by Hope Lyda
“I would move to New York.”
There is a serious silence as we all catch up to this news.
I turn the situation back to me. “I thought all your hours…let me rephrase that, our hours at the library were so you could start a clothing store here.”
“Amen!” shouts Angelica. The fry-grease that she only eats when it can tempt Sadie seems to be giving her unearthly energy. She claps her hands in succession like one of those organ grinder monkeys with cymbals. I want to set her free, but I am too busy trying to imagine how Caitlin, who dresses to her own beat but depends on everyone else’s opinion for everything from toothpaste to apartment decor, has pursued a business venture on her own.
“Now I know how your mom felt the first time you used a rope ladder to escape your bedroom to go dance in dilapidated discotheques.” I exaggerate a dab to my eyes with a napkin—but I mean it. Just a little bit.
“Do Mr. and Mrs. Ramirez know about this?” Sadie refers to Caitlin’s parents this way because they happen to be two of her biggest donors for the Tucson Botanical Society. They each give from their respective bank accounts every quarter.
Caitlin looks up with her big brown eyes and long lashes. Her mouth shifts to one side. She looks twelve. “Not yet. But they are the reason I am considering this. Somehow they got wind of my desire to open a store.” She scans our faces looking for guilt. “Now they want to finance it to secure my future so I don’t make a disaster of my credit record in the business community.”
“If you take away the put-down part, that is really quite nice.”
“But with my parents you cannot omit the parts you don’t like. You have to say ‘Hey, this is worth it just like it is. Just like they are,’ and go from there. That is how I survive my relationship with them.”
“Parents like to help their kids. It’s natural.” I feel myself stepping over to the wrong side of this argument. My friend needs support, but I don’t want her to leave.
“Speak for yourself,” mumbles Angelica, who has moved on to an order of onion rings.
“Instead of calling it bad, consider that they might want this opportunity as an investment. They believe in what you are doing enough to back it financially.” Sadie raises her eyebrows like a parent trying to convince a grade-schooler that maybe liver is the superfood of Olympic gold medalists.
“I still want to claim my purpose. Isn’t doing the right thing in this case about doing it on my own and not relying on my parents? I want to show them I can depend on God in my life and that happiness isn’t about the numbers in my bank account or my credit rating, but about how faithful I am to my calling.”
“Now, that thinking could be a bit dangerous. God doesn’t want you in debt.” Sadie is missing the point. I make eye contact with her and shake my head.
I jump back over to Caitlin’s side of life and extend a hand to shake. “We will support you and your leap of faith, Caitlin.”
Silence returns. We eat our desserts with effort and unease. Nobody wants to imagine what life would be like if our perfect table of four turned into an awkward party of three.
Aftermath
How long has it been?” Beau peers at me over the tub of buttered popcorn on the armrest between us.
“Ages. Our last official date was twenty-three days ago. But who’s counting?” I take a breath and a slurp of my large soda and regret how I declined the gigantic refillable option. “Though it occurred to me that maybe you had broken up with me and hadn’t had time to officially tell me.” My hand reaches for yet another mound of artificial yellow kernels.
His face turns toward me and his lips move but a blast of surroundsound obscures his statement. The vertical crease between his eyebrows suggests it was not a reciprocated laughable comment.
I pull the tub toward me and clear our speaking space. While the pop cans and licorice ropes are dancing on the screen, Beau leans in. “I meant since we started going out. This is our nine-month anniversary.” He shakes his head.
“Oh. I knew that. I’ve been looking forward to it all week. I marked it on my calendar at work. You can check. Circled in red. Right there on the seventeenth of June.”
It is no use. I have killed his effort at romance with my surly comment about our nonexistent dating pattern.
The movie begins. The movie I have been so excited to see that I circled its preview date in red months ago is now running on the screen before me. I cannot hear the intense dialogue about how a very unnatural disaster is about to hit the coast of Florida. I cannot enjoy the handsomely square jaw and brilliant blue eyes of the lead male. Even the fake butter flavoring turns to battery acid in my mouth. I have squelched Beau’s attempt to get our love life back on track.
It isn’t until much later—until the leading man and leading lady are flying in a helicopter over debris and see a limping golden retriever and they brilliantly land on the precarious roof of a former post office to rescue the dog that Beau grabs my hand in his long enough to calm my racing thoughts but briefly enough to keep them revved.
I cross my legs rather than go to the restroom because I don’t want to leave his side. Not until we have resolved this. I regret my tendency toward one-liners, but surely by now the guy’s nervous system is immune to my under-the-breath musings, my offhand remarks.
Twice I catch Beau looking over at me. There is a touch of regret in his eyes. Is it a reflection of my own or all his?
Credits are running by the time I get the nerve to nudge his elbow. He mouths, “Sorry” and closes his eyes. Placing the tub down between my feet so there is nothing between us, I lean in and kiss him.
The kiss is so great I wish we had started cliché movie date kissing earlier.
“Did you really remember it was our ninth anniversary?” he asks.
How to answer. How to answer. “Yes.” Pause. “After you mentioned it. But I loved the movie. Who knew Aftermath would be that ever-so-special combination of thriller, disaster movie, and big-screen romance?”
He laughs and I know it is safe to offer him the unopened Milk Duds—the gesture I was afraid he would reject earlier.
“I want us to spend more time together, Mari. I know that I have been selfishly caught up in the program. Let’s find a way to get back to our old way.”
“Should people have an old way to do anything at nine months?”
“We can,” he says optimistically.
I try to focus on his positive attitude rather than the depressing thought that we are at a place in our relationship when we need to strive for, work toward, hope beyond hope for connection to reemerge.
Maybe I need to readjust my version of relationship. Maybe real love never measures up to romance in the movies—even disaster movies.
Emphasis on Maid
For the fourth time this week, I am running errands for Sadie’s wedding. My maid of honor assignments just keep coming. But at this rate, one would assume we were racing against an altar deadline of tomorrow.
I’m happy to help my great friend, but it can be awkward handling some decisions and discussions with bridal industry representatives. Half the time they assume I am the bride. The woman at the bakery said the “Sadie + Carson” sugar cookies needed to be paid for up front. She actually grabbed a sample chocolate marshmallow cookie from my hand which was on its way to my mouth and held the treat for ransom. I immediately wrote a check for $150 on Sadie’s behalf—because she is good for it—but mostly to get my cookie back.
My car complains with each turn of the wheel, so much that pedestrians look at it with an accusatory expression. I shrug once in a while to make it clear that I don’t know what it is saying exactly, either. But if it is taking cues from me today, it is whining.
“Purse Strings,” I read from a sign decorated with silk strings and vintage floral appliques. Maybe this will be one of the best tasks yet. After all, I am here to pick up our bridesmaid gifts. Sadie, on a business trip, was appalled to ask me to pick up my own gift, but the shopkeeper
told her that there was always the possibility our gifts would be mistaken as new inventory and sold to the general public. I think it was the phrase “general public” that really scared Sadie into action.
Everything I see in the storefront window changes my formerly martyr mood into a very hopeful one. Daintily embroidered clutches, monogrammed silk wrist purses, even a cashmere drawstring evening bag doesn’t seem over the top among this collection. As I step into the vanilla-scented store I can feel myself breathe more deeply. I’m happy to do this. I’m happy to be here, even though it meant leaving Angelica to completely manage the monthly birthday party at Golden Horizons. She insists that she did not mutter “cake fight” under her breath after I asked her to help me.
“Mari?”
I turn around expecting to see a salesperson, but instead I see the man sold on dating Angelica. “Peyton!” We embrace with genuine affection. I’ve been rooting for him to win over Angelica’s confused heart for nearly a year now.
Once we are standing face-to-face, the juxtaposition of him against the backdrop of silky, shiny women’s accessories raises a few questions. “So, Peyton. Whatcha doin’ in a place like this?” I spread out my arms to reveal his true surroundings in case he meant to walk into the magazine store next door.
“I love it here.”
I motion for him to keep talking.
“They have the most exquisite pieces in town.”
“I know that. Apparently Sadie knows that. And probably so do the best-dressed women in town. But how do you know that?”
He laughs and shakes his head. “I give my top clients a special purse every year for their birthday.”
“Female clients, I hope.”
“It should go without saying that my top pharmaceutical reps are all women.”
“Touché. Well, I give my best clients at Golden Horizons a huge, sugary cake from the Shop Club. In fact, I’m not even doing that today, Angelica is…” I stop midthought.
“It’s okay. Angelica and I do work in the same corporate office. I have to hear her name plenty.”
“Do you see her? Talk with her?”
“She avoids me whenever possible. If we make eye contact it is only accidental. It is as though I did something to hurt her instead…”
“Of the other way around. I know. And she knows. She doesn’t have ill feelings for you at all, Peyton.”
“My self-esteem just soared.”
“I mean—it is the opposite. I am still convinced she is very attracted to you and wants this eventually. I cannot believe you are holding out for her.”
“But you can a little, right? We both know what she is like when she lets her guard down. Wonderful.” He looks so sincere and smitten.
“Sir, your purses are ready.” The sales manager looks at me. “Are you with him?”
“No. I’m Mari Hamilton, picking up for Sadie Verity.”
She smiles a curious grin and puts her palms together in a very Japanese way, though she looks more like a California beach transplant. “Yours are available too. Won’t you both join me over here?”
“We’d love to. Shall we?” Peyton grabs my elbow and ushers me toward the side of the store where a counter has two large pieces of velvet folded over like envelopes.
“Ladies first.” Peyton offers graciously.
“Let’s look at what your ladies will receive.”
“No, we should honor Sadie,” Peyton returns.
The saleswoman seems to fear that we will go back and forth like this all day, so she opens the envelope nearest Peyton. We both suck in our breath in pure appreciation.
“Clearly, by the monograms, these are not for me and the girls.”
“You are right. These beautiful pieces are for Mr. Foster.”
“I cannot wait to see mine.” I look expectantly at her and notice that funny, nearly mischievous grin again.
“Here are your very original choices.”
When she unveils them, I quickly say, “Not my choice. Sadie’s choice.”
“They are very unique,” Peyton says as we all stare at the delicate yet strangely bulbous creations made of silk, lots of tassels, and—now I see the cause for the facing palms gesture—Japanese writings along the seam line. But it isn’t the cultural flair that surprises me. It is the odd striping combination of a creme de menthe green and a sunless tan lotion orange which makes happy words difficult to come by.
“Um. Hmm. Wow. They are…wow.”
“You can say that again,” Peyton and the saleswoman say in unison.
“I take it these are for use after the wedding. I love the shape. They are surprisingly roomy.” Peyton opens one up and reveals a hollowed out bowl fitted with more silk, this piece the color of a cranberry.
“I thought they were to go with our dresses. But I must have misunderstood.”
Saleswoman of the year shakes her head. “You understood. These came from our sister store in San Francisco, where the dresses were ordered.”
This makes me most curious about the dresses, but I trust my friend Sadie, the classiest gal I know. “Cover them up, please,” I say shortly. “To protect them from the sun.”
Peyton’s hand brushes over the purse with Angelica’s initials. “Would you mind if I put a note inside this one before you protect it from the elements?”
“She won’t see this until the day of the wedding. This purse is a surprise.”
“Sure is.” The saleswoman takes her parting shot.
“That’s perfect,” Peyton says.
I open and close the bubble purse so that it is talking. “It’s your heart, go for it.”
He smiles and reaches across the counter for a pen. On a blank receipt slip he scribbles out a note to the girl who won’t let herself love and places it into the silk wishing well.
Digging
Keep looking. I know it is here somewhere.” Sadie’s voice and upper body are buried in an old refrigerator box filled with photo albums, lace doilies, and collector spoons representing tourist stops to exotic places like Michigan and the Oregon sea lion caves.
I talk to her rear portion, which is three feet away from me and my box of Sadie’s heirlooms. “It is a picture of your parents and grandparents…at your parents’ wedding?”
“Yes. I know I have it somewhere. I want it to be on my guest book table. I’ve got to have it. Why didn’t I pay better attention to this photo? It is priceless, and now look at me…I’ve gone and lost it.” She stands with her hands massaging her lower back. I see that she is starting to cry. She adjusts her bangs to cover.
“Do you want me to call Val for Valium?”
“You worry me sometimes.”
“Keep looking.” I turn to a new box and begin sifting through belongings representing Sadie the single gal—books about men, dating, not dating, praying for a future mate, and a surprising one entitled Building a Log Cabin for One. I hold this one up. “Isn’t Caitlin coming over? She should take this one.”
“Hey, that is a great read,” she self-mocks, “and Caitlin is buying material for my veil today. Didn’t you look at the master wedding task list?”
“Couldn’t lift it,” I mumble.
We dig, plowing through many images. You can learn amazing things about a person through the photos they keep. Most of Sadie’s are of her receiving awards, certificates, trophies, and other praiseworthy items. In every shot she is poised, standing a model stance with one foot angled in front of the other and showcasing her amazing posture.
The duration of this engagement might be the only time in my friend’s life when she has not been completely perfect. I think of my helmet and Clark Kent-glasses photo and wonder, for the millionth time in the past few years, how Sadie and I became friends. Sure, we met at a Bible study…but why did she ever agree to go out for potato skins at Freddies with me and Angelica afterward?
“I’m such a loser—literally. How will I break it to my mom that I lost that image after I begged her for it after my college grad
uation?”
“Why’d you want it so badly?”
She returns to an upright position and smiles with a look of disbelief. “I actually thought I would get married soon after graduation. That is how naive I was. Dad had passed away a couple years earlier, and I guess I was hoping the man of my dreams would come into my life soon after to fill the void. Remember how we all thought our timelines would include marriage and kids by now? And here I am just getting started.”
“Speak for yourself. My plan did not involve children at this point. We are all right on schedule for what needs to happen, don’t you think?”
She shrugs and does the fake wipe of the bangs again. “I suppose you are right. I’d like to believe that.”
“Time for everything, right? Like…finding a missing photo!” I raise my hand and the sought-after image with a victorious shout.
Sadie drops to her knees and crawls three paces to come and sit next to me. For a moment, we are both holding the photograph. “This is amazing. Look how your parents are looking at each other’s face. It is with utter…”
“Wonderment,” Sadie finishes my sentence and we sigh in unison. Somehow a black-and-white photo better captures our idea of romance than any of the bridal magazines, chick-lit books, or even personal diaries that grace our nightstands.
“Do you think love is really so different for us these days? I mean…do we have a chance at this?” As I finish my sentence I realize it could be a bit insensitive, seeing as how Sadie is nearing the altar. Surely she believes we have a chance.
But my friend who spent her growing up years in the limelight of accomplishment expresses her own shadow of doubt when it comes to amore. “I think it is different. Look at what I am entering into. Not what I imagined for myself.”
“But still good. And just think…you really will be caught up to your timeline because you will have a stepson. Last I checked that counts as a kid. And you will still be thirty when you tie the knot.”
She nods as if I have really shed light on the situation for her.
