My mother spared no expense. We went shopping together in the city, and flipped through dozens of fashion magazines, snipping out pictures and tacking them to the wall in my room. We talked about earrings and stockings and jeweled hair combs, stoles and pearls and different colors of lipstick. It was my first dance, after all. Everything had to be perfect.
But sometimes, when I was alone in my bed at night, looking out at the moon and listening to the stirring sound of the sea outside my window, I wondered what Matt would think of my prom date with Peter. If he had not left for Chicago, would he be going, too? Would we all still be friends?
o0o
After a brief shopping excursion to Portland, I settled on a strapless, yellow chiffon number with a fitted boned bodice and rhinestones sewn into the skirt. On the night of the prom, my mother swept my hair into a stylish French twist. My long white gloves were silky upon my skin, and my mother’s expensive perfume, which I had dabbed sparingly behind each ear, was the perfect finishing touch.
When the doorbell rang, I listened from the top of the stairs as Peter was invited in.
“Don’t you look dapper,” my father said.
“Thank you, sir,” Peter replied. “It’s a big night.”
I descended the stairs, but stopped halfway with my gloved hand resting upon the rail. As soon as I saw Peter, my heart tripped over itself. How handsome he looked, dressed in a black-and-white tuxedo and bowtie. His hair was clean and tidily brushed. His black shoes were polished to a perfect sheen that reflected the light. I couldn’t help but smile, and knew my cheeks were flushing red.
All eyes were upon me as I reached the bottom of the stairs. None of it seemed real. It was like a dream.
“You look beautiful,” Peter said, and I was almost certain he was awestruck.
When at last I reached him, he handed me a corsage in a box. My mother helped me pin it on, then my father took our picture in front of the fireplace and drove us to the dance.
We gave our tickets at the door, and my heels clicked on the hardwood floor as we walked arm-in-arm down the wide hall to the gymnasium. The music from the orchestra grew louder as we approached.
“Are you ready?” Peter asked, pausing at the swinging doors.
Smiling at each other, we pushed through and stopped just inside, where we perused the gym in silence. Hundreds of tiny, white lights from a mirror ball swept over the walls like dancing starlight, and colorful paper streamers adorned the ceiling and concealed the basketball nets. The band on the stage played “Blue on Blue,” and all the musicians wore black ties and clean white dinner jackets. There were only a few dancers on the floor, swinging each other around the room, but it was still early yet.
Peter and I took seats at one of the tables at the back and watched for a while. Other classmates soon arrived and joined us, and everything began to feel less formal once we were talking and laughing together.
Eventually we stood up to dance, and from that moment on, we never left the floor. When the last waltz began, I placed my hand on Peter’s shoulder and felt the moist heat of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt, for he had removed his jacket earlier. His body was almost hot to my touch.
I, too, was perspiring. The balls of my feet stung inside my shoes. My cheeks were flushed and shiny.
When the dance ended, we stepped apart, but Peter did not let go of my hand.
“Thanks for bringing me,” I said. “I had a good time.”
“So did I.”
Afterward, Peter’s father waited for us in the parking lot, and we climbed into the back seat of his Ford. He dropped us off in front of my house, and Peter got out to walk me to the door.
I glanced at the front of my house and saw my mother in the parlor window, then turned my attention back to Peter. We stood for a moment outside my gate, cooling off in the evening breeze. We tipped our heads back to look up at the stars and listened to the crickets chirping nearby. Farther away, the mournful sound of the sea filled my head with desire. I felt a strange, unfamiliar longing.
“What a great night,” Peter said.
“It was wonderful.”
He gestured toward my front door. I flicked the gate latch and pushed it open, then started slowly up the walk. As my heels tapped over the flat stones, my toes throbbed inside my tight shoes. We climbed the steps to the veranda and stopped under the porch light.
“I guess I’ll see you in church tomorrow,” he said.
“That’s where I’ll be, just like always.”
“And Wednesday’s the last day of school.”
I smiled. “Thank heavens.”
We said nothing for a few seconds, while I looked down at my feet. My heart was beginning to pound. This was all very strange and not normal. I took a deep breath and swallowed, then Peter did what I knew he would do. He stepped forward, tilted his head to the side, and touched his lips to mine.
It wasn’t like the last time. This kiss was more practiced. He seemed more certain of himself and what he was doing. I didn’t think he’d kissed anyone since that day at the lake – if he had, he’d kept it secret – but I suppose he had time to think about it. This was no longer a first kiss. He knew exactly what he was doing. So did I – enough to relax a little and close my eyes.
Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around his neck. My breasts pressed tight against his chest as he slid his hands around my waist.
He held me close, then the kiss began to change. He parted his lips and met my tongue more aggressively. I let out a little sigh and the next thing I knew, he was backing me up against the front of the house and kissing the side of my neck.
Goosebumps erupted on my skin, and I could barely breathe from the thrill of it. But the kiss had to end. We both knew it. My parents were waiting inside…
Gracefully, Peter drew away. He was breathing hard, quite noticeably so, and gave me a sheepish look. “Wow.”
I nodded in agreement.
“I’ll guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
“Yes.”
He started down the steps and passed through the gate, then turned around to walk backwards and wave goodnight, but stumbled a few steps. I laughed softly, and he laughed too, shrugging as if to say it couldn’t be helped.
I can’t deny that I was flattered. My insides were all aglow.
Turning away from him, I went into the house, closed the door behind me and leaned against it.
“Did you have a good time?” my mother asked.
“Yes.”
I stood there for a long while, up against the door.
Then all at once, I felt as if I were being swept away on a fast ocean wave. I swallowed uneasily, and without another word to my parents, started up the stairs, reminding myself that there were no waves carrying me anywhere. This was simply my life.
o0o
The next day, while the minister spoke in church and I sat behind the pulpit with the choir, Peter and I continually locked gazes. Each time our eyes met, we shared a secret smile that caused my heart to flutter until I reined in my emotions and forced myself to behave. This was church!
The next time it happened, I sent him a stern and threatening glare because we both knew he shouldn’t be looking at me that way – as if he wanted to kiss me again, and do a whole lot more.
That afternoon, we went swimming. There was a crowd at the lake, so any hopes for stolen kisses were quickly dashed, but on the way home, along the familiar path we had taken countless times before, Peter reached for my hand.
We said very little as we tramped through the forest. I was distracted by his touch and the pleasing heat generated by our hands clasped tightly together. When he stroked my knuckles with his thumb, I experienced a tingling sensation in the depths of my being and knew everything was about to change.
Sure enough, about half way home, he led me off the path to a private grove of junipers where we explored each other’s untested desires.
The woods were quiet that day.
; I couldn’t hear the sea.
Chapter Thirty
When summer vacation began, Peter and I returned to the jobs we had the previous summer. Peter worked for his father again while I scooped ice cream at the Lick-a-Split and volunteered at the animal shelter. I also became more heavily involved with the charity group at church, which collected for the poor.
Outside of those hours, however, Peter and I were inseparable, just as we’d always been as children, but everything was different now. The world seemed fresh and new to us, and we ended each night with a kiss on my porch swing – a kiss that lingered on my lips until bedtime.
Before long, we were kissing in other places, too – in Peter’s living room when his parents weren’t home, on the tire swing, at the movies, on my father’s sailboat, and generally anywhere we could find a moment’s privacy.
Though I was hesitant about certain, particular changes in our relationship, I did enjoy the kissing. I liked the sensation of his lips upon mine and the flavor of his tongue, and the way my body grew warm and aroused from his hands sliding up under my clothes. By summer’s end, I felt less like a girl and more like a woman, and Peter seemed so much of a man.
We entered senior year as a couple, holding hands in the corridors between classes and attending all the dances, always together, never apart. Peter was now not only my best friend, but my lover as well – though not in every sense of the word, for I was determined to hold onto my virginity until I was married.
It was difficult, however, when Peter grew frustrated. I didn’t like being a tease, but I couldn’t resist his kisses either, and occasionally, in the back seat of his father’s car or at the lake after dark, he wanted more. He would take things one step further than he had before, and often I would let him do it, but only to a point.
Thankfully, Peter was always a gentleman. He always stopped when I asked him to. He never pressured me, and I loved him for that. I would always love him. I knew that no matter what happened in the future or where destiny led us, he would never disappoint me.
He was decent and kind, unwavering in his integrity, which frightened me sometimes, because I wasn’t always so sure I was as grounded as he. Peter was at ease with every aspect of his life and what lay ahead in his future. He knew exactly where he was going and what he wanted – to work in his father’s pulp and paper plant and become a manager there someday. Eventually he would inherit the company. He would marry and have children. He would never leave Maine.
I, however, still had so many questions about the world. I often wondered if there might be something unexpected in my future. I imagined visiting different places, meeting new people. Sometimes, when I was alone in bed at night, I wished I could fly out over the moonlit sea and explore what was out of sight, just beyond the horizon.
Peter had no such desires, and I occasionally worried that one day, this difference in our natures might divide our path and lead us to very different destinies.
But that was the thing about the future. There was always plenty of time before it actually came upon you.
Flowers
Chapter Thirty-one
“I still don’t understand any more than I did when I arrived,” I said to my mother as I leaned back in my chair.
Mom had stopped talking and was staring out the window at the sea.
The fog had lifted. The sky was growing brighter now.
“You will.” She slid her gaze back to mine. “When I’m finished telling you everything, you’ll understand your father better. You might even be able to forgive him. But most importantly, Sophie, you’ll see where you are at this important juncture of your life. You’ll see what has been holding you back, and you might decide to do something about it.”
I looked down at my empty teacup, wondering how this story could ever ease the impossible burden of my grief. It wouldn’t bring Megan back. That much I knew. Nor would it change anything with Michael.
Not that I wanted it to. Our marriage was over, and I didn’t want it back.
But could it change my relationship with my mother? Or would it help me understand why my father was always so distant and impatient? What Mom told me so far hadn’t revealed any new insights. In fact, my dad was exactly the kind of boy I’d always imagined him to be.
“I need some fresh air,” I said, sensing a sudden, somber dip in my mother’s mood. “Can we take a break?”
“Sure.” She picked up the teacups and carried them to the sink, then stood at the counter for a moment. “I should mention that I haven’t told you what you really need to know yet, and it has nothing to do with your father. But I’m not sure you’re ready to hear it.”
I swallowed uneasily. “This is about you, isn’t it? About why you left?”
All at once, I felt dizzy and nauseated. I experienced a flash memory of the day she walked out on us.
I was riding my bicycle through town, licking strawberry ice cream off my wrist. I could feel the grated metal pedals under the soles of my shoes. I could hear my squeaky wheels and the chain that needed grease. Quickly, I rounded the corner toward home, not knowing that my life would never be the same…
Mom touched my shoulder. “Why don’t you go for a walk and get some fresh air? Besides, I need some time to get dressed.”
I rose from the table. “Will you tell me more later?”
“Of course.”
I turned from her and walked out the front door, where I paused on the covered veranda. I glanced briefly at the porch swing to my right, then breathed deeply the distinctive aromas of spring: the damp soil, recently thawed, and the mild, fresh air, wet and dewy after the rain.
It was still early in the day. The neighborhood was quiet. There was no one about, except for one woman across the street, a few doors down. She was outside in her yard, digging in the dirt with a small spade. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat.
Gardening. When one had a garden, one had to weed it, and rake the dead leaves, and clean up all the fallen petals after the flowers bloomed and died. And what woman needed more work around the house? There was enough dirt to sweep and vacuum on the inside without getting into more of it on the outside.
Still, I couldn’t deny an appreciation for a beautiful garden in full bloom, and I certainly adored the smell of roses and lilacs.
I watched the woman in the hat for a few minutes. There were no roses or lilacs in her garden. Everything just looked brown and wet.
The woman sat back on her heels and surveyed her work, then glanced up and saw me. She waved her arm through the air, as if she were trying hard to get my attention.
I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if she might be waving at someone else – we didn’t know each other after all – but there was no one around, so I waved back.
She smiled brightly, and even from a distance, I felt a strange stirring of recognition. Perhaps I had met her before, many years ago. Perhaps I knew her from my childhood. Maybe we went to school together. She looked to be about my age.
Knowing Mom would need some time to dress and put on her makeup, I decided to go over and say hello. I started down the steps and crossed the street.
“Good morning!” the woman cheerfully said. Getting up off her knees, she placed a hand on top of her hat and smiled at me. She was strikingly beautiful with long black hair, a creamy complexion, full lips, and blue eyes.
I held out my hand. “Hi. I’m Cora’s daughter, Sophie. Have we met before?”
Still smiling, the woman removed her gardening gloves. She stepped forward to shake my hand, and I noticed two large mud stains on the knees of her jeans. “No, but Cora and I are very close.”
I acknowledged the comment with a nod, and wondered what she must think of me. Surely she knew that I hadn’t seen my mother in many, many years.
“I’m Catherine,” she said, without the least sign of awkwardness. “It’s wonderful to meet you at last.”
“I just arrived this morning.”
She chuckled. “I know. I was out he
re in my garden when you passed by earlier.”
“Oh.”
I hadn’t even noticed her.
Too caught up in my own problems, I suppose.
“You have your mother’s eyes,” she mentioned, with a warmth of spirit that eased the tension in my neck and shoulders.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” My mother had beautiful eyes.
I gestured to the garden bed at our feet. “I’m no expert, but aren’t you starting a bit early?”
“Not at all,” she replied. “The ground is soft, the sun is shining. The time is just right.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about gardening. I live in New York.”
She linked her arm through mine. “That, my dear, is no excuse. Would you like a tour?”
“Um…” I glanced back at my mother’s house. “I suppose I have time.” I followed her to the flowerbed over by the fence.
“Right here, I’m going to have about fifty brown-eyed Susans,” she explained. “They’re my favorite flowers, but they won’t come up until late summer, so I have some iris bulbs mixed in. Over here is my biggest hosta, which will be enormous by mid-summer.”
We walked all the way around the house, and Catherine described every flowerbed in bright, colorful detail. It was a comprehensive garden tour – even though all I had seen so far was dirt.
We circled around to the front again, and I worked hard to summon my enthusiasm.
“It’s going to be beautiful. I wish I could be here to see it in full bloom, but I’ll probably be gone by then.”
“Back home?”
I nodded, determined to hide the fact that whenever I thought of returning to my home in Washington Square, my insides churned with dread.
Life had been so painful there.
“Well…” Catherine paused. “When you have a life to get back to…”
“Me?” I chuckled bitterly. “I’m afraid I don’t have much of a life, here or anywhere else.”
The Color of Heaven Page 8
