Jake & Mimi Read Online Free PDF Page A

from place to place? And just the thought of following a script. We’ve
     been to three weddings this past year, Mark and I, and the best moments are always the ones you don’t plan. They spring naturally
     from the magic of the day.
    I might see Grandma in the church foyer after the recessional and stop for a minute to hold my new ring up to her failing
     eyes. Or maybe at the reception Uncle Ralph will get drunk and want to give a toast of his own. Or Sandy, who cried when I
     named her a bridesmaid and cried when I showed her her reading and cries, her sister swears, at her neighbors’ First Communions,
     will cry again when we gather for pictures, and we’ll need to give her a few minutes to fix her makeup. Or something silly,
     even. The groomsmen will find a football and start choosing sides, and the bartenders will have to be sent out to coax them
     back. Or one of the UConn grads, probably Reece or Jason, will yell, “Huskie time!” like they do at any get-together, and
     all the young guys — and there will be twenty from school, at least — will charge onto the grass and build a human pyramid.
    I want all those things to happen. Or others just like them. I want everyone to drink and dance and have more fun than they’ve
     ever had. I want it to be a day of joy.
    For weeks I’ve been fine. Really. Because it’s all been coming together so beautifully. We have the best band. Mark and I
     heard their tape and we went to see them, twice, in two different places, and they were wonderful both times. Any band that
     can get Staten Island boys away from the bar and out onto the dance floor can handle a wedding crowd. They can play anything,
     from ska to Sinatra. Mark rolls his eyes at Frank, but they
will
play “That’s Life,” even if I have to sneak it onto the song list in pencil. If Mark wants to hide when they start into it,
     I’ll just dance with Dad.
    The caterers, too, have been a dream. Judy, the woman in charge, was married herself just two months ago, so she can’t do
     enough for us. Extras of everything. The flowers? Chosen, and beautiful. White roses for the altar and the steps of the church,
     pink ones to line the aisle. The bridesmaids — all perfect. Calling or e-mailing every week now. Sandra has lost twelve pounds
     since November. “I’ll be as thin as you, Mimi” was her e-mail today. She won’t be, but she’s fine — they’re all fine, all
     six of them. I won’t need slimming colors, or patterns, and I don’t have to worry, as Mark puts it so delicately, about “stiffing
     one of the groomsmen.” There are six of them, too, and in their tuxes they’ll look sharp — even Lenny. The bridesmaids all
     want to see pictures and all look forward to flirting, though, okay,
flirting
wasn’t the word Anne used.
    So everything’s been fine. Five weeks away still, but the day seems to be gathering a momentum all its own. And when I think
     of it, which is every fifteen minutes or so, it isn’t with panic at all. Until today.
    I was at my desk, putting the last touches on the Cortez return in preparation for Mr. Stein’s signature. Stein is a senior
     partner, and he was trusting me, twenty-five years old and still a year from my M.S. in tax, to do solo work on a major client.
     The return had to be perfect, and it was nearly so. We’d taken an “aggressive approach,” a favorite term among our Latin clients,
     and I had a spreadsheet and the return open, going back and forth, one good deduction away from bringing the total within
     our target. I’d zeroed in on overseas depreciation allowances. Yes, here was one that could work. It might just do it…. And
     then the phone rang.
    “Honey, I saw Father Ryan yesterday.”
    “Mom…”
    “I’ll be quick. It’s just this, dear. If you have a change of heart, he’s offering his services. Full Mass and Communion.
     We would pay, of course, your father and me.”
    The Catholic thing again. As if I might change my mind at