Reunion (15 page)

He took her coat, handed it off, and said, “So it’s just you?” As in, had she brought a date?

“Just me.” Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.

He leaned over and kissed the top of her head, an affectionate gesture she was sure must have owed to champagne. “Happy New Year. Now come on, let’s get you mingling.”

Lynn’s line of work brought her friendships with every kind of professional. Retail developers, sandwich-shop owners, hospital administrators, the mayors of Chicago and its suburbs north, south, west, and central. Blue knew many of the guests as voices on the phone, a few by sight; they looked transformed, that night, by the elegant tuxedos and chic gowns. As Daniel steered her across the room, she was impressed to see Morgan Cole, the statuesque WLVC-TV nightly news anchor, among other high-profile Chicago personalities.

Lynn was standing near the buffet talking with her uptight assistant, Deb. “Harmony Blue, you made it!” Lynn said. “You look amazing. Wow!”

Blue shrugged, embarrassed but delighted, too. Lynn was the most dynamic woman she’d known in her young life, so different from her mother that the two women might as well be different species.

“Where’d you find that dress?” Deb asked.

Blue, recalling the theft, couldn’t meet her eyes. “It’s, um, my sister’s. Melody bought it at The Limited, I think.” The Limited had been the height of fashion to Blue, who could not have imagined she’d one day wear Prada, have couture designed just for her, auction off that same couture for charity. She’d said,
“You
look really great—both of you, I mean.”

“This,” Lynn said, indicating the silver beaded sheath she wore, “was hand-sewn. Can you imagine? And you think office work is tedious!”

Deb surprised Blue by saying, “It
is
tedious—but Harmony Blue,
you’re doing a great job. I love your dress. And your hair’s gorgeous tonight, too. I wish mine curled like that. Oh—there’s Mark Poole; I need to ask him about those contracts.”

Deb, charitable? What else could it mean but that her wish had a chance?

She watched Deb go, taking the opportunity to scan the room for the face she was longing to see, was
always
longing to see. Her crush on Mitch wasn’t so sensible; he was older, divorced, an assistant professor,
a father.
But he was also charming and smart and kind. And she’d thought maybe she was reaching for an ideal she wasn’t entitled to, but at least she wasn’t like Melody, always coming home reeking of smoke, glassy-eyed and dismissive. Was it so bad to have stars in her eyes, to want to one day tell her grandchildren how, on the stroke of her nineteenth birthday, a prince gave her one magical kiss?

And then what?
they would ask, all of them eager to know more about the story of their own histories.

Well
, she would say,
the prince finally realized he was madly in love with her, and made her his princess.

Blue had stood there listening to Lynn talk with Mary Conner, a facilities manager for Marshall Field, about the rising per-square-foot costs in the Loop. She’d nodded now and then as if she were a Realtor-in-training. Her mind, though, had been on Mitch, and the hour
(nine fifteen)
, and her wish’s odds of coming true.

When she saw him, he looked like a prince. His hair, almost as dark as hers, was mussed a bit and fell onto his forehead. Rakish, she thought the word was—not from English class this time, but paperback romances. He wore a tux like most of the other men, but with a brilliant blue bow tie and vest. Even in the low light of twinkling strings and glowing candelabras, his eyes shone blue. Like the Earth from space, she thought. Like Lake Michigan from the Hancock building on a sunny afternoon. As blue as she felt each time they parted.

How silly she’d been, how young …

If she hadn’t been there that night, though, if she hadn’t been so
wound up about Mitch, she wouldn’t have met Morgan Cole, who would later become her mentor. Morgan was glamorous and warm and smart. She kept the whole circle of listeners enthralled with a tale of how, as a new reporter, she’d done a story at the Brookfield Zoo and was accosted by both a chimpanzee and the chimp’s trainer. The anchor-woman’s laugh was like a Christmas bell to Blue: cheerful and resonant with hope and pleasure. Blue would remember this later, when,
postpartum
, she went searching for a new life to escape into.

But that night, with Mitch close enough to touch if she were to let her hand follow her desire, she’d felt that all was right with the world. When she glanced at him, caught him looking at
her
, she knew, just
knew
, that she would see her wish come true.

Daniel Forrester asked her to dance and she did, imagining herself as Cinderella, Daniel as the king. The string quartet played, and Blue spun, dizzying circles that made her laugh. She loved this party, she loved the Forresters, she loved this house, this life.

Mitch cut in. “Dad, may I?”

“If you must,” Daniel said, putting her hand into Mitch’s.

Mitch looked down at her. His eyes were so inviting she wanted to dive into them. “Thank you, Harmony Blue, you’ve made my night.”

“Me? What did I do?”

He laughed and held her tighter. “It’s not what you
do
, it’s just that you
are.”
It was enough to make any girl swoon.

The quartet stopped playing, temporarily, at five minutes to midnight.

“Let’s get some cool air,” Mitch said. He took a bottle of champagne and she followed him past the buffet, through the kitchen, through the mudroom, to the back door.

He opened it and she said, “Wow, look at the snow!” It fell heavier than before, an audible rain of snowflakes, confetti tossed down by the Nordic gods of winter. She thought she’d never heard anything more pure.

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.”

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.”