She sighed heavily again. “As twisted as it is, I think it’s going to work.”
“What is?” Mom asked.
“This ridiculous little game Lauren and Kyle are playing.” Sally shook her head. “I want to be with Doug and be happy—”
“But you can’t,” Mom said.
Sally shook her head and, in a near whisper, said, “I’m so desperately in love with Kyle.”
In spite of the terrible circumstances, I smiled. It made me happy to know that, even after all these years, Kyle could make Sally feel like a desperate schoolgirl in love. Because I never wanted that feeling to end with Ben.
I had always thought of my aunt Lauren as the villain of our family and, trust me, I thought what she was doing was evil. But maybe her intentions were the purest of all of us. Instead of letting Sally hem and haw and finish off her life unsettled and unsatisfied, she was pushing her to choose the man she knew had been first in her sister’s heart all along.
I looked at Mom, “Did you know about this?”
She shook her head.
Then, to Sally: “Did Lauren?”
Sally shook her head. “I’m assuming that Kyle told her.”
“Seems like a pretty risky move,” I said.
Sally’s face was suddenly wrought with horror. “Oh my gosh,” she said. “She does know, right? I mean, they aren’t actually dating? This is just a game.” She looked down at her hands and whispered, “Isn’t it?”
Mom reached over and patted her hand reassuringly. “Lauren is tough. No doubt about that. But the thing about her strength is that she uses it on those who are trying to hurt the people she loves. She would never turn on us.” She paused. “We’re sisters.”
I shook my head. “Seems like a pretty risky move all the same.”
Then, as my phone beeped with yet another text from Holden, Mom said, “You, of all people, should understand the crazy lengths people will go to for love.”
Lovey
Rather Serious
July 1951
No matter how you feel, when a man takes you out on a date, you act polite, gracious and warm. Sometimes, following Momma’s advice took more effort than others. All I could think about that night, in the most perfectly manicured garden that one could ever hope to see in real life, surrounded by women in summer dresses as colorful and full as the flowers, was how socially inept Ernest Wake was. At that summer party on the farm, studying Ernest’s red hair and pale, freckled complexion, I thought, not for the first time, that he wasn’t particularly good-looking. He wasn’t particularly anything, come to think of it—except for rich. He was the heir to a banking fortune that my mother had prayed for every night since I was born. And, at twenty-five, I was way past my prime, well on my way to becoming an old maid who had a better chance of becoming president than finding a suitable mate.According to whispers around town, Ernest was my last chance. I would by lying if I said I didn’t feel the pressure. But I’d also be lying if I said my heart wasn’t over the ocean with the boy who had stolen it first and held on to it with the perfect grip for all those years.
That night, celebrating summer surrounded by gloriously manicured acres of farmland, in a yellow floral dress with just the right amount of crinoline underneath and a pair of pristine leather pumps that I still had from the contest, I sipped my punch demurely, holding the arm of Ernest, trying to sort through whether I was sickened or excited over the rumors that tonight would be the night he asked me to be his wife.
All I could think of was Dan, the man I had kissed good-bye two years ago, the man I had received sporadic letters from—as he was at sea with little access to mail. I had promised to wait for him, but I couldn’t predict when the Cold War would be over. I couldn’t predict whether that war would turn from cold to hot. I couldn’t predict, I thought, with a lump in my throat, whether he would even make it back. The thought turned my blood to ice water as I said, “Oh, I agree that the new theater downtown is positively marvelous.”
I had seen the grieving widows and mothers sobbing into their black lace handkerchiefs, pouring themselves over the pine boxes, crying, “And all this for what? Forwar?” If this Cold War turned hot, I thought again, and that was going to be the end for the greatest dream of my life, I wished we had married before he’d left, his father’s wishes be damned. Then I could mourn in public for as long as I liked; I wouldn’t have to worry about hiding my emotions in my bedroom, where they were appropriate.
I took another sip of my punch and decided that I had had too much to drink. As a sailor in naval whites breezed through the door,I smiled, thinking that he resembled my Dan. Of course, every tall, lean man in a starched uniform has a similar look. I peered up at Ernest and felt that familiar panic that this dull man with all his money was the rest of my life, coupled with the disdain that my Dan had had to go, while Ernest’s family’s considerable assets had conjured a way out for him. I didn’t know much about sex—besides what Katie Jo had described, of course—but I couldn’t stomach the thought of ever having to undress the man whose arm I was holding.
When the sailor reached the gate and removed his hat, scanning the crowded yard, I gasped. “Dan,” I whispered under my breath.
He couldn’t have heard me, but, at that moment, his eyes locked on mine, and I thought my heart would burst with joy. My arm slipped out of Ernest’s, and I wanted to run to Dan. But my feet were still glued to the moist yard, as if they were unsure whether what I was seeing was true or a figment perfectly shaded by my champagne imagination.
Dan sauntered over, his shiny patent leather shoes glistening in the late evening sunset. He took my hand in both of his. A display of affection larger than that would have been inappropriate.
“You’re here,” I said.
“For you.”
“Excuse me,” Ernest interjected. “I’m Lynn’s date. And we’re rather serious.” He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you have a boat to get back to?”
