Getting Married (26 page)

G
abrielle and Richard see each other several more times over the next couple of weeks. Gabrielle and I email back and forth and she tells me all the details of how well they are getting along. She also emails me ideas for how we can celebrate her thirty-fifth birthday. Together we work out all the details.

She ends up throwing a party in Nederland, which is a small town north of Boulder. Will and I have a heck of a time negotiating the winding mountain roads to get there. The party is in a tiny bar that was once a house and is now just a big room—the walls have been torn down and you can see the seams in the ceiling where they once were. There is only enough room for a smattering of wood tables and two couches with the stuffing popping out of them. Gabrielle has gotten an astrologer/psychic to do tarot readings at the party, and when it’s my turn, I approach the astrologer with trepidation. The astrologer is a woman in her early fifties with white hair that falls to her shoulders. I’ve never believed in psychics or astrology, but the moment she starts reading my cards, I start crying. She says that I have several fire cards, which she reads to mean that I have a tremendous drive and desire to succeed. She says that I’m so focused on money and success that I have a tough time living in the present, and I need to learn to slow down and get in touch with my spiritual side. This is stuff I already know. These are the same issues I’ve been talking to my therapist about twice a week for the last several weeks, so I have no idea why it is that her telling me this makes me cry so much, but I cry for most of the reading, nodding my head vigorously and saying again and again, “That is so true. That’s exactly right!” After Gabrielle and Rachel have their readings done, we all compare notes. All of us cried through the readings, and we start crying again when we recount the highlights to each other. Both Rachel’s and Gabrielle’s readings are lessons that apply to me as well—and I suspect they apply to all women. Lessons about the communication issues with our mothers, lessons about how we tend to take on the problems of everyone around us and not focus on our needs, lessons about facing change. Will and Richard watch the three of us sobbing women curiously.

When I break apart from Rachel and Gabrielle, Will says, “I thought you don’t believe in psychics or tarot cards.”

“I don’t believe in it. But getting your cards read is like going to a therapist. She can say something general and you can instantly apply it to your life. At least for me, I usually know what my problems are. It’s doing anything about them that’s the challenge. Getting your reading done or your chart read is just another opportunity to reflect on how to improve yourself, how you want to lead your life.”

Will still looks incredulous. Guys just don’t get it.

At some point, a local band gets on the small stage and starts playing. I watch Richard and Gabrielle dance. Their height difference is kind of funny, but they have a blast dancing together, and it makes my heart happy.

Will and I sit on one of the torn-up couches across from two girls that Gabrielle used to go to school with. Almost all of Gabrielle’s friends are unique and different and highly political. The two women and Will dig into the bowl of Goldfish crackers that is on the coffee table in front of us.

“These things are addictive,” one of the girls says. She’s wearing her hair in short ponytails and is wearing clothes that are seventies-era inspired and so tattered looking they appear to actually have been worn every day since 1972.

“My dog loves Goldfish,” the other girl says. “I use them to train him.”

“You could train
me
with them,” Will says, taking another handful.

The three of us chuckle, and then I look at Will with a gleam in my eye, wondering what I’d want to train him to do exactly.

When the band takes a break, I pull Gabrielle aside and ask her how things are going with Richard.

“Things are wonderful.”

“Awesome. How’s the rest of your life going?”

“Good. My research is going well, and one of my old professors has asked me to help her do some research, so I think I’ll be able to quit my job and just work part-time on that and the rest of the time on my research.”

“That’s amazing!”

“I know. Isn’t it exciting?”

“What is the professor you’re going to work for doing research on?”

“She’s studying the discrimination women face in the police force and how this leads to poor police work. I’m actually trying to get into the police academy so I can do my research incognito. I went to the academy the other day and I realized that for me to pass there, I’m going to need to take all my angry political bumper stickers off my car. I just don’t fit in there at all, but it’ll be interesting.”

“That is so cool. Good for you.”

“I know. For the last two years my life felt like it was falling apart. I was worried that things would never come together for me again.”

“But you got through it, and now look how things are.”

“I know. Right now I’m actually happy Dan divorced me. We were so young when we got together that I really didn’t know any other way to be in a relationship, but I feel so much more freedom to be myself with Richard than I ever was with Dan.”

I start crying again, thinking about how, sometimes, things really are better the second time around. I hug Gabrielle, and we hold each other for a long time.

I
’ve scheduled our trip to Montreal so that I meet Maggie first thing and then Will and I have the rest of the long weekend in Montreal to have fun.

I meet Maggie a couple hours after our plane arrives. Maggie is an eighty year old who launched her own business a year ago. After the jewelry she creates got featured in Vogue, demand for her products has skyrocketed, and she can’t keep up. She wants help figuring out how to expand her business, which is called “Beauté Cachée,” which is French for “hidden beauty.”

Will and I catch the subway to the Mont Royal side of town where Maggie lives (she works out of her home).

I leave Will at a café where he can hang out until my meeting is over and walk down the street to Maggie’s place on my own.

I knock on her door. A full minute passes, but then the door creaks open and Maggie greets me with a trembling voice like she’s talking directly in front of a whirling fan.

“Come in, come in,” she says.

I follow her inside. Maggie is very slender. Her hair is thin and sparse.

As soon as we enter the living room, it becomes obvious that Maggie has lived through far too many Christmases. Her coffee table, two end tables, entertainment center, and dozens of shelves are burdened with ornate knickknacks. There are garish china dolls in leering reds and oranges and plates with pictures of Scarlett O’Hara, playful puppies, and angels praying. It’s a kitsch nightmare in here.

Maggie exits the room saying something about getting tea.

As she makes the tea, I study her house. I count eleven candy dishes and four ashtrays between her two end tables. Eleven candy dishes! All of them empty. There isn’t even room to set a drink down.

I have to say I’m a little surprised that an artist has a home that’s decorated with such clashing decorations. I stand and walk over to one of the shelves on the wall and study the bric-a-brac. There is no apparent theme. The only commonality is that the objects are cheap and ugly.

Maybe she’s purposely trying to be kitschy? Maybe it’s one of those modern art things like all-blue paintings that I’m just not cool enough to get?

“Tea?” she asks.

“Please. That would be nice, thank you. So Maggie, all these decorations, were they gifts from grandkids? Were they things you found when you were looking for material for your art?”

She nods. “A little of both, garage sales, things like that.”

I nod.

“It’s an eclectic mix, I know. I grew up during the Great Depression in upstate New York.” Maggie speaks slowly and with a quavering voice, but her words are articulate and clear. “Even when it was over, we were poor for many, many years. It makes me feel safe, somehow, having these things around me. Some of them may not be considered very pretty by some people, I know, but somehow I like them anyway. There’s something about them…”

As soon as she says it, I feel guilty. She lived through the Depression. She feels safe being surrounded by things. There is nothing wrong with that, and I hate myself for being judgmental.

“Have you always collected things?” I ask.

“Always.”

“When did you start making jewelry out of things you found?”

“About a year and a half ago, I found a tiny chess piece when I was at a café. My granddaughter, Emilyn, loves chess. Christmas was coming and I always have a hard time deciding what to get her. She’s a college student and it’s hard for me to keep up with what kids her age like. I brought the chess piece home and set it on my sewing table, which is really just a junk table. Well, I suppose you could say every table I have is a junk table.” Maggie laughs. She has a wonderful laugh. “On that same table I had a penny that had been flattened on a train track. I liked the way the black chess piece contrasted with the copper penny. On a whim I glued them together along with a tiny sepia-toned picture of my mother, making it into a pin. I was happy with the results, and when I gave it to Emilyn as a present, she went on and on about how much she loved it. She told me I should start making more jewelry, so I did. I had nearly all day to work on making things, so soon I had made more pieces than my grandchildren could wear. Emilyn suggested that we put up a website and try to sell some of the things I made. She said we could get a site up at almost no cost because she would work on it with friends. It would be something for their portfolio. All I had to pay for was the domain name, which hardly cost a dime, so I thought, why not?”

I love, love, love that this frail woman with a trembly voice knows what the hell a domain name is. I know that if you’re open to change you can learn and grow all your life, but I know so many people over the age of fifty who get so set in their ways, resisting change of any kind that it’s refreshing to hear this little old lady throwing Internet terms out there with ease.

“Not long after that, Emilyn was in New York, and that’s where the editor from Vogue saw her wearing some of my designs and asked her where she got her jewelry. She told the woman and gave her the web address. A small article about the jewelry appeared a couple months later, and since then, I haven’t been able to make stuff fast enough to keep up with the orders we’re getting.”

“Wow. That’s a great story. Is running a business new for you or did you ever run another business before?”

“I’ve never had a job outside being a mother. I raised four kids, four great kids. In my day, women with kids didn’t work outside the home.”

“Sure, sure. It must have been a big adjustment for you.”

“It was a little scary at first. My husband bought me a few books on running a small business. He was a professor before he retired, so he didn’t know the first thing about running a business, but he’s been real supportive.”

“That’s wonderful, Maggie.” Maggie and I sit down on the couch and she pours us each a cup of tea. Her fine bone china teacups don’t match. Mine has a periwinkle blue pattern with gold trim. Hers has delicate pink flowers with pale green leaves.

I move on to collecting information on the financial health of her business and where she’d like to see it go, that sort of thing. I leave our meeting that afternoon feeling the kind of physical exhaustion I often get after several hours of intense work. I don’t plan on starting on my report with my recommendations to Maggie until Will and I get back to Denver, which leaves Will and me free to enjoy the city.

Will and I go for a leisurely lunch, then we take an unhurried stroll through Parc Mont-Royal, a large park designed by the same architect of New York’s Central Park. We walk for about an hour when we come upon musicians banging away on bongos in the middle of the park. We sit down in the grass to rest our feet and enjoy the music.

I smile, enjoying myself thoroughly. It’s a chilly but beautifully sunny day out. As much as I’m having fun, I realize that I’m starving. I go to report this to Will. Instead of saying, “I’m ravenous,” which is what I meant to say, I loudly pronounce, “I’m ravishing!”

“You are ravishing. And quite full of yourself.”

It takes a minute for the synapses going from my brain to my tongue to figure out where I went wrong. “I meant to say ravenous, not ravishing, ravenous. I’m hungry, that’s all I was trying to say.”

“Oh, sure. You’re gloriously beautiful and you know it.”

“Shut up!” I give him a light slap on the arm and laugh. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“My ravishing girlfriend!”

“Stop it! Shut up!” I tickle him and he tickles me back. We lie back on the grass tickling and giggling with each other. I squeal with laughter. I try to stop his tickling hands, but he’s about a million times stronger than I am and he’s got my wrists held tight. I can’t tickle him back. I struggle to free myself from his grip, and we wrestle around on the ground. I realize how much fun I’m having. I realize that I’m actually allowing myself to be silly and have fun.

It is a simple but wonderful feeling.

E
ventually we get up and continue exploring the park. We walk and walk and walk and barely manage to see a tenth of what the map tells us there is to see, but we’re too tired to continue on. The park offers a tremendous view of the city. You can see McGill University and the Biosphere and everything. It’s a gorgeous view, with the sun reflecting off the cars parked on the street, twinkling like stars.

That night we have a wonderful dinner at one of the zillion or so restaurants there are to choose from. It’s a romantic meal and I think about how much I love traveling. I almost ask Will what he would like our next trip together to be, and then I realize our next trip is going to be our non-honeymoon. Our vacation to Hawaii that was supposed to celebrate our marriage to each other, but will now be nine days of rubbing in the fact that we didn’t get married.

I opt to keep my mouth shut.

The next day we go for a walk through Parc-des-Iles, which is where the Grand Prix is held every year. There are several lush parks, an amusement park, a casino, and the famous Biosphere from the 1967 World Expo. The Biosphere is a steel skeleton of a sphere. Inside the 3-D dome is an architecturally intriguing building that serves as a museum dedicated to educating people about environmental issues.

We walk for hours and get a delicious lunch at a Thai restaurant, then Will and I go back to the bed-and-breakfast we’re staying at to take a nap. The B&B is a charming place with one brick wall, wood floors, and high ceilings. It’s quaint and homey and old-fashioned. The bed is so high off the ground it’s like climbing up onto a cloud.

We’re both wiped out from all the walking, but as soon as we lie down to nap, instead of sleeping we begin kissing and groping. We make slow, passionate love.

Afterward, we lie in each other’s arms. I smile as I bury my face into Will’s chest. Things are starting to feel normal again. I feel like we’re starting to heal the rift between us.

On our last day in Montreal, Will and I go to the modern art museum (the Musée d’Art Contemporain). As we stroll through the museum, there is a group of schoolchildren with their teacher. The teacher asks them a question in French, and the children answer “yes,” which in French is “oui.” It sounds like they are on a museum ride saying “wheeee!” in unison. It is utterly heartwarming. I squeeze Will’s hand and he smiles at me. I look into Will’s beautiful hazel eyes and I wonder for a moment about what a child of ours would look like. Adorable is my guess.