Ring a Testament to a Wedding That Wasn’t to Be

A few weeks after Sept. 11, Karen Carlucci took the train into the city to pick up her wedding ring.

She had canceled everything else: the hall, the band, the flowers, the honeymoon. She had put her engagement ring back in its box.

But she wanted this, she decided. The jeweler didn’t know what to say, so he just handed it to her.

She slipped the thick platinum band onto her right ring finger--and vowed to go on.

“The engagement ring represented us being engaged. This,” she said, fingering the band, “now represents a new time in my life but still connected to him.”

For Karen, 29, the timing of Sept. 11 was especially cruel. She and Peter Christopher Frank, 29, were to be married in a little more than a month. She was supposed to wear Vera Wang. Louis Armstrong’s, “A Kiss to Build a Dream On,” was to be their first song.

He already had his bachelor’s party. Her bachelorette bash was supposed to be in a week and a half. The honeymoon was planned for St. Bart’s and Anguilla. They were going to build a future together.

Instead, the dates that were once eagerly anticipated have marched steadily by, transformed into milestones of loss.

“We were about to get married,” she said. “How do I move on from that?”

Yet, in small, tentative steps, she has begun to do just that.

She’s gone back to work--part time. She can now stay by herself in the Manhattan apartment they once shared, although she still spends most of her time at her parents’ home in New Jersey. She’s mustered the enthusiasm to go out with friends again.

She’s learning to work around the hole in her heart, said her mother, Elaine Carlucci.

Some Sept. 11 charities have helped Karen, but she’s been stymied by others because she is only a fiancee, not a spouse.

People don’t seem to understand that families today are more than just married couples with children, she said.

She still remembers when she first met him, six years ago. He turned around in the bar and looked her straight in the eye. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

She was taken aback by his confidence. “Who does he think he is?” she thought.

Later, they flirted on the dance floor. Outside, he asked if he would ever see her again.

“Probably not,” she said, before speeding away in a cab.

But something about this former college football player with the movie-star looks got to her. Like teenagers at a slumber party, she and her giggling friends called a slew of Peter Franks in the phone book at 4 a.m., looking for him.

She got his number a few days later from a mutual friend. Their first date was at an Italian restaurant.

He was more handsome than the guys she usually went for. He could be a J. Crew model, she thought. Later, when investigators asked Karen if he had any birthmarks or scars, she almost blurted out, “Look for the perfect man. That’s what he is.”

He seemed very focused to her, as he explained his job as an asset manager. He wanted to be successful, to make a lot of money.

Before long, Karen was helping take care of Chavez, his rambunctious 1-year-old boxer.

He proved to be a romancer, buying her flowers and introducing her to opera. They went to museums and on long walks.

After dating for three years, they decided to move in together. They weren’t ready for marriage quite yet.

Their apartment in Greenwich Village faced south, toward the World Trade Center. Karen took a picture from the window and hung it in their bedroom.

A year ago, Pete was hired at Fred Alger Management, on the 93rd floor of the north tower. Alger, with its sterling Wall Street reputation, was the next step in his career, he told Karen.

Last Christmas Eve, the couple stayed at Karen’s parents’ house in Florham Park, N.J. In the morning, Pete told Karen’s father, Bill, that he was going to ask Karen to marry him. Bill Carlucci cried.

Pete originally planned to ask her on New Year’s Eve, at a bed and breakfast on Long Island, but a blizzard socked in the area.

They went the next week. Walking along the beach, Pete said he needed to ask her something.

Karen remembered squinting because the sun was in her eyes.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring, a gorgeous emerald cut diamond with baguettes.

In the next few months, they picked a location, set a date and chose a band. Karen looked at dozens of dresses before picking a strapless gown that was simple yet elegant.

The weekend before Sept. 11 was his bachelor’s party. Glenn Conte, a childhood friend, drove him down to Atlantic City to meet up with the guys. His friends remember him seeming at peace, as he sat on the beach.

On the morning of Sept. 11, Pete put on a suit and headed for the door. She remembered looking up suddenly, thinking they hadn’t properly bid farewell. She opened her mouth to call to him, but the door had already closed.

“I specifically remember thinking I didn’t say goodbye to him,” she said.

At 8:41 a.m., Pete sent an e-mail from his office to the groomsmen in his wedding, reminding them to get measured for their tuxedos.

At work, Karen was preparing for a meeting when she heard the news. She dialed his number but couldn’t get through.

The phone began ringing with other people. Everyone tried to remain upbeat. His sister, Michelle, insisted that he must be walking home.

Conte came to wait with Karen at the apartment that afternoon. They tried not to pay attention to the news as the evening stretched on.

The next day, she went home to New Jersey. With her mother at her side, Karen sat down on her bed and broke down.

The Friday after Sept. 11, she told her mother, “We have to cancel everything.”

Many of the vendors cried on the phone with them. Some sent heartfelt notes of condolence.

A week later, she walked around the armory. She found the flier that his friends had put up for him. Next to Pete’s face, she wrote, “I love you. I miss you.”

On Sept. 22, the day that was to be her bachelorette party, she went to his memorial service in Queens. The best man, John Kavanagh, delivered a eulogy.

“On Oct. 19, Karen’s father would have given her away,” he said. “Today, we’re giving Pete away.”

For her wedding day, Karen gathered everyone together. She put on a red dress. They had food catered.

Karen’s younger brother played the violin, just as he would have at the wedding. A book was passed around in which everyone wrote their memories.

The day after was the lowest point. Karen woke up alone, her wedding dress still in its plastic wrapping.

Another Sept. 11 fiancee whom Karen talked to put it well: They are widows before they had the chance to become brides.

An Alger official told Karen that their victims’ foundation was only for “families” but that the company was exploring how it might help her.

Upset, Karen said that Pete would want her taken care of.

Pete’s mother, Connie, who lives on Long Island, says now that they’ve lost Pete, they don’t want to lose Karen too. She calls Karen “my daughter.”

Karen has put together a scrapbook of photos and memories. She took down the photo of the trade center in the bedroom. In its place, she hung a cross.

She’s started to venture out more. For Pete’s birthday, on Dec. 1, she went out with a group of his friends. In contrast to earlier occasions, the mood was light. They told stories about him and laughed. When a good song came on, Karen danced freely. This, she said, is what he would have wanted.

They raised their glasses. She did too.

To Peter Frank.