayed me with Trevor—minus the marriage, you fill in the blanks—a few years later, I ran into the arms of Jesus once and for all. And Rochelle even got to say, “I told you so.” Or the quasi-Christian version of that—“Jesus told you so.”

While Rochelle scrambled to compose herself, I fingered the scratch below my eye. For such an intelligent person, Tracey had terrible aim. Her judgment, however, was much better than mine. In the last year, my friend had launched a new business, lost 100 pounds and snagged the biggest software developer in the Midwest. In a few days, Tracey would be settling into her gated housing community while I, don’t-need-a-date Dana, would sleep fitfully, in apartment 202, my lifelong residence.

Rochelle went for more punch. Tracey, abandoned again, took her seat. And my hand. “Sorry I didn’t send my devotionals to the list this past week.”

With all our members marrying off at the speed of light, there was only Rochelle, Tracey and I on the Sassy Sistahood e-mail list now, unless you counted my assistant, who read all but never posted so much as a semicolon. She saved her comments for my ears.

I patted Tracey’s hand. “It’s okay, Rochelle had something ready.” She always did. It was easy for Tracey and me to get lazy and just let Rochelle write every day. She liked to expound on the daily need for holiness and modesty instead of enduring my “flippant irreverence” or Tracey’s “greasy grace.” So we let her do her thing and talked about our real stuff at home. Only now, Tracey wouldn’t be home. The thought of my new phone bill made me shiver.

Tracey smiled now, knowing she’d be leaving soon for Hawaii. If she could find the groom again.

“Seriously, Tracey. I’ll take your turn. And mine. I’m sure you’ll be busy for a while.” What she’d be busy doing, I didn’t want to think about. Too bad I couldn’t be like Rochelle and act like I didn’t remember it—I did. Especially today. Why was that?

Pineapple passion fruit punch.

Thank goodness the hurt and anguish that followed such things was as vivid as the pleasure.

Tracey wouldn’t hear of skipping her turn. “I’ll do my spot. And after the, uh, honeymoon, I’ll probably need some extra time in the Word.”

I’ll bet.

I hugged her. “I’ll miss you. I do already. Especially at work. Naomi is all over me. I never realized how much you calmed her.” Or me.

“You guys can be pretty volatile.”

I laughed, loving, as always, the way Tracey can make a word like “volatile” sound so common. Once in an argument, she’d chided me about my vernacular and I couldn’t do anything but laugh. Today though, our laughter was bittersweet. Things had changed forever.

“You looked beautiful today. So skinny. I had to blink a few times to be sure that was you,” I blurted out. To a stranger they might have sounded mean, but Tracey understood. We were tight like that. Big changes are hard for me to get used to, even when I make them. And Tracey’s weight loss, and the butterfly effect that followed it, was a big change. Sometimes, she even looked a little sick compared to the full, sunny face I was used to. The old Tracey, who knew how to pick the best ice cream and crush potato chips to perfection for the tops of her tuna casseroles, seemed to have sunk into the collarbones of this new person. My friend was still in this new body, but her light seemed dimmer.

Tracey ran a hand down her washboard abs, discernible even under her dress. “It’s strange for me. I can imagine it’s hard for you, too.”

I managed a one-sided smile. Hard for me? I couldn’t have her worried about me on her day. Time to stop and act grown up. I could always have a fit later. “You did good, girl. Got slim and got married.” Not that I cared about either anymore. Aside from the somewhat formidable danger of cannoli cream bursting out of my arteries, I’d live. I didn’t care beyond that.

She tilted her head again. “Yes, you do,” her eyes seemed to say.

Maybe I did. A little. Not as much as Tracey, but maybe about two clothes sizes worth. “I’ll probably rejoin Weight Watchers for the umpteenth time, if that woman’s car isn’t in the parking lot.”

Tracey shook her head. “The receptionist? I told you, she still looks at me crazy even though I’m at goal. It’s just her personality. She’s like Naomi. Just overlook her.”

Yeah right. Overlook someone staring at you and saying, “You? Again?” Easy for Tracey. Difficult for me.

Rochelle sat down across from us and slid a full cup of punch toward me—complete with napkin—but her eyes were fastened on her son, talking with a too-old girl in a too-little dress.

Tracey focused the same look on Ryan, the tallest in a circle of tuxedos a few feet away. “Weight Watchers was definitely a big part of my success. But Ryan helped, too. He loved it off me, what can I say?”

Tracey was joking, of course, but it still rubbed me wrong. I gave her my funkiest look. “No loving was allowed until tonight, so you’d better rephrase.” Immediately, I regretted my tone and my “countenance,” as Tracey would say. Being overbearing was Rochelle’s job, wasn’t it? What was wrong with me today?

The bride laughed nervously. “That’s not what I meant, silly. You know, I lost that first bit with the trainer, and then more when we rejoined Weight Watchers. By the time I got to Ryan, well, we just talked and walked and walked and talked…. Somewhere in there, I wasn’t hungry anymore.”

How convenient. “Must be nice. He should open a woman-walking service. I’d sign up. At a discount, of course.”

She laid her hand on mine. “Hush, you.”

I did hush, wishing I’d been silent all along. Ryan was part of us now. An uninvited member of the hush-you club. He was a good guy and Tracey really loved him. Why couldn’t I accept him, too? Sometimes I could be such a bum.

Rochelle’s son, Jericho, sauntered to the table, bringing the eyes of every female from seven to seventy with him. I prayed he’d sit next to his mother today. I’d pay for it later if he didn’t. It was at weddings that Rochelle felt the loss of her own love most. Sometimes I wanted to remind her that at least she’d gotten a kid out of it, that at least she had somebody, but we’d had that conversation once before. It didn’t go well.

Not missing a beat, Jericho dropped wide-legged into the seat beside me, his seventeen-year-old knees and forever legs pressing against my shorter, softer ones. He picked up the remains of my bouquet and sniffed, then dropped it again.

“I don’t know why they always throwing them flowers at you, Aunt Dana. You ain’t never getting married. Mama, neither.”

“Jericho!” Rochelle straightened in her chair. Her eyelids peeled back like only a mother’s can.

I bit back a smile. I loved that kid, but he had a habit of saying just what came to his mind.

Wonder who taught him that?

“It’s okay.” I turned toward Jericho, not quite face on, but at an angle. If I turned more, I’d laugh and he would, too. Then we’d both be in trouble. “You’re right. Marriage probably isn’t in my future.”

Why did just saying that bring me a strange comfort? A relief even? Maybe that’s why I was eating myself silly, so I wouldn’t have to deal with it at all. I took one of Jericho’s ball-palming hands into mine.

He smiled at me, ignoring his mother’s look that said he should apologize, that his comment had surely hurt me more than Tracey’s thorns. Jericho knew better. He knew, as I did, following his eyes to the pink satin behind he’d left at the punch bowl, that it was his future that concerned me, not my own. I pressed his knee with mine until his legs knocked together. He smiled once more, then tossed back a cup of punch. “Oooh. The pineapple stuff.” He squinted. “Y’all mad at each other about something?”

I kissed his fingers. Even at this age, he made me want to cry. “Something.”

He nodded. “Is it over, or do I get baklava, too?”

“It’s over.” His poor wife, I thought. He’s going to read her like a worn paperback. She’ll never see it coming.

Holding his hand, I stared up at the sky—blue, lazy and slipping on a thin coat of afternoon. The unspoiled haze reminded me of the treasure I’d lost, the gift I could never regain.

The gift only God could restore.

I smiled at the thought that God was restoring me, verse-by-verse, piece-by-piece, but oh, how it hurt. Why did rebuilding seem so much harder than building? Perhaps because now I knew it could all be knocked down again. And so easily.

A throng of girls waved in our direction. Jericho’s leg pressed against my knee. The look in his eyes as he took in each one of them iced my veins. I swallowed the rest of my punch. And my speech. He had a mother for that. Prayer was my job.

And pray I would, for Jericho and for myself. I usually skipped out on weddings long before this point and always limited myself to two cups of punch, even the nasty red kind they were serving now that Daddy’s stash was depleted. I was currently working on cup number four and the sugar was making me dizzy.

Random thoughts and pictures did enter my mind, slipping back to when Rochelle and I—well, really her, but I watched—founded the Sassy Sistahood, boasting over 2000 members, the largest group of African-American women on the Internet back then. Then one of the members befriended us in real life, met my best friend Adrian at my house and somehow convinced him to marry her. I’d dropped offline and out of sight for a long time after that and when I came back, Rochelle was Bible-thumping so hard people dropped out of the group like crazy. When I returned for good after my mess with Trevor, our fun little social group had morphed into a tribe of prayer warriors sharing daily thoughts about the Lord. We considered changing the title, but never got around to it. Besides, with everyone else married off, it was just the three of us and we liked to think we had a little sass left in us. I was beginning to wonder.

Already assuming his role as absent husband, Ryan disappeared across the green with his business partner. Tracey looked longingly in his direction, and then hugged me. I knew from her grip that she’d had enough and was going after him.

It begins.

Tracey tugged at her gown, which for some reason, she hadn’t changed out of. “All right then,” she said with finality. “I’ve got to get back to my huzz-band, but I thank you for coming. For understanding.” Her gaze rested on me. “It all happened so fast.”

Too fast if you asked me, but nobody did. Though I was the junior oracle of singleness—at seventeen years and counting, Rochelle held the senior position—once my friends had more than a conversation with a man, I became persona non grata.

No kids? No man? Know nothing. I ought to make bumper stickers.

Rochelle, at least, had experienced being abandoned while giving birth to Jericho. This memory was somehow considered valuable. Too bad I didn’t get credit for being in that hospital room, too. Or finding my sister in that bed with Trevor. Or watching my Adrian marry someone else. My pain, having no offspring or alimony to show for itself, didn’t seem to count.

I’ve caught all your tears in a bottle, marked them all in My book.

God had done that, hadn’t He? Oh, well. I hadn’t meant to get all soppy like this today anyway. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t.

“Aunt Dane, you’re squeezing the blood out of my arm.”

Dana Dane. My nickname. Adrian had given me that, too. Gave so much and took away even more.

“Sorry,” I muttered, turning Jericho loose, remembering the last time I felt like this. Two months ago, the end of July. Sarah from human resources. A tangerine satin gown that actually fit. Overcooked chicken. Decent music. Escorted down the aisle by her eighty-year-old uncle.

Wedding party number nine.

Chapter Two

She got him. I don’t know how, but Tracey managed to get Ryan back to the table and keep him there. After a few minutes, we were all laughing and I wondered why I’d ever been worried. Things would be fine. Tracey was a big girl—well, not physically anymore—and could take care of herself.

And if not, there was always Rochelle. She’d try and take care of us all. A slip of humidity, orphaned by Fall, thickened the air. Afternoon, now fully clothed, burned away any memory of morning. I swiped my forehead as Rochelle held a piece of wedding cake up to her mouth, surveying the white icing, white cake and red filling. Strawberry or cherry, I couldn’t tell, but that stuff looked seriously nasty.

Tracey’s cake remained uneaten on her plate. “I’m full from that piece I shared with Ryan.”

Yeah, right. I shook my head. My mother would have perished at the sight of this cake, if she weren’t already dead. As it was, Mama had reminded me about how much sage to add to the Thanksgiving stuffing on her deathbed. She didn’t do things fancy, but she did them right.

Jericho arrived with two pieces on his plate. “It looks good to me.” With youthful abandon, the boy bit into a mammoth slice, pausing only to give a thumbs-up and shove more into his mouth.

Rochelle shrugged. “Remember that black fruitcake with the white icing a few years ago?”

Boy, did I. “How could I forget?” Wedding number four. Institutional green dress. Nice jazz. Horrible cake. Nightmare bad. I winced at the thought of it.

Tracey did, too. “Come on, ladies. Stop fronting on the cake. It’s good. Right, Jericho?”

He nodded, licking his fingers.

As if a teenager’s opinion about food could be trusted. I frowned. “That boy would eat the paint off my car.”

Jericho paused, considering the possibility. “Not your car. Maybe Adrian’s…”

Everyone except Ryan and Jericho froze.

Adrian. The taboo was broken. Someone had mentioned his name.

“Hush, Jericho.” Rochelle looked away. Tracey’s eyes avoided mine, too. I’d made it all day without saying it, though his name was ready on my lips. I didn’t dare speak it any more than I dared open the letters and e-mails he’d sent me over the past year. I hoped I was being selfish and silly, denying him because of what he’d denied me, but I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that Adrian meant trouble. Good-looking, good-smelling trouble, but trouble all the same.

Jericho smiled, oblivious to my pain. “Adrian’s Benz-o. Now, that thing is pretty enough to eat.”

And so is he.

I pressed my eyes shut. “I’ll have some cake after all.” Rochelle’s mouth was already white with icing.

My fork picked between the layers.

Tracey elbowed me. “It’s good. His mother made it.”

His mother? All that money and his mother made the cake? How could Tracey be so bourgeoisie and so cheap at the same time? I was no wedding planner, but you didn’t drop twenty grand on a wedding just to let the mother of the groom whip up the cake in the church basement. I could see the telltale grooves from our fellowship hall baking pans now that I looked closer. “The swirls are pretty—”

“Eat it!” The cry was collective.

I jumped, banging my knees against the table legs. “All right, already.”

Please don’t let this taste as nasty as it looks, I prayed, then shut my eyes and slid the fork into my mouth. Strawberry filling, cherry icing and light-as-air white cake melted on my tongue. “Wow.” Both hands flew to my mouth, a crazy thing I do when something tastes extraordinary. The food swing, as Rochelle calls it.