The thumping in my chest stopped abruptly. In fact, for a moment I almost thought my heart stopped, but it only sank with disappointment. Why had I gotten my hopes up?
So much had changed in the last months. I didn’t need a man, any man, to be a woman. I knew that now. And I didn’t need Paul. But I wanted him. And I loved him, with all my heart.
When Evelyn and Abigail had lectured me about not settling for less than the real thing, hearts and flowers, roses and chocolates, swept off your feet L-O-V-E, they had been talking about the kind of love I felt for Paul, the genuine article, I knew that now. But just because I felt that way about Paul didn’t mean he felt that way about me. Or maybe he wasn’t ready. His first marriage had been such a bust—maybe he’d never be ready. It was a possibility I had to consider—but only for a moment.
I loved Paul enough to take him as he was, ready for marriage today, tomorrow, or never—there was no one else for me, and by now I knew there never would be. Even so, it was hard to mask my disappointment, but I did. Quitting his job was not something Paul would do lightly. Right now, he needed my listening ear.
“You quit? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You had so much going on,” he said, spreading his hands to take in the pile of cookware still sitting on the floor and the stack of empty boxes in the corner. “I figured I’d wait until today.”
“But … why did you quit? What happened?”
“What happened was the stunt that Geoff Bench pulled with you. I couldn’t do anything about it before because Mr. Baxter, the only one with seniority over Bench, was on an extended trip to Asia when it happened. When he returned, I asked for an appointment to see him, but he kept putting me off. I finally met with him yesterday and told him about Bench’s unethical behavior, but he shrugged it off with a lot of managerial murmuring that didn’t amount to more than ‘boys will be boys.’ So I told him I was going to file a complaint with the state bar.”
“And he fired you?”
Paul shook his head. “Nope. He offered me a promotion and a raise. But only if I agreed not to file a complaint against Bench. So I quit.”
“Oh, Paul. Not over me! You didn’t quit your job because of me.”
“I quit it because I can’t work for people who tolerate unethical behavior. I’m going to hang out my own shingle, specializing in family law and guardianship. Seems to me New Bern could use a few good guardians ad litem. I’ll make less money on my own, but I’ll sleep better at night. That’s why I wanted to talk to your father.”
“About starting your own law firm? But Dad doesn’t know anything about that.”
“No, but he knows a lot about you. And he thinks that it’s more important that your husband be honest than rich. And so,” he said, reaching into his right pocket, “even though my lifestyle is about to be downsized considerably, he said I could ask you to marry me. And before I talked to Werner, I talked to James. All of us think it’s the best idea I’ve ever had.”
He pulled a blue velvet box from his pocket, opened the top, revealing a platinum ring with a single, perfect, princess cut diamond in the center, then sank down on one knee.
“It’s not a fair bargain, of course. I’m sure I won’t make you even half as happy as you’ll make me if you agree to be my wife, but I’ll spend the rest of my life trying. I love you, Margot. I love you and only you, and I always will. Please. Marry me.”
Tears came to my eyes and I didn’t try to keep them back, not this time. Suddenly I was on my knees too, not above him, not below him, but eye to eye and heart to heart, a perfectly matched pair. Worth the wait. So much more than worth the wait.
“Oh, Paul! Oh, yes!”
59
Margot
An unusually wet June with frequent thunderstorms had forced us to postpone Mari’s memorial service until mid-July. But when the day finally came, I knew it had been worth the wait, both because time had given me deeper insight about my sister and because the day was beautiful and the flowers in full bloom.
Abigail had volunteered her garden for the occasion. It was newly landscaped with shrubs of purple hydrangeas and neatly trimmed boxwood hedges that ran like low walls on both sides of a long and lush lawn that led to a rock wall mounted with an espaliered apple tree whose branches stretched out from the trunk like leafy arms. It was a peaceful spot, and when we set up rows of white wooden folding chairs separated by a center aisle, the garden felt sacred and celebratory.
Abigail has been hinting that the garden would make a nice wedding chapel, and she’s right, but Paul and I want to be married in the church, with Philippa officiating. After all, she’s the one who brought us together. We’re thinking about a winter wedding, near Christmas. Maybe even on my birthday. It makes me smile just to think about it. How different my forty-first birthday will be from my fortieth. What a difference a year can make.
Near the podium, we’ve set up an easel with a huge black-and-white photograph of Mari with Olivia on her lap, her eyes radiating love and her lips pursed as she bends forward to kiss her daughter’s upturned face. Olivia had chosen it out of the box of photographs Mari had saved.
Olivia planned nearly every detail of the memorial service. I was just her staff, there to carry out her instructions. Olivia had the final say on the format, setting, songs, and even the menus.
When Olivia was very good, Mari would sometimes reward her by letting her have dessert before dinner. So when guests started arriving, waiters with silver serving trays offered miniature chocolate, strawberry, and caramel sundaes in tiny glass cups to be eaten with demitasse spoons while people milled around, waiting for the service to begin. Afterward, in another section of Abigail’s garden, under a white tent, guests could drink sparkling limeade punch and help themselves to an array of appetizers made by Charlie. There were a few surprises on the menu, including peanut butter and jelly finger sandwiches and macaroni and cheese presented in canapé cubes. These were Charlie’s version of Olivia’s favorites.
When we’d tested the recipes, Olivia declared the macaroni and cheese “almost as good as Mommy’s,” at which point Charlie teared up and Evelyn pulled a packet of tissues out of her purse. “That is the best review I’ve ever received,” he said, blowing his nose. “Nobody’s food can compare to a mother’s. Nobody’s.”
But today, Charlie was all business as he fussed over the food, barely grunting a response when I’d wished him good morning. Evelyn saved a seat for him in the third row on the left, which seemed to be the Cobbled Court Quilts section. Virginia was next to Evelyn, looking very spiffy in a pink suit and white hat with pink and white ribbons around the brim. Ivy was there too, with her children—Bobby was on his third mini sundae and had chocolate smeared around his mouth—and Tessa and Lee, Madelyn, Jake, Wendy, Dana, and a half dozen other friends I knew from the shop who, though they’d never met my sister, had come to lend me their support, which was sweet. But we didn’t need stand-ins to fill the space.
It wasn’t until I looked at Mari’s address book that I realized how many friends she had. Olivia helped me figure out whom I should contact, and those people helped contact others of Mari’s friends whose names didn’t appear in her address book. So many people showed up that Jake Kaminski and Paul had to make another run to the hardware store to get more folding chairs.
What would I have done without him? I asked myself and then smiled. It was the first time I’d asked myself that question, but looking down and catching a glimpse of the diamond on my left hand, I knew it wouldn’t be the last.
Philippa came, but only as a guest. After I found the name of Mari’s minister in her address book, she said it would be more appropriate for him to conduct the service. Philippa sat in the fourth row, behind Evelyn and Charlie, wearing a bright blue maternity dress with capped sleeves, blooming as brightly as any flower in the garden. Since this was a celebration of Mari’s life, not a funeral, we’d requested that no black be worn. Philippa couldn’t even if she’d wanted to—ju
st seven weeks from “launch date” and so big that none of her somber clerical clothes fit anymore.
When it was time to begin, our family took seats in the front row. Paul wasn’t sure if he and James should sit with us, but Dad told him not to be silly. “You’re part of the family now.”
The minister from Mari’s church, John, a small and smiling bearded man, wore a white polo shirt and pressed khakis instead of clerical garb. His ministry style was relaxed and informal, different from the tradition I had been raised in, but our faith was the same. I could see why Mari had been attracted to this caring and accepting congregation. John prayed and gave a short eulogy before inviting others to come forward and share their memories of my sister.
Mari had made a good life for herself in Albany. She was an administrative assistant at the nonprofit rehab center that had finally helped her kick her addictions. That I knew. What I hadn’t known until recently was that she’d also volunteered as a peer counselor to other women trying to get clean. Several came to the memorial, and two got up to speak, saying how, if not for Mari, they would either still be slaves to their drug habit or dead. I teared up when I heard that. When I glanced to my right I saw tears streaming down my father’s face too.
Next to speak was a petite woman, about fifty, with short auburn hair, who wore a white skirt, bright green cardigan, and pearls. Olivia squeezed my hand. “That’s Mrs. Sylvestro! My old kindergarten teacher!” Livie said in an excited stage whisper, waving to her former teacher. Mrs. Sylvestro winked and wiggled her fingers at Olivia.
She talked about Mari as a mother, how she walked Olivia to school every morning and kissed her good-bye at the end of the sidewalk, helped her learn to tie her shoes, served as a chaperone on a class trip to a museum, and sent cupcakes for the class on Olivia’s birthday.
“I remember that!” Olivia exclaimed. “We dyed the coconut pink and put jelly beans on top! Everyone liked them.” Olivia beamed. Mom, who was sitting on Olivia’s other side, sniffled as she reached out to take Olivia’s little hand in hers.
Such simple things—a walk, a kiss, a cupcake—little acts of motherly love that mean the world to a child, things our mother had done for us that Mari had remembered and done for her little girl, things that Olivia would remember always and perhaps do for her children someday. When Mrs. Sylvestro finished speaking, I smiled wetly and mouthed my thanks to her, grateful for the memory.
There were others too, happy memories, funny ones, a story from Mari’s next-door neighbor about how she had to jump-start my sister’s car six times one winter because Mari was forever forgetting to turn off her headlights, another about the elaborate costumes my sister wore when handing out candy to the neighborhood kids on Halloween. One year she’d been a fairy, another time a pirate, another a giraffe, complete with a long neck and headpiece she’d spent weeks crafting from chicken wire and papier-mâché.
And there was another surprise. I knew that Mari had started going back to church after she finished rehab, but I didn’t know she’d played guitar and sung as part of their praise and worship group. The group offered to provide music for the service. Before they sang a four-part arrangement of “Like a River Glorious,” Stephen, a lanky man with a gold earring who sang tenor and played keyboard, spoke of Mari with such tender wistfulness that I wondered if his feelings toward my sister moved beyond brotherly affection. It was nice to think about, but I suppose I’ll never know for sure.
I do know that as the music began, both my father and the tall tenor closed their eyes and struggled to keep singing as tracks of tears coursed down their faces. I prayed for them both, that the regret for whatever they had said or left unsaid, done and left undone, would, in God’s good time, be washed away by the river that flows deeper and fuller day by day, the river of peace.
Afraid of losing control of my emotions, I hadn’t wanted to speak. However, my parents felt someone from the family should say something, and Dad, over my protests, insisted that only I had the right to do so. I’d planned only to share a few anecdotes of Mari’s childhood and then thank everyone for coming. But when I walked to the front, I felt compelled to speak of her incredible courage and fortitude, and lessons her life and death had taught me: that we’re stronger than we think we are, and that it is never too late to begin again.
I didn’t speak for long or with any special eloquence, but I hope whoever needed to hear Mari’s message took it to heart. And I hope that when I face hard times in the future, as I surely shall, I’ll remember that lesson, relearn it if I must, as many times as it takes. If you think about it, we’re all starting over every day. Every time the sun comes up, we get another chance to do wrong, do right, do better. What we do with the chances we have is up to us.
When I finished saying what I had to say, I nodded to Paul. He and James took Olivia’s hands and walked her forward, then stepped aside to pick up their saxophones. Paul’s deep baritone notes blended with James’s brighter alto tones in a poignant and reverent version of “You Are My Sunshine.” I took a white box tied with teal bows out from behind the podium and held it as Olivia pulled at the ribbons, opening the lid of the box, and releasing the fifty butterflies inside.
The crowd breathed a collective “Ah” of delight and lifted their faces toward the sun as the butterflies, impatient with their captivity and eager to begin the journey, rose as one in a cloud of orange and black fluttering wings into the bright summer sky, higher and higher and higher still, to the treetops and above, to the home they’d never seen but instinctively knew they must return to, to the far horizon that is within reach but beyond sight.
Olivia tipped her head back, watching the butterflies for as long as she could. When there was only one left in view, she leaned her little body into mine, resting against me, and lifted her hand skyward.
“Good-bye! Have a good trip!”
A tear fell from my eye, the last I would shed for my sister. The time for tears had passed. Mari had no use for tears and no memory of them, not anymore. It was a new day, another chance. I put my arm around Olivia and pulled her closer as the last flutter of orange disappeared in the bright light of the summer sun.
“Good-bye,” I whispered. “Good-bye.”
60
Margot
When the service was over, people rose from their chairs and began milling about the garden, talking to one another, admiring the flowers, drifting toward the white tent where food and drink were waiting. Olivia skipped off to find her old teacher, Mrs. Sylvestro. My parents talked to John, the minister. Paul gave me a hug and a kiss and asked if I needed anything before getting involved in an impromptu jam session with Stephen and a couple of the other musicians. Evelyn came toward me with Virginia, Ivy, and Abigail on her heels and offered me a tissue.
“No, thanks. I’m fine. It was nice, wasn’t it?”
“Nice!” Abigail scoffed. “What do you mean? It was a perfectly lovely service. Very moving.”
Evelyn nodded in agreement. “Your sister was quite a woman. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet her.”
“So am I. You’d have liked her.”
Olivia, her Mary Janes tossed aside, came running barefoot across the grass and shouting, “Auntie Evelyn, Uncle Charlie says he needs help serving the punch!”
“Okay, Olivia. Tell him I’ll be right there.”
Grinning, Olivia turned around and headed back toward the tent to deliver the message. When she did, I noticed a grass stain on the back of her pink skirt. Already? She hadn’t been out of my sight for three minutes. I wondered if I’d be able to get it out. Or find where she’d left her shoes.
Abigail put her hand on my shoulder. “It really was lovely, Margot. I think your sister would have been pleased.”
“I hope so. Thank you again for letting us use the garden. It’s so pretty.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Abigail replied, looking around. “Turned out very well, I think. Are you sure you don’t want to have the wedding here? I’d be perfectly will
ing to help you plan the ceremony. I still have contact information for caterers and such from when I was planning Liza’s wedding.”
Ivy, who had been standing by silently, guffawed. She remembered, as we all did, what happened when Abigail took over, basically by force, the planning of her niece’s wedding.
Abigail jerked her chin and turned sharply toward Ivy. “What are you laughing at? It wasn’t my fault that Liza—”
Evelyn grabbed her arm. “Abigail, I need help serving the punch. Mom? Ivy? You come too. Margot has other people to talk to, and I’m sure Charlie has jobs for everyone.”
Evelyn gave me a wink before herding the others across the lawn and into the tent. Abigail’s head was bobbing and her fingers kept pointing at Ivy. They were out of earshot, but I was pretty sure I knew what she was saying.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Bob and Sharon Tucker as well as Philippa. I tried to give her a hug, but her belly was protruding so prominently from her tiny frame that it ended up being more of a thump on the back.
“Well,” I laughed, looking down at the bump, “I see things are coming along fine. Thanks for coming all this way, Philippa. It’s so good to see you. We’re all counting the days till you’re back in New Bern.”
“Me too. Wouldn’t have missed it for anything. It was a beautiful service, Margot. Just beautiful. Be sure to tell Olivia I said so.”
“She’s over there somewhere,” I said, motioning toward the tent. “I think Charlie has made her his personal assistant. Or she’s made him hers. I’m not sure. But you can tell her yourself.”
“I wish I could,” she said with an apologetic shrug, “but I have to get going.”
“So soon? You can’t! Everyone will want to see you. And Charlie will throw a fit if you go before trying his appetizers.”
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