Reunion in October (The Calendar Girls Book 2)

by Gina Ardito

  Finally, my father-in-law cleared his throat. “I guess we should start packing.”

  I didn’t agree or disagree, and my lack of response obviously bothered my mother-in-law. She shifted her weight, and her feet shuffled on the carpet.

  “No,” she said at last. “My son is right. I owe Emily an apology. I’m sorry.”

  Really? I tried to gauge her sincerity, but that implacable mask of disapproval fell over her face. I couldn’t tell if she directed her frown toward herself or me. Regardless, I wanted to show some grace with my victory.

  The statement, “No problem,” never before used in a conversation with her, stuck in my throat. If I owned up to the truth, I’d admit that after all the insults, the backhanded compliments, the open hostility, her two words of contrition didn’t cut it by a long shot. Then again, twenty years’ experience told me not to expect much more. I wound up saying, “Thank you, Mrs. Handler.”

  “You can call me Sylvia,” she said. “Or Mom, if you like.”

  No way. Never.

  To my vast relief, Roy descended the staircase and reentered the fray. “Everything okay down here?”

  I forced a placid smile. “Everything’s great. How about up there?”

  He didn’t even try to hide his anxiety. “Not so great. She won’t even open her door for me. I think it might be time to call in the reinforcements.”

  Face off against my daughter or continue to face off against my in-laws? No contest. Tossing aside the afghan, I got to my feet. “Let me take a crack at Mellie. I was a teenage girl once myself.”

  On the outside, I might have looked confident and ready to fight the good fight, but on the inside, anxiety wreaked havoc with my nerves. In nature’s hormonal way of pushing them out of the nest, teenagers always looked for any excuse to dislike their parents. Melissa was a daddy’s girl, and I’d bet good money that learning I’d planned to abandon him—not to mention her and her siblings—sent her into an emotional tailspin. Since the blame for her anguish lay with me and no one else, the explanation would have to come from me and no one else.

  I rapped twice on her closed bedroom door and offered a tentative, “Mellie? Can I come in?”

  She mumbled, “Whatever,” which, in teen-speak, communicated such phrases as, “Leave me alone,” “I’m hurting,” and “I wish I was six years old again, when everything made sense.”

  I chose to translate Mellie’s answer to phrase number two and opened the door. My daughter had curled into a question mark on her bed, her knees to her chest, eyes red-rimmed and glassy. “Okay if we talk?”

  She shrugged.

  Perching on the edge of the mattress, I mentally flipped through opening gambits, in search of the right way to broach the subject.

  Before I found the words, she opened the conversation. “Were you really going to leave us?”

  Wow. Right for the jugular. “No. I thought about it. But when I came home today, I was ready to tell your dad that I love him, that I love you all, and I don’t ever want us to be apart. He came home, prepared to tell me the same thing.” I was pretty pleased with my condensed version, which gave the pertinent highlights without going into details that would point fingers of blame at anyone.

  Too bad Melissa didn’t accept my brief explanation. “But you were thinking about it?” she demanded, her tone accusatory.

  Was it too late to go back to the stand-off downstairs with my in-laws? Yes, of course it was. Besides, my daughter was hurting and needed me. I’m a firm believer in telling the truth to my kids—in age appropriate terms—even when the truth isn’t pretty. “Yes,” I admitted.

  She nodded, and a single tear escaped her eye to trail down her cheek. “Is it because of me?”

  My heart cracked. “God, no, Mellie! Why on earth would you think that?”

  “Grandma always says how you two would’ve been better off if you didn’t get married at all. Then she complains that you married too young. I know why.” She cocked her head, her lips twisted. “I’ve been able to count to nine for a long time, Mom. I know you and Dad had to get married because of me.”

  Thanks so much, Mrs. Handler. Way to diminish Roy, me, and Melissa in one careless statement. I shook my head. “Wrong. Your dad and I didn’t exactly grow up in Puritan times, sweetheart. We didn’t have to get married because I was pregnant with you. We chose to get married because of you and because we loved each other. We still do. You, your brothers, and sister are the absolute best gifts life has given your father and me. We would never give you up. No matter what your grandma thinks.”

  “Then why did you think about leaving us?”

  “What happened between your dad and me happens to a lot of couples who’ve been together for a long time. We forgot why we fell in love in the first place. Some couples forget for so long, they wind up quitting.”

  “Chloe Gallagher’s parents are splitting up after the holidays.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. But your father and I want to fight hard to put our family back together.”

  “So you’re not going to change your mind and leave us tomorrow? Or next week?”

  “No. And neither is Daddy. We love each other, and we love you. When you love someone that much, you don’t walk away. You fight for them. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good.” I kissed her forehead. “Do your homework. God knows what Daddy’s planning for dinner, but he’ll definitely need all the help he can get.”

  I rose and headed toward the door when Mellie’s voice stopped me. “Mom?”

  I turned to look at her. “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you came home.”

  “Me, too.” I floated downstairs on a perfect pink cloud of happiness.

  Chapter 21

  Francesca

  Imagine my surprise two days later when I headed up to Michael’s semi-private room after my shift and found him, looking hale and hearty—with Liz Harvey, laughing at his bedside.

  “He called me!” she said before I could comment. “As soon as he came to.”

  “That’s great,” I replied with a smile. And it was. Really. I was happy for both of them. Love definitely filled the air. In fact, the sparks flying in this room could short-circuit the electricity on the entire floor. “Michael, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Looks like you have everything you need...”

  Boy, did that come out wrong. Then again, when I checked out the glow on their faces, I reconsidered. Liz continually stared moon-eyed at him, and his cheeks filled with healthy color, such a tremendous contrast to the pasty pallor he’d worn since coming into the E.R. the other night. Clearly, they had each other. Who needed more? They definitely didn’t need me, the third wheel.

  I began to creep out of the room, but Michael’s voice called me back. “Hey, Francesca?”

  I stopped, looking over my shoulder at the beaming couple. “Hmm?”

  His expression grew solemn. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For trying to turn your world upside-down. I mean, I’m not sorry I came back to Snug Harbor because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have found Liz here.” He lifted their clasped hands from the mattress. “But I am sorry I didn’t realize that what you and I had was over—if it ever really existed. I see now how much this place means to you. You belong here.”

  Any animosity I might have still harbored sailed off into the sunset. “Thanks,” I said.

  “You’re welcome. And for the record, I hope you and Josh are very happy together.”

  Josh’s name seared my heart, but I forced a nonchalant smile. “I’ll...” I cleared my throat. “I’ll tell him you said so.”

  “Tell him he better make sure he takes good care of you, or he’ll have to deal with me. You deserve the best, Frannie.”

  I stiffened. Frannie. That was Josh’s nickname for me. Michael had never called me anything but Francesca. I regrouped with lightning speed. Pointing my index finger, pistol-like, I winked and replied, “Back atcha,
Mikey-boy. Good luck, guys. Be happy.” I strode from the room before the tears stinging my eyes could leak out. As soon as I reached the elevator bank, I slammed the down button with my palm. The pain of impact gave me an excuse to cry.

  Outside the hospital, the somber gray morning matched my mood. I’d lingered in the E.R. long past my shift so that I could drop in on Michael during visiting hours. I don’t know what I had expected: an opportunity for us to come to a peaceful conclusion, maybe. Liz Harvey, giggling and glowing at his side, never entered my mind.

  I slid into my car and stared at my tired eyes in the rearview mirror. You’re jealous, my conscience chided me.

  “Yeah,” I told my reflection as I started the engine, “I am.” But not because Michael didn’t want me anymore. I envied Michael for finding Liz. I envied Nia for her romance with that vineyard owner, Aidan Coffield. I envied her sister, Paige, for finally falling in love with Sam Dillon. I envied my brother and his wife, and I envied the old couple from The Moorings who’d mixed up the lube and nitroglycerine paste last year.

  There seemed to be a somebody for everyone. Except me.

  I drove home, wondering why traffic was so heavy for eleven in the morning until it hit me. Today was the Saturday before Halloween. My stomach flipped. The Candoleros would have their annual party tonight. The party Josh didn’t invite me to. Would he be bringing a date? Someone younger than me? More fun than me?

  “Aaargh!” I shouted in the confines of my car. “Enough. You have a career you love, a home, your health, good friends, and soon you’ll have a dog. You have never needed any man to make you complete, and you don’t need one now!”

  No, I didn’t need any man, but I wanted Josh Candolero, the one man who could make me smile.

  Once I parked in my driveway, I pulled out my cell and dialed his number before I could reconsider my insanity. Again, his voicemail clicked on. “Hey, it’s Josh. I’m unavailable to take your call right now...”

  I let the spiel play out, waited for the beep, and spoke. “Hey, Josh, it’s Frannie. I was kinda hoping we could talk. I...umm...” I took a deep breath, exhaled. “I miss you. I haven’t smiled since I last saw you. Call me back, if you want. If you don’t, I won’t bother you again. Promise.”

  I disconnected and visualized slamming my forehead into the steering wheel until I lapsed into unconsciousness. Lame, lame, lame. That call was totally lame and desperate. Romantically speaking, I hadn’t evolved much from folded notes in junior high school lockers that said, “Do you like me? Check this box.”

  I got out of the car and went inside, knowing he wouldn’t call me back. Why would he? I’d just become one of those clingy, obsessed psycho women. Game over. Disgusted with myself, I turned off the ringers on my house phones and my cell phone. To keep busy and prevent my mind from ruminating on my idiocy, I went straight to my treadmill and spent thirty minutes raising my heart rate. After a quick shower, I vacuumed, I did some laundry, and at last, at four o’clock in the afternoon, I darkened my room and crawled into bed.

  Sometime in the middle of a REM phase in my sleep, Barry White started crooning to me. “We got it together, baby...”

  Fabulous. Now I was dreaming about 1970s’ R&B singers. Wait. Barry White? I shook myself awake. Smack my head ‘til I see stars. This was no dream. Barry White was crooning to me. The music pumped from somewhere outside my house.

  Tossing off the covers, I raced to the window and peeked through the darkening shades. White light, stronger than moonlight, streamed through the gap and onto my bed. What in the world...? Outside, dusk had fallen, painting everything in a gray shroud. A lone figure stood on a wooden platform erected in my backyard, surrounded by a ring of bright orange construction halogen lamps. A boom box at his feet blasted the Barry White concert. Even dismissing the hardhat and tool belt he wore, I knew. My heart galloped, and joy spread through me, warm and rousing. Josh.

  I unlocked the sash and opened the window. “Josh,” I shouted down, “what are you doing?”

  Grinning up at me, he replied, “Better hurry, Frannie. According to my calculations, the show starts in about two minutes.”

  Show? What show? My brain, muzzy from sleep, scrambled for purchase. Barry still crooned about everything being really, really nice—Josh must have put the song’s opening on a continuous loop. A spark lit up inside my skull. Barry White. Josh in his hardhat and tool belt. The makeshift stage. The spotlights.

  Oh, my God. He couldn’t possibly plan to...

  My body temperature skyrocketed.

  “Well?” he prompted. “You coming down, or should I move the show to the McNeils’ roof so all your neighbors get an eyeful of what’s supposed to be just for you?”

  “I’m coming down.” Excitement surged, and I grabbed my robe, wrapping myself in the thick fleece as I flew downstairs. I didn’t bother with shoes—a mistake I realized when my bare feet hit the damp ground outside my back door. I didn’t care. Nor did I care about the goofy smile that stretched my lips when I greeted Josh with an extra lame, “Hi, there.”

  “Miss?” He tipped his hardhat. “Table for one?”

  Apparently, he’d been busy in my yard while I slept upstairs. In front of the makeshift stage sat one bistro table and matching chair, a lit tapered candle in a crystal holder, and a takeout cup from the local convenience store. A pink and purple paper umbrella stuck incongruously out of the cup’s plastic lid.

  “I guess so,” I replied as I sat in my reserved seat. I jerked my head at the cup. “What’s this?”

  “Tea,” he said. The music picked up tempo, the drums becoming more insistent. “Now, quiet.” He leaped onto the stage. “The show’s about to start.”

  The moment Barry broke into the first line, “My first, my last, my everything...” Josh began his gyrations, arms stretched out straight from each shoulder.

  The tools dangling from his belt swayed and clanged with every jiggle. Just when I thought the noise would drown out the music, his hands reached for the buckle in the center of his waistband and slowly unclipped, allowing the belt to fall to the floor. With his hips rocking to the beat, he lifted his hand to the collar of his black tee. One quick yank tore the shirt from his chiseled chest. The bright lights illuminated golden skin and washboard abs. My blood pressure spiked, and my mouth watered at the tempting picture he presented to me. He waved the black fabric over his head several times before gliding across the makeshift dance floor. At the edge of the stage, he leaned down and drape the fabric around my neck, blew me a kiss, and straightened up again.

  Thumbs tucked into his waistband, he shimmied away. The hardhat slid sideways on his head to a ridiculous angle, but he kept dancing.

  Professionally speaking, the Chippendales had nothing to worry about. Josh was clumsy, with very little rhythm, and I could actually see his lips counting off the steps. Yet, to me, he put on the best show I’d ever attended. Because he’d done all this for one reason: to see me smile.

  He pivoted on his toes, presenting his backside to me, the tight shiny black pants showing every dimple as he flexed his gluteus maximus in time…well, almost in time…with the drumbeat. I would’ve covered my face to shield my heated cheeks, but I didn’t want to miss one second of the show.

  Once again, he turned and sashayed forward, this time leaning down to grab my hand and pull me out of the “audience” and onto the stage. Loosening the knot on my robe, he used the ends as a rope to drag me toward him until we were in a couple’s clinch.

  While the background singers burst into “ooh-woo, ooh-woo,” he pressed me into him and whirled me into his practiced dance routine.He waltzed me from one end of the platform to the other, dipping me at each corner, bringing his lips so close to mine, but always pulling away and bringing me upright again before we made contact. By the time Barry knew “there’s only one like you,” Josh had released me to stand center stage while he danced an arm’s length away. At last, Barry sang about his reality, and Josh reached for his waistban
d, his eyes smoldering me to ash.

  As the song hit the final line, “You’re the first, you’re the last, my everything...” Whoosh! The pants flew off, leaving Josh in a pair of black silk boxer shorts decorated with hundreds of images of yellow rubber duckies.

  Whatever sobriety I still possessed went over the cliff, and I broke into riotous laughter. In one quick stride, he got close enough to hook my waist and pull me into his arms. His lips captured mine. I wound my arms around his neck, and his hands traveled beneath my robe, pushing the heavy fabric out of the way. Cold air conquered the thin satin nightshirt I wore, and I shivered.

  Josh pulled me tighter against him, hip to hip, chest to chest. Barry was winding down, murmuring, “You and me, baby,” and I thought to myself that no greater truth had ever been spoken. Josh’s skin was hot beneath my fingers, his mouth hard and demanding. I gave him all of me, my lips, my heart, my love. When we pulled apart, I don’t know which one of us was more breathless.

  He spoke first. “Sorry I screwed it up a bit. I’ve been working on this a long time. Not long enough, though.”

  A spark of jealousy lit up inside me, and I arched a brow. “With whom?”

  “Ah, Frannie, you’ve got a fierce streak in ya. I like that. Relax. I could never dance with anyone but you. I’ve been watching videos on YouTube. But, if you’d stayed mad at me a little longer, I would’ve had more rehearsal time. I really wanted to be perfect for you.”

  “You are perfect for me,” I murmured against his neck. Time to face facts. I was totally, hopelessly, crazy in love with this man.

  “No. I was an idiot. I’m sorry. I had no right to make you choose between Desi and your job. You’re the best damn doctor in the state. If my sister did something stupid, there’s no one else in the world I’d rather have treat her. I knew I was an idiot five minutes after I drove away from you that day.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been calling you, leaving messages. You could’ve called me back, you know.”