few hundred closest friends. They got their wish.
The wedding reception was at a big catering hall called the Lighthouse located at Chelsea Piers, a mammoth sports complex on the Hudson River. The room, to Max, was pedestrian, and she would have preferred an edgier, hipper location. But when your father is shelling out six figures for you to get married, you get married where he wants you to get married and you’re happy about it. She understood that. Had she gotten married in her twenties when she was slightly more headstrong, it might have been more of an issue.
Max, Fred, Crawford, and I arrived in the limousine about a half hour after the guests arrived, due to a picture-taking session in the chapel. We were held in the limo for a moment while the maître d’alerted the band that we had arrived.
I sat next to Crawford, who had thawed a bit since we had last seen each other. I attributed that to the short memory that most men have. Slighted women hold grudges much longer, in my opinion. I was a little happier now that we had polished off the bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne that was in an ice bucket in the backseat. As far as Max and Fred were concerned, they were the only ones in the limo and they made out the whole way from the Bronx to Manhattan, a thirty-minute trip. That left plenty of champagne for me and Crawford, and we made short work of it, passing it back and forth between the two of us and drinking directly from the bottle since the limo company had forgotten to stock glasses. I’m nothing if not a classy dame.
While we were waiting in the back of the limo, I handed Max a lipstick from my purse. “Here. You might want to freshen up,” I suggested. Her hair, which she had let grow a little longer for the wedding, was a mess, and she had a giant lipstick smear across her cheek. Crawford let out a little snicker next to me and I shot him a look.
She put on some lipstick, and smoothed her dress down. “Better?” she asked, turning to Fred and rubbing his bald head.
“You look great,” I said and took the lipstick back from her. I didn’t think I’d be able to reapply my lipstick; I couldn’t feel my lips. I put the tube in my pocketbook and snapped it shut.
Fred stared across at me. “I forgot to tell you how nice you look,” he said in his deep baritone.
“Thanks,” I said. “You look handsome in your tuxedo.”
Crawford piped up. “What about me? Don’t I look handsome?” he asked.
“If you weren’t an asshole, I would have sex with you right now,” Fred said. “That’s how handsome you look.”
The maître d’ arrived and opened the door to the limo. Crawford jumped out and offered me his hand, which I took. He helped me out of the car and steadied me as I landed on the curb, slightly drunk from the champagne and in the highest heels I had ever worn. He grabbed me around the waist. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Never better,” I said and put one foot in front of the other as we made our way into the reception hall. I held on to his hand in a death grip. We stood at the bottom of the stairs that led to the dance floor and waited for our cue; both of us had done this before and knew the drill. Wait for the bandleader to announce your name, go onto the dance floor, smile, and then go to your table while the happy couple dances.
The dance floor was a raised, parquet affair, surrounded by railings made out of steel tubing. The seating for the guests was lower than the dance floor and surrounded it on three sides. The whole place overlooked the Hudson and the view was spectacular, the twinkling lights of Manhattan visible to the north and south out of the windows.
The bandleader called out for the matron of honor and I cringed. “And best man, Bobby Crawford!” he screamed and we made our way up the metal steps and onto the dance floor, still holding hands. After our appearance, I started off to the right, but Crawford pulled me slightly to the left. “This way,” he whispered and we made our way to our table. We stood beside it as Max and Fred entered to thunderous applause.
The band struck up “More