Five

Michael called later in the day to say he’d have to meet me at my parents’ house, that his meeting was running long.

“Should I bring anything?” he asked.

“No, I’ve got some wine. We’re good. Listen, Michael … do you have a second or are you in a hurry?” I wanted to plant a seed about not getting married.

“I’ve got to run,” he said. “George is waiting for me.”

I sat for a moment after he hung up, thinking I should at least have told him not to say anything to my parents about our getting engaged. Well, I could catch him later.

Rufus was asleep on my bed, looking like a big ball of gray flannel. He opened one eye when he heard me open the closet door. He yawned and stretched and then walked over to the edge of the bed, where he stood meowing, ready to weigh in on what I was going to wear. My clothes hung neatly: jeans on one side, casual pants next, dress pants after that. Blouses, then dressy tops, then casual tops, then skirts and a few dresses. In one corner were the things Michael left at my house: a few pairs of khakis, two pairs of jeans and four shirts. The closet was tidy and organized. Kind of like my life.

While I grabbed a pair of jeans Rufus continued to meow, and as I pulled them on he extended a paw toward me, waving me over. It was his game. He liked attention. “Pet me,” he’d say if he could talk. “Just a little scratch around the ears.” So I did.

I put on a sleeveless gold V-neck top, a wide leather belt and black boots, and pulled out a jacket with a black and tan pattern. Not bad for an old broad, I thought.

I was on my way to the bathroom to check my makeup and hair when I thought to look at my e-mail to see if Patrick had responded. I didn’t expect to hear from him so soon—it had only been a few hours, after all—but a huge smile unfurled on my face when I saw an e-mail with an unfamiliar screen name, KayakDude, and the subject line Re: Your past comes back to haunt you. I laughed out loud, feeling as if I’d just been invited to the prom. My heart thumped as I opened the e-mail.

Libby,

Wow! You brightened my day. It’s great to hear from you, and no, of course I haven’t forgotten you. How could I?

I smiled.

I’ve often wondered where you were and how you were doing. I looked for your name when I first joined SearchForSchoolmates.com and hoped someday I’d find it. And here you are!

So, okay, here’s my life in a nutshell: I was married, then divorced, and I have a son who’s almost 30. He’s married and has two little ones. It’s amazing being a grandpa. Do you have kids? Are you a grandma? Man, that’s a concept.

You heard right—I did move to Florida and I’m still here in a small town on the Gulf Coast. Like the rest of Florida it’s growing fast but we still have miles of undeveloped sugar-white sand beaches. I have a sea-kayak tour business that I run in tourist season, plus I own a couple of apartment buildings that keep me pretty busy, always something to fix or rehab. Or a deadbeat tenant. But mostly I enjoy it. I’ve had a great life.

Yeah, that New Year’s Eve is one of my favorite memories, too. Man, I’m flashing back now and remembering when Jack Bradshaw’s folks came home early. Whew, that was embarrassing, wasn’t it? I’d forgotten that part until just now. Jack’s mom was pretty freaked out, wasn’t she? I’m sort of remembering that you got in big trouble over it, too, but can’t remember how.

Do you keep in touch with anyone from high school? I haven’t been to Chicago in years and years. My parents moved to Florida not long after I did and my brothers went out west so I lost track of everyone. Do you ever hear anything about Sophie? Pete?

So glad you e-mailed me! I’m not so great at this e-mail thing (never took typing in high school—who knew guys would need something like that?) but I look forward to hearing from you again. Tell me all about your life.

Peace,

Patrick

P.S. Worth the fifty bucks! Check’s in the mail.

Peace. That sounded so much like him. The sea-kayaking business sounded exactly right, too. No corporate crap for Patrick Harrison. I laughed. I had an image of him sitting at his computer, typing with two fingers, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, long hair in a ponytail. It was silly, really, how happy I was that he remembered me; like a kid with a new best friend. I could see his face clearly—his dark eyes and sweet smile. What did he look like now? Did he still have long hair? Did he have hair at all? Was he still cute? And what would “cute” mean at fifty?

Sophie would freak out. I wanted to answer the e-mail right that second, but only had time to read it over once more before I had to finish getting dressed.

I checked my eye shadow, added a little more blush and brushed my hair, and tried to see myself with Patrick’s eyes. What would he see? A reasonably attractive fifty-year-old woman with gray strands in her curly brown hair. Too much gray? Did it make me look old? Would he recognize me after thirty years? I thought I looked decent, but what did I really know? How can you be objective about the face you’ve been looking at every day for fifty years?

*   *   *

Michael’s car was already in the driveway when I pulled up to my parents’ house, which totally pissed me off. Why hadn’t he called to pick me up if he was going to make it early? How long had he been there and what was he talking about? He’d better not have said anything about our engagement. I would lose it if he had. I could imagine hitting him over the head with my purse. (Not that I’m a hitter.) I didn’t really think he’d say anything without me, but Michael was unpredictable these days and I was irritated by the possibility. My sister’s car was there as well and I prayed the whole damned family wouldn’t be exclaiming over the big news when I walked in.

The living room was empty, but tidy as usual, with bowls of pistachios on the mahogany end tables, magazines stacked neatly on the coffee table.

“Where is everybody?” I yelled.

“In here,” my mother called from the back of the house. As I walked down the short hallway I heard whispering sounds and someone saying, “Shhhh.”

Goddamn it, I thought, he’s told them. I was furious when I turned the corner, thinking what the hell I’d say, ready to deny everything, but then I was assaulted by shouts of “Surprise!” as twenty or thirty people stood among black balloons (it wasn’t until later I’d notice they were emblazoned with 50 or OVER THE HILL) and black streamers strung across the kitchen.

A fucking surprise party.

I’d made Michael swear more than once that he’d never do this and yet there was his face, right smack-dab in front, with a big, satisfied smile.

I wanted to smack him.