When Andrew had returned from the store, his mood had brightened. He’d tossed her a pack of Freshen Up gum and a kiss, and they’d caught a cab to La Guardia.
“Next!”
They approached the attendant together.
“Itinerary and driver’s licenses, please,” she said.
Andrew reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and fished for his license. Amy froze with her hand in her unzipped carry-on. His license was the same. The same crackled edges, the same picture with his head tipped to the side just a tiny bit, the same peeling ORGAN DONOR sticker in red. His license was the same as before the mugging. Then she noticed the gently worn stitches of the leather wallet, a slightly faded black; it was thick with cards and receipts and had shiny spots where it bulged.
“You have your wallet,” she blurted out.
“What? Oh. Yeah, the police found it. The guys dumped it, just took the cash,” Andrew explained, lifting his luggage onto the stand beside the clerk. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you.”
Amy’s forehead wrinkled and she looked down to resume digging for her own license. She handed it to the clerk, who glanced between her photo and her face, returned the ID, then turned her back to put stickers on their luggage handles.
It’s not very likely that he would get his wallet back, she thought, in reporter mode. Did he make up the whole thing? But why would he invent a story? Amy felt the questions whirl; small doubts she’d pushed deep crept their way out.
“Gate E,” the airline agent said, and pointed with the boarding passes in her hand. “Have fun, Saint John is a beautiful place for a honeymoon.”
Andrew thanked her with exaggerated friendliness, and Amy forced a smile as they headed toward the security line.
“Honeymoon? What made her think that?” Amy blew a dismissive breath through her lips. Andrew took her hand, free from extra luggage. She left her hand passively in his, questioning her suspiciousness, rattled by the swirl of feelings.
“Maybe we’ll end up having our honeymoon there someday,” he said with a wink. “I’m sorry I’ve been a little testy. I didn’t get that new position I was hoping for, they gave it to some guy from Goldman.”
“Oh, Drew, I’m sorry.” Ah, that explains a lot.
“I’ve never been passed over for something like this, for something that I wanted so badly.”
She squeezed his hand supportively, unsure of how to help him and thinking of his mother’s words: He’s too accustomed to things orbiting around him and going his way.
They passed a newsstand and the thick issue of Brides magazine caught her eye. She sighed, anticipating the day when she could buy those magazines and plan her dream wedding.
“THIS PLACE IS AMAZING,” Amy said, throwing open the balcony doors and breathing in the salty island air. “Let’s get into bathing suits,” she added, already stripping.
The sheer curtains ruffled as the breeze welcomed them. Andrew slid his arm around her bare waist, a finger under her chin, and gave her a sensuous kiss full of expectation. He led her to the bed, leaned back into the white feathery covering, and pulled her down on top of him. Amy responded to his touch, savored the passionate kissing. Their kisses at home had become rote, ordinary daily pecks, and Amy missed the drawn-out, soap-opera-style kissing sessions that used to go on forever. She helped him take off his clothes, then threaded her fingers behind his head and clenched his golden hair into her fists.
Everything felt new again, experimental with the excitement of discovery. Each touch was startling and electric. She quivered with the flutter of his fingers and spread her thighs wide, inviting more. Andrew was her movie star, her hero who knew all the right things to do.
They were eager yet patient, taking each other to the edge then retreating, leaving them with sumptuous yearning until the ecstasy of friction, skin against skin, hips against hips, made Amy cry out as Andrew trembled and stiffened and collapsed to her side.
“I love you, Aim,” he murmured as they began their vacation.
“WEAR THAT WHITE DRESS I like,” Andrew requested as Amy browsed her choices, clinking the hangers in the closet. “I made reservations at Anna’s for tonight.” He stood behind her and hugged her to him, sprinkling her neck with kisses.
“That expensive place overlooking Cruz Bay? What’s the occasion?”
Andrew answered with more kisses along the tan lines on her shoulders from four days in a bikini.
Amy giggled. “You’re all salty.” She let the drips from her clean hair wash away the beach again. The fluffy towel slipped lower. She retucked its edge at her armpit and held up the simple white cotton dress, slim with skinny straps.
“This one?”
“Mmm,” he answered, wiggling out of his bathing suit and revealing his approval. He flicked the bathing suit with his foot to his hand and hung it on a bathroom hook before stepping into the shower.
Amy chuckled, heady with the sensation of falling in love.
THE SKY GLEAMED ORANGE and pink, casting glitter over the turquoise Caribbean waters. Amy shifted in the chair and turned to look over her shoulder, watching the sunset like a child watching a butterfly land on her wrist. Her body felt heavy with relaxation, her heart light with content. The week together in paradise had stirred old feelings and reignited something between them.
“To us!” Andrew’s voice pulled Amy back to him. “To us and our future.”
Amy lifted her glass to meet his, smiling. He looked beyond her to the horizon and she gazed at his face; every curve and speckle was familiar. She had touched every spot of his smooth skin, knew his taste and his smell. She was his and he was hers.
“I want you to be my wife, Aim, we’re good together,” he said and swallowed hard. “We’re good together, aren’t we?”
“Yes. We are.” She glanced around. He wasn’t reaching for anything: one hand was on his glass, the other in her hand. There was no small box in sight. Amy glimpsed the bottom of her wineglass—maybe he’d slipped the ring in there while she was staring at the sunset. She sipped carefully and checked the glass with every taste, even as it was clear there was only white wine in the crystal.
Appetizers were served, the most elegant presentation Amy had ever seen. When the entrées were presented, she noticed every detail, took in the scents of the food and admired the way they looked like art on the canvas of the plates. She observed Andrew’s actions with fervor and kept her eye on their waiter for clues. Before dessert, she excused herself to the ladies’ room.
Amy examined her reflection in the mirror and patted some pink into her tanned cheeks. He wants me to be his wife, she thought, he’s never said that before. In all the times they’d talked about getting married, he had never used the word “wife.” It felt different to her and the word swam like a goldfish in her heart. She slid the wand of gloss over her lips and pressed them together before she went back to Andrew.
The table was cleared, the signs of a meal swept away. She scanned the table, bare but for teacups and fresh utensils. Her napkin had been refolded and placed at her seat. Andrew was looking at the dessert menu as she pulled out her chair across from him.
“Want something?” he asked, peering above the menu. “Should we share the mango cheesecake?”
“Um, sure, that sounds good.” She would have preferred the chocolate mousse, always her favorite, but thinking that maybe the cheesecake was part of his plan, she agreed.
The waiter placed the rich slice, drizzled with a mango coulis, between them. Andrew pushed the plate closer to Amy and picked up his fork.
“Go ahead, Aim, it’s your favorite,” he said with his hand hovering over the cake, waiting for her to take the first taste.
This is it, Amy thought. She grasped her fork, touched the tips of the tines to the creamy triangle, and pressed through the wedge slowly, carefully, like an archaeologist excavating a fossil. Her fork slid through the smooth cake and hit the plate. She let the fork’s handle drop into the crook
of her hand, then placed the bite into her mouth. Just in case, she pushed her tongue through the sweetness, then swallowed down the cake. She stuck her fork in again, poking in two places before scooping some up. Her heart fluttered as Andrew took bites from the other end of the cake. He’s avoiding the ring. When the last piece, streaked with fork marks, sat on the plate, she noticed the giddy tremble in her chest had vanished, leaving her heart still.
WHILE ANDREW WAITED AT the carousel for their baggage, Amy said, “I’m going to call Veronica.”
“What? Now? We just landed, can’t it wait?”
“It’ll only be a minute—I told her I’d call when we got back.” Amy weaved her way between travelers to the pay phones.
On the third ring, Veronica answered.
“It’s me.”
“Where are you? What happened? Did he propose? Are you engaged?”
“I don’t know. I mean, no. No.” Amy’s voice was soft.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he arranged this amazing dinner at a fancy place with a table overlooking the water and the sunset. He even picked out what he wanted me to wear and he told me that he wanted me to be his wife.”
“Oh my God, Amy, that’s great. But then, what do you mean you don’t know?”
“He never actually asked me to be his wife. And no ring. He didn’t give me a ring.”
The line was silent. Amy waited for Veronica to say something, to explain this to her, to make her feel better.
“Veronica?”
“I’m here,” she whispered. “Did you ask him about it?”
“I couldn’t even talk at first, but he kept asking me what was wrong, like he didn’t even get it. Finally I told him I thought he was proposing, but he just said what he always says, ‘Someday.’ He hugged me and explained how he’s putting in all these hours at work to move up, that now isn’t a good time, that we’re still too young. He just missed out on a promotion so he’s really stressed. He gave me all these reasons, and I know they make sense, but I’m tired of waiting for ‘someday.’” Amy’s words came out with her tears. “I was more disappointed than I thought I could be. I’d gotten engagement into my head and all week everything was incredible. We had an awesome time; it was like we were the perfect couple on the perfect vacation. Everything was perfect except”—Amy lifted the edge of her shirt and dabbed at her eyes—“except no ring.”
“YOU’D HATE IT,” VERONICA SAID, smoothing another dress into her weekend bag. “It’ll just be all of my parents’ friends and their boring small talk. They host this garden party every August and it’s tedious. I don’t even want to go.” She sat beside Joey on her bed and laid her hand on his thigh; his faded Levi’s button-fly jeans felt smooth on her palm. He leaned against the headboard, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his hands folded over his chest.
“You don’t really want to come, do you? I’ll only be gone two nights, it’ll give you some time to help your mom with her tomato plants,” Veronica continued, filling the silence. “She’ll be so happy to have your help staking them, and you’ve been meaning to get out there to help your dad with—”
“Just stop, Veronica. Stop making me the reason you’re going without me.” Joey stood up and kissed her cheek. “I don’t know what’s going on, but this isn’t about what’s best for me. Be safe, I love you.”
Veronica watched him leave her room, heard him say goodbye to her roommate, Chelsea, and startled at the sound of the door clicking behind him.
THE TRAIN RATTLED ON, whooshing past Connecticut towns and finally into Rhode Island. Every seat was filled with people heading out of New York for the late-summer weekend. Veronica stared out the window. Her book lay closed on her lap, the bookmark unmoved. Absently, she fanned the corners of the pages and pictured Joey’s old Eldorado pulling into her parents’ driveway. It didn’t matter that it was clean and polished. She shook her head to herself and bit her lip at the image.
She grabbed a taxi at the station to get to Newport without interrupting her parents, who were preparing for the party: managing caterers, directing tent builders, and overseeing florists. The cab rolled toward her childhood home. The trees along both sides of the driveway were filled with men on ladders stringing white lights, and the grand house stood before them.
“Whoa, you live here? This is some place,” the driver commented with a whistle.
“It’s my parents’ house,” she said, seeing her old home as an outsider. It was an impressive property with everything manicured and flowered to perfection.
The driver jumped out to open the trunk. He laid Veronica’s bag on the walkway and lingered, waiting for payment, as the front door burst open and Gerald Warren’s big personality and tall stature bounded down the stairs to greet his daughter.
“You made it.” He pulled Veronica into an embrace for a moment before reaching into his pocket to hand the driver the fare and a generous tip then returning his attention to his daughter.
“Wait until you see what your mother’s been up to this time.” He grinned, pulling her into their conspiratorial tradition of teasing Susan Warren about her grand entertaining style.
Veronica sighed and took what felt like her first breath since leaving the city.
VERONICA SETTLED INTO HER childhood bedroom, redecorated from the jarring turquoise color she chose in high school to a more mature sage accented with creams and a calming gray blue. For the first time, she realized what a sacrifice it had been for her mother to allow her to pick that terrible aqua that Veronica had loved. She felt a softness toward her mother, a woman who, after Henry’s death, redoubled her philanthropic efforts and was constantly volunteering and raising money for Reye’s awareness and other worthy causes, if often leaving Veronica to grow up and figure things out on her own.
Susan Warren was good at communicating what she expected of a Warren offspring, but she struggled at being fully present and available. Veronica was organized and mature and rose to the occasion as best as a teenager could. Being a levelheaded realist, she knew her mother loved her, and though it stung, Veronica knew her mother was staying afloat by keeping herself busy in the wake of losing Henry. All those years had passed and she was still busily fundraising.
“Sweetie, Daddy said you’d arrived.” Veronica’s mother swept into her room. She held her daughter’s shoulder and kissed her cheek. A coral Chanel lip print marked the spot. “We’ll have a little dinner on the veranda, then you’ll help me set up the gift bags.”
“Of course, Mom.”
Her mother turned to leave the room.
“Mom,” Veronica said softly. Her mother stopped and turned back to face her. “Mom, what would you think if . . .”
“What is it, honey?” She stepped closer.
Veronica took a deep breath. Her gaze followed the delicate handwoven pattern in the silk rug beneath her feet. Hiding the truth about Joey was pulling her away from him and away from her parents. The leaves on the rug tangled into vines where ivory-colored birds perched. In the pattern, only one bird was flying; the others stood still, never venturing from solid footing.
“What would you and Dad think if I brought a boyfriend home?” She lifted one foot from the branch.
“Well, that would be lovely, Veronica.” Her mother’s eyes sparkled and she held her hands together at her chin. “You have a boyfriend? Does he work on Wall Street? Oh, I bet he’s so handsome in his suit and tie. Where is he from? What do his parents do?”
“I’m not saying I have a boyfriend, Mom, I’m just asking what you’d think of me bringing someone home.” Veronica closed her wings and put her foot back on the woody vine.
“Well, it would be wonderful. You know, we’ve already been to three weddings of our friends’ children just this year. The good ones are getting scooped up, Veronica. Maybe you’ll meet some of the single boys at the party tomorrow. I can make some calls . . .”
“No, Mom, please don’t, I’m fine,” Veronica whispered, “I’m fine.”
> VERONICA HOPPED OUT OF the shower and reexamined the tea-length floral dress she’d draped on the bed. It had tailored short sleeves and a scooped neck, though not scooped enough to expose her collarbones. Her low-heeled shoes sat on the floor beneath, and the matching jewelry rested beside it on the matelassé coverlet. It looked like something her mother would wear: too mature, too staid, too proper, even for a Newport garden party. She pulled her weekend bag back out of the closet. She’d unpacked everything except the new dress Amy insisted she buy. Veronica was hesitant about it, but Amy assured her that it was flattering and in style, saying, “Get out of your comfort zone and don’t be afraid to show a little shoulder, V.” Easy for her to say with those skinny shoulders, she thought lightheartedly.
Veronica shook out the long satin slip dress, the emerald-green fabric floating on the air. She pulled the dress over her head. With only a wiggle, it slid down her curvy body and fell into place. The bias cut accented her full chest and slimmed her hips. Veronica let a smile escape and spun in front of the mirror. She opened the hidden drawer in her dresser and retrieved the diamond tennis bracelet, a graduation gift from her parents that she chose not to bring to New York. She clasped it on to her wrist, ran her fingers through her curls, and slipped into heeled silver sandals.
“Okay, here goes. I’m stepping out of my box, Amy,” she said aloud to her friend states away, and she ventured to the backyard to join the first guests.
Susan Warren waved to her from across the stone patio. She raised her eyebrows at her daughter for a flash of a second, then recovered with a pleasant look as Veronica approached.
“Honey, this is Hugh Curtis, your father’s accountant, his wife, Jane, and their son, Ian,” she introduced.
Ian and Veronica smiled at each other. “We’ve met,” they said together.
“You introduced us Thanksgiving break years ago,” Veronica said, nudging her mother’s memory. “And we’ve hung out a bunch of times since then.”
“Oh, lovely, you two can catch up,” her mother said obliviously, turning to the Curtises, chatting away as she held a hand on Jane’s back and headed toward the white-clothed garden bar.
Forks, Knives, and Spoons Page 22