M.

y ambrosia salad was as gag-o as ever, but the rest of the food at Thanksgiving dinner was great. While we were eating, Guy got the conversation around to the idea of self-branding, which had, at first, sounded to me like a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic activity not suitable for family conversation, but instead proved to be a marketing concept. A person-presumably one with an entrepreneurial spirit-developed an instantly recognizable ident.i.ty for him- or herself on the order of c.o.ke or All-Temperature Cheer.

Jill Allyn dismissed the concept, saying that your work ought to be enough. Mike, to my surprise, said that he and his partners had brought in a consultant who had helped them brand themselves as well-meaning, no-tricks, smart guys.

"But isn't that what you are?" I asked. "Don't you feel like you're playing a trick to get people to think that you don't play tricks?"

He shrugged; and that was my last contribution to the conversation, because the person who knew the most about this was Claudia.

She had customers and clients, the people who purchased her patterns, attended her workshops, or came to her for custom clothing. She'd built her business on all of them, especially the custom clients, having an experience that was serene but also purposeful and energized. Salt.w.a.ter currents suggested that experience, and so she had developed a brand around such imagery. All the "visuals" a.s.sociated with the brand were derived from a conch sh.e.l.l. The color palette of her stationery, her Web site, and her home came from the sh.e.l.l. She had found a font in which the s mirrored one of the lines in the sh.e.l.l, and she had used that not only on the stationery and Web site but for the house numbers beside her front door.

I thought about her Web site. Whenever she wrote about Managed Perfectionism, she tagged the pa.s.sage with a picture of the sh.e.l.l.

She was still talking. Her professional wardrobe-the one she wore when she was giving workshops-was "edited" to reflect the sh.e.l.l. When she wanted to be the most obvious about it, she told us, she wore a nubby raw-silk blazer in the golden tan of the sh.e.l.l's rough exterior with a blouse of a pale, glowing pink. When she wore blues and greens, she chose ocean hues. Her jewelry was pearls or handcrafted necklaces of sea gla.s.s.

Annie was fascinated. "The color you're wearing now . . . that's oyster, isn't it?"

Claudia was in tailored trousers and a blouse with an open neck and a high stand-up collar. Both were in a pale fabric that I a.s.sumed was a heavy but liquid silk. The only color was a washed-out-green belt and a necklace with small greenish stones floating on a thin silver wire.

"What about navy and black?" Annie continued. "Don't you wear those?"

"Generally not. But if I have to wear black for a funeral or such, I'll use sh.e.l.l b.u.t.tons and wear freshwater pearls because they look closer to nature."

The shoes in which she hadn't been able to play flashlight tag last night had been a sandy taupe with a bow of weathered blue. Her watchband was an intricately braided hemp. Now that she spelled it out, I could see how these added up to a picture of an empty windswept beach on a cool day.

"Do you ever get tired of these colors?" Rose asked. "Don't you ever want to kick back and wear fuchsia or lime green?"

"No. I like subtle colors, and this is my professional wardrobe. If I felt the need to wear red and purple polka dots at home, of course, I would."

She said that with a complicit little smile as if to imply that we all knew that no sane person would ever want to wear red and purple polka dots anywhere.

"Do you go to the beach a lot?" Cami asked.

"I don't really have the time."

I was willing to bet that she didn't have the desire either. So far I hadn't seen any evidence that she had outdoor interests. This sh.e.l.l-ocean theme was something she had picked because she liked subtle colors. It didn't have a thing to do with her real self, whatever that might be.

What would my brand be if I had one? Nursemom23? Magenta and scarlet poppies on royal blue? Ritalin Queen? I was clearly too late to be Pie-bringer Queen; Claudia had already infringed on that trademark.

T.

he pies were fine. They were certainly beautiful. The outer edge of the Dutch apple pie consisted of tiny circles of crust individually cut and overlapped. Even if the bakery had a machine that cut the circles, it would have been a ridiculous amount of work. In the center of the pumpkin pie were pieces of crust cut in the shape of autumn leaves. I wondered how the baker had done that. If you put the leaves on when the pie went into the oven, the filling would lap up over the edges. But if you put them on later, they might not brown.

For store pies they were excellent . . . although I probably shouldn't call them "store pies." They were more "boutique pies," and they were probably better than a lot of people's homemade pies, but they certainly weren't better than mine.

A.

s we were cleaning up after dinner, I noticed Mike trying to get my attention. He was standing at the far end of the family room with Jeremy and Zack. I went over and stood between the boys, linking my arms with theirs, pulling them close to me. It felt normal, the four of us standing together, a unit within a larger group, a family.

But within moments Claudia joined us, standing next to Mike. She slipped her hand into his arm, curving her fingers around the sleeve of his navy blazer. Her fingernails were filed into ovals and polished with a light pearly peach. The cuff of her oyster-colored silk blouse slipped down her wrist, revealing her braided hemp watchband.

He's mine now. I belong here too.

He glanced down at her. I didn't know if he'd been expecting her to join us, but he seemed okay with it.

"Listen," he started, his voice heavy.

Zack immediately flinched, and I reminded myself that this wasn't normal anymore. "Be careful, Mike," I cautioned him. It wasn't super-duper nice of me to criticize him in front of Claudia, but he was about to make a jacka.s.s of himself. "No one is going to take it very well if you issue a bunch of orders."

Mike shot me a quick, hard look, but he didn't argue. "Okay, then take this as some strong encouragement."

"All right," I said, trying to sound mild. "We'll listen."

"You know that Friday and Sat.u.r.day are going to be spent on wedding plans."

I nodded. Rose had begged everyone to enjoy Thanksgiving and not start fretting about the wedding until Friday. Mike and Claudia were not going to be around. First thing tomorrow morning they were driving to Philadelphia to see Mike's mother.

"I spoke to Guy," Mike continued, "just sorting out what we would pay for-and it's clear that some very serious money is going to be spent on this wedding. When they said that everything was going to be here, I a.s.sumed that it would be a low-key home wedding, but-"

"Dad-" Jeremy interrupted. He didn't want to hear any criticisms of Cami's family.

Mike held up his hand. "And it is not our place to question their decisions. This is more than a family wedding for them; they have their own business and have obligations to Guy's professional a.s.sociates. But even if that weren't the case, it isn't our place to judge what they're doing. We can say that we wouldn't spend this on one evening, but on the other hand, if I had made his kind of money, I would be d.a.m.n proud of myself too. I'd probably want people to know it."

That wasn't true. Mike was not a grandstander. Being proud of himself would have been enough for him.

"The only one of us," he continued, "who has the right to say anything is Jeremy, and, son, I would advise you not to."

"I don't want Cami upset," Jeremy said. "That's all I care about."

"And nothing will upset her more than feeling as if she's caught between you and her parents."

"You don't have to worry about me," Zack said. "I'm staying out of this."

"And I'll keep my mouth shut too," I promised.

"So are we done here?" Zack asked.

"If you go help with the dishes," I said. "You too, Jeremy."

He grimaced at me, but moved toward the kitchen. Jeremy looked at us suspiciously for a moment, then followed his brother.

Claudia was still holding Mike's arm. She turned closer to him, clearly speaking to him and only him. "Have you resolved the rehearsal dinner?"

"Not yet," he answered, his eyes quickly shifting to me, then back to her. "I was about to bring it up."

"Then I'll go rescue the boys."

She did just that, going into the kitchen and waving Jeremy and Zack off from the ch.o.r.es I had a.s.signed them. I don't care what kind of mom you are, you don't do that.

And what was she doing calling them "the boys"? They were seventeen and twenty-one. I could call them "the boys," Mike could, my father could, even Mike's mother could, but everyone else should respect their maturity.

I turned back to Mike. He was looking a little troubled. "So what's up with the rehearsal dinner?" I asked. "That's the groom's family's deal, isn't it?"

"Apparently so, and Claudia has offered to help plan it. I think she would like to. Is that all right with you?"

Not really. "I'm sure she'll be a lot better at it than I would be."

"It won't be like the engagement party. Your name will be on the invitation."

I knew that he was planning on paying for everything himself, and the stubbornly proud tomboy in me didn't want my name on anything I wasn't paying for. On the other hand, I was sure that I couldn't afford Claudia's very refined choices.

"Okay," I said. "I'm out of line here-"

"One of your strengths."

I stopped. Was I out of line so often that he could mock me about it? "That was a horrible thing to say."

He blinked. "Well, no, it isn't horrible. It is a strength-that you're willing to say things that no one else is willing to, things that need to be said."

"That's true, but that's not what you meant. You were being critical, and you know it." I started to walk off. I had just been trying to help. Let Claudia screw up. See if I cared.

He grabbed my arm. "Come on, Darcy, what were you going to say?"

If Claudia screwed up, I might not care, but Jeremy would. I took a breath. "Okay . . . it's about Claudia's Web site. My guess is that the Zander-Browns won't want anything about the wedding plans on her Web site."

He looked puzzled. "Why would she put anything on her Web site about their plans?"

Because that was what she did. The whole purpose of her life was to have things to post about. "I don't know . . . I'm not saying that she would or wouldn't; I'm just saying that it's probably a bad idea, and, for the sake of all of us, you might mention it to her."

"I can't imagine that she would, but I suppose it doesn't hurt to mention it."

I went into the kitchen. Claudia was at the sink, so I looked for something to do on the other side of the kitchen. The trash can was full. I started to gather up the loose edges of the black plastic liner. Someone had sc.r.a.ped the dessert plates into the can.

The top layer of garbage was crescents of uneaten piecrusts. People hadn't finished their crusts. They'd eaten the filling but left the elaborate outer rim on their plates. All the handling to make those perfect little circles and crimped edges had developed the gluten and made the crust tough.

No one ever left my piecrust on their plate.

Friday morning, Rose commandeered the long table between the kitchen and the family room for the wedding-planning session, laying out various brochures and printouts. She had four copies of many of them, one each for Cami, Annie, herself, and me. I poured myself a cup of coffee and as we were waiting for the girls, I picked up the glossy brochure from the tent-rental company. The photos made the tent look like something out of the boys' old King Arthur books. The white roof slanted sharply down from multiple peaks; it looked medieval and romantic. The interior shots showed a s.p.a.ce that was soft and s.p.a.cious. The company recommended draping the interior with fabric, and in case of inclement weather, windowed walls and canopied walkways could be added. A thinner sheet of paper had been tucked inside the brochure. I glanced at it and then instantly dropped it as if it were radioactive. That sheet was the price list. I looked at it again, thinking I had to have read it wrong. I hadn't.

Mike wasn't kidding. This was very serious money indeed.

Rose had typed up an agenda, flagging the things that we absolutely had to decide this weekend. I was overwhelmed. Not only were there so many different things on the list, but for each item there were too many choices, too many possibilities. The calligrapher had offered eleven sample scripts-some intricate and scrolling, some stately, some contemporary. The printer had at least twenty fonts, seventeen different shades of white papers, at least ten times that many colored papers, and eight ink colors.

But we didn't need to limit ourselves to those fonts, those shades of white, those ink colors. Everything was custom; anything was possible. And that would be true with the rental company, the caterer, the florist, everyone.

We got nowhere. Cami couldn't make up her mind. She wasn't a perfectionist; she wasn't a princess for whom nothing was good enough. Quite the contrary. She loved everything. Everything was beautiful. She couldn't choose.

My responsible, beautiful daughter-in-law-to-be was a ditherer. I hadn't known that about her. I hoped that she wasn't planning on being a surgeon or an ER doc. She wouldn't be able to make decisions quickly enough. She might well end up as one of those internists who drive everyone else nuts because they keep ordering more tests, never committing to a diagnosis.

She consulted with Jeremy, but he knew even less about this than I did. "Whatever you want," he kept saying, "that will be fine with me."

Clearly a major problem was that she didn't have her dress. Without a dress, we couldn't set a theme or a tone. Cami liked Annie's idea of an English cottage garden, to have everything charmingly informal with a glowing mixture of flowers, mosses, and vines. "But what if the dress is really formal?" Cami kept saying. "Then that won't be right."

Cami and Rose had appointments at bridal salons on Monday and Tuesday. Rose was letting Annie skip school to go with them. So we were not going to have a dress today or tomorrow. Did that mean we wouldn't be able to make any decisions at all?

I needed a pill. I glanced at my watch. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't take another Ritalin for two more hours. It sure felt like it had already worn off.

Rose was struggling to remain patient with Cami. "Let's at least settle the portable toilets."

My father and his EpiPen had taken Finney out to explore the town, and Guy was sitting in a big chair at the far end of the family room. This was apparently his concession to Annie's memory of how, in the Adirondacks cottage, everyone sat in the same room all the time. So he sat where we could see him, but since he was working, I wasn't sure how much his presence added.

He was reading ma.n.u.scripts that someone on his staff had prescreened for rejection. On one side of his chair were two cartons full of the ma.n.u.scripts. On the other side was a big recycling bin. He would read the first three pages carefully, then flip through the next seven or so. Apparently agreeing with the decision to reject the ma.n.u.script, he would take the cover letter and scrawl something across the top. He would put the cover letter in a pile on the carton side of his chair and let the ma.n.u.script drop into the recycling bin.

I forced myself back to the port-a-potties question. Except they weren't port-a-potties. They were "luxury comfort stations." Companies brought in trailers with stalls, vanities, and mirrors, just like a restroom in a restaurant. The trailers had electrical connections and sewage hookups so that the toilets flushed and the sinks had running hot water. Some of them were Mafia-grand, white with gold rococo trim. Others were Euro-tech chrome and rosewood.

Why was Rose handling all this herself? Sure, it was easy to make fun of wedding planners, but some of them had to be sensible and efficient.

We were now talking about the music. We needed music for the ceremony, music for dinner, music for dancing.

If this had been a normal wedding, one deejay would have brought three sets of CDs and done it all. But this was not a normal wedding. We were going to have woodwinds at the ceremony, strings at dinner, and a band for dancing, all of them live, all of them needing to be selected.

And even after those decisions were made, Rose would have to read and sign their contracts, then write and mail the deposit checks. She would have to figure out where the musicians were going to be positioned while performing. She would have to remember to have the caterer provide them with meal service. She would have to be sure that they got directions and knew where to park.

Why was she doing this herself? This was not what Marys were supposed to be doing with themselves.

When Dad and Finney came back, we took a break, rounding everyone up for lunch. Jill Allyn monopolized the conversation, talking about a new book that only she and Guy had read, and she got her little digs in at Rose. "It really is the sort of book you used to enjoy."

Cami didn't eat much. She was supposed to go upstairs with a stack of CDs and pick music for at least one part of the event. As Rose and I were finishing the dishes, she came into the kitchen, carrying her laptop, looking uneasy. "Mom, would you look at this?"

"Of course." Rose dried her hands. "What is it?"

"It's an e-mail from Claudia. With pictures of a dress. A wedding dress." Cami set the laptop on the counter and Rose peered at the screen.

"This is pretty." Rose adjusted the angle of the screen and then clicked on the keyboard. "Oh, there's a video."

"Isn't it nice the way it moves-how it looks so simple when she's standing still, but then all those layers swirl and float?"

Annie came over to look. "Is there a train?"

"Let's see if they have a rear view." Rose clicked some more.

I joined them. All morning Cami had talked about what she didn't want in a dress.

She didn't wanted it to be strapless, but sleeves were sort of frumpy, weren't they?

This dress had a light drift of chiffon over the shoulders.

She didn't wanted a stiff, Jackie Kennedy kind of dress, but she didn't want it to be s.e.xy either.