Let the music begin!” Beau calls from somewhere off to the right, and a band to the left kicks in with Van Morrison’s “Moondance.”
The blindfold is removed and I am able to take in the graceful courtyard adorned with Christmas lights and cardboard cut outs of Washington, DC, monuments, including a quite tall mini-Washington Monument at the end of the man-made pond.
Before I can look for Beau, the residents usher me over to the buffet table and each person stands before their creation. Rose asks me to try her capital cream cheese bars. Wanda presents her presidential panini with pepperoni. Chet beams with pride before his Georgetown peach pie. Bite by bite I consume enough calories to jog to the East Coast. Even my stretchy skirt is beginning to rise up in resistance.
My eyes are covered from behind by slender fingers. I am holding a slice of Linda’s Lincoln lemon cake, so I use my free hand to gain clues to my new captor. The huge ring on the left hand is a dead giveaway. “Yes, Sadie? I’ve already been kidnapped, but if you choose to steal away my seventh serving of dessert, you are most welcome to.”
The hands fall away and Sadie about-faces me and stares at my offering. “Are you kidding? And risk not getting into my designer gown? I’ve been sucking on carrot sticks all evening. You’ve been here less than an hour, but I’ve been here for several.”
“I knew you were behind these decorations. Fabulous. They are so romantic. If only I could locate Beau.”
“You will. But right now the girls want a few minutes of your time over by the south fountain.” She points to Lysa, Sonya, Caitlin, and Angelica, who are waving their DC-licious drinks and shouting “Cheers!”
“We had best get over there before they start a ruckus.”
Terra-cotta squares with intermittent topaz-colored tiles adorn benches that are built into a sloping hill that separates Golden Horizons from a golf club. The girls are lined up and kicking their left leg, right leg, left leg in unison.
“Too late. The Rockettes are well-past ruckus and have moved on to stage show,” I say as I sit between Caitlin and Angelica.
Sonya clears her throat. “Mari, honorable guest of honor, we wanted to give you a token of our esteem, a measure of our adoration, and a memento of memories before you leave.”
“Here, here,” says Lysa.
“And here it is.” Caitlin reaches beneath the bench and emerges with an extravagantly wrapped gift. A rainbow of ribbons cascade over a deep burgundy box.
“You shouldn’t have. This makes me feel like I am leaving for a long time.”
“Yes, we should have. Even if you are back in a week after discovering your dad is one hundred percent recovered, we would want you to have this gift,” Sadie comforts me with kind words.
“You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say ‘You shouldn’t have—but I’m glad you did.’ ” I smile and accept the beautiful box. Someone takes a flash picture from a distance; the music playing is an old Ray Charles tune. And I thought I would spend the night alone with Ray C. and Elmo in my apartment. This is so much better.
I tear into the ribbons, the pretty wrapping, the delicate tissue paper, and beneath all of this adornment there are two velvet bags. One large, one small.
My hand goes to the small one.
“Other one first,” Angelica directs.
Sadie shakes her head and shrugs. “She’s probably right.”
I undo the drawstring of the large satchel and hope and pray this isn’t one of those bridesmaid purses. I reach in while trying to read everyone’s faces. There are no clues, only excitement.
A leather journal full of creamy pages with delicate borders feels the perfect weight in my hands. There are four sections to it, and each divider page has a double-sided photo window. The first has a photo of all of us at the fashion show last year just after Sadie got engaged. The second is a shot of Beau and me leaning against his Golden Horizons office door the day before he took it down. We are pointing to his name on the door and looking at one another with overzealous surprise like we are in a forties romantic comedy.
“It’s amazing. I love it.”
“We figure the other photos will be of the memories you make while back with your family,” Sonya says, pointing to the empty cellophane squares.
I look down at the remaining gift. “I shouldn’t get anything else. This is too much.”
“True. But this one was my idea, so you must. Now open it before we are all old enough to get residency here.” Once again Angelica directs the scene.
“Okay. Okay.” I pour the contents of the small bag into my hand and the gentle sound of chimes seems to follow this action. I look down and discover a beautiful charm bracelet with colorful jeweled pieces: a cactus, a sun, a cross, and tiny but elegant initials for each of the women around me.
I’m speechless.
“Well, I would do anything to get you to quit wearing that darn single key on your wrist. I know it was from Tess and has sentimental value, but sentimental women can still have taste.”
And I was worried that Angelica would completely lose herself to her new leaf.
Caitlin rolls her eyes at our boisterous friend and returns us to a happy place. “If you will notice, there is a large vacant area on the links. This is so you can add Tess’ key,” she smiles broadly and sits up tall. “That was my idea.”
The band beckons residents and other guests to step up and step out onto the dance floor. I recognize the group as the one Beau used to be a part of. They formed during their college years to pay for tuition, and I suspect, to meet women. Due to the demand now they play oldies, but all of them are under the age of thirty-five. Romantic songs inspire the women to locate their dance partners and direct them to the special area marked off by potted yucca plants. Caitlin is with Jim the Cop, Sadie is with Carson, and Angelica is swinging with Chet.
My eyes scan the scene until they find Beau. It isn’t hard. He is the handsome guy, in a suit, standing on the far side of the bridge with a bouquet of flowers resembling the one he brought me on our first real date. I put my hand over my heart and walk toward him—and he toward me.
We meet midbridge. It is the very bridge where I first figured out he was the Beau who worked as recreation director at Golden Horizons before I took that job. The other day outside of the convention center we exchanged “I’m sorry’s” with sincerity, but these are our first and simultaneously exchanged words tonight.
I laugh, but he is very serious as he says, “I am sorry about our anniversary date tension, I’m sorry about canceling out on several of our weekend plans…”
“Numerous.” I prod, half joking.
“Yes, numerous. And I am very sorry about…”
I know where he is going with this. “It’s okay. I overreacted to the whole thing. I’m not a deeply jealous person, yet I sounded so much like a person I don’t want to be. That girl is hypersensitive and untrusting.” As I say this, another thought runs across the back of my mind, I didn’t expect so many apologies to be a part of a good relationship.
Beau’s eyes go from serious to sentimental. “This girl reacts just as she should.” He points to my chin.
“With the geographic distance we will have, it is going to take effort from both of us. You are so busy, and once I am living at the Urban Center, helping Mom, Dad—things will be hectic.” Even during my rambling, my mind censored adding Marcus to the list.
“You are right. It will take more effort,” he says gently and places my hand on his heart. “I vow to be better at this dating thing so that when you return, we will be back on track.”
This statement jolts me a bit. What does that mean to a guy like Beau? We are just beginning to figure out how to apologize. Surely he doesn’t mean to imply…
“It’s our song. By request, of course.” Beau interrupts my derailed thoughts.
“Fly Me to the Moon” is our cue to stop talking, to stop assessing our relationship. And for me, a clear signal to stop obsessing about hypotheticals once again.
We start to dance, holding each other cheek to cheek. It feels good to be so close. Recent arguments and misunderstandings have swelled beneath us and sent us off balance. Now, under the stars and the spell of the music, we are steady and close. And those trivial things are hard to recall.