Class Reunions Are Murder

by Libby Klein

  The girls sat there with stunned looks on their faces watching me. I thought they were being rather melodramatic about the whole thing. Then I remembered what Sawyer said about Facebook stalking. “Why? Is he coming with someone from our class that I don’t know about?”

  Connie and Kim looked at Sawyer, waiting for her answer. Sawyer closed her eyes for a minute and took a deep breath, then said, “Well, actually. That’s what we wanted to talk to you about.”

  Is the room spinning? It feels like it’s spinning. This is it, isn’t it? This is the big announcement.

  “We wanted to tell you when we were all together to help you deal with it.”

  Yep, the room is definitely spinning. “Deal with what, exactly?”

  Kim pulled her invitation out of her purse. “You really didn’t read any of the info on here, did you?”

  Okay, now I was starting to feel nauseous. Mack’s was about to have a cleanup in booth number four. “Nooo.” It came out barely a whisper.

  “Tim’s restaurant is Maxine’s Bistro. It’s right here on the invitation. He’s catering the event.”

  My heart was beating like I was trying to run a 5K for the first time since high school, and I was getting a little light-headed. My eyes started to burn and I had to blink away tears. Connie reached across the table to take my hand.

  “Oh, Poppy, don’t cry. It can’t be that bad. Are you afraid he’ll say something mean to you?”

  “No.” I was dumbfounded. How do you explain to someone who looks like Sawyer that your worst nightmare is being seen fat and dumpy by your first love? She had tears running down her cheeks now. Of course, Sawyer cries with all of her emotions.

  “I’m so sorry, hon. I shouldn’t have assumed you knew.”

  “He’s only the caterer,” Kim tried to help. “He won’t be walking around greeting everyone. I’m sure we can keep him away from you.”

  “If you’re not afraid he’ll be rude to you then what is it?” Connie asked again.

  “I just . . .” My voice faltered. “I just haven’t seen or talked to him in twenty-five years. After the way things ended—the last thing I wanted was for Tim to see me like this.”

  “Like what?” Sawyer asked, genuinely confused. Sawyer, bless her heart, could only see the best in people.

  I was already regretting eating that third piece of pizza. And every piece of pizza I’d had in the last two decades. They all appeared at once in my mind, like a jeering mob. “I don’t want him to take one look at me and be relieved that he dodged a bullet.”

  “Everyone wants their ex to think that they were the one that got away,” Kim stated.

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve had a great life and a wonderful husband who was madly in love with you. Tim should be jealous that he missed out on all that you had to give.” Connie unrolled some toilet paper from her purse.

  I’d have to think about that later.

  “If he’s only interested in looks, he’s shallow and doesn’t deserve you, and you’re the one who dodged the bullet.” Kim gave me a fierce look, daring me to disagree.

  Everyone nodded, but I wasn’t buying it. “I’m just going to have to try to avoid running into him.”

  “I’ll help you,” Sawyer put her arm around me, “I’ll be your buffer.”

  “We all will,” Connie agreed.

  “No one will even notice you when I show up in my lace gloves and bustier,” Kim said with a straight face. She leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, yeah. You heard me.”

  We all burst out laughing and even our waitress looked back to see what was going on.

  It was late, so Connie had to get home to Mike and the girls. As we stood up to collect our things the waitress walked over to the table and put a birch beer down in front of me.

  “Are you freaking kidding me with this?”

  Only she didn’t hear me, because Mr. Pizza Chef was flexing his pecs, making them dance back and forth.

  Sawyer and I waved good-bye to Kim and Connie as they walked down the boardwalk to get to their cars. Then she looked at me and said, “I’m worried about you.”

  Geez, why so serious all of a sudden?

  “What? I’m all right.” I hated being pitied. If anyone gets to pity me it’s going to be me.

  “I want you to get some rest while you’re up here, okay?”

  “Yes, Mom,” I replied, hoping to stop Sawyer from fussing over me. “Speaking of moms, have you spoken to Eileen lately?”

  “The last I heard she was in India in search of the Dalai Lama, looking for enlightenment.”

  I raised one eyebrow in question and Sawyer went on.

  “She read Eat, Pray, Love, and she figured she already spent a lifetime with the Eat and Love parts, so she may as well give Pray a chance.”

  “That does sound like Eileen. With all the searching she’s done to find higher consciousness, you’d think she would be able to hover on thin air by now.”

  “Just think of all the money she could save on airfare traveling around from Machu Picchu to Osaka with a wiggle of her nose. She could stop eating food and just absorb minerals from the universe.” Sawyer opened her arms wide and waved them about like she was floating.

  Sawyer. She had been my rock, my spirit-lifter, my best friend, forever. Bless her heart, she’d come through for me again.

  We exploded in a fit of giggles as we walked arm in arm down the boardwalk. Only thirty-six more hours and I would be out of South Jersey and on my way back to a Tim-free zone in Virginia.

  Chapter 5

  Spending the night in my childhood home was causing painful memories of my childhood to surface. My father died when I was four and my mother checked out mentally, so I was shipped off to live with Aunt Ginny. Growing up as a fat kid in a beach town was enough for me to be an after-school special in the making.

  I wanted to go to cooking school in Paris at Le Cordon Bleu, but I would settle for the Culinary Institute of America in New York. Tim and I had enrolled together. We had been dating for three years, a lifetime for a teenager or Hollywood celebrity. He asked me to marry him when I was only fifteen, and I said “yes.” He was older than me, but he delayed college so we could go to school together. He was going to enter the Culinary Arts program and I would take the Pastry Arts courses. We would get married, have two kids, a five-star restaurant, and a cat named Snicklefritz—Fritz for short. Our plan was set, or so I thought. The only piece I ended up with was the cat, and I should have been more specific about that one.

  Grandma Emmy was adamant that I would never make any money as a chef. She didn’t think Tim would either. This was before the days of the Food Network and Cake Boss. So she gave me an ultimatum that she would only pay for college if I went to William & Mary in Williamsburg for a practical major promising success and wealth, i.e. Business Management. Looking back, I think Grandma wanted to make sure I could take care of myself and not rely on a man to provide for me. But flow charts and statistics were not the stuff my dreams were made of. I was devastated. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me to apply for scholarships or school loans or even work my way through culinary school. The Jersey Shore success bar of life wasn’t just set low, it wasn’t even in the game. It was being used for drunken limbo on the beach.

  I had to get out of New Jersey. I kissed my twenty-year-old fiancé good-bye and set off for Virginia ready to embark on a long distance committed relationship while I earned my degree so I could make a million dollars and retire at forty and take up pastry as a hobby. (We were overly optimistic during the Reagan administration.)

  But life has a way of twisting into shapes you couldn’t possibly see forming. A wild party, a peach-schnapps-fueled hookup, and the end of my college career and engagement . . . all in a few short hours. Somehow, I never managed to get my life back on course.

  When little girls dream of their wedding day, a shotgun is usually not involved. Mine was a very small, quiet wedding. Most of the guest
s were people neither John nor I knew. I guess his mother figured it would be a good opportunity to schmooze some of her husband’s political contacts. Only my grandparents and Aunt Ginny attended on my side. My mother couldn’t handle the shame of a pregnant daughter getting married in the backyard so I had Granddaddy walk me down the patch of yellowed grass that doubled as the aisle. John’s aunt made a snide comment about the audacity of my wearing white and said that I wasn’t fooling anyone as I passed by. All through the ceremony I kept waiting for Tim to rush in like in the movies and shout, “Call off the wedding!” Saying that I couldn’t possibly marry someone else because he loved me so much and we were meant to be together. But it never happened. Just a bunch of strangers milking the open bar and my family watching with pity in their eyes.

  My wedding day was an embarrassment and it brings me shame every time I think about it. Everyone knew I was pregnant. My cousin Susan made sure of that. I suspect there were some “early deliveries” six months after a couple of my cousins’ weddings, but I didn’t ask and they weren’t talking. John’s mother’s cover story was that it was a shame I wasn’t able to discipline myself to lose some weight before the ceremony.

  On my wedding night, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried. When I slipped out to get into bed, I thought I heard John sniffle in his sleep. I thought he must have been as miserable to be married as I was. It was years later that I learned that he had been crying because he heard me sobbing and it broke his heart. How I wish I could take it all back now.

  I dropped out of college, having finished only my freshman year, and got a job bagging groceries at the A&P. John was too close to graduating and I insisted he finish school and get his law degree while I worked to pay the rent for our meager studio apartment. Then, in a few years after our child started kindergarten, I would go back to school to get my degree.

  Six weeks after the wedding I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat with terrible cramps. John threw the covers back and I screamed when I saw the growing pool of blood. He called 911 but by the time I got to the hospital it was too late. We had lost our baby. I was losing a lot of blood and the doctor couldn’t find the source. Somewhere I lost consciousness. When I came to in the recovery room, John was holding my hand and crying. The doctors had to perform an emergency hysterectomy to save my life. I would never have another baby.

  We planned to have the marriage annulled. I couldn’t even get out of bed in the morning let alone fill out paperwork. John’s family kept their distance mercifully. I’m sure they were relieved, but even they weren’t the kind of monsters that would wish this on anyone. Grandma Emmy and Aunt Ginny came down to stay with me for a couple of months to help get me back on my feet. Between their love and John’s constant strength I managed to not do something stupid to myself.

  John asked me to hold off on the annulment until we both recovered from the loss of our baby. He said we had suffered so much trauma already that we should just stay together as friends to support each other. Falling in love with him was easy.

  It didn’t happen right away. It sort of snuck up on me. It wasn’t the powerful take-your-breath-away kind of high school infatuation that I’d experienced with Tim. It was richer. More mature. More appreciative. I started to notice all the kind things John would do for me. Like how he set out my vitamins so I’d remember to take them. And he’d turn on the electric blanket before I’d go to bed so it would be warm for me.

  One night I had to fill in for a cashier who called in sick and when I got home John had warmed up leftover macaroni and cheese for me and videotaped a movie that I had wanted to see but would have missed. I kept staring at him across the little oak table in our apartment dining room as the pieces were falling together for me. He asked me what was wrong and said I was making him nervous. I went over to him and took his hand, I looked him in the eyes and asked, “How long have you been in love with me?”

  He gave a nervous little laugh. Then cleared his throat and quietly confessed, “Since you landed on me in the quad.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’re in love with Tim.”

  I realized that John had always wanted what was best for me even when it hurt him. How could I not help but fall in love with him? I saw a man who had his heart on his sleeve and I had unknowingly stomped all over it again and again. My heart filled with so much love for him I thought it would burst. “You have stayed by my side and loved me through the darkest hours of my life, and I have fallen completely in love with you, Mr. Browne. It would please me greatly if I could be your wife.”

  We consummated our marriage after six months, eight days, and nine hours and went from being married friends to being husband and wife.

  Our love blossomed and grew for twenty-three years despite our rocky beginning, our families’ meddling, our failed attempts at adoption, and our childlessness and now I sit here a widow. I wish I could go back to that day on the quad and start over. To do things different. To love John from the beginning like he deserved.

  I woke up with something heavy on my chest. I was vibrating, and something soft reached out and touched me on the nose. I opened my eyes to see two bright gold marbles staring at me without blinking and I detected the faint smell of fish.

  “Can I help you?” The purring grew stronger as Figaro figured he was one step closer to getting breakfast. “What time is it?” I yawned.

  Mrrrrrow, the reply from Sir Figaro, the ever-hopeful. The smell of coffee and bacon brought me fully to senses beyond the fur in my face. No one has to wave a slice of sizzling, smoked pig at me twice.

  “All right, let’s get up.”

  Figaro jumped down with a soft thud.

  “Aunt Ginny is making breakfast. If you’re good, maybe she’ll let you have a piece of bacon.”

  Figaro guarded the door while I made the bed and put on my fuzzy yellow bathrobe with the cupcake pocket. Then he followed me to the bathroom to stare at me and flick his tail back and forth in an effort to hurry me up while I washed my face and brushed my teeth.

  “Okay, I’m finished. Let’s go.” I left my room to take the back stairs to the kitchen. Figaro took his usual route under my feet while pausing every few steps to look at me to be sure I was still coming.

  “Good morning,” Aunt Ginny trilled.

  I stared.

  Aunt Ginny was wearing a floor-length, aqua-blue evening gown, long white gloves, and a sapphire-and-diamond necklace. And bunny slippers. Her hair was done up in a bun on top of her head and adorned with what looked like—yes, it was a tiara. She was removing the last pieces of bacon from the griddle with a plastic spatula. I didn’t know where to begin.

  “Wow! Why are you dressed so . . . fancy? Is there a breakfast ball? Do I need to go change?”

  Aunt Ginny smiled at me. “Don’t be silly. You’re dressed fine. Some days I just wake up and want to wear a tiara. It would look silly to wear it in my housecoat.”

  Oh, of course. Whatever was I thinking?

  “Go sit down in the formal dining room.”

  Ooh la la.

  She had set us two places with the Royal Albert Country Roses china. A casserole of something divine sat before our plates. There was a carafe of juice chilling in a silver ice bucket next to a silver coffeepot with cream and sugar service.

  Aunt Ginny followed me in with the platter of bacon, Figaro doing a sort of prancy trot at her side, his eyes fixed on the platter.

  “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble. Really, a bowl of Cheerios would have been fine.”

  She placed the bacon across from us, pulled out a chair, and sat next to me. Figaro disappeared under the table.

  “Hush, child. I wanted to do it. I miss entertaining and making fancy dishes. At my age I’ve earned the right to do what I want and wear what I want.” With that, she gave a nod of finality to the subject and started dishing out the casserole with one gloved hand.

  I was not one to argue when syrup was on the lin
e. “That smells delicious. What is it?” I took a couple pieces of bacon from the platter and put them on Aunt Ginny’s plate before serving myself.

  “Orange Marmalade French Toast,” she said proudly. “Layers of croissant with orange marmalade and sweetened cream cheese covered with beaten eggs and cream. You sit it in the refrigerator overnight, then all you have to do in the morning is bake it. It’s so easy.”

  I poured us both coffee and juice. “I can’t wait to taste it.” I put two sugars and an unhealthy dose of heavy cream into my coffee and stirred. What’s a little clogging among friends and arteries? Mmm, lovely. Figaro peeked over the tablecloth and I could see the halfway point of his eyes. He was sitting at the table with us in the chair across from Aunt Ginny. I gave his chair a little kick for warning.

  Aunt Ginny took my hand, belted out grace like a boss, then turned to me and said, “Well, dig in.”

  You don’t have to tell me twice. I thought I would melt out of my chair as I tasted the first bites of the heavenly French toast. Sweet, flaky, that sweetened cream cheese like cheesecake for breakfast. I froze as I saw a gray paw come up and in a flash snag a piece of bacon off the platter and disappear with it under the table. If Aunt Ginny saw it she didn’t let on.

  “How is it?” she asked me.

  “It’s wonderful! You have to give me the recipe so I can make it back home.” I could hear lippy-smacky noises coming from Figaro’s lair. I tried to cover the sound by slurping my juice. “What is this, Aunt Ginny? I thought it was orange juice, but it tastes like tangerine.”

  When Aunt Ginny turned her head to look at the carafe of juice, I leaned over and tried to shoo Figaro off the chair. He swatted at me to leave him alone.

  “It’s a blend of juices including guava, papaya, and tangerine. Isn’t it good?” Aunt Ginny took a sip of her coffee.

  I shot Figaro a warning glare. “How was pottery spinning last night?”

  “My teacher says I’m a natural. My vase only leaks if you put water in it.” She was so pleased with herself she was sparkling like her tiara.