Eight

Michael got out of bed very early in the morning and I pretended to be asleep. He dressed quietly, kissed me gently on the cheek—I didn’t move—and left to play racquetball. When I heard the front door close behind him I sighed. I wouldn’t see him again until Tuesday or Wednesday since we rarely spent Sunday nights together.

Rufus came to take Michael’s place, curling up against my side, draping a paw on my hip. I hadn’t slept well but as soon as Rufus and I were alone I fell into a comalike slumber. Later, after I made a small pot of French roast and buttered a toasted English muffin, I took my breakfast to my desk and turned on my computer. I reread Patrick’s e-mail and felt happy all over again. I was excited to answer it but first I wrote an e-mail to Sophie:

What are Michael and I doing getting engaged? What are we, twelve? He’s almost sixty, for chrissakes. Next thing you know, I’ll be having bridal showers and registering for china. Can you just see Michael and me running through Crate & Barrel with one of those scanner guns? What the hell would we even scan? It’s not as if I don’t already have china and crystal and fondue pots and lava lamps from my first two weddings.

And that surprise party and the big announcement … kill me now.

The phone rang within ten minutes, as I knew it would. Sophie was always connected. I usually gave her a hard time about how excessive and annoying that was, especially when we were having lunch or shopping and she was checking her iPhone every other minute, but I loved it when I needed her.

“The party was fun,” she said. “Even you looked like you were having a good time.”

“Once I got over my initial irritation it was tolerable,” I said. “But I don’t understand why he did it, knowing how I feel about surprise parties.”

“I really did try to talk him out of it.”

“I’m sure you did. Thing is, I was feeling okay about it, making an effort to enjoy it even though I see no reason to celebrate turning fifty, and then he made that birthday toast and that was fine, and then he whistled and I knew what he was going to do and there was no way to stop him and I just felt sick.”

“I know. But he didn’t know how you were feeling, did he?”

“No. I didn’t have a chance to talk to him.”

“Well, so it’s done and everyone knows. Maybe you should stop concentrating on what he did and really consider what you want. Think about how nice your life’s been the last couple of years with Michael.”

“I know. I have thought about that.”

“It’s been peaceful. It’s been companionable. You enjoy the same things, you travel, you like each other’s families. Michael’s a man you can grow old with.”

“God, you’re like president of his fan club.”

“Well, he’s good for you, Libby. I just don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret. Take a deep breath,” she said. “Slow down. Give yourself some time to get used to the idea.”

“Hey,” I said, tired of thinking about Michael. “Remember Patrick Harrison?”

Of course she did. I told her how we’d hooked up and about our e-mails. “God, Patrick Harrison. That was a hundred years ago.”

“I know.”

“Libby,” Sophie said, “is that what this is all about, with Michael?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “It has nothing to do with Michael.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am, Sophie. Do you think I would chuck everything because I exchanged e-mails with my high school boyfriend? First of all, he lives in Florida. Secondly, I haven’t seen him in thirty-some years. Plus, he wasn’t my type back then, what would make him my type now?”

“What do you mean he wasn’t your type? You were crazy about him.”

“I know, but it didn’t last, did it? He was a hood. I was preppy. He majored in vocational ed. I was on the college track.”

“Opposites attract.”

“Only until I went off to college,” I reminded her. “And then there’s the minor detail that I have a life with Michael, and even if I don’t want to marry him, I like our life together.”

“So, tell me about your e-mails,” Sophie said.

She was pleased that Patrick had asked about her and Pete. Laughed that he was a grandfather. Loved his sea-kayaking business.

“I wonder what he looks like,” she said. “He was really cute thirty years ago.”

“Probably fat and bald now,” I said.

“I bet not,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice.

*   *   *

Patrick, I wrote after Sophie and I had hung up.

It was so great to hear from you. Isn’t this amazing? Who would think we’d be in touch again after all these years?

You, a grandfather—how is that possible? How did we get to be so old? No, I’m not a grandmother, never had children. I’ve been married twice (divorced now) but children weren’t part of the picture(s). I wish they had been but life doesn’t always turn out the way you expect, does it?

The sea-kayaking business seems so much like something you’d do. I knew you wouldn’t be an accountant or lawyer or some other “establishment” dude. Kayak Dude—perfect.

Yes, Jack Bradshaw’s parents came home when we were in their bedroom—a very humiliating experience. Especially since they were good friends with my parents, who they called first thing the next morning. What a scene at my house that day! I think I was grounded for a year after that. But, as I recall, we still managed to see each other.

Sophie and Pete got married and still are. Isn’t that great? They have two gorgeous daughters, one who’s getting married soon. I’m a dress designer/seamstress and I’m making the bridesmaid dresses for the wedding. Tiffany, their youngest (15), is coming in for a fitting today. She looks just like Sophie did at that age, except she’s got lots of piercings and spiky hair—Sophie with an edge. They’re a fabulous family. In fact I just got off the phone with Sophie and she says hi!

As for my life, it’s been wonderful. Okay, yeah, I’ve been married and divorced twice but I consider that character building. Now I have a significant other and we’ve been together almost two years. The other night he asked me to marry him and I have to say it shocked the hell out of me. I never thought I’d get married again, but how could I say no to a three-carat diamond?

Libby