But we squeezed in every minute of fun we possibly could, and we even persuaded Lester’s old roommate, Paul Sorenson, to take us out once on his sailboat, Fancy Pants, then treated him to a crab dinner on the Chesapeake Bay.
In late summer, however, there were actually four days that both Patrick and I were free, and this time he rented a condo for us in Ocean City. Off we went in my Subaru, and I let him drive. As we crossed the Bay Bridge, Patrick’s hand on mine, we both looked at each other and started to laugh.
“You remember the last time we were here?” he asked.
“The only time we were here, Patrick,” I said. “Together, I mean. I still have that picture in my scrapbook.”
“We should take another,” he said.
“Uh-uh. With fifty cars behind us and security at both ends? But, you know, they have the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Walk every year—close one of the spans to car traffic and crowds of people walk across. We should do that sometime,” I suggested.
Once we got in the condo and put our bags down, I went in the bathroom and put on my bikini. The day was gorgeous, and we’d talked about getting all the swimming in that we could, since rain had been predicted for later.
When I came out of the bathroom, Patrick was on the balcony, still wearing his shorts and T-shirt. I squeezed onto the chaise lounge beside him, my bare legs draped over his, running one foot over his calf. He caressed my thigh as we looked out over the water.
“Remember when you came to the beach, Patrick—the summer between sixth and seventh grades? When Elizabeth and Pamela came with Dad and me, and Lester drove you over later?”
“Sure, I remember,” he said. “The summer Pamela lost her bikini top in the ocean. How could I forget?”
“Everything was so new then,” I said.
“It still is,” Patrick said, and kissed my shoulder. “I remember the bathing suit you were wearing too.”
“You do?”
“Bows at the sides—sort of an iridescent green.”
I looked at him in amazement. “I didn’t think guys remembered things like that. I’ll bet you also remember how Pamela planned to climb into bed with you as a joke to make you think it was me, but she got Lester instead.” That made us both laugh.
“Should we go down on the beach while we’ve still got some sun?” I asked.
“Maybe,” Patrick said.
I went back inside to find my sunblock, but when I got it out of my bag and turned around, Patrick was standing in the balcony doorway, smiling at me. I went over and put my arms around him and we kissed. And the way we kissed, the way we pressed our bodies together and he caressed my back, I knew that the beach didn’t matter that much anymore.
* * *
For a long time afterward we lay, just caressing each other, the briny smell of the ocean blowing in on the breeze around us, the noise of the surf and swimmers from below. I traced his forehead and nose and lips with one finger, and we kissed again. Once in a while I felt a pang of jealousy, wondering how he and Jessica had made love, but then it passed.
“Do you ever wish you’d been the first, Patrick?” I asked finally.
“Oh, maybe on some level I do, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m in love with every part of you, not just that. And I wouldn’t have wanted to hurt you. The first time can’t have been all that pleasant.”
“Well, it did hurt.”
“I’d just like to think I’m more unique and fabulous,” he said. Then he asked, “Do you wish you had been the first for me?”
“A little.” I paused. “Okay, not true. A lot!” He laughed and pulled me closer.
When we finally got out on the beach in the late afternoon, most of the swimmers had left the water. We swam awhile, stood and jumped the breakers as they came in, and finally walked ankle-deep in the surf, arms around each other, occasionally stopping to kiss. But when we reached a concrete breakwater extending up onto the sand, Patrick sat down on it, facing the ocean, and I sat in front of him, between his outstretched legs. He put his arms around me, his chin resting on my shoulder, and we watched the gulls circling and diving above the water.
“I love you, Alice,” he said.
“I think I’ve loved you all my life,” I told him.
“Marry me, then?” he said. “After you finish grad school?”
It wasn’t the way I had imagined a proposal. It wasn’t a candlelit room with wine and roses and Patrick down on one knee. But it was exactly right. What I felt was complete and utter joy.
“If you can wait that long,” I said.
“I’d wait for you forever,” he told me.
“Oh, Patrick,” I said. I lost myself in his embrace, and I felt like an amoeba, my body melting into his, his into mine.
“I don’t have a ring for you yet,” he whispered. “I wanted you to be able to choose it yourself.”
“Let’s choose them together—matching bands,” I told him. “I don’t want a diamond.”
“You sure? You can have both, you know. And Mom’s got a diamond she wants you to have.”
“No. I don’t want something I have to take off every time I do the dishes. I just want a ring you can put on my finger that stays there forever, Patrick.”
“Then that’s what you’ll have,” he said.
* * *
When we came back two days later, we stopped at my house first. Dad had been reading the paper on the front porch and was just going back inside. I jumped out of the car and ran like a crazy person up the steps behind him, then threw my arms around him when we got inside. Patrick followed, grinning.
“Well!” said Dad, hugging me back. “I take it you two had a good time.”
“Oh, Dad,” I said, “we’re engaged!”
Dad beamed and turned to hug Patrick, too. “Congratulations!” he said. “I couldn’t ask for anyone finer. Sylvia!” he shouted out. “Come hear the good news!”
Sylvia came out of her study, glasses in hand.
“We’re engaged!” I told her happily.
Sylvia threw her arms around us both at once, and I felt almost like a kid again, I was that happy. Happy and joyful and . . . And there it was. Passion, tenderness, and joy.
* * *
We called Patrick’s parents and got the same reaction from them.
“Have you given any thought to the date?” Sylvia asked.
“We’re thinking October of next year,” I said, “and we’ll do as much of the work we can ourselves.”
Patrick stayed for dinner, and the four of us talked until eight o’clock. Then I drove him to the airport, and we had one long, lingering kiss. I drove back to the house because I wanted to use our washing machine to get the sand out of my suit and towel. And even though it was late, I had this tremendous urge to go up in the attic and find my mother’s wedding dress. It would undoubtedly have to be altered some—she had been taller than I was, Dad told me—but our shoulders and waists, he thought, were about the same size.
I found the large cardboard storage box labeled MARIE’S WEDDING DRESS. The sealing tape was still in place—almost baked to the cardboard by now—making it difficult to pry the box open.
Once again, I worried that the dress had discolored or that insects had gotten to it, so I tried to brace myself for whatever I found. When I got the lid off at last, I found the dress wrapped in blue tissue paper, with more tissue stuffed in the bodice and sleeves. I removed the paper and held the dress up, a light ivory-colored taffeta, beautifully cleaned and preserved. It had a round neckline, three-quarter-length sleeves, a fitted bodice, and the skirt fell in gentle folds. Just knowing that Mom had worn it made me hold it close, and I knew that no matter what it may have turned out to look like, I would have worn it and loved it, simply because it was hers.
I was just about to fold it up again and gently replace the tissue paper when I saw a note card, folded in half, lying in the box. The name of the consignment shop where she’d bought it, I imagined. But when I picked it up, I saw my name
on the front. I sucked in my breath, my eyes huge, and unfolded the card.
There, in my mom’s handwriting, I read:
I know I would have loved him too.
Mom
15
SNAKEHEADS
Elizabeth, however, was the first of our crowd to marry. The ceremony took place in Our Lady of Lourdes Church a few days after Christmas, and she was the most beautiful bride I’d ever seen. Small strands of pearls and baby’s breath had been woven in her dark hair, and she wore a Victorian gown with a high lace collar. She was simply so spectacularly beautiful that I saw Moses suck in his breath when he saw her coming down the aisle on her father’s arm.
She had chosen a cousin to be her maid of honor because, she said, she couldn’t choose between Pamela, Gwen, and me, so she made us all bridesmaids. Pamela, however, broke her leg in a skiing accident, so it was just Gwen and me, with Pamela looking on from the pews. Gwen and I wore mauve gowns and matching shoes. Nathan, who was ten now, served as altar boy, and Drew, George, and Kyle—three of the other guys we’d met on the California Zephyr—stood up with Moe.
“Well, Liz,” I said in the restroom later, when we were touching up our makeup for the photographer, “who would have guessed that you’d meet your future husband on Amtrak?”
She laughed. “Isn’t Moe great?” she said. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
“He’s one of the best,” I told her, and I truly believed he was the best guy on earth for Elizabeth.
They went to Italy for their honeymoon and came back to buy a town house in the District. Moe had been hired by the Justice Department, and Liz would be teaching at a private school in Virginia while she worked on her master’s degree.
A number of our old gang had come back to town for Liz’s wedding, but we’d lost track of both Penny and Brian. Karen was in Philadelphia, Jill and Justin in Baltimore, Lori and Leslie in Seattle. It’s sort of sad, you know. When you’re in high school, it’s like one close community, and you imagine that your little circle of friends will keep in touch forever. You believe that everyone will continue to get together every chance they can, and for a while they do. But then not everybody comes home for the holidays, and later on you find out that while some of them came back, they didn’t bother to call. People just drift away. What you do, I guess, is see who still writes to you ten years after you’ve graduated, and those are your real friends.
* * *
Pamela, meanwhile, was still living in New York and had dated a number of men. We thought she might be serious about the one who helped her through recovery after her accident, but nothing came of it. She was working for an advertising agency full-time now and loving her job.
Patrick and I went up one weekend to visit and met her after work for dinner. She arrived in a svelte black suit, stockings, and heels, a silk scarf of black and white geometric shapes at her throat, the epitome of a New York businesswoman climbing the corporate ladder.
“Look at you!” I cried. “You look like a commercial for AT&T.”
She chose the restaurant, a new one near the theater district, that had the most heavenly risotto I’d ever tasted.
“How do you find all these wonderful places?” I asked as we waited for our coffee. “If I lived in New York and ate out all the time, I’d weigh a ton.”
“Guys,” she said. “I don’t discover them on my own. I remember the menus, though, even though I don’t indulge.”
And of course I understood, but Patrick looked at us quizzically, and we exchanged amused smiles.
“It’s like this, Patrick,” Pamela said. “When I’m out with a guy, I want to be attractive, so I may be starved when I pick up the menu, but while I tell the waiter, ‘Watercress salad with mandarin oranges, please,’ my stomach’s saying—”
“Sirloin steak with fried onions and mashed potatoes,” I finished, and we giggled while Patrick stared.
“I may have spent two hours in the gym before I showered and met my date, and then I order fillet of flounder with broccoli while my stomach says—”
“Country-fried chicken and biscuits,” I offered, and we giggled even louder. People around us looked over.
“Asparagus spears and hold the dressing,” Pamela said, in her most movie-star voice.
“Macaroni and cheese and two corn dogs to go!” I exclaimed in a nasal twang, and that broke us up.
Suddenly the waiter appeared at our table, looking at us hesitantly: “Might I interest the ladies in some dessert?” he asked.
Pamela and I tried to stop laughing.
“I’ll have the mocha crème cake à la mode,” Pamela said.
“Make that two,” I added.
“Make it three,” said Patrick. “And could you bring some mints along with the check, in case my guests get hungry later?”
* * *
I still hadn’t been to see Les and Stacy’s place in West Virginia, and in early May, Dad called one Friday and said that he and Sylvia were driving down the following day, just for an overnight visit to Lester’s. Did I want to come along?
Yes! Dad let me have the backseat to finish an assignment for a class on Monday, and we set out, glad that there wasn’t much traffic on a weekend. Even before we reached the state line, however, I put my books away and concentrated on the scenery. Spring in West Virginia is gorgeous, with feathery green in every shade, dotted here and there with dogwoods. I could only imagine what the hills would look like in fall.
“Isn’t this glorious, Ben?” Sylvia kept saying. “I can truly understand why Les has fallen in love with the state.”
Dad was intent on his driving, however, and there didn’t seem to be a straight stretch of road anywhere. It curved one way, then the other, switchback after switchback.
“Can you guess what these roads are like in winter?” he said, hunched over the wheel. “I hope they live close to their work. I’d hate the thought of driving over ice on these curves.”
But Sylvia and I were entranced with nothing but trees, trees, trees on either side, like tall parental figures, holding out leafy arms to embrace us. To transport us away from all the cares of city life.
“I think this getaway is just what we need, Alice,” Sylvia said. “Every moment we’ve had together seems devoted to the wedding, and it’s just nice to clear our heads for a few days, isn’t it?”
I agreed.
* * *
Les and Stacy were renting a town house in a small community a mile from the center where they worked. Les was in their little patch of front yard, watering the shrubs, when we pulled up in front. He grinned and turned off the hose.
“Your Honda make the hills okay?” he asked, coming over to give us each a hug as we climbed out and stretched.
“Of course!” said Dad. “It’s only seven years old. What did you think?”
Les scooped me up in his arms. “Finally got you away from books and bridal magazines, huh? Come on in, everyone.”
Stacy was putting lunch on the table, but she stopped to give us a tour of their home, everything sparse and sleek—Z-bar lamps with LED lights by the chairs and on desktops, geometric prints on the walls and sofa cushions, bright and modern and attractive.
“You’ve done a fantastic job! I love it!” I told her. It was fun following her from room to room, pretty in her jeans and peasant blouse with the untied ribbons at the neckline.
“We had a budget and followed it to the penny,” she said. “Amazing what you can do with IKEA and a few yard sales thrown in.”
After lunch Les took us on a tour of the convention center. His office had a wide window looking out on the woods, and we exclaimed over the indoor Olympic-size pool where Stacy taught swimming and exercise classes.
“Anything particular you wanted to do while you’re here?” he asked us. “I can even round up a few horses if you’d like to ride. What about you, Alice?”
“Fishing,” I said.
Everyone looked at me.
“Fishing?” said Les.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been fishing in my life. I want to be able to say I tried it.”
Les looked at Stacy. “We’ve got the rods and the tackle. If we got up early tomorrow and caught anything, could we add it to tomorrow’s lunch?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “But I won’t count on it.”
So he took us to see the river, himself in the lead, holding branches out of the way as we followed the path.
“Snakes are beginning to come out of hibernation and sun themselves, so watch where you step,” he warned us.
I paused with one foot two inches from the ground. Snakes and mice and roaches are all on my wipe-off-the-face-of-the-earth list, and suddenly I began seeing snakes everywhere. Every branch on the path, every twisted root of a tree, brought a gasp or a yelp from me.
Finally Les said, “Al, you want me to get some Prozac or something?”
“No, I want you to carry me piggyback all the way to the river,” I bleated.
“If there are any snakes on the path, Les will come to them first, Al,” Dad assured me, bringing up the rear, his sunglasses moved up on his forehead to see through the darkness of the trees. “If they’re off in the brush, they’re not going to bother you unless you bother them first.”
“Or look at them,” Les said. “If a snake is staring right at you, stop and look away.”
Now I came to a dead halt on the path. “Really?” I knew that applied to dogs and bears, but . . .
“Of course. Haven’t you ever heard of ‘snake eyes’?”
“Is this true, Les?” I demanded.
“Absolutely,” said Les, keeping a straight face. “And after you yield the path to a snake, keeping your eyes averted, you’re supposed to give a little bow and say, ‘After you.’ ”
Dad chuckled, and Stacy swatted at Les from behind.