We walked across the parking lot holding hands and found our table.
“You did great, Lisa,” I said. “I was very proud of you.”
“The family would like to thank you for not slapping the bride across the face,” Regina said.
“It was close, let me tell you,” I said.
“Yeah, what did you say to her, Aunt Grace?”
“Nothing, baby,” I said. “I don’t remember.”
“Must’ve been curse words,” little Paulie said.
“Aunt Grace never curses,” I said.
All the children giggled.
“May I have this dance, Miss, um, Bo-Peep?” Michael said.
“Great idea,” I said.
It was a slow dance and we moved across the crowded dance floor.
“You looked really spectacular at the altar, sweetheart,” Michael said.
“Yeah, me and all the other Bo-Peeps,” I said. “But thanks.”
“Well, you did what you had to do. You’re a good woman. So what did you say to Marianne?”
“I told her you thought she was a horse’s ass.”
“You did not.”
“Right. I told her you had given Nicky a list of twenty-five guys and their phone numbers who said Marianne slept with them and that she liked kinky sex. Really kinky.”
He held me back and looked at my face. “No way! You didn’t!”
“You’ll never know, will you?”
He began spinning me around and around and we laughed and laughed. We were so happy then, like never before.
“It just keeps getting better, Grace, doesn’t it?”
“Yep.”
I looked in his eyes and he looked in mine. We were eternal, filled with the incredible joy only love brings. I wanted the song to last forever, to be held in his arms forever, and in those few minutes I knew I could truly trust that we shared the same depth of feeling and commitment. How sappy is that? Well, I know it’s sappy, but it was really true.
Later, after the bride and groom’s first dance and the mother of the bride and groom danced with the father and uncle and ultimately with the married couple, after the seafood Newburg and the roasted capon, after an ocean of champagne had been consumed from the bridal fountain with the ice sculpture of two doves that cost an extra five hundred dollars, Big Al got up and took the microphone to make a toast.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
Forks tapped the sides of goblets and everyone got quiet.
“Good evening, everyone. I’m Al Russo, the father of the groom, and I’d like to say a few words. First, I’d like to thank everyone for being here with us on this very important day—the joining of two families, and there’s nothing more important than family. Am I right?”
Everyone clapped wildly.
“I want to take a minute here to remember those who are no longer with us. Francesca Todero, my wonderful mother-in-law, went home to heaven this year. But if she could’ve been here, Nicky and Marianne, she would’ve said this was the most beautiful wedding she had ever seen. Somehow, I think she’s with us anyway. So, Nonna? Here’s to you!
“And Frank? And Regina? Frank, my oldest son, and his lovely wife, Regina, put thousands of miles on their car driving back and forth to New Jersey to be with the family here. Anytime we ask them to bring us real cannolis? They get in the car.”
Everyone laughed.
“Anyway, I want all of them, especially Lisa, who was a bridesmaid today, to know how proud I am of them.”
“Is he going to thank each person under the tent?” Lisa said to no one in particular.
“Shut your mouth,” Regina said.
Dad continued.
“Nicky? My youngest son. I’m so proud of you today. And every day. Thank God you had the good sense to marry Marianne and bring her into our family. I’m expecting lots of grandchildren, and soon!”
Marianne groaned and Nicky made a lot of “yeah, let’s go get ’em!” gestures that were identical to the ones he made at the television when the Giants were playing. Everyone laughed again.
“It’s only my daughter, Grace, who’s holding out on me. She’s got this fellow, Michael, who we all love…”
I wanted the floor to open and let me be swallowed alive.
“Aw, God, Daddy?” I said under my breath, but don’t you know that somehow Dad heard it.
“I love it when my little girl calls me Daddy! But I want to know if her Michael would care to comment?”
Everyone started whooping and hollering. The crowd was well lubricated by that point.
Michael stood up. “Mr. Russo? Everything is okay. We’ll talk later.”
“Good save,” Frank said.
“And one final toast to Janine, Marianne’s beautiful mother. We are so proud to welcome you into our family and all of your family, too! I always wanted to go to Ohio…”
The crowd groaned and Big Al recouped the moment.
“Wait! Wait! Okay! I got a little carried away with the Ohio part! I admit it. Look, I would love to see where our lovely Marianne grew up, so I’ll just leave it at that.” There was some applause and some more groaning. “Anyway,” Dad said as he raised his glass, “congratulations to the families and to the bride and groom! Saa-loot!”
“Salute!” the guests said, almost in unison.
The band started playing again, another slow song, and I thought it would be nice to dance with my dad.
I made my way to him and said, “So, Big Al, care to dance with a southern-belle impersonator dressed in enough lavender to scare off a pack of vicious carpetbaggers?”
He looked at me and laughed. “It would be a pleasure,” he said.
He led me out to the dance floor with his hand on the edge of my elbow and we began a waltz.
“That was a great toast,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said. “You think so?”
“Yeah. It was really good, Dad.”
“Good. So? How are you and Michael doing? With the Church, I mean.”
“Good,” I said. “We went to confession and now we go to Communion at Mass on Sundays.”
“But you’re still living in sin!”
“Yeah, but we go to confession once a week—”
“You’re using it as a—”
I put my finger to his lips to make him stop. “Don’t worry, Daddy. It’s all going to work out fine. We even had dinner with the bishop!”
Just then Michael tapped him on the shoulder.
“May I have a word with you?”
“Sure,” Dad said.
They stepped away for a moment and I stood there in the middle of the dance floor like a mannequin. Then I saw Dad shake Michael’s hand and then Dad grabbed him in a huge embrace and I knew they had cut the deal. Next Dad reached in his jacket and gave Michael an envelope and Michael took it and slipped it in his jacket.
Michael, smiling like he just won the Powerball lottery for a jillion dollars, came to me and we began to dance.
“So what did my dad give you?”
“A check for the foundation.”
“No kidding? Well, that’s very nice.”
“Yep. Five thousand dollars. He’s a wonderful man, Grace. You should be very proud of him.”
“I am. I am. Really. So? What else did you say to my dad?”
“Oh, nothing. I told him about some new paving material I read about.”
“But he hugged you to death!”
“He was very grateful.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“Grace? This is your brother’s day. Not ours.”
“But ours is coming?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of string. Then he looped it around the fourth finger on my left hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Just checking.”
He smiled at me and I kissed his cheek—nice Italian girls don’t get down, hook up and make out with their boyfriends in public. No, we
don’t. I put my head on his shoulder and let the whole world, except for the two of us, drift away. Nothing else mattered. What else is there to say?
EPILOGUE
ANOTHER MESSAGE
FROM MICHAEL
Isn’t it just classic that I got to have a few words in the beginning and now here I am again at the end? I’m laughing about this actually, because is there an end? I sure hope not. And when was the beginning? Who remembers?
Listen, I don’t want to keep you longer than you intended to stay, but there are a few loose threads here, somebody has to be the cleanup guy, and I guess that’s me. I wanted Grace to tell you the story because she has this phenomenal heart, sense of humor, and coming from her it is just a whole lot more engaging than the clinical report you would get from me. We are just wired differently and that difference is a very good thing.
First, but not necessarily most important, Grace finally told me about the Tiffany silver. That just about took off or added ten years of/to my life. Hopefully, added. She could not have made that up. No one knew. No one. Not because it was a big secret but because the silver was relatively unimportant to me. But there it was. Another piece of evidence of life after death. Trivial as it may seem to some, it was not to me. Or Grace. It meant that my mother was someplace and had not really evaporated. I cannot tell you what a relief that was to have something, even something so seemingly insignificant, to cling to in the moments I missed her. And I missed my mother a lot. All the time, in fact. I missed who she had been, and just as much, I missed who she was never able to become. But the message was that she had been a part of the cheering squad or whatever for my cure, and true or not, I wanted to believe it.
Oh, there are a lot of things we could talk about now—the Church, our commitment to it, our relationship, the whole crazy business about Mrs. R and her sidesteps in life…here’s the thing. It’s important, so important, to know when you have something worth fighting for. One by one, let’s go.
The Russos? Okay, they are pretty dramatic and to be sure they are about as opposite as they can be from the way I grew up. But you know what? I love their whole shtick. A holiday with them is an endorphin frenzy. You never have to guess where you stand, they are fiercely loyal to one another, and when they love somebody or something, they love with a zeal I have never before experienced. Now that I’m familiar with that passion, I think that to take on any other approach to life would leave me feeling cheated.
The Church? Well, we’re still working on that and I think the bottom line is that when you become the kind of person who can be a good Catholic, it’s easier to be one. Oh, I hear your chuckles and I don’t blame you for them. That’s okay. Really, it is. But if anyone can help us figure it out, it’s our two Men in Black, who are now my daily e-mail buddies. They keep telling me to watch myself on the stem-cell thing, which I will do because an end cannot always justify reckless means. I think they just want to be in the loop. Fine by me. We are all on the same side of the fence because we would all love to see an end to needless human suffering. Probably them more than me on some days—but that’s just a guess.
Anyway, all this other stuff? We can talk again. Grace and me? You want to know what’s up with us? Maria Graziana. What a gal. She is full of grace and love and beans…don’t worry about Grace and me. We are dancing on stars or under them anyway. If you think that’s, I don’t know, sappy, then you’ve never been in love like us and you’ve never been to Mexico City. If you go, let me know. I know a place you should see. And take my advice, drink the water. It might save you from yourself. It just might save you from yourself.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It takes the thoughts and hands of many generous, talented people to recognize the possibilities of that first tiny idea for a new story and shape it into a full-length novel. I’d like to thank the following friends for their support and input: first and foremost, Marjory Heath Wentworth, South Carolina poet laureate, whose beautiful words give considerable loft and a more soulful explanation to mine. The real-life Eric Bomze, who drove me all over Sardinia in the blazing heat to find just the right chapel for a supernatural meltdown—thank you for your patience and precious nuggets of information about the island. To Fred and Claire Eckert for your love and support in my foggy moments. To Michele and Rosario Barbalace of Montclair, New Jersey, for your help and humor with my miserable Italian. To George and Audrey DeLange for the very helpful information and spectacular photographs of Mexico City to be found on their Web site at www.delange.org. And to Randall Sullivan, author of The Miracle Detective, should our paths ever cross, dinner is on me. Thank you for your amazing work.
To my New Jersey writer friends: Pamela Redmond Satran, Deborah Davis, Debra Galant, Benilde Little—your talent is awesome, your friendship is priceless—and love to all the members of MEWS. To my South Carolina writer friends: Josephine Humphreys, Anne Rivers Siddons, Sue Monk Kidd, Cassandra King, Nathalie DuPree, Jack Bass, Barbara Hagerty, Robert Rosen, Mary Alice Monroe, William Baldwin, Robert Jordan, Roger Pinckney, and yes, to the great man himself, the cantankerous but totally loveable Pat Conroy, without whom I never would’ve found the courage to write a second book. To the out-of-state belles, Rhonda Rich, Kathy Trocheck (Mary Kay Andrews), and Patti Callahan Henry—love y’all madly! In fact, knowing all of you is the greatest reward of a writing life. Okay, that’s a little bull—having a home on Sullivans Island is the best part and we all know it. But having you all over for gumbo is an unbelievable thrill. Seriously.
That house never would have become a reality without the faith and support of my agent, Gail Fortune. Gail, huge thanks for reading this book and all the others a thousand times and for all your generous support that arrives whenever I need it! And to John Talbot—glad to know you! You two are some team!
To my new fantastic editor at William Morrow, Carrie Feron—whew! Made the deadline! And could not have done it without you—thank you a thousand times! And to Tessa Woodward, Adrienne DiPietro, Pam Spengler Jaffee, Debbie Stier, Virginia Stanley, Lisa Gallagher, Michael Morrison, Brian McSharry, and all the fabulous sales team, especially Carla Parker and Michael Morris, and the artistic visionary who gave this book its gorgeous jacket, Richard Aquan—I am thrilled to be in your company and look forward to many years together!
To Debbie Zammit, we did it again! Hooray! Thanks, girl, and I love you to death! And to Ann Del Mastro, Mary Allen, George Zur, and Kevin Sherry—thanks for keeping us all alive, fed, solvent, and the computers running during this process!
Of course to the booksellers—especially Patti Morrison from Barnes & Noble in Mount Pleasant, South Carolina, Tom Warner and Vicki Crafton of Litchfield Books in Pawleys Island, Jennifer McCurry of Waldenbooks in Charleston, Andy and Carrie Graves of Happy Bookseller in Columbia, Frazer Dobson and Sally Brewster at Park Road Books in Charlotte, and booksellers everywhere—huge thanks and love for your support.
And a special thanks to my cousin, Charles “Comar” Blanchard, Jr. He not only makes South Carolina a wonderful part of my family’s life, but we love him to pieces!
Obviously, I owe the largest debt to my husband, Peter, and our two children, Victoria and William. Victoria and William? I am so proud of y’all and I love you both so much. Of everything in my life, having you was the smartest decision Daddy and I ever made.
If Peter Frank wasn’t so understanding, sympathetic, brilliant, generous, and forgiving about dinners, the house, and why I get so stressed out, I couldn’t write at all. I love it at the end of the day when he sticks his gorgeous head in my office and says, “Can I get you a glass of wine, sugar plum?” Is he kidding? But who wouldn’t adore a man who after all these years still calls you “sugar plum” and offers you a glass of wine? Seriously, Peter, thank you for being all you are and you know how much I love you.
So that’s about it. If I left anyone out, please forgive me. I know my acknowledgments are always a short story on their own, but my momma always said it was extremely important to reme
mber to thank people when they do something wonderful for you. I hope she would approve.
About the Author
New York Times bestselling author DOROTHEA BENTON FRANK was born and raised on Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina. She resides in the New York City area with her husband and two children.
www.dotfrank.com
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Also by Dorothea Benton Frank
Pawleys Island
Shem Creek
Isle of Palms
Plantation
Sullivan’s Island
Credits
Jacket design by Amy King
Jacket photographs: woman by Jan Cobb; seascape by Paul Edmondson/Getty Images
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
FULL OF GRACE. Copyright © 2006 by Dorothea Benton Frank. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition April 2006 ISBN 9780061744266
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