I left him there in the kitchen with a wineglass in his hand and an expression of pure confusion on his face. And I thought, What is he, stupid?
Eight
Michael got out of bed very early in the morning and I pretended to be asleep. He dressed quietly, kissed me gently on the cheek—I didn’t move—and left to play racquetball. When I heard the front door close behind him I sighed. I wouldn’t see him again until Tuesday or Wednesday since we rarely spent Sunday nights together.
Rufus came to take Michael’s place, curling up against my side, draping a paw on my hip. I hadn’t slept well but as soon as Rufus and I were alone I fell into a comalike slumber. Later, after I made a small pot of French roast and buttered a toasted English muffin, I took my breakfast to my desk and turned on my computer. I reread Patrick’s e-mail and felt happy all over again. I was excited to answer it but first I wrote an e-mail to Sophie:
What are Michael and I doing getting engaged? What are we, twelve? He’s almost sixty, for chrissakes. Next thing you know, I’ll be having bridal showers and registering for china. Can you just see Michael and me running through Crate & Barrel with one of those scanner guns? What the hell would we even scan? It’s not as if I don’t already have china and crystal and fondue pots and lava lamps from my first two weddings.
And that surprise party and the big announcement … kill me now.
The phone rang within ten minutes, as I knew it would. Sophie was always connected. I usually gave her a hard time about how excessive and annoying that was, especially when we were having lunch or shopping and she was checking her iPhone every other minute, but I loved it when I needed her.
“The party was fun,” she said. “Even you looked like you were having a good time.”
“Once I got over my initial irritation it was tolerable,” I said. “But I don’t understand why he did it, knowing how I feel about surprise parties.”
“I really did try to talk him out of it.”
“I’m sure you did. Thing is, I was feeling okay about it, making an effort to enjoy it even though I see no reason to celebrate turning fifty, and then he made that birthday toast and that was fine, and then he whistled and I knew what he was going to do and there was no way to stop him and I just felt sick.”
“I know. But he didn’t know how you were feeling, did he?”
“No. I didn’t have a chance to talk to him.”
“Well, so it’s done and everyone knows. Maybe you should stop concentrating on what he did and really consider what you want. Think about how nice your life’s been the last couple of years with Michael.”
“I know. I have thought about that.”
“It’s been peaceful. It’s been companionable. You enjoy the same things, you travel, you like each other’s families. Michael’s a man you can grow old with.”
“God, you’re like president of his fan club.”
“Well, he’s good for you, Libby. I just don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret. Take a deep breath,” she said. “Slow down. Give yourself some time to get used to the idea.”
“Hey,” I said, tired of thinking about Michael. “Remember Patrick Harrison?”
Of course she did. I told her how we’d hooked up and about our e-mails. “God, Patrick Harrison. That was a hundred years ago.”
“I know.”
“Libby,” Sophie said, “is that what this is all about, with Michael?”
“No, of course not,” I said. “It has nothing to do with Michael.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am, Sophie. Do you think I would chuck everything because I exchanged e-mails with my high school boyfriend? First of all, he lives in Florida. Secondly, I haven’t seen him in thirty-some years. Plus, he wasn’t my type back then, what would make him my type now?”
“What do you mean he wasn’t your type? You were crazy about him.”
“I know, but it didn’t last, did it? He was a hood. I was preppy. He majored in vocational ed. I was on the college track.”
“Opposites attract.”
“Only until I went off to college,” I reminded her. “And then there’s the minor detail that I have a life with Michael, and even if I don’t want to marry him, I like our life together.”
“So, tell me about your e-mails,” Sophie said.
She was pleased that Patrick had asked about her and Pete. Laughed that he was a grandfather. Loved his sea-kayaking business.
“I wonder what he looks like,” she said. “He was really cute thirty years ago.”
“Probably fat and bald now,” I said.
“I bet not,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice.
* * *
Patrick, I wrote after Sophie and I had hung up.
It was so great to hear from you. Isn’t this amazing? Who would think we’d be in touch again after all these years?
You, a grandfather—how is that possible? How did we get to be so old? No, I’m not a grandmother, never had children. I’ve been married twice (divorced now) but children weren’t part of the picture(s). I wish they had been but life doesn’t always turn out the way you expect, does it?
The sea-kayaking business seems so much like something you’d do. I knew you wouldn’t be an accountant or lawyer or some other “establishment” dude. Kayak Dude—perfect.
Yes, Jack Bradshaw’s parents came home when we were in their bedroom—a very humiliating experience. Especially since they were good friends with my parents, who they called first thing the next morning. What a scene at my house that day! I think I was grounded for a year after that. But, as I recall, we still managed to see each other.
Sophie and Pete got married and still are. Isn’t that great? They have two gorgeous daughters, one who’s getting married soon. I’m a dress designer/seamstress and I’m making the bridesmaid dresses for the wedding. Tiffany, their youngest (15), is coming in for a fitting today. She looks just like Sophie did at that age, except she’s got lots of piercings and spiky hair—Sophie with an edge. They’re a fabulous family. In fact I just got off the phone with Sophie and she says hi!
As for my life, it’s been wonderful. Okay, yeah, I’ve been married and divorced twice but I consider that character building. Now I have a significant other and we’ve been together almost two years. The other night he asked me to marry him and I have to say it shocked the hell out of me. I never thought I’d get married again, but how could I say no to a three-carat diamond?
Libby
Nine
Tiffany pivoted slowly as I pinned the hem of her purple bridesmaid dress.
“I’m going to walk down the aisle in front of two hundred people looking like an iris on steroids,” she said, scrunching up her nose. “This is totally gross.”
“You’re going to look beautiful no matter what you’re wearing,” I told her. “Think of it as wardrobe. Imagine you’re an actress or a rock star and you’re doing a personal appearance, and just walk down that aisle like a queen. Like you’re Cher or Madonna or someone.”
“Oh my god, they’re so old. How about Katy Perry?” she said. “Just do a big cutout here in the middle so my belly button shows, rip off these stupid sleeves and lower the neckline. What do you think?”
Tiffany’s hair, which used to be blond, was a shade of red found most often on traffic signals. It clashed madly with the purple dress. She had a piercing through her eyebrow where she wore a small silver ring, four piercings in her left ear and two in her right. She had a tongue piercing as well, which glinted silver when she talked. It amazed me that Sophie was so nonchalant about all this body maiming. “All those holes will close,” she’d say. “At least she’s not into tattoos.”
“Not yet,” I’d say.
Now Tiffany asked, “So when are you guys getting married?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to have a big wedding?”
“No, I’m too old for that,” I said. “Besides, I’ve been married twice already. How many
weddings does one person need?”
She giggled. “I think you should have a big wedding. I want to be a bridesmaid.”
“I’d make you wear a dress just like this,” I said, fluffing her big purple sleeve, “only in lime green. What do you think about that?”
She pointed her finger into her mouth and made a gagging sound.
“Turn,” I told her and finished pinning the hem.
“I’m going to the movies later with Ryan,” she said as I helped her out of the dress and she pulled her jeans on.
“Who’s Ryan?”
“Christopher’s brother.” Christopher was the groom. “I’ll be walking down the aisle with him.”
“Aren’t you a little young to date?” I said, sounding like an old lady. It seemed like last week I was taking her and Danielle to Kiddieland.
“I’m fifteen.”
“Well, fun,” I said, hoping they’d still like each other by the time the wedding got here, and then realizing how cynical that was.
“He’s hot,” she said, and blushed. Her smile was shy and her eyes shone. Young love, I thought enviously. I remembered those days.
“So how do you know when you’re in love?” she asked. As if I knew.
“Oh honey, you’re not in love. You just met him.”
“So?” she said, indignant. “Haven’t you heard of love at first sight?”
“Sure, in books. In real life it’s called lust.” What was wrong with me? Was I really saying this to a fifteen-year-old? Fortunately, I resisted giving her the wisdom of my many failed relationships: that Ryan was only the first in a line of men who would break her heart and underachieve her expectations. “Sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean that. It happens. Just not often. And when it does you just know it,” I said. “But being in love at fifteen is different from being in love at fifty.”
“Different how?”
“Oh man, where to begin,” I said. I started steaming the hem and Tiffany flopped down into the big chair, looking quickly at her iPhone but then amazingly putting it down.
“Were you in love at fifteen?” she asked.
“No. The first time I fell in love I was seventeen.”
“Was it love at first sight?”
I had to laugh. “It kind of was,” I admitted. “I met him at a party and when he walked in the door my heart started pounding.”
“Oh god, that’s what happened to me!” Tiffany squealed, her face lighting up like neon.
“It’s a wonderful feeling. And when you’re young you think nothing will ever change that. You think it’ll last forever.”
“Sometimes it does,” Tiffany said. “Look at my mom and dad.”
“Touché.”
“What happened to you and your guy?”
“I went away to college and we lost touch,” I said.
She raised her eyebrows and the little silver hoop caught the light. “Just like that?” she said.
“Well, it didn’t happen overnight. At first I was really depressed being away from him and I just wanted to go home. I thought going off to college had been a huge mistake and I wanted to quit school and go home and marry him.”
“He asked you to marry him?”
“Well … no,” I admitted. “It was just my fantasy. In fact, he was the one who convinced me to stay in school. He said he wasn’t going anywhere and that I just needed time to get used to it. He said I was really lucky to have the opportunity and it was going to be important for my future, for our future together.” I hadn’t thought about all of this in years. I had forgotten how encouraging he had been, how adult. At the time I’d worried that he didn’t really love me if he could bear to be away from me, but looking at it from my perspective as a fifty-year-old, I realized how selfless and supportive he had been.
“Why didn’t he go to college if he was so big on it?”
“His family couldn’t afford it. He worked all through high school and then he thought if he worked full-time for another year he could earn enough money to go to college after that.”
I spread out the dress on the worktable, pulled up a high stool and started hand-stitching the hem.
“So what happened to you two? Why didn’t you stay together? He sounds like a cool guy.”
“He was a cool guy.” I thought about his e-mail, how happy he’d been to hear from me. Peace, he had said. “When I first got to school we called each other all the time and missed each other desperately and I just lived for Christmas break, and then when I got home we were so happy to be together. But it was a little bit awkward, too. We were living different lives and didn’t have that much in common anymore. He was working at a discount store; I was worried about exams. He was still living at home; I was on my own, I’d started to make friends at school—you know, that kind of thing. It just wasn’t quite the same.”
“How sad.”
“Oh well, things happen,” I said.
“So how was it different when you fell in love with Michael?”
Let me count the ways.
“It’s hard to explain,” I said. “Maybe we can save that conversation for another time. Right now I’ve got to gather up some stuff to take to a client.” I didn’t, I just didn’t want to get into all of that. I thought it best to keep my cynical mouth shut. Let her have her dreams now. They’d be dashed soon enough.
Tiffany grabbed her phone, kissed me and left, thumbs flying on the Lilliputian keyboard.
I finished hemming her dress and picked up another. I wanted to complete all four and deliver them. I was going blind with all that purple.
Later I checked my e-mail. It wasn’t until I saw the message from Patrick that I realized I’d been holding my breath.
Libby,
You’ve been married twice and getting ready to do it again? Wow, either you’re a glutton for punishment or an eternal optimist. Seriously, tho, congratulations. Yeah, I guess three carats can be pretty persuasive.
I came close a second time but got cold feet before we made it to the altar. I guess it wasn’t so much getting married that scared me as that she was great but not someone I thought I’d want to spend my life with.
Do you have a picture? I’m attaching one of me with my son’s family taken last summer when I visited them. Now, before you open it remember that I am 32 years older and almost that many pounds bigger than I was the last time you saw me. So be kind. The heart’s the same but the body sure isn’t.
Hey, can I call you sometime? It’d sure be easier than typing, wouldn’t it? And it’d be great to hear your voice. Here’s my number if you want to call me: 850-555-6768.
Patrick
Call? Like on the phone? Stupidly, that hadn’t occurred to me. It was as if he only existed in the virtual world. Now, realizing I could actually talk to him, I was unnerved. It was one thing to write; you could think about what to say before saying it. But talk? That depended on a mutual chemistry, didn’t it? A connection. What if we didn’t have that? What if we had nothing to say to each other? I liked this little fantasy we had going. Why ruin it?
But I was dying to see what he looked like. No harm in downloading the photo.
And there he was.
I studied the current-day Patrick for several minutes, squinting to reveal the face I had known. It took some getting used to but he was there, familiar and not, all at the same time. I laughed out loud. Patrick had aged well. He was cute! Yes, he was heavier, his face was fuller than I remembered, but he wasn’t fat. And he wasn’t bald. His hair was salt and pepper, mostly pepper, but it seemed as thick as ever and was longish, wavy, brushing his collar. He and his son sat on a porch step, leaning toward each other with big matching grins. Two young boys and a pretty dark-haired woman sat on the step below them laughing at the camera, as if someone had just told a great joke. There were laugh lines around Patrick’s eyes and mouth. He wore jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a cigarette in his hand. He still smokes, I thought. I had forgotten how much we both smoked back then.<
br />
He looked solid and weathered and ruggedly handsome. I thought if I saw him on the street today I would turn to study him appreciatively. He didn’t look like the boy I’d known, but he’d turned into a fine-looking man.
I wrote his phone number on a Post-it thinking I might call him that evening, and took it with me to the kitchen to make myself some dinner.
* * *
I felt lighthearted as I put together a chopped salad with Bibb lettuce, arugula, spinach, hard-boiled eggs, red onion, artichoke hearts, raisins and sunflower seeds. I had a sense of anticipation as I thought about Patrick’s e-mail and his picture. The familiarity of him felt good and comfortable.
I was checking a loaf of Asiago cheese bread warming in the oven when I heard a key in the front door. My heart skipped a beat and the oven door slammed shut before I realized it wasn’t a burglar, it was Michael. The fear dissolved and was replaced with exasperation. What the fuck was he doing here now?
“Lib,” he called.
“In here,” I said and heard him drop keys on the table by the front door. Something else dropped as well, probably an overnight bag, and the sound made me furious.
“Mmmm, looks good,” he said, kissing me.
“What are you doing here?”
He looked startled. “Nice welcome for your fiancé,” he said.
Fiancé.
“You never come over on Sunday night. You could have at least called.”
“I did. I left you a message.”
I hadn’t checked my messages all day. I looked over at the answering machine—a big red 1 blinked at me.
“Well, so what’s the occasion?” I asked, making an effort to keep my tone even.
“I just wanted to spend the evening with you. I think we should get used to spending more time together, don’t you?”
“Michael, you can’t just change things because you think we should. We need to talk about it together, make decisions together. I have things to do tonight. I have work to do. I wasn’t planning on you being here.”
“Well, shit, Lib, you can do your work,” he said. “I don’t expect us to be together every second. When we’re married we’re going to have our own things to do.”
What More Could You Wish For Page 5
