Postcards From Last Summer (46 page)

“C
rematorium . . . where did that word come from?” I asked my brother Steve as we walked up the drive of the graveyard. “It sounds like a place where they churn butter. Or maybe a factory where they make creamy bisques and chowders. Not a good name for the kiln where they fire up—”

“Enough, Linds,” Steve interrupted. “Some of us don't have rock-hard stomachs for this stuff. I still cross myself when a hearse drives by, and I find graveyards extremely creepy.”

“You big baby, it's not a graveyard, it's a crematorium,” I reminded him, although Green River's complex actually contained both funeral plots and cremation facility. It seemed a little weird to actually leave my mother's body here, but Ma had chosen cremation, not wanting to take up all that land and have a place her children felt obliged to visit. Some of the McCorkle offspring had reacted in horror in the family meeting when the question was raised as to where the ashes would go, with Steve shaking his head like a twisted bobblehead and Tim insisting that cremation was unnatural. But still . . . Ma's wishes were being carried out, and here we were, filing into the stately brick building with molded cornices known as the crematorium.

It was a balmy, rainy day, one of those East Coast summer days with humidity that grabs you by the collar and squeezes. I was feeling a little better now that the mass was over and we'd made it to the last stop in the funeral proceedings. So far I'd shed a few healthy tears but had resisted breaking into heaving sobs—my goal for the day.

The funeral director, a precise but flavorless man named Doug who wore a tasteful black suit, assembled the family outside the door, explaining that friends were already gathered inside. As he passed out a long-stemmed rose to each woman, he instructed that she place it on the coffin as she walked by.
A little creepy,
I thought.
Ma would have wanted us to keep them.
I could hear her remarking, “What's the use in burning a perfectly lovely live flower?”

At last, Doug let the family file into the single vaulted room, where youthful voices rose, singing a capella. I blinked. We hadn't paid for a choir.

I turned and saw a youth choir, dressed in deep royal blue robes, each kid's eyes fixed on the director, who rolled his head and swayed passionately in time with the music.

Who had brought them here?

Noah caught my eye, his lips straightening to a frown. An apology? Commiseration. And then, uncharacteristically, he winked at me encouragingly.

I felt the corner of my mouth wiggle up to a smile, but somehow tears stung my eyes as he breached the separation between family and friends to join me.

“The Harlem youth choir,” he whispered, “courtesy of Storm Productions. I hope you don't mind, but I know your ma would have detested another tedious batch of gladioli and carnations.”

“A children's choir . . . Ma would have loved them,” I said, squeezing his wrist as my vision clouded with tears and the children began to sing a four-part choral arrangement. “May the road rise to meet you, may the wind be always at your back . . .” I recognized the song, an old Irish blessing. Ma had a plaque with the words over her stove.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

He hugged me with one arm, the embrace of a friend. I considered it a good omen, a sign that we'd both moved on and could now meet on new terms. “By the way,” I whispered in his ear, “I hear that Darcy needs a ride back to the city when this is over.”

Noah turned to me with a questioning look, but I just pretended to be focused on the minister, who was reading a prayer from his book. As the final ceremony went on, I stared at the coffin, the simplest pine box the funeral home offered—again, Ma's request. This was the end. I felt glad that I'd been able to be with my mother in her last days, but now, as Father Healy closed his prayer book and the funeral director was motioning the women to step forward and leave their roses on the casket, it felt wrong to leave Ma here, so cold. It was my turn to pay respects, and I stepped forward and pulled a silken petal from the rose. “Bye, Ma,” I whispered, dropping the petal onto the smooth pine.

A piece of the rose, a piece of my heart.

I touched the smooth wood, reluctant to turn away despite the old Irish lore that admonishes mourners to turn away and never look back. I could almost hear Ma saying it with that air of superstition: “Turn away, turn away.” But I couldn't bear to turn away, afraid of letting go, fearful of what would come next.

I felt frozen to the spot when someone touched my shoulder, not the cold hand of the funeral director, but a warm, familiar touch.

I turned and saw Darcy's open face, her blue eyes shiny with tears. “It's time, Linds.”

Behind Darcy stood Steve and Tara, Elle, Milo, and Bear, their faces soft with grief. They stood arm in arm, my family of friends. As Darcy took me by the arm and brought me into the fold, I felt the heaviness slide from my heart like a thawing clump of snow falling from the roof. These people were my friends, my future. As they embraced me, I imagined that Ma was an angel watching over all of us, nodding and smiling.

When we stepped outside the building, the gray sky was spitting rain, a slow assault that promised to increase as the black clouds on the horizon rolled closer.

“It figures it would have to rain on the day of your mother's funeral,” Elle said, popping open a black umbrella with
Truth and Justice
stenciled in gold. “Come under, I'll share,” she said, motioning her friends closer.

Tara and Maisy ducked under, but I turned my face up to the splattering drops, not really caring if I got wet at this point. Rain, I could handle.

“I know why it's raining,” Maisy said, her eyes wide. “Grandma Mick is watering the gardens from heaven.”

“They must have some big-ass watering cans up there,” Elle bellowed.

“Okay, does everyone know who they're riding with?” Steve asked. “There's extra room in the limo. Oh, and you need a cab!” he said, snapping his fingers at Bear.

“I hate to cut out now,” Bear said, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder like a politician as he touched my shoulder, “but I have to head out to the airport and I wanted to say good-bye.”

Elle grabbed Maisy's hand and tugged her back. “Onward and upward. We'll meet you at the restaurant, Linds.”

With a perfunctory wave to my friends I followed Bear over to the overhang of the building. “You'd better come closer,” he said, pulling me out of the rain. “It's starting to pour.”

I reached for the crisp, rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. His arms were still strong, still the moderate heft of biceps there as I squeezed down over his elbow to his lean forearms. “I still can't believe you made it to the funeral,” I said. “And that you're leaving already.”

“I'm glad I did.” His hands rested gently on my hip bones, as if they'd had a familiar place there for years. There was still so much to say, so many blanks to fill. Eight years—was it possible to backfill a gap like that?

“Are you really coming back?” I asked. “I feel like you're this phantom passing through our lives. Casper the Friendly Ghost, the remake.”

He laughed. “God, I've missed that sick sense of humor. Of course I'm coming back. I've laid my money down at Pace. Classes start in two weeks. Linds, I dread this flight. I don't want to go back today, but I'm committed to this last tournament, and I can't let my sponsors down. They've been good to me.”

“You're a stand-up guy.” We were leaning into each other, our lower bodies touching with savory sexual suggestion, and I wondered at the inappropriateness of wanting to throw my old boyfriend down and go at it in front of the crematorium. Well, at least I knew Ma wouldn't mind—as long as the grandchildren were spared the bawdy details. Trying to act as if I didn't care, I focused on a distant spot over his shoulder, the group of Red Hatters taking cover under a gazebo, talking to my sister-in-law Ashley, who was probably bitching about her personal stake in the estate. “Are you going to call me when you get back?”

“Don't play the casual thing with me,” he said, pinching my chin and steering my face toward his until he caught my gaze. “There's still something between us, and I'm not going to let it go.”

“Well, it's about time,” I said, laughing aloud. “Eight years it took you, Bear.”

“We both did a lot during that time,” he said. “Maybe we were meant to learn other things from other people before we could be together.”

“Maybe,” I agreed reluctantly, though it was all a bit too Zen for me.

“I'll call you when I land in Maui, if you're going to be up late.” Bear slid his hands around to my back, massaging between the shoulder blades. I breathed in the humid air, wanting to melt on the spot. “Hey, maybe you can pick me up at the airport?” he said. “That way, we'll be sure to connect.”

“I could probably do that. Let me check my calendar,” I said, wondering what I'd do to fill the yawning emptiness of the next few weeks. Rekindle my editorial job at Island Books. Close up the Southampton house for the winter. Vacuum the cobwebs from my Manhattan life. Start writing my next book. Throw fairy dust on Noah and Darcy. “Yeah, I guess I can squeeze you in.”

He smiled, his newly capped teeth like two delicious Chiclets, so irresistible I had to lean forward and kiss this man I loved. Mourners and crematorium and ministers be damned . . . this time he was not going to slip through my fingers.

 

“S
o you're telling me that one of the characters in this book is actually Darcy Love?” My new fan Esther picks up a fat, lemony book from the stack and shakes it, as if expecting Darcy to let out a little “Peep!” from inside.

“Well, sort of,” I answer, thinking how I just spent ten minutes explaining to Esther how
Greetings from Bikini Beach
was inspired by nuggets of truth from my life and character traits of my friends. I told her about rearranging and changing events, pinning in a plot. I told her that the character of Angelique was inspired by Darcy. But all she seemed to hear was that it was a book about Darcy Love.

“Is she here?” Esther's brows shoot up as she opens her eyes wide, fleecing the crowd. “I don't see her, dear. Oh, how disappointing for you. To be friends with a celebrity like Darcy Love and then she doesn't show up for your party.”

“Tell me about it, Esther,” I let slip. The whole party was Darcy's idea—her treat, actually—and could she make it? Well, okay, there was that film festival in Cannes, across the pond, but they do that every year. “You know, that's not the worst of it.” I tap the shiny cover of the book with my fingernail. “I've got a bunch of friends featured in this story, and do you think any of them made it to this party? Not a one.”

She gasps, as if sucking soup between her teeth. “Oh, bubbelah, I feel for you.”

I fold my arms over my bulky middle, the new resting place for crumbs, folded hands, and tears, which seem to gush so easily these days. Hormones! TV commercials are the worst. A happy family at McDonald's or a whimpering puppy getting his kibble—these are all suddenly reason to blubber like an idiot. In fact, I feel the slight sting right now, heightened by Esther's gushing sympathy.

“Excuse me,” Bear says in a robust voice. “I didn't mean to interrupt,
but . . .
were you going to buy that?” he asks Esther.

“I'll take three,” Esther says, opening the first copy to the title page for me to sign. “Autograph this one to me, dear. The others, I'll give to my girlfriends. They could use a good kick in the fanny.”

I sign away as Bear places a hand on my shoulder and leans close. “Your brother and Tara are here. I sent them to get drinks, seeing as it's their first time out without the baby.”

As I nod I see them crossing the lawn, Tara's gauzy cinnamon orange skirt blowing around her slender legs as she smiles up at my brother. “We weren't planning to have kids, certainly not so soon,” Tara confided to me when they'd returned from Tokyo six months ago. “This little baby, well, sort of an oops, but now that it's happened, we're really happy. It's like this big decision that's been weighing on our future sort of sprang itself loose. Decision made.” Two weeks ago, my niece Rachel came into the world with alert hazel eyes and a walloping yelp. At last, I got to use my childbirth-coaching skills, reminding Tara to breathe and helping her stay on her feet and walk through the contractions until she was properly dilated. “Better you than me,” Steve kept telling me. That unenlightened brother of mine.

After we exchange hugs and Tara and Steve make the appropriate fuss about my book, Esther emerges from the fringes. “Which one are you in the book, dear?”

Tara cocks an eyebrow at me. “I would be the reluctant friend who shies away from publicity because her father has a high-profile career in the limelight,” she tells Esther. “Basically, I'm the one who doesn't want to be in the book.”

Esther laughs. “Delightful. So, which one is that? I want names, dear. Details.”

“That would be Dinah, the voice of jurisprudence,” I answer. “Believe me, you'll recognize her when you read the book.”

Then Milo and Raj join us, regaling us with tales of the backups on the Long Island Expressway, which is typical weekend traffic, but for some reason it's always the topic of conversation in the Hamptons.

My new best friend Esther is spinning a tale for Milo about her belly-dancing lessons when Elle hoots from behind me, and she's jumping up and down under the blue and white striped awning of her house, waving like a madwoman trying to park a jumbo jet. She kicks off her shoes and runs across the lawn. Behind her, Judd walks with dignity, pausing to pick up her discarded high-heeled sandals.

“The LIE is a parking lot!” Elle shrieks.

“So we heard,” Bear says, squeezing my shoulder.

Elle bounds over and pulls us all into hugs, curtsying before Esther as if she'd just been crowned queen of the Hamptons. Then she makes a show of embracing the huge stack of books in front of me. “You're buying a copy, sweetie. I see TV potential here,” she tells Judd, who graciously accepts the book and shakes my hand and warmly congratulates me for my success. “I've been tooling around with writing since high school, but I've never gotten anything published,” he tells me. “Congratulations.”

“Well, I've never had a script go on air,” I respond. “That's gotta be a thrill, too.”

He nods. “The first time, I guess it was.” He flips through the book, the pages turning rapidly. “Elle tells me she's in here. At last—” He kisses my book. “The manual. Does it explain why she jumps on my back and calls me monkey chum?”

“I'm afraid that's not in the book,” I say. “I could reveal the origins of that behavior, but then I'd have to kill you.”

“Just my luck,” Judd mutters, grinning.

“I told you they'd come,” Bear whispers in my ear, and I want to hug him and flick his ear for always being right. The baby kicks inside me, reminding me to be nice to her daddy, and I feel that secret thrill to know that the tiny amazing life growing inside me is the result of our love.

“Didn't I tell you your new book was a great excuse for a party?” a familiar voice calls from behind me.

Enter Darcy Love, a slender, sparkling blonde, growing impossibly more beautiful each day as she approaches thirty. But I no longer hold that against her, and she kisses Bear's cheek, then beams a smile at me.

“You made it!” I reach up for her and we hug, not one of those kiss-kiss air-blow things, but a real bone-crusher.

“How's it going, little mommy?” She rubs my back as she looks down at my tummy fondly. “Maisy can't wait to babysit.”

“Where is she?” I ask.

“I sent her down to the beach. We saw those girls playing in the surf and I figured she'd find them more interesting than the old farts up here.”

I follow her gaze down to the beach where Maisy walks the path through the dunes, her blond hair blowing in the wind off the ocean, her thumbs hooked in the pockets of her denim skirt in that way-cool gesture of a kid trying to make an impression.

“Is Noah here?” I ask.

“He had to stay on at Cannes, but he sends regards.” She bites her lower lip and folds her arms across her chest, flickering the fingers of her left hand, where a diamond catches the sunlight and explodes with refraction.

“Darcy!” I grab her hand, my mouth dropping open over the glimmering pear-shaped stone. “When did this happen?”

“Just yesterday,” she says, a little breathlessly. “I've been dying to tell you guys, but I kept my cell phone off so I could save it for today.”

“I'm thrilled for you!” I say, and I mean it.

“Congratulations, Darcy,” Bear tells her. “You two seem to make each other very happy.”

“Spoken from the voice of experience,” Darcy says. “Did I ever thank you for coming back and saving my friend Lindsay here from herself? She tends to get way too analytical when you're not around.”

Bear puts a hand on my shoulder. “It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it.”

“Stop it, you two, and let Darcy show off her ring.” We call the others over, and they flip over the news. Milo shares his blue sapphire “commitment ring” from Raj, and Esther asks Darcy if she can have an “exclusive” on the engagement news.

“Well, sure,” Darcy says, patting the bony woman's shoulder. “I'd love that.”

After Esther puts her empty glass down and runs to the house to phone it in, Darcy asks, “Do I know that woman?”

“That's Esther, writer of the Beach Buzz column, and she's partied with the best of them. One of the original Hamptons party girls,” I tell her. “She once attended a gala event right here, when your parents were hosting.”

“Really?” Darcy looks toward the house. “Party on, Esther.”

The conversation turns to weddings, since there now seem to be a few in our future. Judd and Elle are planning a New Year's Eve event at Tavern on the Green, a winter wedding, where guests can ride through Central Park in hansom cabs and share stories by the big old fireplaces.

Darcy and Noah haven't had much time to plan, but they're leaning toward a summer ceremony in the Hamptons. “Somehow, that just feels so right.”

Bear and I aren't quite as organized. “I'm thinking about a double whammy,” Bear tells our friends. “We've found a priest willing to do a wedding and baptism all on one morning. That way we can maximize everyone's time and throw one hell of a party.”

What he isn't saying is that we're waiting for his first marriage to be annulled so that we can have a Catholic ceremony.

Another secret that our friends don't know is that we went to city hall in Brooklyn around seven months ago and said our vows before a judge. It was Bear's insistence that brought us there, his worry that something might happen to him and the baby and I would be left without his insurance and benefits. Smitten by the fact that he wanted to take care of us, I was happy to sneak off to my own wedding, saying “I do” during my lunch hour and between Bear's final exams. Somehow the secret quality adds an element of danger and romance.

“Is that a cat fight?” Bear asks, pointing his chin toward the beach.

Everyone scrambles toward the bluff for a better vantage point of the beach, where one of the girls is running with a bucket, tossing bursts of cold water onto the others. Girls scramble off the blanket, sand flying as they flee.

One girl stands up to the water fiend, hands on her denim-clad hips. I recognize Maisy, jabbing a finger toward the girl with the bucket, who promptly slaps water onto Maisy's feet.

“Meeoow!” Steve screeches.

“Girls are so vicious with each other,” Judd says. “I'm glad I'm a guy.”

Elle pushes his shoulder. “Yeah, me, too.”

“They're just playing,” says Tara, the mediator.

“They couldn't be worse than we were,” I say.

Darcy purses her lips, then leans back with a wicked grin. “Give them time.”