“It’s wonderful to finally meet you, welcome. Hawk only had the best to say about you. I’m Beverly, but you can call me Bev,” the middle-aged blonde tells me as we shake hands.
She speaks with a drawl that I can’t quite place.
If I had to describe Bev’s face, the first word I’d use would be “smiling”. All the lines on her sun-kissed face and around her eyes are evidence of a joyful life.
“Hi, it’s so nice to meet you. Thank you for organizing this.”
“No need to thank me, it was my pleasure. I’m sure Hawk told you we jump on any excuse to have a get-together. And this must be DJ! Aren’t you the cutest little boy, so precious,” Beverly coos to my son before shaking his little hand, and I immediately decide that she’s good people. “My boys are grown now, but it feels like it was yesterday when they were this small,” she says with a nostalgic look in her eyes.
We’re both pensive for a moment, bound by the holy experience of motherhood that manages to be fundamentally different for each woman while at the same time being exactly the same for all of us.
“Aw, Bev. Don’t get sappy on us now,” Hawk tells her.
He looks relaxed and playful here, on his home terrain. I tell myself not to stare.
“Oh, shush, you. Marissa here knows how I feel, right?”
I nod dutifully. Mom code.
“See?” Bev tells him victoriously, then turns back to me. “Oh, I can’t wait for you to meet everyone. Come on, let’s go outside,” she says as she leads us onto a covered patio in the backyard.
There are about 15 people waiting for us. Okay, that’s not too terrible.
Some are sitting at the picnic tables, some are standing around the barbecue, and some are getting food or drinks from the long table that’s against the clubhouse wall.
I park the stroller by the door and pick up DJ to give him a few kisses. Hawk seems to remember the box he’s holding.
“Marissa brought this rum cake at Sullivan’s bakery,” he says pretty loudly.
“Oh, thank you, Marissa, that’s very thoughtful. Let me go put it by the rest of the food.”
Both Hawk and I watch Bev carry the box to the very end of the long table, write “RUM CAKE” with three almost violent exclamation points on a Post-It note, and underline it twice before attaching it to the top of the unopened box.
“Should we go mingle?” Hawk asks me, and I take a deep breath before nodding.
He leads me to three people standing with a young girl.
“Hi, everyone,” he tells them with a smile. “These are Marissa and DJ.”
I give a small wave. “Hi.”
“Hello,” a beautiful, curvy redhead replies.
This must be Red, I think. Her green dress makes her look like a character on that show about ad executives in the 1960s that Susan likes to watch.
“I’m Lucy,” she says. “This is my brother Miguel, who everyone calls Doc, and this is Megan, also known as Red.”
To my surprise, she’s indicating the shorter brunette standing between Doc and the young girl. Doc is a rugged-looking man with a nose that looks like it’s been broken and healed crooked. I shake everyone’s hand.
“And this is my niece, Isabella,” Lucy says.
The girl is a beautiful mix of both of her parents, with brown eyes and hair, and a warm smile. She’s somewhere in her early teens.
“Hi, Isabella. You have a beautiful name,” I tell her.
“Thank you,” Isabella says shyly. “What does DJ stand for?”
“Dylan Junior,” I say, and hope she leaves it at that.
