More Like Her (26 page)

“Hello. Hello.” The crowd quiets down as we all turn to face the woman; the painting hangs just above. “We’ve all gathered today to celebrate the life of our beautiful girl Emma Jane Stanforth. Emma was a beloved daughter to Nigel and Jane—” Emma’s mom stifles a sob as Nigel holds her close. “A treasured aunt and a patient sister.” Clara shakes her head.
Patient
. The woman continues. “On top of being the first female head of school at the prestigious Markham School in Pasadena, California, Emma was a world-class painter. We all mourn a life that could have been. Clara?” The woman steps to the side, placing her hand on a tassel that’s connected to a silken rope, which in turn is connected to the white swath of silky fabric covering Emma’s painting just above. The woman motions for Clara to approach the podium. Clara’s face drains of color. She doesn’t look at the painting as she walks up to the podium. The microphone thumps and creaks as Clara fidgets. Bruce shifts his weight; his entire body is tense. I look from Jill to Lisa. We’re all a wreck. Confused and scared. Emotional and ready to go home to weddings and babies and get as far away from this lifeless Stanforth tractor beam as possible.

As I watch Nigel Stanforth grimace and sneer at his only living daughter while his wife sobs and sways with inconsolable grief, I just keep thinking, There’s more good than bad, there’s more good than bad.

“Knowing Emma was a privilege. Being Emma’s sister was a blessing. Don’t take the people you love for granted. Don’t ever be scared to love someone with your whole heart. Be transparent. This is Emma’s last painting. It’s called
Daddy’s Little Girl
.” Clara’s voice is barely a whisper. She turns around and nods to the woman. The woman pulls the tassel and brings down the swath of white silky fabric like a cloud.

The entire room gasps.

As Clara walks away from the podium, tears streaming down her face, she takes Bruce’s hand, gives me a quick nod and exits the country club, never to return; the rest of us take in Emma’s last gasp.

Just as her other paintings, this one is in the Grand Style, like a portrait you’d find in a noble castle. But with a twist.

In the forefront of the portrait is a little girl in a brocade dress with blond ringlet curls hiding behind a luxurious chaise. Her face is unmistakably Emma’s. There’s a bruise on her tiny forearm in the shape of a hand. Clutching. Tightening. Grabbing. The little girl is surrounded by fashionable dolls, obvious wealth and everything a little girl could possibly want, yet she looks terrified. For, in the not-so-blurry background, a man strides past a powerless and ineffective mother toward the little girl. She can feel him coming; we can see it in her eyes. The man: dark hair, beakish nose, slight frame, wielding a belt. Nigel Stanforth.

Daddy’s Little Girl.

The crowd erupts. It’s a fake! Clara—where’s Clara?!—brought that up here to get back at her parents! This is a travesty! Jane Stanforth crumples into a nearby chair as Nigel Stanforth barks orders to take it down! Take it down!
Take. It. Down!

But some people in attendance just stare at the painting as Jill, Lisa and I do. Taking it in. Listening to Emma’s last painting as if Emma herself were speaking. We look from it to Nigel and then back at the portrait. Shaking our heads, lamenting—“What a waste” and “That poor girl.” And then we leave. One by one.

Even those who remain will start the whispers anyway: they always suspected, they’ll say with a sneer as they do yoga in the morning. They knew something was wrong with that family, they tell their friends over fair-trade coffee. They just had a bad feeling about that father, they whisper on the links.

But for Emma?

She finally found her voice after all.

Chapter 19
They’re Playing Our Song

L
ook, I warned you about using too much glitter last night. You knew your bridesmaid dress was strapless, now just make it work for you,” Jill says, slamming the door on one of Lisa’s sisters as she comes out of the bathroom on the morning of Lisa’s wedding one month later. The entire wedding party is huddled in Jill’s master bedroom and now there’s apparently a glitter emergency.

“Is she all right?” I ask, braiding one of the flower girls’ hair.

“She’ll be fine. She went nuts with the glitter last night at the strip club. What did she think was going to happen?” Jill says, pulling up the top of her dress. “I think my boobs are getting bigger.” I hurry and finish the braiding, pat the little flower girl on the bum and send her along on her way. For her own good. Jill continues. “Frannie, can you grab us some water?” Jill is knee-deep in Campanari sisters, not to mention Cleopatra Campanari is afoot. In a turban.

“Sure,” I say, happy to get out of that little room. I smooth my orange strapless dress down, hoping the wrinkles will work themselves out. The little chocolate-brown belt is tightening around my waist. This is definitely one of those standing-up dresses.

I walk out into Jill’s house. It’s alive with bustling waiters, florists darting here and there with this centerpiece and that. As I weave through the lively pre-wedding scene, I can’t help but marvel at how we got here. It seems like yesterday that I was sitting in that library at back-to-school orientation. How small my life seemed then. How little I wanted for myself. How little I expected of myself and those who claimed to love me. I walk into Jill’s kitchen and pull as many bottles of water from the fridge as I can carry—Lisa’s got a lot of thirsty sisters. As I close the fridge, I run my fingers over the picture of Jill’s ultrasound proudly displayed front and center. I make my way back to the master bedroom, my arms freezing as they cradle all the waters. Clara e-mails me pictures of the girls with John Henry now and again. Not only is he usually in some ridiculous outfit, but more often than not he’s seated at an elaborate tea party. But I find myself smiling, not because of the outfits and the tea parties, but because Emma would love that he’s with Clara now. Would love that he’s being spoiled and petted beyond anything that is reasonable. Emma would love that her beautiful boy found his true home.

“Here you go,” I say, closing the door behind me. I distribute the bottled waters among the Campanari women.

“For such a little house, Jill, you certainly have decorated with taste and class,” Cleopatra says with a sigh from her completely posed languid position on Jill’s bed.

“Thank you, Mrs. Campanari,” Jill says, gritting her teeth.

As the hours pass and I inhale more Aqua Net than is healthy for one human being, I begin to hear the guests arrive.

“Come on out, my love,” Cleopatra says to the chronically closed bathroom door. None of us have seen Lisa in her dress. Except Jill. Let’s not get crazy.

“I look stupid, Ma,” Lisa yells from the other side of the door.

“You look beautiful,” Jill says.

“When are you due, sweetheart?” Cleopatra asks Jill.

“The summer,” Jill answers with an ear to the bathroom door.

“You’re getting big,” Cleopatra says, eyeing Jill’s still-flat stomach.

“Happy chicken, happy egg,” Jill says, rubbing her belly.

“I’m not coming out!” Lisa yells from behind the closed door.

“I will come in there after you, young lady. I swear to god. I have a key. I’ll bust this door down, I don’t care.” Jill is opening and closing drawers looking for a key. “I know how—”

Lisa opens the bathroom door.

She is breathtaking. Her dark hair is swept up in front and falls in an effortless tangle around her shoulders. Her veil drapes down her back, falling and floating as she moves. Her dress is traditional. Way more traditional than I ever would’ve guessed. It hugs her curves perfectly.

“Oh, Lisa,” I say.

“What do you think?” Lisa asks, her face hopeful.

“You look stunning,” I say, reaching out to her.

“I look like a meringue.”

“You look like a bride!” Cleopatra rises from her languid resting position and floats across the bedroom floor to praise her daughter. “You look just like me on my wedding day!” High praise indeed.

“You’re beautiful,” Jill says, beaming.

“Thank you. For all this,” Lisa says, hugging Jill.

“I loved every minute of it,” Jill whispers in her ear.

“We ready to do this thing?” Lisa asks, raising her bouquet of harvest-colored flowers aloft. Jill shrugs and gives a small eye roll, and we’re being ferried out into the living room. Lined up, paired off with our male counterparts.

“Grady said Sam couldn’t be here. His father didn’t make it,” Lisa says, gripping my hand.

“I figured,” I say, trying to smile.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Lisa says as Jill straightens her train. Straightens her train. Straightens her train.

“I really thought he’d come,” I say, unable to look at her.

“We all did,” Lisa says, giving me a quick squeeze before heeding Jill’s final warning.

“Knock ’em dead,” I say. One of Grady’s flag football buddies extends his elbow and I lace my arm through his. He smiles. We’re next.

Flag Football and I make our way down the aisle. I finally see Grady. His entire right side is trussed up in slings and casts. Jill has put some kind of black fabric over as much of it as she could. He gives me a quick wink, but his gaze quickly jumps to just behind me. As I take my place with the other bridesmaids, Lisa begins her walk down the aisle on the arm of her father. I watch Grady. He just watches her. With everything he’s got. His mouth is tight as he holds back all the emotion that brought us here today. What we survived. What he survived. He resituates his arm and I see him wince. But nothing, not even the pain of his shoulder, can take his eyes from Lisa. Her eyes are on Grady. Only. She’s shaking her head as if to say she doesn’t want to cry. She’s not going to cry. As she gets closer, I see tears already rolling down her cheeks. Grady pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to her.

“Thank you, baby,” Lisa says, wiping her tears.

Grady and Lisa turn to face one another, hands tightly held.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today . . .”

ANOTHER GLASS OF CHAMPAGNE
, please, I say to the bartender as the reception begins less than an hour later. He hands the glass to me and I thank him. The music kicks in and people gather on the dance floor. I scan the room and find Grady and Lisa, nuzzling and kissing at the head table. They haven’t been apart from each other since Grady got out of the hospital. I can’t help but smile. There is more good than bad. Life and love win if you let them. If you believe in them.

“Flag Football asked about you,” Jill says, sidling up to me.

“Nice guy,” I say, forgetting my champagne as Jill leads me away from the bar.

“But he’s not Sam,” Jill says, finishing my thought.

“No, he’s not,” I say.

“I’ve got the fever, Frannie. The wedding planning fever. All this could be yours,” Jill says, motioning around to the beautiful wedding that is all her doing. Cleopatra Campanari is holding court on the dance floor. Her turban is a bit askew and she’s telling everyone, “I’m shaking my groove thing . . . shaking my groove thing!”

“It’s truly beautiful,” I say as we walk over to our table and finally sit down.

“I’m totally looking into the turban thing,” Jill says, taking a sip of her water.

“May I?” Martin extends his hand to Jill. She takes it.

“You’ve already knocked me up,” Jill says, giving me a quick wink.

“That’s right I did,” Martin says, pulling her up.

“Hot,” Jill yelps as he leads her to the dance floor.

I stand and head back over to the bar in search of my lost champagne.

“One champagne please,” I say. The bartender pops open a new bottle. I watch the general splendor as he pours.

“Frannie?” I turn my head.

Sam.

I just . . . crumble. Tears stream down my face. I can’t stop the wave of emotion that erupts from so deep.

“I-I knew you’d come,” I stammer.

“Frannie, I’m so sorry,” Sam says, reaching out to me. I take his hand, gripping him, tears rolling down my cheeks. “I shouldn’t have left that morning. I didn’t want to feel and that night . . . you were right. I didn’t know that. I . . . I went home and watched someone stare down those last few moments of life the same way he lived it: bitter, closed off and determined not to let anyone love him. Not even a little bit. I don’t want to live like that. I know I might not be him, but I am of him. And I can live with that. But I can’t live without you. I want to be that man who’s worthy of you. I want to be the man you see.” Sam steps closer. His head tilts as the tears continue to stream down my cheeks. I smile. And reach up to him just as he licks his bottom lip.

“I love you, too,” I say, just before he kisses me. I pull him close . . . close . . . closer.

The opening chords of “SexyBack” by Justin Timberlake thump and ripple through Jill’s backyard. The entire wedding erupts in hoots and hollers as everyone races to the dance floor. I can feel Sam smiling. He pulls away just a few millimeters.

“They’re playing our song.”

I close my eyes. And smile.

“The fates have spoken,” he says. Sam extends his hand to me. “Shall we?” He eyes the dance floor.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, taking his hand. Sam leads me out onto the dance floor, my stomach flipping and my heart in my throat. Jill sees me and then Sam. A cartoonish double take ensues. Sam just smiles.

As I ready for a fast-dancing fiasco instead of a heartfelt reunion, it seems Sam has other plans. He pulls me in tight, swaying slow as everyone else bounces and hops around us. I tuck in close, laying my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat and wrapping my arms as tightly around him as I can. Sam looks down at me.

“You okay?” Sam asks.

“Gonna be,” I say.

Acknowledgments

In past acknowledgments I’ve talked about holding my breath before falling asleep and challenging dogs. Rituals of gratitude and things that I’m thankful for. Writing these acknowledgments has been a practice in stopping and really seeing all that makes my life worth living. Makes me stop a minute—from the grind, from the fear, from whatever is worrisome—and see the good. Be thankful for the good. Cherish the good.

We’ve already clearly established that I love my mom beyond the telling of it. You have her to thank for strong moms in my books. Sitting across tables at various eating establishments as she inevitably asks, “Noooow, what about the mom? How does she come into play here?”

I’m surrounded by love when it comes to family: Mom and Don, Alex and Joe and the girlies: Zoë and Bonnie.

To Carrie Feron and Teresa Woodward: this book is because you believed in it and me. I couldn’t be more excited to join the Harper-Collins family and look forward to telling stories with you in the future.

To Christy Fletcher and everyone at Fletcher and Company: as usual, you guys are . . . well, yes . . . I
will
quote Bette Midler here: “You are the wind beneath my wings.” The wiiiiind beneath my wiiiiings.

To Isobel and everyone at Hodder: thank you for everything you do. Amazing editorial notes and deepening friendships continue to enrich this whole publishing process and me. Thank you . . .

To Araminta and her team at the LAW Agency—thank you.

To Marissa, Ben, Tim and Howie over at the United Talent Agency—thank you. And Taylor Swift says hi.

I would be a raving loon without Megan Crane, Jane Porter, Michelle Rowen and Kate Noble. That is not to say that I’m not still a raving loon, nor that you-all are not raving loons. We call it “Book Brain,” others may call it . . . something less colorful.

To Kerri Wood-Einertson and family (Erik, Siena and Nora)—thank you for your everything. Friendships and Friday night movies cure all that ails me.

Thank you to Kim and family, Henry and Norm, Poet, Sharon, Larry and Ricca and Swanna MacNair.