Sixty-one

“YOU’RE brilliant at snooping,” Joy declared. “And I’m certainly not going to hire a private investigator. Manny’s a cop, for heaven’s sake. That would be a disaster. So I want you to find out who this Joan person is. She’s obviously loaded. I think she’s showering Manny with expensive stuff to buy his affection. I need to know how serious it is—”

She must be an older woman, I thought, but didn’t dare say. It would just confirm Joy’s worst suspicions.

“Slow down,” I warned. “There could be an innocent explanation . . .”

As soon as I said it, my mind flashed back to the skeptical look on Mike’s face when I said Franco would make a good husband. Then I recalled his discouraging words: ”. . . the issue with your ex disliking him—and that’s an understatement—isn’t going to make life peachy for them as a couple. And living in different cities isn’t easy on any relationship . . .”

At the time, I had brushed off Mike’s remarks. Now they weren’t so easy to dismiss. Did Mike suspect Franco was cheating on Joy? Did he actually know it for a fact—maybe even know this Joan person?

“I’m sorry, Mom . . .”

I let out a breath that I didn’t know I was holding. “Sorry for what? Joy, you have a right to be confused over Franco’s behavior. And I’m glad you came up to talk this over. Believe me, I know how you feel.”

“That’s not what I’m sorry about. I never knew, not really, how awful it was for you all those years ago. How much it hurts—like a slice through your soul—when you love someone, as much as you loved Daddy, as much as I love Manny, and that love is betrayed.”

Tears welled up in my daughter’s green eyes. Then the dam broke . . .

“There’s no crying on the line in a Paris kitchen,” she once told me. “The staff would crucify me!” But she was crying now. It was full-out, ugly crying with fat drops streaking her ruddy cheeks, and her heart-shaped face contorting into a mask of pain and confusion.

Sliding my chair over, I pulled her into my arms, and urged her to let it all out. Clearly, she’d been bottling up these worries for days.

When the sobs finally slowed, I stroked her dark hair. “Joy, do you remember that terrible storm years ago, when you were afraid of the thunder?”

“N-no . . .”

“Your father co-opted a few world myths and told you the thunder was just a big giant, beating his drum in the sky.”

“Oh, y-yes.” She wiped her nose. “That’s right.”

“Boom-boom-boom . . .” I reminded her. “You and Daddy marched around the apartment, pretending to beat your own drums.”

“I remember. I actually wanted the thunder to boom again, so I could beat my drum even louder.”

“When something frightens us, we try to make sense of it, get control of it, fight back in our own way. It’s human nature.”

“But, Mom, there never really was a giant in the sky—”

“No, and Franco’s not a bad person. If you love him, you have to sit down with him, confront him, face the truth—and know that you’ll be okay, whatever happens. It’s easy to let yourself domino your worries, tell yourself that if you lose Franco, you’ve lost love forever. But that’s just the thunder, honey, terrible noise to scare you. Look at your grandmother and all her heart has been through. You know what she always says? ‘Survive everything, and—’”

“‘—do it with style.’ I know.” She exhaled hard. “It’s just not . . . it’s not easy.”

“No, it isn’t. And leaving me to ‘snoop’ out answers will only make it harder, build up your fears and anxieties. That’s why I want you to sleep here tonight. Then put on your big-girl pants tomorrow, face Franco, and find out the truth. I’ll be here for you, no matter what happens.”

Joy took a breath and let it out. Finally, she nodded. “Okay, Mom, I’ll stay.”

“Have you arranged coverage in DC?”

“Everything’s set in Washington. And I can help you downstairs tonight. Sounds like you’re going to need it . . .”

As my daughter swiped her wet cheeks with the backs of her fists, a flood of memories flowed over me, and I saw my daughter in grade school again, crying over scuffed knees; in middle school, nursing bruised feelings; and through all those teen years with social fears and heartbreaking crushes. We’d spent so many hours together in the kitchen, just mother and daughter, talking things over.

If only she were that little again, I thought, and her problems were as easy for me to solve.

But who was I kidding? It was never easy. No matter how much any parent tries, every childhood is a series of hardships and humiliations, anxieties and terrors.

“How about a ‘Mommy and Me’ cookie?” I found myself asking. “We have time. Would you like that?”

Joy actually smiled. “Do you remember the ingredients?”

“By heart . . .”

2 tablespoons melted butter, 1 teaspoon vanilla extract,

pinch of salt, 1 egg yolk, 2 tablespoons granulated sugar,

2 tablespoons light brown sugar, ¼ cup flour, ⅛ teaspoon baking soda,

and 2½ tablespoons mini chocolate chips . . .

My daughter and I mixed the dough and baked our favorite cookies—large rounds of buttery-caramel goodness with the perfect crispy-chewy texture and laced with just the right amount of chocolate. We ate the warm treats with satisfaction, washing them down with glasses of cold milk. And for a brief, innocent gap of space and time, love became simple again.