That evening, Anne resolved to bring up the topic of commitment with Sergio. Writing on a sticky note, she wrote a new affirmation: I am worthy. She stuck it on the bathroom mirror and closed the bathroom door to practice in the full-length mirror.
Hand on her head, she leaned in a bit and raised her eyebrows. “Hey, big boy, how about a proposal?”
She clasped her hands in front of her. “Please ask me to marry you?”
Too blatant, better to start more subtly. “Are we in a committed relationship?”
That sounded about right. When they FaceTimed later, she’d ask him.
She filled the tub, tossed in a pink bubble bath bomb, stripped, and climbed in. On the edge of the tub, she lit two candles, one for herself and one for Sergio, and practiced her line, “Are we in a committed relationship?”
Where they would get married would be a challenge. With his family in Italy, hers in Michigan, and friends in San Francisco and New York, it could get quite complicated. Anne didn’t crave a giant Bridezilla affair. She imagined herself in a vintage lace minidress and a short flyaway veil. Pootie, of course, would be her maid of honor, and Baby Brian could hold the pillow with the rings on it. He’d look so cute in a tux. Ha! Here was Anne planning her wedding and they weren’t even engaged yet.
Out of the tub, she dolled up—in a lace nightgown with her hair zhuzhed. She sent Sergio a photo of Waiting for a Ring and tried to relax.
He called ten minutes later. “Buona sera.” He smiled, handsome in his tank top, his hair pulled into a sleek ponytail.
“Si. Buona sera.” She tried a sexy voice and shimmied her shoulders.
“Sei bellissima.”
“Grazie.”
He held his hands up toward the screen. “I wish I could jump through the phone and be there with you.”
“Me, too. Thanks again for coming to Michigan. I feel bad you didn’t have a better time.”
He nodded. “I did learn a lot about you.”
“Good or bad?”
“Both.” He laughed.
She decided to change the subject. “What do you think of my new piece?”
“It’s hard to see the details in the photo. But from what I could tell, I like it. What are you calling it?”
“Waiting for a Ring.” Hint, hint.
“Do you mean ring as in call or ring as in diamond?”
“Either or both.”
“Magnifico. Double meaning.” He nodded his head.
Anne inhaled and let it out. “Sergio, are we in a committed relationship?”
He frowned. “Of course.”
“We are? But we never discussed it.”
“I told you I love you.”
“But does that mean commitment? Since we live so far from each other, how can we have a commitment until I move there?”
He frowned. “Do you mean you want to go out with other guys?”
“No, not at all!” She shook her head.
“What is it, then?”
She hesitated. “Well . . . a ring.” There went her subtle hint.
His eyes opened wide. “An engagement ring?”
“Yes. I think—”
“I’ll be there next month. We’ll talk about it in person then.”
“I can’t wait!”
They said good night, and she hung up and did a fist pump. “Yes!” He had heard her, and he would propose.
Too excited to sleep, she tossed an old paint shirt on over her nightie, turned on some Enya, and started another piece. When you’re on a roll, you’re on a roll. From her found-object shelf she grabbed a ceramic bust of a girl wearing a pink dress with a lace-embroidered collar, hair in an updo. For some reason it reminded Anne of the tall girl in the photo. The figurine’s eyes were closed, hands in prayer position. As Anne held the piece in her hand, she ran her fingers over the details, and a fresh rose scent filled the air. The intoxicating aroma drifted through the room, and the girl seemed to wink at her. Dizzy, Anne sat on the daybed until the scent diminished. She rubbed the figurine, but the scent didn’t come alive again and neither did the girl.
I must have imagined it.
She located a silver tray with ornate edges and fancy handles in her goody cupboard, put it on the table, and set the girl in the middle. Then she rifled though a shoebox full of random objects, picking out items and placing them on the tray: a rusty key, a plastic rose, a tram token, a rhinestone star from a hair clip, a pair of doll-sized sunglasses, a refrigerator magnet with a vintage pair of robins, an old wristwatch, dance shoes from a charm bracelet, and a compass.
Anne’s chest began to hum, and she held her breath as she manipulated the objects surrounding the girl. Losing track of time and space, it was all about making art. She found a pair of milagro wings almost two inches across and put them behind the girl. She added a tiny plate from a miniature tea set behind the girl’s head for a halo. Now the girl resembled an angel. Anne’s hands moved fast as she glued down the pieces.
She pulled jars out of boxes until she found black tiles and periwinkle-blue florist gems, then glued them to the tray’s border for a finishing edge. To fill the gaps between them she took up a chipped floral plate, put it in a paper bag on her cutting board, broke it with a hammer, and glued the pieces in between the tiles and the colorful gems.
Even though Anne had taken a mosaic course in college, mosaics had never been her thing. At least not until now! She was handling the pieces gently, but one moved under her finger. She’d better let them dry before filling in the space between pieces.
The class had used grout, the same kind used in kitchen and bathrooms, but she hated the gritty texture, so she searched for a neater solution. She squished glue between the spaces and used a teeny paintbrush to fill in the gaps. Dumping faux pearls from a Michael’s sale into a bowl, she added the pearls to the edge one at a time using needle-nose pliers. After a while she got into a meditative rhythm. Time flew by until she finished, and she stepped back and studied it. The pearls gave it an exquisite unifying effect.
Finding Her Way, that’s what she’d call it! She clapped her hands. In the 1920s, girls certainly didn’t have a lot of decisions to make in life. They were probably all virgins when they got married, too. Anne wished her life could be so simple.