1

Suck it in. Come on, suck it in.”

“My stomach is on the other side of my spine,” Hope wheezed, barely enough air in her lungs to finish the sentence. Becca tugged and jiggled the zipper while trying to maintain a smile for the crowd of elderly residents who’d gathered around for the fitting. Normally Hope would be leading them into the bingo hall, but today was different. Special. There was a certain excitement on all the faces of those who’d managed to stay conscious. “Are you sure you gave them the right measurements?” Hope whispered to Becca.

“Are you sure you haven’t been eating cheese? Or Popsicles? Both?”

Then, with one final tug, the zipper slid up the teeth and the dress closed. Hope let out the breath she was holding, her stomach pooching a little. She prayed she wouldn’t blow the seams out.

She turned and smiled for her seamstresses, every one of which was in a wheelchair or held steady by a walker.

“Oh, honey!” Mrs. Teasley gasped. “It looks beautiful. You’re stunning!”

Miss Gertie, who had worked as a seamstress her whole life, wheeled closer. “Did you notice the hem, Hope? It’s done the old-fashioned way. These days, nobody takes time on the hem, rushing through it as if it doesn’t matter. It is the most important part!”

“Miss Gertie, it’s perfect.” Hope whirled around, glancing in the mirror they’d brought out for her. She’d been hesitant when the nursing-home gang offered to make her dress. But she was barely making over minimum wage here, and her mother certainly didn’t have any money to help. It had been a gamble, and for once, she won.

Mr. Collins’s hearing aid went off, sounding like a dying fire alarm. “Mr. Collins!” Hope tapped on her ear to let him know. She twirled again, her fingers sweeping over the hand-stitched pearls and the lace on the sleeves.

“Sam will love me no matter what I look like,” she said to Becca. “But I look awfully good, don’t I?”

Becca clapped. Miss Gertie wheeled even closer to Hope. “I’m so glad this is your last day.”

Hope laughed. “I know you mean that in the nicest way.”

“You’re too good for this place. You’ve got to go out in this world, make a name for yourself!”

That was the plan, to flee Poughkeepsie and move to New York City with Sam right after the wedding. She’d dreamed of it her whole life, and it was almost here. She glanced at Miss Gertie and Mrs. Teasley, both of whom had their hands clasped together, pure delight shining in their eyes.

Hope leaned in for hugs. “I’m going to miss you both.”

Miss Gertie sat up a little straighter in her chair. “Listen, we need to talk.”

“About what?”

“I know this may come as a startle, but when you get married, you’re going to have duties.”

It was something about the way she said duties under her breath that made Hope realize Miss Gertie wasn’t talking about vacuuming. “We don’t really need . . . we don’t have to talk . . .”

“Doesn’t take long, dearie.” Mrs. Teasley patted her hand. “Just endure it.”

“I bet she’ll be pregnant by Christmas!” Miss Gertie said to the room full of hearing aids. At the word pregnant seven of the ten ladies woke to attention. Ms. Cane was looking at her own belly.

A hot flush crept up Hope’s neck. “Miss Gertie, really, it’s okay—”

Suddenly Mr. Snow shuffled in, moving faster than anyone on a walker should. His bright white hair was blown back and he leaned way forward on his walker, making him look like he was fighting a stiff north wind. Hope knew he was looking for her but probably wasn’t recognizing her in the long, white dress.

“Mr. Snow, over here!”

“Ah! There you are. Didn’t see you.” He shuffled her way, smiling, his always-clean dentures sparkling under the fluorescent lights. He let go of his walker, which normally didn’t turn out well for him, and grabbed her hand as he wobbled. “I’m going to miss you, Hopeful.”

“I’m going to miss you too, Snowball.”

He reached into the small bag that hung off the side of his walker and pulled out a card. “I couldn’t let you leave without giving you a card to rewrite.”

Hope read it aloud. “‘There are five stages of grief.’” Hope looked at Mr. Snow. “I’m sorry. Who died?”

“My cousin, Burt. He was one hundred and three years old and wanted to die two decades ago.”

“Ah.” Hope opened the card. “‘Let the Lord help you with each stage, one step at a time.’”

Mr. Snow took out a pen from his bag and handed it to her. Hope thought for a moment, then scratched out the fancy italics, wrote beside them, then handed the card back to Mr. Snow. He slid his reading glasses on. “‘There are five stages of grief.’” His shaky hand opened the card. “‘You’ve been in denial for a while. Can I help you move on to anger?’”

The room was suddenly quiet. Hope fidgeted . . . too snarky? Too insensitive?

Then Mr. Snow threw his head back and laughed. Everyone else joined in and soon the room was filled with chuckles. Mr. Snow slapped her on the back. “Good one.”

Becca looked at her. “We’re going to have to go soon.”

Hope nodded. She knew it was time to say her good-byes. One by one, she bent down to hug each person, careful to avoid any mishaps with the dress. Some of them hugged back. Some of them didn’t. But they all knew she loved them.

She made her way to Miss Gertie and knelt by her wheelchair. “Will you make sure my grandmother’s fresh flower arrives every day?”

“Only if, when you find that job making your own greeting cards, you send me a new card every day. They sure do make me giggle.”

“I promise.”

Becca tapped her watch. “We’ve got about forty more things to do today.”

“Just a few more minutes.” Hope hiked her dress up to her shins, headed down Wing Two. She smiled and nodded at all the familiar faces: Mr. Speigel, a once-successful CEO for a large bank, who hadn’t had a single visitor in the last four years; Aunt Jackie, as she liked to be called, who suffered a stroke in September and lost the ability to move any muscles in her face—but there was life in those green eyes of hers; Old Benny, once a major-league baseball player, now with amputations at both knees because of diabetes. He lost his sight and his mind back in ’08.

The door to Hope’s grandmother’s room was open, like always. Two towels were tossed on the floor. Hope dutifully stooped to pick them up and throw them in the hamper. Her grandmother sat by the window, staring out at nothing more than an empty lot washed in hazy sunlight, twirling a Columbine flower in her hand.

Hope scooped up tissues, flattened the silky bedspread, fluffed the pillows, wiped clean the sink, and replaced the tissue box. Five cards lined the same table that held the tissues. Ten more sat across Grandmother’s nightstand, and another ten on the cabinet. There were weeks when Hope wrote a card a day and brought them to her grandmother’s room. Sometimes they didn’t move, other times her grandmother would give them away or, when she was more lucid, mail them. Mostly they just sat with all the others, simply signed Hope. A glance at one of the wittier lines she wrote caused her to laugh, and her grandmother looked her way.

“Thank you, young lady.” Her grandmother’s smile, though feeble, was gentle and genuine. She didn’t seem to take notice of the long, white dress Hope wore.

Hope stooped by her wheelchair. “Grandma, it’s me.”

“Okay.”

“I wanted you to see me in my dress. It’s finally happening. This weekend.”

“Okay.”

“I wish you could be there, but I know you’ll be there in your heart.”

“Okay.”

“Did I tell you that Sam is writing me a song? I probably did. He’s been writing it for a long time. I thought he was going to have it ready at Christmas, but he said he needed a little more time. He hasn’t said it, but I’m pretty sure he’s going to debut it at the wedding. I heard he’s been inquiring about getting a grand piano into the church.” The thought made her smile. She’d been dying to hear the song, imagining it over and over in her head. “So, Grandma, Sam and I are moving to New York City. That’s right. I’m finally getting out of Poughkeepsie, just like you always wanted.” Hope paused, searching the elderly woman’s eyes. She laughed at the memory of her grandmother, before she lost her mind, trying to talk her into some boy from Hope’s school days. “I have a feeling about him,” she would say.

But Grandma also always wanted bigger and better for Hope, and everyone knew bigger and better was not to be found in Poughkeepsie. The name itself implied its own identity crisis. Few knew how to even pronounce the name and those in the know disagreed as to whether it was puh or poo or poe. The kips-see was generally acknowledged by all as the proper way to end the word, but then there was the question as to whether Poughkeepsie was upstate or downstate. Also in question was the matter of the town and the city. For no reason anyone could identify, Poughkeepsie was split into the Town of Poughkeepsie and the City of Poughkeepsie. The town boasted enormous houses and even larger taxes. The city had low taxes and lower housing.

To grow up in the Spackenkill District was to go to its privileged high school, where lockers didn’t even need locks. Hope did not live near nor even infrequently visit that district, but overall Poughkeepsie was a decent place to grow up, with a glorious view of the Hudson at dusk. The smog did wonders for the color spectrum. It was home to Vassar College and the Culinary Institute of America and city-dwellers were flocking to Poughkeepsie, pushing the population over thirty-five thousand.

She looked out the window her grandmother stared out of every day. It was a colorless view of warehouses and smokestacks. Her grandmother was born and raised here and as far as Hope was concerned, she was Poughkeepsie’s shining star. But eleven major-league baseball players also hailed from Poughkeepsie, as did professional poker player Hevad Khan and the inventor of Scrabble, Alfred Mosher Butts, who sold his invention to entrepreneur James Brunot. Brunot renamed it Scrabble, from the Dutch word scrabben, meaning “to grope frantically, to scrape or scratch.”

It was that word, scrabble, that defined what Hope always felt about this city and her place in it. The word pointed her toward the escape chute, so to speak. She always felt, someday, she would make a disorderly haste straight out of this town, clambering and scraping and climbing her way to freedom.

Ironically, or perhaps not, the word was also used to mean the act or instance of scribbling or doodling and that . . . that . . . was her ticket out of Poughkeepsie. Simple doodling would set her free.

That, and Sam.

She turned to her grandmother, stroked her knobby shoulder with the back of her hand. “I won’t be able to see you every day.”

“Okay.”

“But the ladies will make sure you always have a new flower. And Mom will of course come by to see you.” Tears stung Hope’s eyes as she looked into her grandmother’s bright blue gaze, twinkling with a life Grandma no longer remembered. Hope knew—her grandmother loved this dress. Would love the wedding day if she could go, and would love Sam if she could ever know him.

A soft knock came at the door. “Hope, we have to get to the church,” Becca said.

Hope squeezed the hand that didn’t have the flower. “I will send you a card as soon as I get to New York City, okay?” She stood and kissed her on the cheek, which smelled like baby lotion. “I love you,” Hope whispered into her ear.

“Okay.”

Jake tried not to seem too obvious as he watched Mrs. Dungard’s expression. He lifted the bouquet from below the counter, handing it over like it was a newborn baby. But it was the expressions that always made his day. Mrs. Dungard’s whole face opened in delight, her eyes shining with pure joy as she grappled for words.

“Oh, Jake! You’ve outdone yourself this time!” Her fingers delicately stroked the petals of the Egyptian lotus, which he’d encircled with some baby’s breath.

“It’s called the Sacred Lily of the Nile,” Jake said. “They were grown along the Nile thousands of years ago and the Egyptians ate their roots, which were edible.”

“The color is astounding. And I love how it’s all wrapped in lilies! Susan will love these! Did I tell you it’s her birthday?”

“You did.” Jake smiled. “And I also remembered, from last year, that hot pink is her favorite color.”

Mrs. Dungard’s eyes shone with tears. She patted Jake on the hand. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

He did know. He always knew that a simple bouquet of flowers could reset a fractured relationship, bring hope to something hopeless, say a thousand things without whispering a word.

“How is Susan doing?”

“She’s holding her own. But the chemo is taking its toll.”

Jake went around the counter to the small rack of handmade cards he kept in the shop, usually only ten or fifteen at a time. He pulled the one showcasing summer, a field of yellow flowers in the distance that perfectly matched the setting sun. He’d written the poem inside himself.

“Take this and give it to her too.”

“Thank you, Jake. Your cards are so beautiful.” She cradled the bouquet. “Thank you so much for this too. It’s just breathtaking.”

“You’re welcome.”

Mrs. Dungard left and Jake closed the shop for the evening. He liked this time of day, when the sun was settling to bed and the shop was quiet.

He closed the register and found Mindy, his assistant, in the back.

“Hey Mindy, you can go on home.”

“But we’ve still got a lot to do for the wedding this weekend,” she said as she measured some ribbon.

“I’ll finish it up.”

“You’re sure?”

“Definitely. Go home and see that baby girl of yours.” He grinned extra wide to let her know it was okay. Mindy tended to feel guilty about doing things for herself.

She grabbed her bag. “I’m nervous about this one. The mother is kind of . . . strange, I guess you could say. She’s the same lady that has us send that Columbine flower to the nursing home every day, right?”

It was true. She wanted it every day. And when their driver was sick, he took the flower himself.

“Yes.”

“She was having a hard time articulating what her daughter wanted, or I was having a hard time understanding. Either way . . . I’m nervous.”

“No worries. I already have an idea what to do.”

Relief flooded Mindy’s features. “You rock, Jake. Seriously. You never fail. Why was I worried?”

“See you tomorrow.”

Alone in the back room he sat on his favorite old stool, the one his father had carved for him when he was ten years old, and began his final sketch of the bouquet. She wasn’t frilly. Or girly. But she was feminine and pretty. Tough but vulnerable. At least, that’s how he remembered her.

A lot of his youthful memories had faded, but he would never in his life forget the day he gave Hope Landon a card in the first grade. It was Mrs. Mosley’s class.

It had taken every nerve he had to do it. The night before, with a flashlight under his covers, he wrote the card, practicing good penmanship and making sure he spelled the important words correctly. The next day in class he’d managed to add some crayon to it, for a final touch. Then he stuffed it down his pants to hide it from Mrs. Mosley—in hindsight, possibly a mistake.

Then it was time. Art class. They were painting spring cards. He was watching her from across the room as she fervently worked, as if the whole world depended on the card she was creating. Her passion—and her dimples—fascinated him.

He finished his spring card in five minutes, which he intended for his mother, and started painting the easel itself. If caught, no recess for him.

Admittedly, he was just delaying because he was nervous. This was the first girl that hadn’t grossed him out.

He was a scrawny thing with big magnifier glasses and wispy hair that even back then seemed too old for him. High-priced hair gel couldn’t hide the fact that even at seven his hair was receding like the tide on the shoreline.

He watched her and then, she stopped painting. Her hand rested on her knee, the paintbrush poking out between two fingers. She slumped a little, observing whatever it was she was painting. In one spectacular moment, he’d found a burst of confidence. He stood and walked to her with a strut he’d only seen on TV, his shoulders back, his chin tipped upward enough to make him at least an inch taller, he estimated.

Then came the sudden realization, only four feet away from her, that he’d forgotten to take the card out of his pants. He had to think fast. And he did. Halfway through his stride, he turned, pulled it out, kept walking.

Very smooth.

But with each step closer, his confidence faded. By the time he got to her, he was shaking. But she didn’t notice. She didn’t even look at him. He cleared his throat. Nothing.

There he stood. It was a very Charlie Brown moment.

So he dropped the card in her lap and ran off.

To his surprise, forty minutes later during free time in their class, she stood by his desk.

“I appreciate the thought,” she said, towering over him. “But this is cliché.” He didn’t know what that word meant. She slapped the card down on his desk and opened it up. “See here? Do you like me? Yes, no, maybe so. The rhyming is good, but I think you can do better. Something funny, like ‘Do you like me? I also come in chocolate and strawberry.’ Girls like boys who are funny. Also, you’re not telling me how you feel about me.” She grabbed his pencil and pointed to the front of the card. “And stick figures? At least give them expression. Personality. Enthusiasm. It’s got to catch my eye.”

And that was the end of it. She walked off and never checked a box.

But she never stopped being his Lucy, either. By the time they got to their senior year of high school, he was pretty sure she didn’t even recognize him anymore.

And now, he was arranging flowers for her wedding. Bittersweet, to say the least. She probably didn’t even know it was him. Her mother was the one who came in and made all the arrangements.

No matter. His life was not one he wanted to share anymore. But he was going to give her the most beautiful bouquet he’d ever designed. She deserved that. His whole young life, she stood out as the girl who deserved better than what she had.

His pencil flowed over the paper. Two hours later, he was still working.

The day retreated and night settled over the old, wooden frame house she’d lived in her whole life. It was drafty, creaky, sometimes moody in a way. A lingering smell of cooked cabbage that to this day could not be explained. A tar-black woodstove in the kitchen held its own against some of the more modern appliances. A beautiful, hand-carved mantel stretched the length of the living room, with bookshelves on either side.

The house had character, but if it were human, Hope would be taking care of it at the nursing home.

Hope was in her room, doodling out some fun wedding cards she’d been imagining when her mother’s thin voice rattled the even thinner wooden door of her bedroom. “I’m home!”

“Okay! Just a sec.” Hope sat at the small white desk she’d had since elementary school, her knees bumping into all parts of it if she didn’t try to stretch her legs out. Sticking out between each finger of her left hand were five colored pencils, her signature colors: red, black, blue, white, and flesh tone. Colors she’d be known for if she ever made it big, which she had every intention of doing.

The plain white, heavy card stock sat centered on her desk, and she sketched the long and lean bride, one sassy hip poked out and a delicate hand set atop it. Hope pressed the pencil to the paper, drawing a grin that said, I’ve got something to say, but I’m holding it in out of politeness.

“Hope?”

She set down her pencils, cracked her knuckles, and decided she would have to work on the groom later. It was time to talk wedding details with her mom, but she wasn’t sure she was up for it. The pre-exhaustion that usually set in before she had to try to have a normal conversation with her mom was wilting her resolve by the second. With a long sigh, she put the Scrabble box that sat on her bed back on her desk, covering the card. She didn’t like anyone seeing them before they were done. And the Scrabble game was a constant reminder of her task at hand.

At the door of her room, she closed her eyes, then forced herself to turn the knob and walk out into the hallway. Her sneakers dragged against the carpet but she kept her focus on the end result . . . the wedding and the race out of Poughkeepsie. She had a dream to fulfill. Five hundred cards, all carefully packed away in the garage, needed her to be strong. They had a dream too . . . to make someone, somewhere, laugh.

Hope found her mother at the kitchen table, still surrounded by mustard yellow chairs that came in and out of style all in the same year: 1975. Her mother was dumping a sack of fake flowers and mismatched ribbon out onto the table. Hope sat down with the kind of caution that is normally reserved for people in dangerous occupations like alligator wrestling or rattlesnake wrangling or customer service.

“Look what I bought! It was all on sale. Clearanced at 90 percent off! I figured we could use it somehow. We must have some decor at your wedding.”

At the word decor, Hope’s attention drifted to the rust-colored walls of the kitchen. It was still unclear in what year the color had been popular. In the living room, the paisley print couch sat atop a green shag carpet. On the end tables were two lamps she swore came straight from the set of The Brady Bunch.

Her mom hadn’t updated anything since 1979, including herself. Everything about her—from her frizzy, unkempt hair to her polyester floral skirt—seemed a bit faded, like an old photo. Hope watched as her mom continued to rummage through her craft store goodies. As she often did, she imagined they were having a normal conversation, a conversation any mother and daughter might have before a wedding. She’d done this since she was little, sit close to her mother and pretend they were conversing about school or boys or an upcoming dance. That made her feel better. That . . .

And Popsicles.

“When I make the pigs in a blanket, do you want Swiss or provolone? I’m thinking cheddar.”

“Cheddar is fine.” It was the pigs in a blanket that worried her. She’d agreed to let her mother cater only because there were no other options. They couldn’t afford to have it professionally done, and their circle of friends was only about an inch across, thanks to her mother’s unusual outlook on life.

On the brighter side, her mother had agreed they could pay a florist to do her bouquet and a few other arrangements. She was looking forward to seeing what he was planning. Rumor was that he always sketched out his bouquets before designing them, to get the client approval. It made her feel like she was from Spackenkill.

“So provolone?” her mother asked.

With her mother catering, she feared her wedding might look more like a backyard barbecue, complete with American flags and sparklers if she happened to find them in a discount bin somewhere.

Her mother chattered on about the pigs in a blanket, and Hope grabbed one of the ribbons, running it through her fingers. So much rode on her mother and Hope knew all too well that things dependent upon her mom were in a world of trouble. Hope bit her lip, desperately wanting to ask the same question she’d asked for four weeks now. But why would she assume the answer would be different this time?

Except Hope always seemed to live up to her name.

“Mom, did the travel documents come yet?” She held her breath.

Her mother blinked, as if trying to remember what a travel document was.

“For whatever this surprise honeymoon is that you’ve been talking about.” Well, Mom mentioned it only once, but that was enough to get Hope’s hope up.

“Documents! Yes!” Her mother jumped from the chair and hurried to the kitchen. “Came today!” She returned, clutching an envelope close to her heart, gazing at Hope with her head tilted to the side. She said nothing, just stared at Hope like she was a famous monument.

A tinge of excitement rose up in Hope and she couldn’t help it: a grin hit her face like it was catapulted there. “So . . . are we going somewhere tropical?”

Her mother smiled and handed her the envelope.

Hope ripped it open, snatching up the folded contents. Tickets! Actual airline tickets! She turned them over to try to find the destination. A thrill rushed through her as she read the destination.

Then read it again.

Hope slowly lowered the tickets, placing them on the table.

Idaho.

The state.

The place nobody would go to for an exotic honeymoon. Her grin was still slapped onto her expression, but it began to quiver. She was about to burst into tears, but she had to hold it in. Crying extracted the strangest of all her mother’s behaviors.

“It’s a bed and breakfast!” her mother stated, her enthusiastic expression equivalent to Oprah’s when she gives away new cars. “That B and B harvests their own potatoes!”

“We’re spending our honeymoon in potato country.”

“I know how much you love your mashed potatoes.”

“Is this refundable?”

“Nope! Paid in full, my dear!” She smiled, missing the grave disappointment sinking into Hope’s expression. Her mother started messing with the ribbon again.

What was there to say? She couldn’t be ungrateful. She was certain her mother saved for months for this. A sharp pain cramped her stomach. Her mother reached across the table, patted her hand, grinned widely enough for the two of them.

“By the way, if your daddy shows up at the wedding, how about we both take an arm?”

No. Not now. Not talk about Daddy. “Sure, Mom.”

Then the dim mood of the room was undone by what could only be described as the spontaneous prayer version of Tourette’s syndrome. “Lord! Please hear this our prayer!” Her mother shouted, like there was some racket she needed to be heard over. She waved one hand in the air. “Bring Hope’s daddy back in time for her vows!”

Her mother’s eyes were squeezed shut so Hope rose, went to the freezer, and grabbed a blue Popsicle. She’d gone through ten or twelve Popsicles a day when her dad left. Now she only needed them every once in a while . . . like now. They had a calming effect, maybe because they temporarily froze her brain.

“Bring her daddy home, dear Lord!”

Hope returned to the table, sat down, sucked on her Popsicle.

“And please, please, please Lord, convince Hope and Sam they don’t need to move away.”

Hope’s heart sank. Her mother was having a hard time with it, and it kind of broke her heart. But she needed to leave. She had to.

“It’s going to be okay, Mom,” Hope said, patting her on the hand. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Good-night. I love you.”

In her bedroom, against her will, she picked up the picture of her dad, the one where he grinned like he could see their whole future together and it was magnificent. It was winter and they were bundled tightly together. His mustache was thick enough that it seemed it could keep them both warm. She always wondered what he’d look like now, whether he’d still sport that mustache or not.

“I’m not going to get any silly ideas about you coming to the wedding,” she said to the photograph. “There’s a new man in my life now. He is my family. He is the one that will be there tomorrow. Not you.” She tossed the frame aside and grabbed her cell phone, speed-dialing the man who would take her away from this place, forever.

His voice mail picked up. “Hey, it’s Sam. I’m probably off playing some outrageously sick gig right now. But if you’re important, maybe I’ll ring you.” A guitar vamp roared through the phone, followed by a delicate beep.

“Hey, it’s me. I love you and can’t wait to walk down the aisle. I can’t wait to hear the song you’re writing for me. I can’t wait”—she glanced at the picture of her dad on the bedspread, still grinning—“to not live in Poughkeepsie anymore . . .” She was talking as if the voice mail might converse back. “You know what, I’m just rambling now. I’ve got lots to do, so I’ll catch ya on the flipside.”

Outside her room, her mother sang some gospel music or something. Hope hopped off her bed and went to her closet, where her beautiful white gown hung, wrapped in plastic, off the back of the door.

She was actually getting married. Crazy was about to be a distant memory and normal was where she planned to relocate.