Nine

Tiffany pivoted slowly as I pinned the hem of her purple bridesmaid dress.

“I’m going to walk down the aisle in front of two hundred people looking like an iris on steroids,” she said, scrunching up her nose. “This is totally gross.”

“You’re going to look beautiful no matter what you’re wearing,” I told her. “Think of it as wardrobe. Imagine you’re an actress or a rock star and you’re doing a personal appearance, and just walk down that aisle like a queen. Like you’re Cher or Madonna or someone.”

“Oh my god, they’re so old. How about Katy Perry?” she said. “Just do a big cutout here in the middle so my belly button shows, rip off these stupid sleeves and lower the neckline. What do you think?”

Tiffany’s hair, which used to be blond, was a shade of red found most often on traffic signals. It clashed madly with the purple dress. She had a piercing through her eyebrow where she wore a small silver ring, four piercings in her left ear and two in her right. She had a tongue piercing as well, which glinted silver when she talked. It amazed me that Sophie was so nonchalant about all this body maiming. “All those holes will close,” she’d say. “At least she’s not into tattoos.”

“Not yet,” I’d say.

Now Tiffany asked, “So when are you guys getting married?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to have a big wedding?”

“No, I’m too old for that,” I said. “Besides, I’ve been married twice already. How many weddings does one person need?”

She giggled. “I think you should have a big wedding. I want to be a bridesmaid.”

“I’d make you wear a dress just like this,” I said, fluffing her big purple sleeve, “only in lime green. What do you think about that?”

She pointed her finger into her mouth and made a gagging sound.

“Turn,” I told her and finished pinning the hem.

“I’m going to the movies later with Ryan,” she said as I helped her out of the dress and she pulled her jeans on.

“Who’s Ryan?”

“Christopher’s brother.” Christopher was the groom. “I’ll be walking down the aisle with him.”

“Aren’t you a little young to date?” I said, sounding like an old lady. It seemed like last week I was taking her and Danielle to Kiddieland.

“I’m fifteen.”

“Well, fun,” I said, hoping they’d still like each other by the time the wedding got here, and then realizing how cynical that was.

“He’s hot,” she said, and blushed. Her smile was shy and her eyes shone. Young love, I thought enviously. I remembered those days.

“So how do you know when you’re in love?” she asked. As if I knew.

“Oh honey, you’re not in love. You just met him.”

“So?” she said, indignant. “Haven’t you heard of love at first sight?”

“Sure, in books. In real life it’s called lust.” What was wrong with me? Was I really saying this to a fifteen-year-old? Fortunately, I resisted giving her the wisdom of my many failed relationships: that Ryan was only the first in a line of men who would break her heart and underachieve her expectations. “Sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean that. It happens. Just not often. And when it does you just know it,” I said. “But being in love at fifteen is different from being in love at fifty.”

“Different how?”

“Oh man, where to begin,” I said. I started steaming the hem and Tiffany flopped down into the big chair, looking quickly at her iPhone but then amazingly putting it down.

“Were you in love at fifteen?” she asked.

“No. The first time I fell in love I was seventeen.”

“Was it love at first sight?”

I had to laugh. “It kind of was,” I admitted. “I met him at a party and when he walked in the door my heart started pounding.”

“Oh god, that’s what happened to me!” Tiffany squealed, her face lighting up like neon.

“It’s a wonderful feeling. And when you’re young you think nothing will ever change that. You think it’ll last forever.”

“Sometimes it does,” Tiffany said. “Look at my mom and dad.”

“Touché.”

“What happened to you and your guy?”

“I went away to college and we lost touch,” I said.

She raised her eyebrows and the little silver hoop caught the light. “Just like that?” she said.

“Well, it didn’t happen overnight. At first I was really depressed being away from him and I just wanted to go home. I thought going off to college had been a huge mistake and I wanted to quit school and go home and marry him.”

“He asked you to marry him?”

“Well … no,” I admitted. “It was just my fantasy. In fact, he was the one who convinced me to stay in school. He said he wasn’t going anywhere and that I just needed time to get used to it. He said I was really lucky to have the opportunity and it was going to be important for my future, for our future together.” I hadn’t thought about all of this in years. I had forgotten how encouraging he had been, how adult. At the time I’d worried that he didn’t really love me if he could bear to be away from me, but looking at it from my perspective as a fifty-year-old, I realized how selfless and supportive he had been.

“Why didn’t he go to college if he was so big on it?”

“His family couldn’t afford it. He worked all through high school and then he thought if he worked full-time for another year he could earn enough money to go to college after that.”

I spread out the dress on the worktable, pulled up a high stool and started hand-stitching the hem.

“So what happened to you two? Why didn’t you stay together? He sounds like a cool guy.”

“He was a cool guy.” I thought about his e-mail, how happy he’d been to hear from me. Peace, he had said. “When I first got to school we called each other all the time and missed each other desperately and I just lived for Christmas break, and then when I got home we were so happy to be together. But it was a little bit awkward, too. We were living different lives and didn’t have that much in common anymore. He was working at a discount store; I was worried about exams. He was still living at home; I was on my own, I’d started to make friends at school—you know, that kind of thing. It just wasn’t quite the same.”

“How sad.”

“Oh well, things happen,” I said.

“So how was it different when you fell in love with Michael?”

Let me count the ways.

“It’s hard to explain,” I said. “Maybe we can save that conversation for another time. Right now I’ve got to gather up some stuff to take to a client.” I didn’t, I just didn’t want to get into all of that. I thought it best to keep my cynical mouth shut. Let her have her dreams now. They’d be dashed soon enough.

Tiffany grabbed her phone, kissed me and left, thumbs flying on the Lilliputian keyboard.

I finished hemming her dress and picked up another. I wanted to complete all four and deliver them. I was going blind with all that purple.

Later I checked my e-mail. It wasn’t until I saw the message from Patrick that I realized I’d been holding my breath.

Libby,

You’ve been married twice and getting ready to do it again? Wow, either you’re a glutton for punishment or an eternal optimist. Seriously, tho, congratulations. Yeah, I guess three carats can be pretty persuasive.

I came close a second time but got cold feet before we made it to the altar. I guess it wasn’t so much getting married that scared me as that she was great but not someone I thought I’d want to spend my life with.

Do you have a picture? I’m attaching one of me with my son’s family taken last summer when I visited them. Now, before you open it remember that I am 32 years older and almost that many pounds bigger than I was the last time you saw me. So be kind. The heart’s the same but the body sure isn’t.

Hey, can I call you sometime? It’d sure be easier than typing, wouldn’t it? And it’d be great to hear your voice. Here’s my number if you want to call me: 850-555-6768.

Patrick

Call? Like on the phone? Stupidly, that hadn’t occurred to me. It was as if he only existed in the virtual world. Now, realizing I could actually talk to him, I was unnerved. It was one thing to write; you could think about what to say before saying it. But talk? That depended on a mutual chemistry, didn’t it? A connection. What if we didn’t have that? What if we had nothing to say to each other? I liked this little fantasy we had going. Why ruin it?

But I was dying to see what he looked like. No harm in downloading the photo.

And there he was.

I studied the current-day Patrick for several minutes, squinting to reveal the face I had known. It took some getting used to but he was there, familiar and not, all at the same time. I laughed out loud. Patrick had aged well. He was cute! Yes, he was heavier, his face was fuller than I remembered, but he wasn’t fat. And he wasn’t bald. His hair was salt and pepper, mostly pepper, but it seemed as thick as ever and was longish, wavy, brushing his collar. He and his son sat on a porch step, leaning toward each other with big matching grins. Two young boys and a pretty dark-haired woman sat on the step below them laughing at the camera, as if someone had just told a great joke. There were laugh lines around Patrick’s eyes and mouth. He wore jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a cigarette in his hand. He still smokes, I thought. I had forgotten how much we both smoked back then.

He looked solid and weathered and ruggedly handsome. I thought if I saw him on the street today I would turn to study him appreciatively. He didn’t look like the boy I’d known, but he’d turned into a fine-looking man.

I wrote his phone number on a Post-it thinking I might call him that evening, and took it with me to the kitchen to make myself some dinner.

*   *   *

I felt lighthearted as I put together a chopped salad with Bibb lettuce, arugula, spinach, hard-boiled eggs, red onion, artichoke hearts, raisins and sunflower seeds. I had a sense of anticipation as I thought about Patrick’s e-mail and his picture. The familiarity of him felt good and comfortable.

I was checking a loaf of Asiago cheese bread warming in the oven when I heard a key in the front door. My heart skipped a beat and the oven door slammed shut before I realized it wasn’t a burglar, it was Michael. The fear dissolved and was replaced with exasperation. What the fuck was he doing here now?

“Lib,” he called.

“In here,” I said and heard him drop keys on the table by the front door. Something else dropped as well, probably an overnight bag, and the sound made me furious.

“Mmmm, looks good,” he said, kissing me.

“What are you doing here?”

He looked startled. “Nice welcome for your fiancé,” he said.

Fiancé.

“You never come over on Sunday night. You could have at least called.”

“I did. I left you a message.”

I hadn’t checked my messages all day. I looked over at the answering machine—a big red 1 blinked at me.

“Well, so what’s the occasion?” I asked, making an effort to keep my tone even.

“I just wanted to spend the evening with you. I think we should get used to spending more time together, don’t you?”

“Michael, you can’t just change things because you think we should. We need to talk about it together, make decisions together. I have things to do tonight. I have work to do. I wasn’t planning on you being here.”

“Well, shit, Lib, you can do your work,” he said. “I don’t expect us to be together every second. When we’re married we’re going to have our own things to do.”

Thank god for that, I thought. I pulled the bread out of the oven and clattered the baking pan on the counter.

“Tonight doesn’t work for me,” I said.

“I’ll just sit in the living room and watch TV. You won’t even know I’m here.”

“I’ll know you’re here,” I said, louder than I meant to. “It doesn’t work for me, Michael.”

He studied me. “So what you’re saying is you want me to go home, is that it?”

“Yes!”

Silence. Michael pursed his lips. He looked out the window, jiggled the change in his pocket. “Fine,” he said and turned to go. But then he paused in front of the Post-it on the counter. “Who’s Patrick?” he asked, turning around, thrusting it toward me.

Oh shit. “No one,” I said. “A friend.”

“A friend?” he said. “I’ve never heard you mention anyone named Patrick.”

So what? I wanted to shout. He put a ring on my finger and now I had no life of my own? I had to divulge every aspect of my life, every thought, every person I talked to? But I took a breath and contained myself, kept my voice even.

“He’s someone I knew in high school. He lives in Florida. He got in touch with me and we’ve e-mailed a couple of times.”

“How’d he get in touch with you?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, what’s with the interrogation?” Michael’s eyes flashed. “He found me on SearchForSchoolmates.com,” I said. “You know, that website where you find people from high school.”

“When did he do that?”

“All right, that’s enough with the twenty questions. You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

Michael’s gaze bore into me, making me feel guilty, as if I’d done something horrible.

“Jesus, Libby,” he said, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It doesn’t feel like nothing to me. It feels a little coincidental, actually, that you’ve been e-mailing some guy from high school and now you’re having second thoughts about our engagement. Does that strike you as odd? Because it does me. What would you think if you were me?” He looked at me, challenging me to dispute this. I could see how it looked to him: deceitful and sneaky. But right then I didn’t care.

“You’re blowing this up out of proportion, Michael. One has nothing to do with the other.”

“Then why don’t you just explain one and then the other,” he said and sat down at the table, arms folded across his chest. “Well?”

I bristled. “Well what?” All I needed was a spotlight shining down on me to complete the atmosphere.

“Tell me about this Patrick person. Tell me what’s going on with him. Tell me what’s going on with us. Tell me why it was so terrible that I announced our engagement. Tell me why you’re upset that I came over today. Take your pick of topics.”

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Michael.” He sat quietly, staring. “Nothing’s going on with Patrick. Nothing. He’s someone I knew in high school who got in touch with me.” All right, so I got in touch with him, but I wasn’t moved to set that record straight. “We’ve e-mailed a few times. End of story.”

Of course, it wasn’t the end of the story; it was just the beginning. But at that time I didn’t really think there would be much more to tell, and I did think that Michael was overreacting. Yes, I was stirring up feelings, but they were ancient feelings. And it wasn’t so much about Patrick as it was about me and how much I missed that kind of intensity and passion. It was exactly what Tiffany and I had talked about.

“Okay, so what’s going on with us?” he said.

“I don’t know.” Not the right answer, I knew.

Michael shook his head and looked at his hands. “Are we engaged or not?”

“I don’t know.”

His face darkened. His eyes flashed. I thought he was going to pick up something and throw it (nothing dangerous; that wouldn’t be Michael), but then he just slumped forward. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Either we are or we’re not.”

“You’ve been making all these decisions about us as if you’re the only one in this relationship. I feel out of control, Michael. You decide we’re going to get married. You decide when it’s time to tell everyone. You decide we need to spend more time together. These are life-changing decisions. These are things we should decide together.”

He got up and got a glass of water, drank it down and set the glass in the sink with a loud thunk. He stood at the sink, his back rigid.

“Maybe you need a break from me,” he said, turning around. He ran his hand over his head.

A break? Oh my god, I practically swooned with the relief that would bring. But I didn’t want to appear eager. “What do you mean?” I said.

“Maybe you need time to figure out what you want, if you want to marry me. Decide if you want your e-mail boyfriend or me.”

“Oh, Michael.”

“What? What am I supposed to think, Libby? It feels like you’re hiding something and I don’t like it. I don’t like any of it.”

“I’m not hiding anything.” Was I?

“Maybe, maybe not. But something’s going on with you and I don’t know what it is. I don’t even know how you feel about me anymore.”

“I don’t know how I feel about anything.”

“Great.”

“It’s all just overwhelming to me, Michael. Can you try to understand that, to see it from my point of view?” He apparently thought that was a rhetorical question. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I know how you must feel but there’ve been too many decisions made, too many changes.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, Libby.” He turned and walked away. I followed him. He picked up his overnight bag and his keys. “I’m going home,” he said. “When you figure out what you want, call me.” He opened the door.

What did this mean? “Will I see you Wednesday?”

“No,” he said over his shoulder.

“Michael—” I said.

He wheeled around. “What, Libby? What? I asked you to marry me and you said yes and now you don’t know if you want to anymore. What am I supposed to do with that? I love you but I need to be loved back.” I opened my mouth but he put up his hand like a traffic cop. “I’m done for tonight,” he said. “I have nothing else to say. I’m going home.” And he walked out, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Is there anything that makes you want someone more than when they don’t want you? I stood staring at the door feeling weepy and remorseful.

Was he saying if I didn’t marry him we were through? Was there no going back? When did marriage become so important to him? I hated the thought of him leaving without giving me the answers to these questions, without knowing what would happen to us, but I couldn’t bring myself to run out and stop him. What would I say if I did?

I looked around the house, at the order, the stillness. Was this what I wanted? To live in my perfect little house, alone? I walked from room to room in the solitude, knowing there would be no one there except Rufus, no sounds that Rufus or I did not make.

I ate a few bites of salad and nibbled on some cheese bread, and then cleaned up the kitchen, washing dishes slowly in soapy water instead of putting them in the dishwasher. I dried them and placed them carefully in the cupboard and wiped the countertops until they looked new, moving the offending Post-it as I worked. I straightened the junk drawer, tossing out nails, paper clips and little black rubber things I didn’t recognize. Then I went into the living room, straightened the pillows on the sofa and put the newspapers in a basket by the window.

Everything was in its noiseless order. I’d been alone for many years before Michael, and there had been long stretches when there was no man in my life at all, but now that seemed like a lifetime ago. I tried to remember how it had been. Mostly, I thought I’d been happy, enjoying the freedom of being single, not having to consider anyone else in my plans, sitting on the couch eating taco chips and salsa for dinner if I wanted, watching old movies instead of sports. But I could also remember times when I’d sit looking around, unable to read, with nothing on TV, no one to call, and the silence had felt so lonely I’d go to the mall and walk around just to hear some noise and be with people.

I suddenly felt sad and lonely in my house. Was this how it was going to be for the rest of my life? Just me and Rufus in my tidy little bungalow? I’d already been married twice; two failures. If I let Michael go now, what were the chances I’d find someone to share my life with? Hadn’t I used up my share of love vouchers?