This was the moment she’d waited for: the moment when she, now girded with just enough champagne to shore up bravery, could tell him her wish.
“You know, it’s my birthday tonight.”
“What, really? Why didn’t you say so before?”
“Well, technically it’s not for”—she checked her watch—“two more minutes. At the stroke of midnight, I’ll turn nineteen. And I have a birthday wish, too.”
“Do you, now? Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”
“I did have two wishes,” she said, feeling somehow bold and shy at once. “I got the first one already.”
“Which was?”
“To get invited to this party.”
He nodded. “And the second?”
The buzz of the party grew louder and she looked behind them, into the house. “I think they’re about to count down.”
“I think so,” Mitch said. He set the bottle in the snow.
“Do you want to—?” She inclined her head toward inside.
“No.” He took her hands in both of his. “I’m glad you came tonight, Harmony Blue. To be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to the party until Mom said she’d invited you.”
“Come on,” she said, heat rising from her neck to her cheeks.
“I mean it. I know it’s complicated.” He’d looked past her, into the night. “But you …” He smiled and shook his head.
Chanting from inside told them that midnight was only moments away. Together, they counted down with the crowd, eyes locked, snow falling mere inches away from them.
“Happy New Year,” she said, at the same time Mitch said, “Happy Birthday.” He drew her in, closing the space between them, closing his eyes. She closed hers, too.
They kissed, a sweet, tentative first kiss. “That was my second wish,” she said.
He’d nodded, looking pleased with himself, with the moment, with her confession. “I guessed.”
She asked, “Now what?”
“Now …” He looked uncertain, but then he said, “Now, we have some more champagne.”
Blue was smiling at the memory when Lila Shefford arrived and let herself in the gate. Blue stood up to greet her. “Hello—thank you for dropping everything to do this today. I believe it’s the start of something very good for me.”
11
itch loved his parents’ house, with its wide-open rooms and towering ceilings designed to help cool the space during those long, hot days before central air-conditioning. Ceiling fans turned lazily in every room. He laid the dining table with the “good” china, a set of delicate white stoneware featuring hand-painted oleander blooms and branches, thinking of how the place never failed to remind him of Casablanca. He loved the film; wasn’t Bogart’s Rick Blaine a real Hemingway sort of hero? The night after he’d split with Blue he’d gone home and watched Casablanca on tape, consoling himself with assurances that he, like Rick, had made a noble sacrifice for the benefit of a good woman. He’d drunk scotch and, when the movie ended, fallen asleep on the couch musing about a fantasy meeting of himself, Hemingway, and Bogart knocking back drinks at a little Chicago bar he’d liked to frequent at the time.
His mother joined him in the dining room. “Thank you for getting this going. Where’s Brenda?” she asked.
“She volunteered to take the baby for a walk while the girls, as you call them, get ready to come over.”
“Nice of her. She’s a giver, isn’t she?”
“She is,” he said, not keen to discuss her just now. His reaction at seeing Blue had put her off a bit—understandably. After they’d helped put away the groceries, Brenda had drawn him into the hallway and asked him whether there was more to that than surprise. He’d told the truth: there was not. How could there be?
So rather than continuing on the Brenda subject line, he told his mother, “You look great.” Which she did. She wore lavender silk pants and a sleeveless white blouse, silver hoops at her ears and a silver cuff on her right wrist. She’d turned seventy-seven on her last birthday, but her gently lined face looked ten years younger. Her hair had gone pure white over the last few years and she’d left it that way, declaring that it set off her silver jewelry much better than the dyed blonde look she’d worn for so long. She was barefoot.
“Thanks. You clean up nice yourself—I like you in blue. Which, speaking of blue: Dad tells me you saw Blue Reynolds on Front Street.”
“We did,” Mitch said, marveling at the way his mother’s mind worked. Vibrant, everyone called her. Nothing escaped her notice or her interest, and was often recalled through associations, the way she’d just done. Earlier, Brenda’s chin-length hairstyle had reminded her of a story about a dress she’d bought in 1974.
“You should’ve stopped.”
He had. Sort of. “I guess … but, we had groceries, and, you know, I’m sure people bother her all the time.”
“You’re not exactly ‘people.’ I’ll bet she’d be glad to know you’re here. The Paradise says they’re all staying at the Ocean Key—why don’t you call?”
“And say what?”
“Well, I’ve found that hello often works, to start.”
When he was dating Blue, his parents had been aware of his relationship but elected to keep out of it. The only advice he’d gotten from them was, “Think about the trouble you’ve had with Renee,” which could have meant Don’t get Harmony Blue pregnant, too, or it might have meant Protect Harmony Blue from that mess. He’d finally decided it meant both. After he’d broken things off, they’d accepted his decision without much discussion—until a day later when Blue quit her job without notice and disappeared. Then his mother had grilled him, and what could he say? Blue had seemed to take the break-up with admirable composure. None of Renee’s histrionics—which was a relief, but which also made him doubt his decision long after it was too late to do anything further about it.
He was teaching at Carolina when his mom called one day, maybe two years after, and said she’d seen Blue doing a brief on-the-scene report for the WLVC-TV news. “So she’s fine,” he’d said, glad to know things had turned out well for her, and his mother had answered, “So it seems.”
Now she straightened a place setting. “Isn’t it interesting that Blue’s never been married?”
He thought so. Everyone thought so. Late-show hosts often speculated about it: she was the female George Clooney, they said—among other less charitable things. He said, “You’re not imagining that has anything to do with me?”
“No,” she laughed, “I may read the occasional romance, but I am pretty sure that a woman like Harmony Blue has not remained single for two decades because she’s pining for some man. Even a man as wonderful as my only son.”
“Thanks—I think.” She must be right. To imagine otherwise would take more hubris than he’d ever had. He did wonder, though, what kept Blue from committing, given that she’d once been a believer. The moment he’d made the decision to end things, he’d prayed that Blue would quickly find a better fit than he’d been, trusted that she would. She’d been a girl who deserved much better than she got.
“Well, maybe she has someone,” he said, “and it just hasn’t made the gossip pages. Maybe she’s really discreet.”
His mother shook her head. “What you don’t know about the entertainment world. But you’d better learn, if you’re going to succeed with Literary Lions. You should call her. I would do it myself, but I don’t want to make either of you uncomfortable. Call her. Reconnect. I’ll bet she knows all kinds of people. She could open doors.”
“I can open my own doors, thanks. I’m not going to call her just because we both happen to be here in town at the same time.”
“You, my darling, favorite son, are a hopeless businessman. You have to take the opportunities providence tosses in your path.”
Mitch let her comment go unanswered. Providence had not been all that good to him, or not, at any rate, in the ways that mattered most.
“What a lif
e she must lead,” his mother went on, taking crystal water goblets from the hutch that flanked the table. “She’s successful, she’s beautiful, but think of the effort it must take to stay looking like she does, especially as she gets further into her forties. Little wonder young women are so troubled these days. They’re under such pressure to measure up to Blue and women like her—to appear to do everything perfectly, to look perfect, to overachieve … I’m relieved that neither you nor I ever had to raise daughters.”
Mitch had to laugh. “Mom, you epitomize the do-it-all beautiful, successful, perfect woman.”
She went around to Mitch’s side of the table and kissed his cheek. “I’m flattered you think so, but listen, there’s a difference: I always dressed and acted the ways I did because I wanted to, because it was ‘me.’ And I chose my career because I loved the work, and I was good at it—and because your father is so wonderfully domestic that I trusted him with the household stuff. I never felt like I had to do anything except be myself.”
“And you’ve done an admirable job of it. So,” he said, “is there anything else I can help with?”
She surveyed the table. “No, I think we’re good. Enjoy the peace while it lasts.”
He went into the den, intending to do as she said. This den had none of the woodsy, masculine character of the one in his childhood home, but it was every bit as welcoming. A round floral rug covered the whitewashed wood floor and anchored the rattan furniture. The walls held shelves filled with souvenirs of the sea: starfish, sea biscuits, conches so large you could lose a small dog inside them … and there were photos, some of which shamed him, though he never let on. They were in many cases photographs of Julian—with Mitch’s father, piloting the thirty-foot cabin cruiser he and Julian restored during the four years Julian lived with them, for instance—or by Julian, some of which had appeared in national magazines like Newsweek and Audubon and National Geographic. The professional work, these wonderful, remarkable photos of orphans, of landscapes and birds, would not exist if he had succeeded in raising Julian the way he’d wanted to. He’d had in mind a bookish fellow who would share his passions—as smart as Julian was, maybe even a Literary Lion-to-be. He’d been unwilling to believe Julian genuinely wanted something different, and for this he owed his son an apology, long overdue.
Soon, Brenda and the neighbors came in, and the house was buzzing with the voices of women, their conversation peppered with the occasional declarative “Ha!” that Annabelle, Lori and Kira’s daughter—fourteen months old, he learned—was enamored with just now. Annabelle toddled from one cupboard door to the next, opening each, then closing it, then opening it again, apparently delighted with the activity as much as the contents.
“What will they do when she’s old enough to talk?” he asked Brenda as the two of them carried platters into the dining room.
“What do you mean?”
“Which one is ‘mom’? And what will she call the other one?”
Brenda laughed. “I don’t know. Ask them. They’ll tell you anything—everything, in fact, that you could want to know. Did you know, for example, that Kira has a doctorate in electrical engineering, but since moving here she’s decided to try professional photography?”
“She’ll get on well with Julian, then.”
Brenda looked at him with concern. “I hope you will, too.”
“I’m doing what I can. I brought him on to my project, didn’t I?”
“You did, but you two haven’t talked about anything of substance—unless you’ve forgotten to mention it to me.”
He shook his head. “No. He’s busy. I’m busy. We’ll deal with all that when we’re here in the fall.” She gave him her raised-eyebrow look and he said, “Let’s not worry about it right now.”
The doorbell chimed. “I’ll get it,” he called to his mother. “Are you expecting a delivery?” Since his dad’s stroke they’d been using a do-it-all service, for cleaning and errands and, in his father’s case, the occasional whim for crab-and-avocado-cream ceviche, when his mother was out and his father could cheat a little on his usual low-fat diet.
When he opened the door, there was Blue Reynolds.
Her expression was as naked with surprise as his must be. Her recovery, however, was quicker. She said, “Well, Mitch Forrester, I had no idea you were here.”
“I—yes—it’s spring break. I’m visiting my parents.”
She nodded. “So I see.”
She must also see, now, that he was at a complete loss as to what to do next. “I—you look great,” he managed.
“Thank you.” She glanced away, her embarrassed smile making her look so much like the Harmony Blue who had charmed him so thoroughly. “Time’s been pretty good to you too,” she said.
“Yeah? I … thanks.” He stared. “We heard you were going to be in town, but I’m just so surprised to see you here.”
“Oh.” She appeared suddenly worried. “I was told that Daniel called my hotel and invited me to join him and your mother—” She looked past him into the house, where a quick glance over his shoulder told him they were being observed by Brenda and Lori, and the baby, now holding tight to Lori’s leg. Blue said, “Along with a few other guests, I see, for dinner.”
His father, lord. The man hadn’t said a word—had forgotten, maybe, that he’d extended the invitation. Or had deliberately failed to confess it.
“Okay. Sure. That explains it then. He didn’t say.” Realizing he was still blocking the doorway, Mitch stepped backward. “Please, come in.” She did, and he turned to introduce her. “This,” he pointed, “is Brenda McCallum, and then this is Lori—I’m sorry Lori, I don’t know your last name—”
“Goldberg,” Lori said, her eyes as wide as her daughter’s just now.
“Goldberg,” he echoed. “She lives next door—that’s her daughter Annabelle, and her, er, partner, Kira …”
“Moreno,” Kira called from the kitchen doorway, where she and his parents now stood.
Blue stared at Annabelle as if the child was a novelty, her expression curious but also hesitant. Then, abruptly, she looked up at the women as though remembering there were others present. “Hi,” she said simply. “I’m Blue Reynolds.”
The gathering took on the feel of a party, something like a conference after-celebration where the esteemed guest elected to come out to the bar with the devoted attendees. It was tough to be subdued and natural while feeling awestruck, so no one tried. Instead, they grouped together in the kitchen and smiled and laughed about everything Blue said—though it wasn’t a lot, and stared when they thought they wouldn’t be caught at it. Even Mitch could not help feeling dazed. This dinner party, her presence in this kitchen, in this house, in this town—it was all so vivid and yet so unreal.
His father brought up some crisis on yesterday’s show, something about Blue crying over a guest’s emotional outburst. “That poor girl got the better of a lot of us,” his father said.
Blue twisted her wineglass where it sat on the counter in front of her. “It was the end of a long week—”
“And your poor old dog!” Lori said.
“My dog—? Oh. Oh, yes, my poor old dog. My pets mean so much to me. I just don’t always show it so openly.” Lori patted her arm in solidarity and Blue said, “Tell me, does little Annabelle here have any furry companions at home?”
When they’d finished off a good amount of wine and all the fruit, they made their way to the dining room. His mother, beaming like a proud parent, sat at Blue’s right and said, for at least the second time, “I can’t believe Daniel invited you without telling me!”
“And I almost didn’t make it,” Blue said. “This is crazy, but…” She proceeded to tell them how she’d found the house and decided to make on offer almost on the spot. “Well, not really an offer,” she laughed, “more like a plea—’I have to have this house,’ I said. Really, I must seem insane.” A chorus of protests followed. “No,” she said, “it is pretty odd. I’m not impetuous�
�in my line of work, impetuosity can get you into a lot of trouble.”
Kira and Lori agreed, citing several notable examples of celebrity catastrophes before Lori stopped mid-sentence to say, “Oh—I hope we didn’t just trash any of your friends!”
“Tell us about the house,” Kira said. “I bet it’s that two-acre walled estate, am I right? The one that looks like a little Taj Mahal?”
“Or the oceanfront Victorian,” Lori guessed. “God, I wish we could have afforded that one.”
Blue was shaking her head. “No, neither. It’s just a little cottage with this wonderful yard, maybe a quarter-mile from here.”
The pair stared at her, perplexed, while Mitch’s father stood up with wineglass in hand and said, “We’re practically neighbors, then.” He raised his glass. “Welcome—”
“… to the Conch Republic!” chimed all the women, except non-resident Brenda, who sat looking bemused.
Ah, Brenda. She hadn’t moved from his side since Blue’s arrival, and seemed to be watching him closely. Not that he was doing anything wrong—why would he? That he still found Harmony Blue—Blue— attractive and was enjoying being around her did not mean he was going to ditch Brenda and attempt to win back Blue. If that was what was in Brenda’s head, she was letting her imagination carry her off.
That said, he might slow down his wine intake in case his own imagination was inclined to travel the same path.
Brenda raised her glass. “To new beginnings.”
Likely she was as fascinated by Blue as the neighbors were, which made him feel a little freer about his own reaction to having Blue six feet away. She was still Harmony Blue Kucharski; her mannerisms—the way she lasered her attention on whoever was speaking, for example—hadn’t changed. No question, however, that she was also a great deal more than the girl she’d been when he knew her. Watching her, he understood more clearly than ever the term larger than life.
After the topic of conversation had turned to how full they all were, they cleared the table and then settled in the den, where Brenda spoke up with a question he suspected had been on her tongue since Blue arrived.
Reunion Page 11