Six

“Sorry,” Sophie said, looking sheepish. “I told him not to do it, I swear.” Pete handed me a large vodka on the rocks with two olives and said, “Drink up. You’ll be fine.”

My sister, Jill, raised a glass. “Happy birthday,” she toasted. “You know, I didn’t like it when you went off to kindergarten without me or when you got to wear panty hose first or go to a movie with a boy, but now for the first time in my life I’m glad you’re the oldest.” She looked beautiful (and young) in a low-cut wraparound dress and heels. Her husband, Mark, wore a bright white shirt and sport coat, and even Jason, their eighteen-year-old, was dressed up (for him) in a V-neck sweater and unripped jeans. They looked like they’d just walked off the pages of a J.Crew catalog.

Jill was the solid, responsible, dependable one. The anti-Libby. She and Mark had been high school sweethearts, had been married now for twenty-eight years and had three beautiful, well-adjusted children who considered Jill and Mark friends as well as parents. Two of their kids were married and lived out of town, and they had four grandchildren who were, of course, smart and adorable.

Behind Jill was my favorite client, Mrs. Rosatti, resplendent in one of her signature outfits: purple pants with a purple and red jacket that had epaulettes on the shoulders, and large gold buttons.

How long had Michael been planning this? Had he gone through my address book? And when did he begin thinking a surprise party was a good idea? Before or after he promised never to do it?

People were lined up as if to pay their respects; they hugged me, patted me on the back and wished me a happy fiftieth birthday, the birthday I’d hoped would pass quickly and quietly. It felt like a funeral.

“Were you surprised?” my mom asked. Apparently she hadn’t noticed the shock (or revulsion) on my face when I walked in.

“Completely,” I said.

A smile filled her face. “Oh, good,” she said. “I was so worried I would spill the beans.”

Didn’t anybody know how much I hated surprise parties?

My dad wrapped me in a big bear hug. “Happy birthday, pumpkin. Hard to believe you’re fifty. Seems like just yesterday I was teaching you to use a power saw.” Strands of white hair made a valiant effort to cover his scalp. His blue eyes sparkled.

I laughed. “Daddy’s little tomboy.” He and I shared a love of building things, of fixing things and figuring them out.

“You don’t look a day over twenty,” he said.

“You’re prejudiced,” I said.

“You’re right. Truth is, you don’t look a day over thirty.” I laughed and kissed his soft cheek. My father was eighty-two but looked no older than seventy. He was tall and thin and had an energetic glow about him. He walked every morning and played golf whenever he could, spurning the use of carts.

My mother hadn’t made any of my favorite foods as her e-mail had promised; she’d ordered them: baby back ribs, jalapeño corn bread, potato salad, corn on the cob. I’m sure it was good food—everyone seemed to enjoy it—but I didn’t have much of an appetite. I drank a lot of vodka, though.

Beatrice Rosatti, my client, brought me a plate when I flopped down on the couch, the first time I’d sat all evening. Bea was a retired kindergarten teacher. She’d been married for forty-nine years when, five years earlier, her husband died in his sleep as he lay next to her. She’d hinted that he’d died while they were having sex, but I didn’t pursue the subject.

Now she had a boyfriend named Dominick whom she’d met online.

“You look like you need nourishment,” she said, unfolding a napkin on my lap. “Happy birthday, darlin’. Are you enjoying your party?” Her platinum blond hair was pulled up in a complicated froth about her head with rhinestone clips strategically placed.

“Sure,” I said, picking at a rib. She raised a finely penciled eyebrow. Something in my tone, I suppose.

“Were you surprised?”

“That’s an understatement,” I said. “I told Michael about a billion times that I hate surprise parties and never wanted him to throw one for me.” There’s truth in too much vodka.

“Oh my,” Bea said. Dominick came up and handed her a glass of wine. He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Happy birthday, dear girl. Having a good time?”

Bea and I looked at each other. She raised that eyebrow again and we burst out laughing. Dominick looked puzzled. “I’ll never understand women,” he said. “And I’m too old to start now.” He was eighty-seven to Bea’s eighty.

“Seems we’ll have something important to talk about this week,” she said. “You’re coming over, right? I have a lot of work for you.”

“Right,” I said. “We’ll talk.”

*   *   *

My mother had made carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. My favorite. It blazed with fifty candles.

“Somebody get a fire extinguisher,” I said.

Everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” a few actually on key, and I blew out the candles before the house could catch fire. Michael poured champagne.

We hadn’t spoken much during the evening; there’d been too many people, too much tumult, and Michael had been busy playing host, the guy who’d pulled off the impossible. I wasn’t sure I liked this new, stealth Michael.

Once everyone had a glass he whistled loudly to get their attention, a piercing sound that caused people to wince. “A toast to the birthday girl,” he said when it was quiet, holding up his glass. “To the best-looking fifty-year-old I know.” Shouts of “Here, here!” I think I blushed. Or maybe it was just a hot flash. “To the love of my life,” Michael continued, clinking his glass to mine, and we all took a sip.

But Michael wasn’t finished.

He whistled again, that same shrill sound. Everyone watched expectantly while my heart sank to my stomach, and before I had time to figure out how to head this off, he raised his glass again and said, “To my future wife.”

Confused silence.

Then Michael practically shouted, “I proposed last night and Libby said yes!”

I thought I was going to throw up.

My Aunt Shirley let out a squeal. Uncle Charlie came over and thumped Michael on the back. Faces loomed before me like balloons, many with expressions of surprise, others with wide grins, the tinkling of glasses touching in the air. Another wave of hugs and kisses and now “Congratulations,” and “It’s about time.” I could hardly breathe.

Sophie watched me carefully, hoping, I suppose, that I wouldn’t do or say something I’d regret. Her daughters, Tiffany and Danielle, gathered around, jumping up and down, begging to be bridesmaids, suggesting colors for the dresses. Ironically it was for Danielle’s wedding that I was making those unfortunate purple creations with the ruffles, all shiny with bows at the sweetheart necklines. And still I stood there, thinking we could simply use those same dresses. That’s what I was thinking. As if I would even have a wedding with bridesmaids. As if, even if I did, I would make anyone wear a dress like that. Clearly my mind had gone missing and I was operating in a haze of stupidity. And vodka.

If I could whistle like Michael, I thought, I’d do it and then I’d tell them all it was a cruel joke, that Michael and I were not getting married. But I couldn’t whistle. I could barely speak. What a mess. My whole family, all my friends, Michael’s parents, my favorite client, all thought I was engaged.

And they were all so damned happy.