What More Could You Wish For

by Samantha Hoffman

  I put on a sleeveless gold V-neck top, a wide leather belt and black boots, and pulled out a jacket with a black and tan pattern. Not bad for an old broad, I thought.

  I was on my way to the bathroom to check my makeup and hair when I thought to look at my e-mail to see if Patrick had responded. I didn’t expect to hear from him so soon—it had only been a few hours, after all—but a huge smile unfurled on my face when I saw an e-mail with an unfamiliar screen name, KayakDude, and the subject line Re: Your past comes back to haunt you. I laughed out loud, feeling as if I’d just been invited to the prom. My heart thumped as I opened the e-mail.

  Libby,

  Wow! You brightened my day. It’s great to hear from you, and no, of course I haven’t forgotten you. How could I?

  I smiled.

  I’ve often wondered where you were and how you were doing. I looked for your name when I first joined SearchForSchoolmates.com and hoped someday I’d find it. And here you are!

  So, okay, here’s my life in a nutshell: I was married, then divorced, and I have a son who’s almost 30. He’s married and has two little ones. It’s amazing being a grandpa. Do you have kids? Are you a grandma? Man, that’s a concept.

  You heard right—I did move to Florida and I’m still here in a small town on the Gulf Coast. Like the rest of Florida it’s growing fast but we still have miles of undeveloped sugar-white sand beaches. I have a sea-kayak tour business that I run in tourist season, plus I own a couple of apartment buildings that keep me pretty busy, always something to fix or rehab. Or a deadbeat tenant. But mostly I enjoy it. I’ve had a great life.

  Yeah, that New Year’s Eve is one of my favorite memories, too. Man, I’m flashing back now and remembering when Jack Bradshaw’s folks came home early. Whew, that was embarrassing, wasn’t it? I’d forgotten that part until just now. Jack’s mom was pretty freaked out, wasn’t she? I’m sort of remembering that you got in big trouble over it, too, but can’t remember how.

  Do you keep in touch with anyone from high school? I haven’t been to Chicago in years and years. My parents moved to Florida not long after I did and my brothers went out west so I lost track of everyone. Do you ever hear anything about Sophie? Pete?

  So glad you e-mailed me! I’m not so great at this e-mail thing (never took typing in high school—who knew guys would need something like that?) but I look forward to hearing from you again. Tell me all about your life.

  Peace,

  Patrick

  P.S. Worth the fifty bucks! Check’s in the mail.

  Peace. That sounded so much like him. The sea-kayaking business sounded exactly right, too. No corporate crap for Patrick Harrison. I laughed. I had an image of him sitting at his computer, typing with two fingers, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, long hair in a ponytail. It was silly, really, how happy I was that he remembered me; like a kid with a new best friend. I could see his face clearly—his dark eyes and sweet smile. What did he look like now? Did he still have long hair? Did he have hair at all? Was he still cute? And what would “cute” mean at fifty?

  Sophie would freak out. I wanted to answer the e-mail right that second, but only had time to read it over once more before I had to finish getting dressed.

  I checked my eye shadow, added a little more blush and brushed my hair, and tried to see myself with Patrick’s eyes. What would he see? A reasonably attractive fifty-year-old woman with gray strands in her curly brown hair. Too much gray? Did it make me look old? Would he recognize me after thirty years? I thought I looked decent, but what did I really know? How can you be objective about the face you’ve been looking at every day for fifty years?

  * * *

  Michael’s car was already in the driveway when I pulled up to my parents’ house, which totally pissed me off. Why hadn’t he called to pick me up if he was going to make it early? How long had he been there and what was he talking about? He’d better not have said anything about our engagement. I would lose it if he had. I could imagine hitting him over the head with my purse. (Not that I’m a hitter.) I didn’t really think he’d say anything without me, but Michael was unpredictable these days and I was irritated by the possibility. My sister’s car was there as well and I prayed the whole damned family wouldn’t be exclaiming over the big news when I walked in.

  The living room was empty, but tidy as usual, with bowls of pistachios on the mahogany end tables, magazines stacked neatly on the coffee table.

  “Where is everybody?” I yelled.

  “In here,” my mother called from the back of the house. As I walked down the short hallway I heard whispering sounds and someone saying, “Shhhh.”

  Goddamn it, I thought, he’s told them. I was furious when I turned the corner, thinking what the hell I’d say, ready to deny everything, but then I was assaulted by shouts of “Surprise!” as twenty or thirty people stood among black balloons (it wasn’t until later I’d notice they were emblazoned with 50 or OVER THE HILL) and black streamers strung across the kitchen.

  A fucking surprise party.

  I’d made Michael swear more than once that he’d never do this and yet there was his face, right smack-dab in front, with a big, satisfied smile.

  I wanted to smack him.

  Six

  “Sorry,” Sophie said, looking sheepish. “I told him not to do it, I swear.” Pete handed me a large vodka on the rocks with two olives and said, “Drink up. You’ll be fine.”

  My sister, Jill, raised a glass. “Happy birthday,” she toasted. “You know, I didn’t like it when you went off to kindergarten without me or when you got to wear panty hose first or go to a movie with a boy, but now for the first time in my life I’m glad you’re the oldest.” She looked beautiful (and young) in a low-cut wraparound dress and heels. Her husband, Mark, wore a bright white shirt and sport coat, and even Jason, their eighteen-year-old, was dressed up (for him) in a V-neck sweater and unripped jeans. They looked like they’d just walked off the pages of a J.Crew catalog.

  Jill was the solid, responsible, dependable one. The anti-Libby. She and Mark had been high school sweethearts, had been married now for twenty-eight years and had three beautiful, well-adjusted children who considered Jill and Mark friends as well as parents. Two of their kids were married and lived out of town, and they had four grandchildren who were, of course, smart and adorable.

  Behind Jill was my favorite client, Mrs. Rosatti, resplendent in one of her signature outfits: purple pants with a purple and red jacket that had epaulettes on the shoulders, and large gold buttons.

  How long had Michael been planning this? Had he gone through my address book? And when did he begin thinking a surprise party was a good idea? Before or after he promised never to do it?

  People were lined up as if to pay their respects; they hugged me, patted me on the back and wished me a happy fiftieth birthday, the birthday I’d hoped would pass quickly and quietly. It felt like a funeral.

  “Were you surprised?” my mom asked. Apparently she hadn’t noticed the shock (or revulsion) on my face when I walked in.

  “Completely,” I said.

  A smile filled her face. “Oh, good,” she said. “I was so worried I would spill the beans.”

  Didn’t anybody know how much I hated surprise parties?

  My dad wrapped me in a big bear hug. “Happy birthday, pumpkin. Hard to believe you’re fifty. Seems like just yesterday I was teaching you to use a power saw.” Strands of white hair made a valiant effort to cover his scalp. His blue eyes sparkled.

  I laughed. “Daddy’s little tomboy.” He and I shared a love of building things, of fixing things and figuring them out.

  “You don’t look a day over twenty,” he said.

  “You’re prejudiced,” I said.

  “You’re right. Truth is, you don’t look a day over thirty.” I laughed and kissed his soft cheek. My father was eighty-two but looked no older than seventy. He was tall and thin and had an energetic glow about him. He walked every morning and played golf whenever he could
, spurning the use of carts.

  My mother hadn’t made any of my favorite foods as her e-mail had promised; she’d ordered them: baby back ribs, jalapeño corn bread, potato salad, corn on the cob. I’m sure it was good food—everyone seemed to enjoy it—but I didn’t have much of an appetite. I drank a lot of vodka, though.

  Beatrice Rosatti, my client, brought me a plate when I flopped down on the couch, the first time I’d sat all evening. Bea was a retired kindergarten teacher. She’d been married for forty-nine years when, five years earlier, her husband died in his sleep as he lay next to her. She’d hinted that he’d died while they were having sex, but I didn’t pursue the subject.

  Now she had a boyfriend named Dominick whom she’d met online.

  “You look like you need nourishment,” she said, unfolding a napkin on my lap. “Happy birthday, darlin’. Are you enjoying your party?” Her platinum blond hair was pulled up in a complicated froth about her head with rhinestone clips strategically placed.

  “Sure,” I said, picking at a rib. She raised a finely penciled eyebrow. Something in my tone, I suppose.

  “Were you surprised?”

  “That’s an understatement,” I said. “I told Michael about a billion times that I hate surprise parties and never wanted him to throw one for me.” There’s truth in too much vodka.

  “Oh my,” Bea said. Dominick came up and handed her a glass of wine. He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Happy birthday, dear girl. Having a good time?”

  Bea and I looked at each other. She raised that eyebrow again and we burst out laughing. Dominick looked puzzled. “I’ll never understand women,” he said. “And I’m too old to start now.” He was eighty-seven to Bea’s eighty.

  “Seems we’ll have something important to talk about this week,” she said. “You’re coming over, right? I have a lot of work for you.”

  “Right,” I said. “We’ll talk.”

  * * *

  My mother had made carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. My favorite. It blazed with fifty candles.

  “Somebody get a fire extinguisher,” I said.

  Everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” a few actually on key, and I blew out the candles before the house could catch fire. Michael poured champagne.

  We hadn’t spoken much during the evening; there’d been too many people, too much tumult, and Michael had been busy playing host, the guy who’d pulled off the impossible. I wasn’t sure I liked this new, stealth Michael.

  Once everyone had a glass he whistled loudly to get their attention, a piercing sound that caused people to wince. “A toast to the birthday girl,” he said when it was quiet, holding up his glass. “To the best-looking fifty-year-old I know.” Shouts of “Here, here!” I think I blushed. Or maybe it was just a hot flash. “To the love of my life,” Michael continued, clinking his glass to mine, and we all took a sip.

  But Michael wasn’t finished.

  He whistled again, that same shrill sound. Everyone watched expectantly while my heart sank to my stomach, and before I had time to figure out how to head this off, he raised his glass again and said, “To my future wife.”

  Confused silence.

  Then Michael practically shouted, “I proposed last night and Libby said yes!”

  I thought I was going to throw up.

  My Aunt Shirley let out a squeal. Uncle Charlie came over and thumped Michael on the back. Faces loomed before me like balloons, many with expressions of surprise, others with wide grins, the tinkling of glasses touching in the air. Another wave of hugs and kisses and now “Congratulations,” and “It’s about time.” I could hardly breathe.

  Sophie watched me carefully, hoping, I suppose, that I wouldn’t do or say something I’d regret. Her daughters, Tiffany and Danielle, gathered around, jumping up and down, begging to be bridesmaids, suggesting colors for the dresses. Ironically it was for Danielle’s wedding that I was making those unfortunate purple creations with the ruffles, all shiny with bows at the sweetheart necklines. And still I stood there, thinking we could simply use those same dresses. That’s what I was thinking. As if I would even have a wedding with bridesmaids. As if, even if I did, I would make anyone wear a dress like that. Clearly my mind had gone missing and I was operating in a haze of stupidity. And vodka.

  If I could whistle like Michael, I thought, I’d do it and then I’d tell them all it was a cruel joke, that Michael and I were not getting married. But I couldn’t whistle. I could barely speak. What a mess. My whole family, all my friends, Michael’s parents, my favorite client, all thought I was engaged.

  And they were all so damned happy.

  Seven

  And then they were all gone, the house empty of everyone except me, Michael, his parents and mine. One big, happy family.

  “I’m thrilled about your news,” my mother said. “Welcome to the family, Michael.” She kissed him and he smiled broadly.

  “What kind of wedding are you going to have?” Michael’s mother asked.

  “A small one,” he said at the same time I said, “We haven’t gotten that far.”

  Jeez, did he already have the damn thing planned out?

  “I’m very happy for you, honey.” This from my father. He put his arm around me and pulled me close. “Now I can stop worrying about you.”

  “Why would you worry about me?”

  “You’re my daughter. It’s in my job description.”

  “I’m your middle-aged daughter.”

  “You’re still my little girl.” His blue eyes shone with tenderness and I hugged him tightly.

  “And my new daughter,” Michael’s father said.

  Michael beamed.

  “Okay, well, time to go.” Let’s end on a high note, I thought.

  We walked outside and Michael helped his parents into his car. I wanted to tell him to go home after he dropped them off, to his own house, but I knew he’d be coming to mine. His fiancée’s house.

  * * *

  I was pouring a couple glasses of wine when Michael walked in. He put his arms around me from behind. “My parents are so happy.” I gave him a glass. “We should have champagne,” he said.

  He was thinking celebration.

  I was thinking fortification.

  “Let’s go sit in the living room,” I said. Michael brought the bottle. I sat in the wingback chair near the fireplace and Rufus jumped in my lap and curled up into a fat, woolly ball. Michael sat on the couch and patted the seat beside him.

  “Come sit here,” he said.

  “We need to talk.”

  “I know, but can’t we do it side by side? Come sit with me.” He was completely oblivious to the fact that I was about to stick a pin in his bubble of joy.

  “Things are moving a little fast for me, Michael.” He paused, wineglass in midair, eyes searching mine. Rufus looked up at me and then at Michael. I scratched his neck. Michael drained his wine, then poured himself more.

  “Fast?” he said. “You think two years is fast?”

  “It’s not about how long we’ve been together, it’s about a couple of things. For one, it’s how you sprang this proposal on me in the restaurant in front of all those people in spite of the fact that you knew I didn’t want to get married again.”

  “I took a chance that after two years you might have changed your mind. And apparently you had. You said yes, Libby.”

  I hadn’t exactly said yes, but I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere with that argument. “I know, I’m sorry, but I felt pressured.” He sucked on the inside of his cheek. “And then you make a big announcement in front of our family and friends before I’m even used to the idea.” I was getting riled up now. On a roll. “And you threw me a surprise party even though you promised me, swore to me, you never would.” Rufus jumped off my lap. I hated the words coming out of my mouth. When said aloud they seemed ridiculous, just plain ungrateful. Most women would love the kind of surprises Michael had planned for me.

  “I love you. I wanted to do something special fo
r you. Is that so terrible?”

  “It’s not that it’s terrible. It’s that you didn’t think about how all this might affect me.”

  “I did, Libby. I thought about it a lot. I thought it would make you happy. I thought when you said yes, you wanted to marry me, that you meant it. So I figured you’d be excited to tell everyone and, okay, maybe I got carried away with my happiness and so I just said it.” He leaned forward. “I’m sorry I didn’t clear it with you first. I’m sorry if that’s not how you wanted to do it. I really am.” I felt deflated. Stupid. Petty. “And I’m sorry you hated the surprise party.”

  He looked sad, and sincerely apologetic. “I didn’t hate the surprise party.”

  “Everyone always says they don’t want a surprise party, but nobody means it. I really didn’t think you meant it. I thought you’d have a great time with all your friends and family around.”

  I was suddenly exhausted. Every time Michael opened his mouth I felt worse and worse. His intentions had been so good and all I could do was complain about it all. My indignation was in a puddle at my feet and in its place was a big pool of guilt.

  “I love you, Libby, and I’m so happy we’re engaged.” All right, I wanted to scream. Enough!

  “I love you, too. I think I’m overtired. Too much excitement for the last couple of days.” He smiled. “Let’s just go to bed and sort this all out tomorrow, okay?”

  “You’re not mad?”

  “I’m not mad.”

  Was I?

  Should I be?

  It didn’t matter. I had no energy left for anger. We took the wine into the kitchen.

  “Let’s have one more toast before we go to bed,” Michael said, pouring a splash into each glass.

  Was he serious? “Michael, really, I’m exhausted.”

  “Just a little toast to our life together.”

  It felt as if bees were buzzing around my head. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Michael flinched. “I’ve had enough wine!” He looked at the bottle on the counter. “I’m overwhelmed, Michael. I’ve had enough toasts to last a lifetime and I am going to bed now.”