Did Someone Say Fiancée? by Wendy Markham

Author:Wendy Markham
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Graydon House Books
Published: 2006-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

What better place to get engaged than at a luxuriously romantic waterfront New England couples spa?

I don’t know, maybe you should ask Jack, because he obviously has some other locale in mind.

We’ve been at Deux Coeurs Sur La Plage for more than twenty-four hours, and call me a pessimist, but I don’t think Jack has any intention of proposing this weekend.

My Thanksgiving Day epiphany was unfortunately short-lived.

I’m right back to obsessing over when he’s going to pop the question—and wondering why he hasn’t yet. He’s certainly had plenty of opportunity.

What the heck is he waiting for? Christmas? New Year’s Eve? Or—God forbid—springtime?

Doesn’t he realize we have little hope of an autumn wedding if he doesn’t get his butt in gear?

Yes, I still have my heart set on that.

If he proposes before this weekend is out, we’d still have time to get the plans under way. But I really don’t think it’s going to happen, regardless of the romantic weekend setting.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to be here.

It’s just…

Well, as I sit on the bed in a pair of old sweats, watching Jack dig through his suitcase for something to wear to our reflexology session, I can’t help but wonder: is this all there is? To the spa, I mean.

Just an antiquated, television-free room with a view of the parking lot; Spartan, albeit healthy, meals that leave me wishing I’d smuggled in Fritos; and hourly seminars with titles like, “Free Your Soul: Who Am I and Why Am I Here?”

All I got out of that one is that I’m Tracey Spadolini and I’m here because this is my reward for quitting smoking. I have no idea what Jack got out of the seminar, but I couldn’t help noticing other couples nodding meaningfully at each other and Shalaylah, the female instructor, all clearly moved by some sort of spiritual enlightenment that evaded the two of us.

I conclude that they must all be married—presumably to each other—and that’s why we’re just not getting it. Our souls—Jack’s and mine—are trapped in a spiritual limbo because one of us isn’t ready to commit.

But maybe that’s not the only problem.

I’m starting to think that maybe spa life just isn’t my thing. I guess I pictured more of a self-indulgent, or even decadent, weekend, rather than a hectic barrage of nonstop activity more suited to limber New Age yogini types than to a reformed smoker with a growing paunch and a ravenous appetite.

I don’t want to disappoint Jack, though. The weekend has to be costing him a small fortune—one that would have been better spent on a quick, rum-infused jaunt to the Caribbean, in my opinion. I should be enjoying every minute of it.

Not that Jack has any idea I’m not enjoying every minute of it. I’ve become quite the actress, if I do say so myself. Last night, I feigned exhilarated bliss during a hot-stone treatment that smacked of primitive torture methods; this morning, I delivered a joyful Oscarworthy tour de force in response to an excruciating paraffin face mask that I swear removed the epidermis from my neck up.

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