Bombshell

by Lynda Curnyn

  But it was worth it, I thought, feeling satisfaction as I laid paper out and cut it down to size to fit the first box, which was baby Carmella’s tea set. Besides, I was a hell of a gift-wrapper, I thought, imagining Carmella’s delight when she saw the whirls of ribbon I used to secure the top once I had covered the box in paper. And according to Angie, who always sweated over gift selection herself when it came to her little niece, I was a hell of an aunt.

  I would likely make a good mother, I thought, smiling at the idea that someday I might just be that. All I needed was a little courage….

  The phone rang, startling me out of my reverie. I almost let the machine pick up, I was enjoying my solitude so much, but then I realized that it was probably my mother, calling to wish me a happy holiday. And to remind me that their plane was landing in New York on the 28th and that they would be at my apartment no later than 4:00 p.m., as she had already reminded me no less than six times since she had changed the reservation.

  “Hello,” I said, waiting for the static that usually prefaced one of my mother’s international calls.

  “You’re home,” came a startled male voice over the line.

  Jonathan. Calling me. On Christmas Eve, of all times.

  As if he were equally aware of the significance, he started to backpedal. “I had thought for sure you’d be out celebrating.”

  I frowned. The coward. He knew I was going to be home. ’Fess up! I wanted to scream.

  “Is that Mozart’s Esultate Jubilate I hear?”

  “Yes,” I said, heading to the stereo to turn down the volume.

  “Oh, I’m sorry if I’m interrupting something….”

  I smiled, realizing I had caught Jonathan in the same kind of stupor I had found myself in when I was standing out front of his apartment in the freezing cold in a flaming red dress. Expectant, yet not wanting to expect too much.

  I decided to help him out a little. “No, no. I’m alone.” Then, not wanting him to think I was in the same pathetically lonely state I had been in when standing out in front of his apartment in a ball gown, I added, “I mean, I’m still going to celebrate tomorrow with my friend Angie’s family, but I thought I’d take tonight to myself. You know, wrap a few gifts…”

  “Of course,” he said, as if this made perfect sense to him.

  “You?” I asked.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, any plans?”

  He cleared his throat. “Why, yes, of course. That is, tomorrow I’m going to my parents’ home. They wanted me to come tonight, but since my brother and his family are already there, I thought I might just add to the confusion. You know, with the sleeping arrangements. My brother and his wife have two kids and, well, anyway, I’ll see them all tomorrow. Like you, I thought I’d take the evening for myself.” He paused again. “I guess I always found Christmas Eve to be…” He struggled for words.

  I decided to help him out. “Romantic?”

  He hesitated. “Well, now that you mention it…”

  I smiled. It was all the confirmation I needed. He did want to be with me. Just as much as I wanted to be with him. “You know, I’ve got a pot of sauce on the stove….”

  “Seafood?” he asked.

  He remembered, I thought, hoping that perhaps he had been savoring our every conversation just as much as I had.

  “Why, yes, it is,” I replied. Then, taking the opening he had finally—finally!—given me, I asked, “Care to join me?”

  I’ll admit that despite my coolly proffered invitation, I went into a bit of a tizzy after he accepted. Hanging up the phone and spying the pile of gifts on the floor, I realized I had nothing to give Jonathan. Not that I hadn’t seen a half a zillion things I wanted to give him….

  This thought was quickly obliterated by a quick glance down at the comfy—read: worn-out—sweater and faded jeans I wore. Forget the gift. What really needed wrapping was…me.

  I rushed to my bedroom, only to discover I hadn’t even made the bed that day, so caught up had I been in last-minute shopping. I quickly grabbed up the clothes that littered the bed, tossing them into the hamper in the closet, then smoothed out the sheets and threw the comforter over them.

  But not fast enough. I barely had a chance to rake my fingers through my more-tousled-than-usual hair, never mind slip into something more alluring, when the buzzer rang.

  Damn, what did he do, run here? I gave myself one last glance in the full-length mirror, realizing I would have to do, just the way I was….

  I opened the door and found Jonathan standing there, a bottle of wine in one hand and the largest bouquet of red roses I had ever seen in the other. His eyes roamed over me as I stood in all that candlelight as if I were the most beautiful woman on earth.

  Just the way I was.

  The roses, he told me, after we had dined on a pasta made only headier by the magnificent wine he had brought over, reminded him of me. “I couldn’t resist them,” he confessed, then became shy after the admission. We were seated on the living room floor, our plates on the coffee table before us, since neither one of us had had the heart to clear the dining table of all those candles.

  Maybe it was the wine, but he seemed to have dropped his usual reserve. He looked up at me, catching my gaze once more. “That is, they reminded me of you in that dress. You know, that night in front of my apartment?”

  Now it was my turn to be embarrassed. Picking up my wineglass, I took a healthy sip before I met his gaze again, feeling even more shy, despite the soothing warmth that flowed through my veins. I opened my mouth to answer for myself, and discovered I didn’t have to.

  “It was strange that night,” he continued, staring into one of the candles. “I was just coming home from an event at the university. It had run a little late, and I was hurrying across campus to grab a cab when I came to the college walk. Did you ever see it lit up for Christmas?”

  I nodded, recalling the awesome sight.

  “It made me think of you. How beautiful you are. Almost too beautiful…” He picked up his glass, wrapping his hand around it as if to brace himself. “I felt like you were a gift. A gift almost too precious to take…” He looked at me then, and I saw all the sorrow, all the loneliness, I had seen in his eyes since the beginning. “Which was why when you called to say you wanted to take a break, I had to let you go. I felt like I had nothing to offer you. You have so much—”

  “But you do, too,” I argued.

  He shook his head. “I guess I didn’t feel that way. I felt like it was best to let you go on your way. Have the wonderful, happy life I was sure you were destined for. But I missed you. Hell, I missed you so much, it was almost as if I was trying to conjure you up.” He smiled, reaching out to touch my cheek. “And suddenly there you were. Standing in front of my apartment. Like a dream come true,” he finished, his eyes widening as he remembered. “And you seemed to be waiting…for something.” He smiled even wider. “Despite all that stuff about new shoes and Zabar’s, I knew, Grace. Knew that you were waiting for me. That you needed me. It surprised me at first,” he continued, “until I realized how much I understood it. How much I needed you, too.” He took my hands in his. “And when I saw that you were there, I wanted to be there for you, too.”

  My friend Angie will tell you that everything happens for a reason. Which was why, on Christmas Day, when we sat down to a sumptuous feast at the DiFranco home in Brooklyn, and Angie discovered her mother had replaced the traditional Italian sausage with a turkey-sausage substitute, she took it as a very bad sign, especially considering her mother’s fanaticism about Italian sausage.

  Of course, Angie couldn’t let it slide, seeing it as her mother’s attempt to push her to set a date for the big day she didn’t know had already happened by showing her daughter the importance of a homage to the proper meat products when it came to special occasions. Like weddings, for example.

  So Angie decided to get to the bottom of it, once the rest of the family was in the living room recovering from th
e huge meal, and Angie, her mother and I were cleaning up in the kitchen.

  “What was with the sausage, Ma?” Angie asked, practically yanking the plate out of Mrs. DiFranco’s hands to dry it. I looked up from where I was wiping down the table, biting back a smile.

  “What?” Mrs. DiFranco said, her eyes going wide with innocence. “You didn’t like it?”

  “I don’t like you trying to get at me using…meat products.”

  “Angie, I have no idea—”

  “Look, Ma, I know you only put that turkey sausage in the sauce to get at me because I won’t set a date for the wedding at Lombardi’s. But I told you already that with production beginning in the spring—”

  Her mother stopped her washing, turning off the tap and wiping her hands off on the towel with a barely harnessed fury. “You think I would ruin a perfectly good meal to get at you?” she said.

  “It wasn’t ruined, exactly,” I offered. In truth, Mrs. DiFranco made such a killer sauce, it really was hard to ruin it.

  They both ignored me. “Yes, I do,” Angie declared. “Ever since Justin and I got engaged, you’ve been harping at me over this…this wedding, and I can’t take it anymore!”

  Mrs. DiFranco’s expression hardened. “You listen to me, young lady, that turkey sausage had nothing to do with you. That sausage was for your grandmother’s benefit.”

  I saw Angie’s face flush red before she paled. Even I held my breath.

  “Oh, my God, Ma, is Nonnie okay? I mean, is she not taking care of herself?”

  “Of course she is. I make sure she is,” Mrs. DiFranco said. “You think I don’t take care of my mother?” She sniffed. “But she’s not getting any younger, Angie. She’s not gonna be here forever. And at the rate you’re going, who knows if she’ll even make it to your wedding!”

  Angie’s eyes narrowed, and I nearly laughed at Mrs. D’s slyness. Then, before she could stop herself, Angie burst out with, “Well, I’ll have you know, Ma, that Justin and I are already married!” Then, as if to prove her words, she pulled out the necklace where she had kept her wedding band hanging from around her neck, and all but waved that pretty piece of platinum in her mother’s face.

  Which, of course, was the wrong thing to do. Because within moments, the whole house was in an uproar, especially since Mrs. DiFranco rushed into the living room to declare her daughter’s treason to the entire family.

  Nonnie was tickled pink and, with Artie’s help, heaved herself off the couch immediately to hug her new grandson, Justin.

  Sonny thought it was hilarious.

  His wife, Vanessa, jokingly asked if she could keep the espresso maker she had purchased for them.

  Angie’s brother Joey and his wife, Miranda, struggled to contain their kids, who were jumping up and down, clearly thrilled they wouldn’t have to wear the starchy, itchy and utterly uncomfortable wedding clothes their grandmother had not only bought for them, but had forced them to parade around the living room in one Sunday after dinner.

  Baby Carmella started to cry in the confusion, until Sonny scooped her off the carpet to soothe her, all the while struggling to contain his mirth.

  Mrs. DiFranco turned to me, as if hoping I might be the sole person to take her side, considering that I, at least, had allowed her to show me all the wedding gown photos she had clipped from various magazines.

  “Grace! Did you know about this?”

  “I did,” I admitted guiltily.

  “And what do you make of it?”

  I smiled, looking at Angie and Justin, who stood arm and arm, as if bracing themselves against the onslaught that was sure to come from Mrs. D.

  “I think…I think they are going to be very happy together. For a very long time.”

  Just as I trusted that I was going to be happy for a very long time, judging from the romantic Christmas Eve I had spent with Jonathan.

  Not that I knew what would happen with Jonathan. But we had shared Christmas Eve. And Christmas Eve was all about anticipation, right?

  “It’s a charm bracelet,” my mother said once I had unwrapped the exquisite package she had pulled out of her suitcase. My apartment floor was positively overflowing with the gifts she and my father had hauled back from Paris, which was surprising for my usually frugal mother.

  We were sitting in my living room, and after sharing a meal I had ordered in for us, we had talked for hours. About Kristina. Her family in Brooklyn, whom I had opted to visit on my way home from the DiFrancos. Just for dessert. It was a quiet evening—just me, Katerina and Sasha, but I could tell they were glad I had decided to come. I think Katerina saw it as some holiday homage to her sister, and Sasha, once she got past her usual anger, even took some comfort, too. I realized then how keenly my half-sister was suffering, and understood that I had been just as unable to acknowledge her pain as I had been unable to acknowledge my own. I didn’t know what it was to lose a mother in the way Sasha had, but I understood loss in a way I never really did before. Realized, too, that not only did I have something to offer Sasha, but she had a wisdom she might offer me. A faith that despite all the pain life could bring, it also brought hope. A hope I saw shining in her eyes when she opened up just enough to show me that far from merely being a surly teen, she was a talented artist who made jewelry for all her friends—and aspired to one day make it for the marketplace. She even shyly offered me a bracelet in return for the Roxy D samples I had brought her. But her reaction to my gift was nothing compared to the thrill in her eyes when I disclosed that I had not only had some part in the campaign Irina was fronting this spring, but that I had met the supermodel. Of course, Sasha was a fan. Wasn’t every woman under a certain age? And I think I might have even made Sasha my fan when I promised to introduce her to her idol. After all, Irina was turning twenty this January, and according to the invitation I had received, was having a hell of a celebration at one of the hottest new clubs in New York City. I guess every woman deserves a ball as she moves on to the next phase of her life. And since it was reportedly going to be a big bash, I was sure Irina wouldn’t mind…or wouldn’t notice…if I brought along an extra guest or, two….

  “Do you like it?” my mother said now as I fingered the pretty little charms strung together on a thick gold chain. “The lady at the jewelry store told me charm bracelets were all the rage in Paris right now!”

  I looked up at her, saw the mixture of hopefulness and worry in my mother’s eyes, and realized, for the first time, that she was anxious over the gift. As if I wouldn’t accept it. Or her…

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, reaching over to her to hug her tightly.

  “See, I told you she would like it, Serena. All that worrying over nothing!” My father smiled at us from where he sat in a wingback chair across from us. Of course, whatever worries my father had about me were put to rest when I told him and my mother about my Christmas Eve with Jonathan. I got the feeling, from my father’s hopeful expression, that he had been matchmaking all along.

  My mother ignored his comment, touching the little charms one by one as if she still felt a need to explain her gift to me.

  “This one here is a little artist’s palette. Remember how you used to love to paint as a girl?”

  I smiled, studying the pretty gold charm. “I remember.”

  “And this is a little calendar. You see the date marked there?”

  I looked more closely, expecting to see my birth date marked, as was typical of this type of charm. But the little gold tablet was a calendar for May. And the date marked with a little heart was the fifth. “I don’t understand….”

  “That’s the day you came to us, sweetheart,” she said, beaming at me. Then she frowned at my father. “I guess that day has more meaning for us than it would for Grace. Maybe we should have gotten the birthday charm, like you suggested….” She looked at me again and sighed. “I guess it’s just that that day in May—well, it was one of the happiest days of our lives….”

  My eyes misted at her words, beca
use even though she had told me the story of my homecoming at least a hundred times, it seemed like the first time I was hearing it.

  “And this here is a ‘G’ charm, of course, for Grace,” she continued. “You do know why we called you Grace, don’t you?”

  “After Grace Kelly,” I said, looking at my father for confirmation. It was he, after all, who had always called me Princess Grace when I was a child.

  My mother waved her hand. “How could we know you would grow up to look like her? Only prettier,” she said with a wink. “No, no. We named you Grace because it means ‘gift from God.’ And you were, after all, our miracle. You still are,” she continued, reaching out and hugging me again like she’d never let me go. “You know that, don’t you, Grace?” she whispered fiercely in my ear. “Please tell me you know that.”

  “I do,” I said, relishing her embrace. “I really do.”

  I knew for certain in that moment that my life was a gift.

  And a perfectly beautiful one.

  If I did say so myself.

  BOMBSHELL

  A Red Dress Ink novel

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-4850-2

  © 2004 by Lynda Curnyn.

  Photograph of the author © by Julie Ann Coney.

  All rights reserved. The reproduction, transmission or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission. For permission please contact Red Dress Ink, Editorial Office, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real. While the author was inspired in part by actual events, none of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

  ® and TM are trademarks. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and/or other countries.