Twenty-one

When Bea Rosatti came back from her cruise she called to see how I was. She needed some alterations done but assured me it was nothing she couldn’t live without. “Whenever you’re ready, dear,” she said. “You just let me know.”

“Thank you. But I need to work,” I told her. “I can come by in the afternoon if that works for you.”

“If you’re sure. I have the whole afternoon free and a luscious chicken salad in the fridge. Come for lunch.”

The chicken salad was luscious. It had grapes and almonds in it and she served it on nests of crisp lettuce with sliced tomatoes fanned out on the side of the plate.

“This is delicious,” I said. “I want this recipe.”

Bea’s laugh was a bright, tinkling sound. “Okay, but you’ll have to call Whole Foods and ask them because that’s where I got it. I did slave over the lettuce beds, though.” She wore a bright pink sweater with ruffles on the collar and sleeves, and matching pink dangling earrings. She looked like cotton candy.

“How is your mother doing?” she asked.

“She’s okay. As well as can be expected, I suppose. She’s a strong lady. I stayed with her before the funeral. And a couple days after. But then she told me to go home.” I swallowed. “I guess she didn’t need me anymore.” That was when I started to cry. All I did was cry these days. “I’m sorry,” I said, using a napkin to mop my face.

“Don’t be sorry. Cry.” Bea put a box of tissues in front of me and poured sherry into small etched glasses. “It’s not that she doesn’t need you anymore, Libby, you know that. I’m sure she felt guilty that you were spending so much time with her. I’m sure she doesn’t want to be a burden. And she probably feels she needs to be strong for you.”

“But she doesn’t,” I said. “It helps me to be there for her.”

“Just tell her that. Now it’s especially important to talk to each other.” I blew my nose. “Who’s there for you, honey?” Bea asked.

“My mom. Jill. Michael.”

“What’s happening with Michael?”

“He’s been wonderful. Very strong and supportive.” Bea sipped her sherry, played with an earring. “We’re going ahead with our wedding plans,” I said. She raised an eyebrow. “We’re getting married on my dad’s birthday. In seven months.”

“Well, that’s lovely,” she said.

“Yes, I’m happy. It took my dad’s death to make me see how important Michael is to me.” Bea handed me a tissue. I hadn’t even noticed that tears were running down my face again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I said and laughed. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m happy.”

“You’re happy and you’re sad.”

I nodded. “I don’t know what I feel anymore. Sometimes I feel like I can’t function, like I can’t think.” A sob burst from my throat. “Sometimes I feel like I’m falling apart.”

“Of course you do, Libby. Of course.” Bea moved her chair close to mine and put her arm around me. She smelled of apples and spearmint. “It’s a difficult time. It’s hard to know if your emotions are real or if they’re from grief. You just need to give yourself time. Don’t expect too much from yourself.”

I dried my eyes, downed my sherry and smiled. “Thanks, Bea.” I stacked our plates. “I’m good now.” She patted my shoulder and cleared the table. “Let’s see what work you’ve got for me,” I said.

She’d bought some things on the cruise: lime green capri pants with a navy and lime green jacket, a red dress with abstract splashes of white, all needing alterations.

“So how was the trip?” I asked as I pinned the jacket.

“Fabulous,” she said. “I have pictures if you’re interested.”

“I’d love to see them.” When I’d finished marking and pinning her clothes, we looked at a small stack of photos. They were large-format photos, professional ones taken by the ship’s photographer.

“He was everywhere,” Bea said, “snapping pictures at every opportunity, and then they were posted on a board the next day and everyone searched for theirs and exclaimed how expensive they were. And then they all bought every one of them. Just like we did.”

There was the “Welcome Aboard” photo and the “Captain’s Dinner” photo and then the disembarking photo at each port, Dominick and Bea waving to the camera as they stood on the gangplank. I went through the stack, occasionally asking for an explanation, oohing and aahing at a beautiful sunset or a long shot of the ship looking like a floating building. There was a photo of their dinner table, eight smiling faces, everyone dressed in elegant clothing, Bea in something short sleeved and red spangled. She and Dominick smiled at the camera while small red-haired children stood on each side of them, heads leaning on their shoulders. Behind them stood four adults, one obviously the mother of the children, a redhead with wide-set eyes. Bea was holding up her left hand, displaying a glinting ring.

“What’s this?” I said.

“Oh, that,” Bea said. “That’s the night Dominick proposed.”

My jaw dropped. “Proposed? Oh my god.” I put down the pictures and hugged her. She felt very tiny. “I’m so happy for you. That’s wonderful.” I pulled back and looked at her radiant face. “I can’t believe you kept quiet about this.”

“It didn’t seem like the right time,” she said.

“Oh, it is. Truly. I’m so happy for you. Let me see that rock.” I took her small hand. “How did I miss that?”

“You have other things on your mind,” she said.

“It’s beautiful.” It was simple and elegant but quite large, and I thought about my own ring sitting in its box in my dresser drawer. I hadn’t had it sized yet. Hadn’t even taken it to the jeweler.

“Isn’t this silly?” she said. “An engagement ring at eighty.” But she was clearly delighted.

“It’s not silly, it’s lovely. Were you expecting this?” I asked.

“Not at all.”

“Did he ask you in front of all these people?”

“Yes. Pretty sure of himself, wasn’t he?”

I laughed. “I’ll say. Very gutsy.” I was thinking Michael had pretty much done the same kind of thing and it hadn’t turned out so well for him. At least not at first.

“They all knew about it before I did,” Bea said.

“You’re kidding. Did you know these people before you went on the cruise?”

“No, they were just our tablemates, but it was the fourth night of the cruise and we’d all become fond of one another by that time. So he told them what he was planning and swore them to secrecy. They were nervous as cats, especially the little twins, but there’d been a chocolate tasting on the lido deck in the afternoon and I thought they were all just on a sugar rush.”

“How did he ask you?”

“The waiter served me the ring on a silver tray with a lid. We all had trays with lids and the waiters stood behind us and lifted the lids simultaneously, and everyone but me had a lovely piece of fish. I had a small velvet box on my tray.”

“How romantic.”

“Yes, it was. And then Dominick took my hand and asked me to marry him and opened the little box to show me this beautiful ring. I cried and said yes, and then the entire dining room burst into applause.” Her eyes flashed at the memory and she laughed.

“Oh my.”

“And the photographer was snapping pictures all over the place and then some musicians came over and played ‘Unforgettable,’” she said. “It was all terribly romantic.”

“So how do you feel?” I didn’t need to ask. Her face was like a display window into her delight.

“Like a schoolgirl,” she said, and I felt a twinge of jealousy.

“I’m so happy for you. It’s wonderful.”

“Thank you, dear. I knew you’d be happy.”

I remembered the day I had come to her house, when she and Dominick had been quiet and cautious with each other. It was the day Dominick had first mentioned the idea of their living together.

“It wasn’t so long ago that you were unsure about moving in together,” I said, “and now you’re getting married. What changed your mind?”

“I think when Dominick first brought up the idea it just caught me off guard. But after we talked about it and I really considered it, it started to feel right, comfortable. And then I wondered why I hadn’t considered it before.

“It’s nice to think about having someone to spend my old age with,” she said. “Not that I plan on being old.”

“And you never will be,” I said. “Well, it’s wonderful, inspiring.” We looked through the rest of the pictures. “My wedding gift to you will be your wedding outfit,” I said. “You tell me exactly what you want—a dress, a suit, whatever—and I’ll design it and make it for you.”

“Oh, Libby, that’s fabulous,” she said, clapping her hands. “It’ll be my honor to wear an original Libby for my wedding.” Original Libby. I liked the way that sounded.

“Are you going to make your own dress for your wedding?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I thought I’d just buy one. Michael’s going to help me pick it out.”

“Michael!” she said. “Michael shouldn’t help. Take your mom or your sister but not Michael. That’s bad luck.”

As I drove home I smiled at Bea’s superstition. It was silly, really. It wasn’t as if I were twenty, getting married for the first time, looking for a traditional white Cinderella-style wedding gown. What did it matter who helped me pick out the dress?

But then I thought that there was no point in pressing my luck; I decided I’d make an outing of it and ask my mom and Jill and Sophie instead.