The pebbled path to the club’s entrance was lined with lights, and Rutherford took her arm to guide her inside, just as her husband used to. The coat checker was the same one who had been there for years, a chatty black woman named Yolanda.
“Nice to see you, Mrs. Tobias,” Yolanda said, putting her coat on a hanger. “I’ll take good care of this pretty fur of yours.”
Yolanda addressed Mrs. Tobias as if she’d seen her only three days ago instead of three years. Maybe she hadn’t even noticed her absence.
The sound of jazz floated from the spacious, formal dining room, and Mrs. Tobias recognized the song, “The Girl from Ipanema.”
“Are the Two Tones still playing here?” she asked as they strolled in the direction of the music.
“It wouldn’t be Saturday night without the Two Tones,” Rutherford said.
They stood at the threshold of the dining room as the three white-coated musicians who made up the Two Tones played on the same tiny stage near a seldom-used dance floor. For some reason, it irritated Mrs. Tobias that the group still had a regular gig at the club. Didn’t they have any aspirations beyond playing “Take the A Train” to a bunch of overprivileged socialites who didn’t know Chicago-style jazz from fusion?
Where did that unkind thought come from? After all, Mrs. Tobias hadn’t been able to distinguish between the different types of jazz until Rusty had explained it to her when they’d visited a smoky underground club in downtown Augusta.
The maître d’, a short, compact fellow named Godfrey, greeted Rutherford. “What a pleasure, Mr. Spalding, to have you and your lovely companion as our dinner guests tonight,” Godfrey said.
Crodfrey had also called her the “lovely companion” when she dined here with Harrison. Mrs. Tobias wondered if he even noticed that she wasn’t Rutherford’s wife, and if all aging white matrons looked alike to him. Godfrey reserved most of his fawning for male members, as they were the rulers of the Summerville Country Club. Men had a private grill and smoking room. Women could be members in their own right, but they were not allowed to serve on the board of directors or to play golf on Saturdays, unless accompanied by a male member.
They followed Godfrey to a white-clothed table near the window. The maître d’ pulled out her chair, while Rutherford adjusted the silverware to his liking. After she’d been seated, he said, “I’m delighted you agreed to accompany me tonight.”
“My pleasure.” Mrs. Tobias unfolded her napkin and spread it over her lap.
Rutherford had taken off his cap in the lobby. He was bald, save for a bit of grayish fuzz bordering each large ear. His nose was long and thin like a toucan’s. Candlelight shone in the lenses of his square, heavy-framed glasses, but the flattering lighting did nothing to enhance his rather plain appearance.
“I wonder if they have oxtail soup?” Mrs. Tobias said as she glanced at the menu. Where had that comment come from?
“Soul food at the Summerville Country Club?” Rutherford let out a laugh. “That would be the day.”
After they ordered (prime rib, naturally, and a cup of French onion soup, an appetizer the club was famous for), Rutherford began to complain about the rising costs of malpractice insurance. By the time he’d switched the topic to his latest golf game—he’d scored an eagle on the club’s tricky sixteenth hole—the bread server had stopped by their table.
Mrs. Tobias was familiar with the country club’s bread ritual. She was supposed to choose one piece of bread from the basket, and the server, using a pair of silver tongs, would place her selection on a small plate.
She peered into the basket, but couldn’t decide what kind of bread she felt like eating.
“Why not just leave the basket on the table?” Mrs. Tobias said to the bread server, a lanky, blank-faced boy who looked to be fresh out of high school. “That way if I want more bread you don’t have to come back over here.”
The young man gave her a startled look and then glanced at Rutherford for guidance.
“Gracie, if you want more bread”—Rutherford glanced at the server’s name tag—”William, here, will be glad to bring it to you. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir,” William said.
“Furthermore, I think there’s something common about having a breadbasket on a table,” he continued. “This isn’t Shoney’s, after all.”
“I’ll pass on bread,” Mrs. Tobias said to William, losing interest in the whole discussion.
As soon as William moved on to the next table and the waiter had brought out their soups, Rutherford began a fresh diatribe about the plummeting stock market.
As she listened to the drone of his voice, Mrs. Tobias felt like the Bill Murray character in the movie Groundhog Day, living the same day over and over again. She’d heard this conversation before—or one very like it—only it had been Harrison sitting across the table from her instead of Rutherford. She’d tasted this soup hundreds of times before (too salty and mushy with bread; for the club’s signature soup it was actually quite awful). And she’d heard the Two Tones play “Sweet Georgia Brown” so many times she knew when the saxophone player would take a breath.
Suddenly it was clear. Her former life of quiet predictability didn’t suit her anymore. She’d changed since Harrison’s death. She was no longer a “lovely companion” who listened with great attention to the men in her life. Instead, she had her own views and opinions, and sometimes, even though it scared her, she relished doing crazy, out-of-character things, like eating ice cream for breakfast or hopping on the back of a motorcycle, or even kissing her date in a restaurant.
“I read in the paper that the astronomy club is having a star party tonight on the grounds of Augusta State University,” Mrs. Tobias said abruptly, when their prime-rib dinners arrived at the table. “Let’s go, shall we?”
“Gracie,” Rutherford chortled. “What a madcap notion! A star party. Besides, if we were to leave now, we’d miss the Two Tones’ next set.”
Later, after dessert and coffee, Mrs. Tobias complained of a terrible headache, and Rutherford agreed to take her home.
“Perhaps we can have dinner at Jacque’s sometime next week,” Rutherford said as he escorted her to her door.
“Rutherford, you’re a lovely man, but—” Mrs. Tobias began.
“Do you have someone else on your mind?” he asked.
“What?” Mrs. Tobias said, in a surprised voice. How could he possibly have guessed?
“I felt it, too,” he continued. “The ghost of our late spouses, hovering over our table. Your mind was on Harrison and mine was on Victoria. When you ordered cheesecake for dessert, I almost protested. You see, Victoria always chose the bread pudding.”
“Yes, Rutherford,” Mrs. Tobias said, grateful that he’d provided her with an excuse not to see him anymore. “You’re correct. There were painful ghosts haunting our table tonight. I’m so sorry.”
“I understand perfectly.” He planted a dry-lipped kiss on her cheek. “Good night, Gracie, and good luck.”
As soon as she shut the door behind her, Mrs. Tobias dashed into her bedroom to change into the pair of jeans she’d tossed in the back of her closet. Then she prepared a thermos full of hot cocoa and took a blanket from the linen closet. She drove to the college campus and saw a crowd of people congregated on the crest of a hill. Several telescopes were set up at various points in the grass, and the night was noisy with the mating songs of crickets.
Mrs. Tobias made her way to the party, her eyes gradually adjusting to the gloom. She spread her blanket on a flat area beside a monstrous oak tree. Leaning against the rough bark of the trunk, she gazed at the light of the stars searing through the gauzy darkness.
She’d been there for only ten minutes when she felt someone drop beside her on the blanket. The familiar scent of leather reached her nostrils.
“It’s a little bit cloudy for a star party,�
� Rusty said.
Mrs. Tobias’s heartbeat quickened. She pinched the tufts of yarn that had come unraveled from her blanket.
“What are we supposed to be looking for?” she asked softly. “Meteor showers?”
“March is a bad month for meteor showers. Leonids-Ursids are in the sky, but they’re hard to see. The big attraction tonight is Saturn’s rings. They’re at maximum tilt toward the earth.”
“Is there anything you don’t know?” Mrs. Tobias asked.
“Yup. There’s certain things that stump me.” Rusty nibbled on a blade of grass. “Like why my best girl ran off from me the other night.”
“That is a puzzler,” Mrs. Tobias said. “I didn’t know the answer myself... until tonight.”
“Care to clue me in?”
Mrs. Tobias looked up at Rusty, who was staring at her with dark, wounded eyes.
“When I left the restaurant that night, I wasn’t running from you; I was running from myself,” she began in a faint voice. “I was turning into someone I didn’t recognize. It frightened me, and I wanted to return to the familiar. Yet when I revisited my old world, the one my late husband cherished, I found I didn’t fit there anymore... Maybe I never did.”
Rusty turned to her, searching her face. “So who are you now, Gracie Tobias?”
“I’m still working on that. Every single day,” she said. “For instance, I know I like star parties—even if I don’t know what to look for—though maybe I’m not crazy about pool halls.” She laughed. “Who would have thought that a sixty-four-year-old woman would be reinventing herself in this way?”
“I wonder.” He paused for a beat. “Is there a part for me in your reinvention?”
“Yes,” she said, finally meeting his eyes. “I think you’re the biggest part of all. I missed you terribly, Rusty. I came tonight hoping you’d be here.”
“I missed you, too,” he said, capturing her hand and giving it a squeeze.
They sat in companionable silence, staring up at the shifting bank of clouds.
“I don’t see Saturn,” Mrs. Tobias said finally. “And I certainly don’t see its rings.”
“You can’t see Saturn’s rings with the naked eye,” Rusty said. “We’d have to look through a telescope. But I think it’s too overcast to see them tonight anyway.”
“What a pity!”
“Saturn’s rings are overrated,” Rusty said. He fingered his collar and spoke in a halting voice. “I was afraid the question I asked you that night at Moretti’s scared you away. You haven’t mentioned it.”
“Question? What question?”
“I wrote it on a piece of paper.” Rusty’s face was cloaked in shadows and she couldn’t see his expression. “The waiter brought it to our table.”
Mrs. Tobias suddenly remembered the slip of paper underneath the covered platter at the restaurant.
“I put it in my pocket,” she began. “There was something written in Italian—” She reached inside the front pocket of her jeans. They were the same ones she’d worn to Moretti’s. “I still have it.”
“There’s writing on both sides,” Rusty said.
She retrieved the slip of paper and unfolded it. Rusty took a lighter from his pocket and illuminated the note.
“Lo sposerete.” She glanced at Rusty. “I thought that meant ‘happy anniversary.’”
“Turn it over for the translation,” he said in a thick voice.
With a flick of her wrist, she turned the paper to the other side.
“Will you marry me?” Mrs. Tobias read. She scarcely recognized the shaky, high-pitched tone that left her lips.
Rusty reached into the pocket of his jacket and extracted a small jewelry box. “I’ve carried this since the night you ran away. It was supposed to go with the question.”
Slowly, with fumbling hands, she opened the box and nearly dropped it when she saw the diamond ring inside.
“Rusty,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
“It can’t compare with Saturn’s.”
“Will you put it on my finger?”
Rusty let out a long exhale of breath. “You mean...?”
“Yes.” She vigorously nodded. “I will marry you.”
“Oh Gracie, I can’t believe it. I had so much hope, but... Dang.” He wiped at the tears coursing down his face. “There I go again. Bawling like a baby.”
Mrs. Tobias took a handkerchief from her purse and blotted his tears. “Don’t worry, my dear Rusty. It’s one of the things I love most about you.”
He smiled and plucked the ring from the box and slid it along her finger.
She held the diamond close to her face, and Rusty reignited his butane lighter so she could see it.
“You’re right,” Mrs. Tobias said. “Compared to this, Saturn’s rings are overrated.”
Thirty-Five
Church Parking Only. Violators will be baptized.
~ Sign in the parking lot of the Rock of Ages Baptist Church
Arm in arm, Mavis and Birdie left the ladies’ room and walked down the locker-lined hall that led to the gymnasium. As they got closer, they heard the plaintive voice of Connie Francis singing, “Who’s Sorry Now?”
“Sounds like they’re playing Brew’s song,” Birdie said with a huff. “I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he sees the two of us heading in his direction.”
Mavis giggled. “Remember what we used to say to people like him in high school? DDT!”
“Drop Dead Twice!” Birdie hooted. She playfully grabbed her friend’s arm. “You tell him, Mavis.”
As they shared a private laugh, Dolores tore out of the gym, her two chins jiggling as she ran. “You won’t believe who’s here,” she announced to no one in particular. “Prissy Stevens! She just pulled up in a white stretch limousine, and she’s inside.”
“I’ll bet she’s tubby, just like Dolores,” Birdie whispered to Mavis. “The pretty ones always go to seed.”
“I admit I’m curious,” Mavis said as they hurried inside.
When they entered the gym they couldn’t even get a glimpse of Prissy. She was surrounded by a crowd of her classmates, all vying for her attention. Finally there was an opening in the crowd, and Birdie and Mavis were able to get a peek.
In high school, Prissy’s most envied feature had been her head of long, wavy hair that had shimmered on her shoulders like a golden veil. The fair hair of her youth was now gone, replaced by a more mature, but still gleaming, silver mane.
She looked every bit as stunning as when she’d been voted homecoming queen in 1959. Her ears and slender neck dripped with diamonds that could scarcely compete with the sparkle of her bright, blue eyes. Dressed in a silk claret-colored cape, she was like a beautiful, plumaged bird.
“Hmmph,” Birdie said. “Can you say ‘plastic surgery’? And what’s with the Little Red Riding Hood getup?”
Mavis could scarcely breathe, she was so taken aback by Prissy’s loveliness. Apparently some people’s stars never dimmed.
The deejay played “It’s All in the Game,” and time seemed to stop.
Prissy cocked her head as if listening to a private melody, and Brew, who’d emerged from the shadows of the gym, tugged at his black bow tie and headed in her direction.
He reached the spot where Prissy was standing and, for a moment, the pair stood motionless staring into each other’s eyes. Then, he held out his hand, and Prissy shyly accepted it.
Brew encircled her waist with his arm and the couple began a slow dance across the freshly waxed gym floor. Prissy’s cape twirled around her feet, making her look as if she were floating on air.
“How beautiful!” Mavis rummaged through her purse for a Kleenex.
“How can you say that?” Birdie demanded. “Brew’s such a jerk.”
“He is a jerk,” Mavis agreed.
“But a very dashing jerk. I never thought I’d say this, but I think he and Prissy belong together.”
Birdie folded her arms across her chest.
“You know what I think? I think he planned this whole reunion on the off-chance she would come.”
“I bet you’re right.” Mavis sighed. “It’s actually very romantic when you think about it.”
“How can you still believe in romance? He used us to get to her,” Birdie said. “I, for one, am done with men.”
“Birdie, you sure look purty,” crooned a male voice directly behind them.
“Morty? Morty Ames,” Birdie said, turning to greet their classmate. “Look at you!”
“I ‘Ames’ to please,” said Morty, appearing at her elbow. “Any chance I can get a dance, Purty Birdie?”
The deejay had replaced the slow number with “Splish, Splash I Was Taking a Bath.”
“I guess so.” Birdie gave him her arm. “If you promise not to step on my feet.”
“I’ll try, Purty, but it’s going to be a trick to avoid those big, old planks of yours,” Morty said, pointing to Birdie’s shoes.
“Morty Ames, you haven’t changed one bit,” Birdie said. Her tone was cross, but she was smiling.
Mavis watched the pair head toward the dance floor. Birdie was right; she was a romantic at heart. Brew’s awful behavior couldn’t change that. Mavis fervently longed for male companionship, but she was also a realist. Maybe she’d never meet the right man. Maybe Arnold would be the one and only love of her life.
She thought about her first date with her late husband and how sweaty his palms had been when he’d held her hand during a showing of Gigi at the Capri. He’d spilled popcorn on her lap and got a terrible case of the hiccups during the love scene when Gaston, the suave French hero, asked Gigi to marry him. Despite Arnold’s awkwardness, Mavis knew after their first date that he was the man for her.
Deep down she’d always known that Brew wasn’t a suitable beau. He was too good-looking, too polished. Mavis had always been attracted to diamonds in the rough, like her dear departed Arnold, perhaps because she was one herself. Her sparkle wasn’t as obvious at Prissy’s, but it was there all the same.
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