Twenty-six

Libby,

I haven’t heard from you in a while and just want to make sure everything’s okay. I hope you’re not upset about what I said. I didn’t mean to imply you shouldn’t get married. I’m not involved in your life—I don’t see you regularly, so what I said was meant to be taken with a grain of salt, okay? If you think now is a good time to be married, if you’re happy about the house, then I am, too. You’re a big girl and I’m sure you know what you’re doing.

How is everything going? How are you feeling these days?

It’s so great being in touch with Pete and Sophie. I talked to Pete on the phone the other day for about an hour. They’re thinking of making a trip down here, did they tell you? Sometime after their daughter’s wedding. Maybe you could come with them. With Michael, of course. I have a big house, room for everyone, not far from the beach.

E me.

Love,

Patrick

Did he really think that was a possibility? I could just imagine Michael’s response to that idea. I laughed at the image in my head of Michael and Patrick meeting in the hallway, towels wrapped around their waists, toothbrushes in hand. I could see us all in pajamas and fuzzy slippers making breakfast, like a scene from The Big Chill only without the dancing. It had been a long time since I’d traveled with Sophie and Pete, and if it weren’t so impossible, it would have been fun. An opinion Michael surely wouldn’t share.

I hadn’t answered Patrick’s last e-mail. He was entitled to his opinion (no matter how misguided it was), but it had irked me. I don’t like being told I’m making a mistake when I’m so sure of what I’m doing. Never have. But I thought about what he’d said and couldn’t help wondering if he had my best interests at heart or if there was a hidden agenda in his words. My ego would have liked equal shares of each. And then, of course, there was that Love, Patrick at the end of every e-mail that gave me a golden glow every time I read it, even though I never wrote it back.

Patrick,

I’m not upset with you. I do appreciate your concern and am giving consideration to your words. I realize you’re not trying to tell me what to do, just telling me what you think, and that’s fine.

I’m doing okay. Life goes on, as they say, but the pain doesn’t go away. I guess you just learn to live with it, although that’s not happening so quickly either. The bereavement group is a big help to me and to my sister, so thank you for telling me about that. There’s something comforting about being with people who know what you’re going through.

I wrote a letter to my dad as you suggested. In fact, I’ve written a couple. I like doing it—it makes me feel that he’s close. Unfortunately he’s not answering my questions, but I’m thinking he’s putting the answers out there in the universe somewhere for me to find them. He always encouraged my independence, so why start making it easy for me now?

I’m glad you and Pete have rekindled your friendship. It still sort of amazes me to be in touch with you after all these years. I can’t imagine Michael and me coming to Florida with Sophie and Pete. It’s such a funny idea. Not that it wouldn’t be fun. But thanks for the invitation. I hope S and P make it, tho.

Libby

*   *   *

“I thought I was going to help you pick out your dress,” Michael said when I told him I was going shopping with the triumvirate: my mother, Jill and Sophie. I regarded him as he put on one black sock, then a shoe, then reached for his other sock.

“Why don’t you put both socks on first, then your shoes?” I asked.

He looked at his bare foot, then at me. “I don’t know. I’ve always done it this way.”

“I know. I’ve always thought it was weird. What if there was a fire? You’d be running out in the street with one bare foot.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Talk about weird,” he said, and put on his other sock and shoe. “So how come I’m not shopping with you?”

“Don’t you know it’s bad luck for the groom to see the dress before the wedding?”

“It’s probably worse luck for the bride to wear a dress the groom doesn’t like.”

“You think I’ll pick out something you wouldn’t like? You always like what I wear.” Michael watched his reflection as he tied a red striped tie over his blue shirt. “Don’t you?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “I just thought it would be fun to do together. That ‘bad luck’ thing is for kids—the Cinderella fantasy. I think we’re a little beyond that, don’t you?”

“Yes, several hot flashes beyond that, but we’re also beyond engagement rings and weddings and we’re still doing those.”

He cocked his head at me. “Touché.”

Michael was spending more and more time at my house. He seemed to be moving in by centimeters—a pair of socks in the laundry basket, jockey shorts in a drawer, more pants hanging in the closet. We hadn’t talked about it, it was just happening. It’s hard now to imagine that I just went along with it, but at the time I didn’t have the energy for the confrontation a discussion would surely cause. Besides, he was my fiancé. What was there to discuss?

“Maybe you could take a picture with your cell phone and send it to me before you buy anything,” he said.

“Maybe you could just wait and be surprised,” I said. He pulled the tie apart, apparently not satisfied, and started reknotting it.

“You never used to be so controlling,” I told him.

He met my eyes in the mirror. “Controlling?”

“Yes, controlling.”

“How so?”

“How so? Let me count the ways.”

“Hmmm. Okay then, don’t send a picture and I’ll be surprised,” he said, and finished knotting his tie.

*   *   *

I stood on a pedestal in front of a trifold mirror, swathed in fluffy silk organza while the bridal consultant and my mother oohed and aahed. Sophie and Jill both wore expressions that said, Oh, please.

“You look like you’re twenty years old in that,” my mom said.

“Yeah, if you don’t look at my fifty-year-old face.”

“You’re fifty?” Cara, the bridal consultant, said with such incredulity that I wanted to hug her and buy the damn dress. “I thought you were in your thirties.” Bless her lying little heart.

If Jill was still concerned about me marrying Michael now and making so many life changes, she hid it well and got into the spirit of the day, moving from rack to rack, offering up various options. Ultimately we’d all picked out four dresses—the big puffy thing being my mother’s choice, of course—and I was the human mannequin.

“It’s a bit much, Mom. I know you love this style but this wedding is going to be more like a fancy cocktail party with a marriage ceremony thrown in. Did you pick out anything less frou-frou?”

“No,” she said. “But humor me and try them on anyway.” So I did, while Jill yawned and Sophie filed her nails.

Sophie’s and Jill’s choices ran more toward Nancy Reagan: elegant suits and conservative tea-length dresses. Mine leaned in the direction of Cher: a slinky black beaded dress with a silver shawl, a knee-length burgundy silk skirt and sequined top, a low-cut red evening gown with fringed jacket.

By the time I finished trying on the last option we were all worn out and I was no closer to buying a dress than I’d been when we walked in. I could only imagine what we looked like to Cara: three middle-aged women and a senior citizen, slouched in our chairs, bags under our eyes, hair disheveled. She wore a little half smile as she rehung the last of the dresses. “I’m going to go get you each a glass of wine,” she said, and we all perked up. “And then I’m going to bring one last dress for you to try on.” I groaned. “I know,” she said, “but I think it may be just what you’re looking for.” How could she know? She was twelve. But what was one more dress? Besides, I really wanted that wine.

We sat in exhausted silence, sipping our wine and nibbling on the cookies she’d brought, until Sophie said, “Pete talked to Patrick the other day and invited him to come to Danielle’s wedding.”

I stopped chewing. Patrick, here? At Danielle’s wedding? Patrick and Michael in the same room? “Why’d he do that?”

“He’s just so happy to be in touch with him. It’s like he has a new best friend.” She turned to Jill. “Patrick Harrison,” she said. “Remember him?”

“I do,” Jill said with raised eyebrows. “What rock did he crawl out from under?”

“The Internet,” I said.

“Well, well,” Jill said. “Things keep getting curiouser and curiouser.”

“Anyway,” Sophie said, “Pete wants to get together with him and they were talking and I think it just came out.” She shrugged. “I think he might come.”

I swallowed.

“Who’s Patrick?” my mother asked.

“Libby’s high school boyfriend,” Jill said. “Remember the guy with the long hair and the black leather that you and Daddy hated?”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” my mother said. “We never hated anyone Libby dated.”

Jill and Sophie and I laughed. “Well, okay, maybe ‘hate’ is extreme, but you weren’t crazy about his long hair,” I said. “Do you remember him?”

“Oh honey, I barely remember you. How could I remember someone you dated in high school?”

“Remember the Bradshaws?” Jill asked. I gave her a look but she kept going. “Remember when Libby went to a New Year’s Eve party at their house?”

“No, dear, I don’t remember. And I’m not going to tax my brain. But what’s the difference? It’s all ancient history.” She looked at me. “Have you kept in touch with him?”

“Just recently we got in touch through a website where people find their high school friends.”

“SearchForSchoolmates.com?” my mother asked.

I almost dropped my wineglass. “How do you know about that?”

“Do you think I sit around and knit all day?” she said. “I’m the technology queen of my book club. I’ve taught everyone how to use a computer. I’ve been on that website a number of times. Although as you can imagine there aren’t many of my classmates left.”

My mother on SearchForSchoolmates.com. Amazing. What if she was e-mailing old boyfriends?

“Who’d you find?” Sophie asked, clearly delighted with the idea.

“I found a girl I used to run around with, Sarah Posen.”

“Does she live here in Chicago?”

“No, in Michigan. Not too far, though. We’re going to try to get together soon. I’d love to see her. Haven’t laid eyes on her in about sixty years.”

“Technology is amazing, isn’t it?” Jill said.

“It is,” I said. “How would we have gotten in touch with these people years ago? It would have taken so much effort that no one would have ever bothered. Now it’s as simple as having a computer and an Internet connection, and you can get reacquainted with someone you haven’t seen in sixty years.”

“Or thirty,” Sophie said.

Cara came back with an elegant ankle-length crocheted tank dress and matching jacket in a shimmery bronze color. It was shot through with metallic shine and there were tiers of scalloped lace at the hem. We all nodded when we saw it, our heads bobbing, smiles on our faces. It was perfect. I had a wedding dress.