There was another mirror in the bathroom, but I’d been meaning to bring this topic up for weeks and we never seemed to have time to talk about it. So I’d hijacked her while she was finishing up her makeup.
“What are you talking about?” She tilted her head to the side. “You want to convert?”
“Not necessarily. I’m just saying, you all have Yom Kippur, one day for penance. We have Lent, forty days. Plus, Jesus was Jewish. If Judaism was good enough for Jesus . . .” I shrugged. The way I saw it, Jesus being Jewish made my entire case for me.
Finishing up with her eye makeup, she turned away from the mirror and crossed her arms. “What is the point to this conversation? What is it you’re asking for?”
Fuck a duck.
I gave her a disgruntled look. She was forcing my hand. She wanted me to get to the point. I hated it when she did that. I had so many good points lined up before the point.
Watching her reaction carefully, I said, “Getting married.”
She blinked twice. “Getting married?”
“That’s right.”
“Dan, my love, we are married. We’ve been married for fifteen years.” She walked closer to me and lowered her voice like she was going to tell me a secret. “I don’t know if you know this, but we have three kids.”
“Very funny.” I craned my neck to watch my fingers in the mirror as I tried to tie a Windsor knot at my neck. “I was just thinking, wouldn’t it be nice to do it right?”
“Right?”
“Stomping on the glass, the canopy, getting carried around in chairs.” My eyes flickered over her body. “A white dress for you, a tuxedo for me.”
At the suggestion of a tuxedo for me, her brow cleared and finally, finally, she looked interested.
I should have led with the tuxedo.
In retrospect, I should have known the idea of a tuxedo would get her going. Sometimes I thought the only reason Caravel hosted so many black-tie events was so she could get me in—and out of—a tuxedo. Not that I was complaining.
As far as I was concerned, Kat earned as many black-tie events as she wanted. She’d taken a big risk when she exposed her cousin all those years ago, she’d opened her family’s company up to hostile takeovers, lawsuits, fraud claims, and she’d weathered the storm like a champ. Now Caravel was better than before, stronger, a leader in research and development rather than a bottom-feeder that chased profits, like some of her competitors.
To say I was proud of her would be a big fucking understatement.
“You want to have a traditional Jewish wedding?” She didn’t look surprised, more like curious.
“Yeah. Why not? The kids would love it. They’re going to Jewish school, makes sense.”
Her eyes narrowed, like she was suspicious. “Did Rebekah put you up to this?” Rebekah being our oldest by two minutes, just before her sister, Eleanor, had made her grand entrance.
“What? No.” I scoffed. “Rebekah didn’t put me up to this.”
Rebekah had put me up to this.
To clarify, it had been her idea—at first—but the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to make it happen. It had all started two months ago when Rebekah came home from a friend’s house and asked to see our wedding album. I told her we didn’t have one. This led to all kinds of questions, like:
“Did you love mom when you married her? If so, why didn’t you want to take pictures to remember the day?”
And,
“What about your kids? Didn’t you ever think your children would want to see the photos?”
In case you haven’t picked up on it yet, Rebekah was basically my mother come back to life.
I thought about showing my daughter the video we had of the wedding, but decided against it after giving it another watch. Man, I never got tired of watching that video.
Presently, Kat didn’t look convinced, doubt warred with a confused smile as she checked her watch. “Can we talk about it later? Jack’s concert is in an hour and DJ hasn’t taken his bath yet.”
That was no surprise. Our youngest hated baths. He was basically Pig-Pen from Charlie Brown, just with a bigger dust cloud.
“Fine. I’ll give Danny a bath, and you think about your husband’s genius idea.”
“I can give him a bath.”
“No. It’s fine. Plus, Eleanor needs you to do her hair again.”
“What’s wrong with her hair?”
“Do I know?” I shrugged, starting over again with the tie. “I braided it, but she said she likes the way you do it better.”
Kat chuckled and so did I, because our daughter Eleanor was very particular. About everything. And judged people harshly based on their fandom associations.