Lovey

Gypsies

August 1951

My momma always told me that you should never stop holding hands, that just holding hands could keep a couple connected through the hard times. And Dan had never held my hand that tight before. He knew how nervous I was about seeing his parents again.

And the expansive front porch of their massive waterfront home in New Bern’s picturesque downtown didn’t help my nerves. I was a simple farm girl raised on fried chicken and vegetables I picked myself. It also didn’t help that the light drizzle falling on the sidewalk had made my flowers wilt and my hair grow. And suddenly the polka-dot dress that I had been wearing the night Dan and I reunited in New York felt all wrong. I ran my free hand over my hair, trying to salvage what I could of my style.

“Don’t worry. They’re going to love you,” Dan whispered as he turned the doorknob and crossed the threshold.

You couldn’t help but look up in the grand foyer, flanked by the living room on the right and the dining room on the left. The chandeliers in all three rooms were like something from a movie set. Crystal fixtures so huge that it made you wonder how many men it took to hang them. I didn’t have long to stare, though, before Dan’s mother was practically running into the entrance hall, throwing her arms around her son’s neck, breaking his grip with mine. She was much taller than I had remembered, much taller than I was, which made her even more intimidating.

And her joy for her son, when directed my way, turned into an icy handshake and, “Well, hello there. I guess you married my Dan.”

As though I had hog-tied him and dragged him down to the courthouse, him fighting tooth and nail to break away from all five feet of me.

“Honey, I’m home,” Father White called as he entered the back door, his voice dripping with that Southern, aristocratic accent that Dan also possessed to a lesser extent. He hugged me warmly and said, “Well, my dear, didn’t you grow up nicely? How are your folks?”

Relief flooded over me like warm bathwater. At least someone in this family would act civilly toward me. I nodded and said, “Very well indeed. Thank you for asking.”

Then he kissed his wife and said, “Sorry, darling. I had a few sick I needed to visit before I came home for supper.”

She replied haughtily, “I know duty calls, but, for heaven’s sake, the meal is going to be a mess if we don’t sit down.”

Jane tapped a buzzer with her foot, and two uniformed maids swept through with an array of food so beautiful that I thought I might could eat it, sick as I felt.

“Well, yes,” she said. “We would have liked to invite your parents to dinner to get to know them. We don’t want them to think we’re ill-mannered. But when you run off and get married like some sort of gypsies, it’s rather hard to follow society protocol.”

“Oh, well. They remember you fondly and certainly don’t think you’re ill-mannered, Mrs. White.”

She looked me up and down like something the cat dragged in and said, as though I had grown up in a tent in the woods, “I should suppose not.”

“Mother,” Dan said. “We will have a lifetime to celebrate together.”

“Would have been nice to dance at my own son’s wedding is all . . . ,” she said under her breath.

Father White leaned back from the table and lit his pipe, its sweet smoke filling the air and overpowering the smell of the roast on the table. “Now, darling, just you calm down. You’ve got two more chances with two more sons.”

I smiled politely and said, “This roast is just delicious. I can’t thank you enough for having me.”

Jane looked up from her plate dully and said, “Well, you’re my daughter-in-law.”

The subtext that hung in the air was, I didn’t have any choice but to invite you.

With that she set her napkin on the table, scooted out her chair and said, “Dan, I could use your help with something in the kitchen.”

The nausea was rapidly returning. I expected there to be a few bumps in the road when Dan and I ran off and got married. That was reasonable. But I hadn’t expected such coldness from my new mother-in-law. I took a sip of my tea, swallowing hard, trying to keep the tears lodged in my throat from coming down my face.

Father White got up and took Dan’s seat beside me at the table. With his pipe still in the corner of his mouth he said, “Now don’t you mind Jane. She can be a bit of a bitch.”

I could feel my eyes widening. I’d heard my fair share of cuss words—you had to when you were best friends with Katie Jo—but I couldn’t imagine one coming out of the mouth of this handsome, dignified man who was a preacher, no less. I couldn’t help but laugh.

He put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed, taking a puff of the pipe that smelled so good I wished Dan would start smoking one too. Then he whispered, “You know, darling, sometimes the shoe just fits.”

From that moment on, he was sealed in my heart as one of my all-time favorite men. Good, kind, true, witty, handsome and well-to-do, Dan’s father was the pinnacle of men to me from that lunch forward. As soon as I found out I was pregnant with Sally, I hoped against hope that she and any other daughter I ever had could find a man just like that.