If Winky Bedermeir is an entirely unknown entity, check out Chapter 22 of "Separation Anxiety."
March
The day she found out Winifred Bedermeir passed away, Emily awoke with the unaccountable feeling that something was wrong. She woke suddenly, no transition between sleeping and wakefulness. Her eyes opened and the night was over and there she was, in her husband's arms in the hotel bed in California. She thought she had forgotten something. She tried to think of the date. Did she have an appointment she'd forgotten to cancel? Was it someone's birthday? Anniversary? Was she expecting a delivery? Why was she awake before the sun had even come up?
She stayed tucked beside Richard, her head on his shoulder, as she ran down the list of possible things she hadn't done before they'd left on this trip two weeks ago. But the internal calendar her mind kept simply out of habit came up blank: nothing had been left behind or not rescheduled. The details of the vacation weren't even her concern, as Richard had taken charge and planned the trip down to the hotels and the itinerary. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep again. But the dim sense of foreboding made it a futile endeavor, and she lay awake, waiting.
Some hours later, Emily sat in the sunroom of the hotel, a novel open on her knee and a bellini in her hand. She stared blankly at her book, unable to read. The letters on the page were a mere confusion of symbols as the sense of something amiss ate at her. What had she forgotten? What hadn't she done? What, she wondered, what, what, what, what, what?
Emily Gilmore, you are being utterly ridiculous, she told herself. You are on vacation. Try and enjoy yourself, for God's sake.
Win would have approved. (Though she would have sniffed at the new nickname. She had conceded to Emily's shortening Winky to Win begrudgingly after Emily delivered a twenty minute dissertation on the multiplicity of reasons she could no longer say "Winky.") Emily rolled her eyes as she sipped her drink. They had spoken only a few days before, when Win had told Emily she was being thoroughly impossible and a good time was wasted on her if she wasn't going to do her best to enjoy it.
Emily was ashamed to remember she'd pouted. "I would like to do just that, Win, really, I would. But I can't seem to… There are so many things to do at home, you know, I feel as though we left at the absolute worst time, and it's making me restless. There's the house for you to finish by May and Lorelai's wedding, and—"
"Emily," Win said gently. "Stop for a moment and take a deep breath. Remember what life was like before you had a to do list."
"Did such a time even exist?" Emily asked.
Win laughed. "Go, my dear. Get drunk at a wine tasting and call me on Friday."
"Take care… Winky," she added, rolling her eyes.
"Only you could make a person's name sound like an insult," Win shot back. "Good-bye, my dear."
Friday was still days away, however, and if she called the home today she knew she'd only be chastised when Win took the phone. Emily sighed. Richard was out playing golf, and this afternoon they had another vineyard tour and wine tasting to attend. The tour of California vineyard country had been Richard's idea; Emily was beginning to think he did it more for the golf than the wine. She didn't begrudge him his morning game, however, as she sat and read and made the final plans for Win's house in Stars Hollow. It would be ready by April, at the very earliest. She smiled and turned the page, thinking of it. The sense of accomplishment she felt was greater than she'd had in years.
But she shook herself, brought herself back as she finished her drink and focused on the book before her. The house was in Connecticut, she was in California, and she didn't need to think of it right now.
She gestured to an attendant for another drink and began to read. As she scanned the page, she once again heard Win's amused chortle in her ear. "Good girl," Win told her. It irritated her slightly, and she took to the novel with a determination resembling vengeance.
"Mrs. Gilmore?"
She looked up, startled. It took a few seconds for her to refocus her eyes on the young girl standing uncertainly before her. "Yes?"
"You have a phone call from your daughter. She says it's urgent," the girl said. She handed Emily a portable handset.
Her stomach clenched as she took the phone. "Thank you," she said. "Lorelai?"
"Hi, Mom."
"What's wrong? Is everything all right? Are you ill? Is Rory—"
"Mom, Rory and I are both fine," Lorelai said. "But—"
"What about Luke?"
"What about Luke?" Lorelai echoed, puzzled.
Emily rolled her eyes. "Is he all right as well?"
"Luke's fine, Mom," Lorelai replied. "He's right here. But I—"
"Where are you?"
She heard her daughter take an impatient breath. "I'm at Luke's, Mom. I tried calling your cell a few times, and I left a message, but I had some news that couldn't wait."
Emily put a hand to her throat. "You haven't—please, please tell me you haven't eloped."
"Mom, we haven't eloped. We have no plans to elope—" There was scuffling in the background; Emily heard Lorelai mutter shut up. "—so please, stop and let me get this out." She paused. "I got a phone call early this morning. It's about Winky."
The air stilled. Emily closed her eyes. Her hands, her face, her feet were all numb—she was immobilized. Her chest was tight. Her voice, when she spoke, echoed coldly in her own ears.
"She's gone." It wasn't a question. This new, dull certainty was worse than the paranoia that woke her that morning.
"I'm so sorry, Mom," Lorelai said softly. "I know you two were close."
"When did it happen?" Again, she heard herself speak in the same even, frighteningly neutral tone. Her eyes burned with dryness.
"Last night. Miss Charlotte stopped by her room to pick her up for breakfast this morning and found her. She went in her sleep." She paused. "Mom?"
She took a sip of her drink, needing the tart stinging jolt of alcohol; the cloying sweetness she tasted instead offended her. "I'm here."
"Are you okay?"
Emily's hand trembled slightly as she closed her book and set it on the table beside her. "Yes, thank you, Lorelai. What's being done?"
"Well, she left some instructions."
"I'm not surprised."
"The lawyers are going over her will, and everything, but the papers she had in her room were more about…" Lorelai trailed off.
Emily sipped her drink again, needing to do something, anything, with her hands. "About the funeral arrangements."
"Yes."
"What are they?"
She was tentative. "There's going to be a memorial service at the home. She's asked—she's asked that you and I scatter her ashes, after."
"And when is this all to happen?"
"Day after tomorrow."
"Your father and I will leave on the next possible flight—"
"Mom, there's no rush, really. If you left today you wouldn't get in until late tonight, and you'll be exhausted—it might be easier to leave tomorrow and—"
"I will call you when the arrangements are made," Emily said.
Lorelai said nothing a moment. "Whatever you think is best, Mom."
"I'll speak to you soon, then."
"Mom?"
"Yes, Lorelai?"
"Are you all right? Really?"
Emily put a hand to her hair, absently patting it in place. "I'm fine, Lorelai, thank you for asking."
"I really am sorry, Mom."
"Yes, well, I'll talk to you soon," she said again.
The sunroom was warm. The tables and chairs were some sort of faux-wood, but remarkably comfortable, Emily thought. The cushions were plush and didn't shift when she moved. The table was scarred with water marks, though she could see someone had made an effort to sand them away. It was shabby, really, to allow such things to become noticeable. She stared at a pair of water marks that overlapped like the rings of a Venn diagram. She traced Win's name on one side with the tip of her finger, her own on the other, and in the middle… She wondered who occupied the space in the middle.
She rose and made her way to the suite Richard had taken for them.
When Richard returned from his morning on the links, he found his wife hovering over a suitcase in their room, her cell phone clamped between her ear and shoulder as she barked instructions to the person on the other end of the line.
"I don't care that you've fully booked the first class cabin, nor do I care how much it's going to cost me to change the date for my return ticket. You are going to bump someone from two of those first class seats, you're going to do it today, and you're going to do it politely!"
He closed the door with a bit more force than was necessary. Emily jumped, fluttering a hand to her chest as she turned and looked at him. He opened his mouth to speak; she stopped him, holding up her hand and shaking her head.
"Yes, yes. Yes. I said yes, for God's sake!" She paused. "Thank you. And the new tickets will be waiting at the—very good. Thank you."
Emily snapped her cell phone shut and rubbed her temple. Richard reached out, and the touch of his hand on her shoulder made her shiver. She stepped away.
"We're going back on a five o'clock flight, which doesn't leave us much time. I've started your packing for you, but I still have to arrange a car to drop us off and pick us up when we get to Bradley—it's a mercy we're not flying into New York, I don't even want to think about the headache that would have been."
"Emily," he began. She stared, waiting and impatient. Richard tipped his head to the side and regarded his wife with an expression of utter befuddlement. "What on earth is going on?"
She threw up her hands and rounded the bed towards the adjoining room of their suite. She stopped as she reached for the room phone and looked at Richard a long moment.
"Win Bedermeir died last night," she said.
His features softened. "Oh, my dear."
"I'm fine," she said, turning away from him.
She was startled yet again to find herself in a tight embrace, Richard holding her to him and stroking her hair. She felt herself automatically relax as she fell against his shoulder, wrapped her arms around him. Her eyes closed; she inhaled the faint trace of cigar smoke and starch embedded in all his clothes. He squeezed her.
"Oh, my dear," he said again.
Emily stepped back. "Do you mind terribly, cutting our trip—"
"Not even in the slightest. Tell me what I can do."
"You can finish packing your suitcase," she told him. "Really, Richard, how many golf shirts does one man reasonably need in life?"
"I prefer to leave such questions to the philosophers, Emily." He kissed the top of her head before he turned on his heel and brusquely headed for the closet.
For a moment, it was funny. She smiled as she lifted the receiver and put the phone to her ear. But as she prepared to speak for the desk clerk, she remembered why she was calling and felt the deadweight in her chest again. It stayed with her as she and Richard finished their packing, as they rode in the car to the airport, as they passed through security checks and boarded their flight. She sat on the aisle side of their seats, staring blankly before her while the flight attendants gave their safety instructions and the captain made his announcements. Richard held her hand, silently sympathetic.
Richard was dozing lightly. Emily had no idea how much time had passed since takeoff. She shifted uneasily in her seat, waking her husband. He sat up, blinking in surprise.
"I feel silly," she said.
"About what, my dear?"
"I didn't know her very long."
"You didn't know her very long, so you've no reason to be upset?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No, but… yes. It seems too much, somehow, not my right. The people she lived with, the people who were going to the new house with her—they're the ones who've really lost something."
"Emily," Richard sighed. "True, you've known her less than a year, but you talked to this woman almost every day. You were in charge of her future, in the form of that house. You have a right to your grief. She was very much a part of your life these past months. When we were apart, she was there for you."
"She was," Emily said, smiling sadly. "She took my mind off things, occasionally. Or else she talked my ear off about her own husband—she knew what she was doing, I'm sure."
He tightened his hand over hers. "And for that I am very thankful."
Emily leaned her head on his shoulder. "I am, too." She paused. "I am sorry, Richard, that our trip was cut short."
"Don't give it another thought, my dear," he said, kissing her forehead. "We've time enough for anything we want. There will be other trips. This, this is more important."
It was late when they reached home. Emily didn't relish the thought of talking to Lorelai at the moment, tired and aching as she was, and so she went immediately to bed. She slept dreamlessly and woke the next morning nowhere near refreshed from her trip. She struggled through her morning rituals before she got in her car and began to drive.
Lorelai sat at the counter in the diner, chatting on her cell phone and stirring her coffee. Emily watched her through the window for a moment. She remembered her daughter at eight, at ten, at thirteen, rebellious with a perpetually protruding lower lip and an ugly slouch. She sat taller now, yet her posture still seemed easy and relaxed as she kicked her feet at the counter. Her suit was beautifully cut, Emily thought, startled by the revelation that Lorelai looked quite elegant, even in her atrociously high heels and the novelty tee shirt peeking out beneath her blazer. Luke emerged from the kitchen to refill Lorelai's cup, pointing at the "no cell phone" sign behind him, and she gave him the finger, laughing.
"Some things never change," Emily sighed. She stepped into the warmth of the diner and made her way to Lorelai's side.
"Sure, babe," Lorelai was saying. "I think that'd be nice." She looked up, surprised by Emily's rather sharp poke at her shoulder. "Hey, Rory, I'm going to let you go. Grandma's here. I will. Have a great day, sweets. Love you, too." She hung up and regarded her mother with a blank, open-mouthed stare a moment.
Emily crossed her arms over her chest and raised her eyebrows. "It is customary, Lorelai, for people to greet each other when they've not seen each other for some time. For example," she said, "I often like to say 'hello' in situations like these. I find it works wonders."
"Sorry," Lorelai said, rolling her eyes theatrically. "Hello, Mother."
"Why, hello, Lorelai," Emily replied. "How lovely to see you."
She stood, tucked her hair behind her ears, shifted on her feet. "How are you? When did you get in? What are you doing here?"
"I'm fine, Lorelai. Your father and I got in late last night. I thought perhaps you and I could sit down together before you went to work today, discuss the arrangements for the service," Emily replied. "Is that information sufficient, or are there more questions?"
Lorelai opened her mouth to speak when Luke rounded the counter and stopped before them. "Hey, Mrs. Gilmore. Good morning. Can I get you some coffee?"
"Luke, I've told you a hundred times to call me Emily," she said. "But coffee would be nice, thank you."
"Have a muffin, Mom," Lorelai said as she led the way to a table. "They're still warm, and Luke makes killer cranberry muffins. He puts orange stuff in them, so they're all citrusy."
She nodded. "A muffin, then," she said.
Lorelai dropped herself into a chair with an audible sigh. Emily thought that despite the color in her cheeks, Lorelai looked tired. "Rory says hello, by the way," she said, "and sends her love."
Emily sat back as Luke put a coffee cup in front of her and poured. "I'll call her this evening. I haven't spoken to her since we left. Is she still dating that boy?"
"She's still attached at the hip to that boy," Lorelai said wryly. "She's spending her spring break this week in Boston with her dad and Sherri and the baby, but she insists that it has nothing to do with the fact that Marty's family lives in Cambridge. She'll be back for dinner on Friday, Mother," she said, off her mother's look. "Luke, honey? Baby? Sweetie darling? Another donut for your beloved and betrothed?" she asked.
"You've already had two," he said gruffly.
"So what difference will a third make?" Lorelai asked. He only gave her a hard look in reply and left to get Emily's muffin. "So, Mom. You wanted to talk about the service?"
"I did."
"I've talked to a few people at the home, Mom, and it's all taken care of. They have a pastor, and the memorial will be in the chapel in the home. They called the crematorium Winky requested and they have a hearse… all we have to do is show up. Miss Charlotte says Winky left a very detailed list of instructions, in case of… this," Lorelai finished rather sheepishly. She sipped her coffee. "They've asked me to speak."
Emily ducked her head and stared into her coffee cup. "Oh. And will you?"
"I couldn't say no," she said. "Mom, it's not that they didn't want you, you know."
She picked up her fork and lifted away a piece of the muffin Luke put in front of her. "I don't need to be placated, Lorelai."
"No, I know that," Lorelai said quickly. "I'm just saying… Miss Charlotte told me they thought it might be better if it was someone—that you two were so close, that it would be too hard for you."
"I'm sure you'll give a lovely eulogy," Emily said. She raised her eyes. "Will there be many people there?" Lorelai shrugged in reply. "Yes. Well. Where did Win want us to—to scatter the ashes?" Her voice faltered.
Lorelai watched her mother, her expression concerned and watchful. "You're not going to believe it."
"I'm sure I won't, knowing Win."
Lorelai smiled. "The boardwalk in Atlantic City."
"Oh, dear God," Emily said, looking heavenward. "Only Winifred Bedermeir."
Lorelai had two more cups of coffee as she waited for Emily to finish her breakfast. She watched her mother over the rim of her cup, chatting lightly about Rory at Yale and the Dragonfly. Emily didn't know whether to be grateful or irritated that her daughter was attempting to comfort her by banal distraction. She rose from her seat and reached for her purse.
"Don't worry about it, Mom," Lorelai said. "It's on the house. I have connections." She pulled on her coat and called over her shoulder for Luke. "I have to go, future husband o' mine," she told him when he emerged from the kitchen.
Emily watched them say their goodbyes, the way Lorelai cupped his cheek as she kissed him and reflexively rubbed her thumb over his lip to remove the trace of gloss she'd left, the way he captured her wrist with his hand as they parted and leaned in to whisper something to her. Emily smiled sadly, her eyes smarting, as Lorelai rolled her eyes again and solemnly said, "I promise." She said goodbye to Luke and followed her daughter out, pulling her coat on as she did.
"What are you promising to do?" she asked.
Lorelai flipped her hair over the collar of her jacket. "To go easy. The inn's been crazy-busy lately, and I'm not sleeping too well."
"Why not?"
She shrugged. "Would that I knew, Mom. I'm off to work. What are you up to today? You want to come hang at the inn? I'm swamped, but you can schmooze with Michel, and Sookie will make you a killer lunch, and you can have my office for the afternoon, and you can feel free to criticize my interior decorating skills all you want," she said, her voice teasing and wheedling at once. "Come on. What do you say?"
"That's very kind of you to offer, Lorelai," Emily said, "but I have plans today."
"You do?"
"Yes, Lorelai, I do—and don't sound so surprised. You do know that other people continue to have lives when you leave the room, don't you? Or do you think we all exist in some sort of stop-motion, vacuum-like universe wherein we only ever do anything when you are present?" Emily said.
Lorelai averted her eyes, frowned. "Okay, you have plans. Sorry I asked. I'll pick you up tomorrow at noon for the service."
"Tomorrow at noon, then," Emily said.
The house was sullen and silent when she arrived. She hadn't really meant to go—Lorelai's surprise was well-founded: Emily didn't have plans but the pity-invite was too much and too desperate to take. Lorelai had called Tom and stopped work out of respect for Win when she heard of the old woman's death; they were to resume work on the house once her ashes were scattered at the end of the week. Emily let herself in through the front door with the key that hung on her keychain just beside her own house key. She walked quickly through the cavernous front room, with its high ceiling and tall windows. She took the stairs quickly, unnerved by the lack of a banister.
Win's room was the second on the right, the smallest bedroom in the house. There were three on this floor, four on the next, and Win had picked this one for herself immediately. Emily told her she couldn't imagine why—the house, she had said, is absolutely enormous and there's an extra room much bigger than this. Win had shrugged.
"And what do I need space for, my dear? It's not as though I have a plethora of earthly possessions I'll be bringing with me. No, Emily, give me a small room with a window and a bed and a little desk and maybe an armchair, that's all I ask," she had said. "That's comfort enough for me."
The wallpaper was already up. As soon as that was finished, Win had Emily hang a framed picture of Harry on the wall opposite her bed. He stared grimly into the camera, scowling. His eyebrows, Emily thought, were fierce. She had to admit, he was a handsome man in his own way, even if he frowned over this tiny room as though it had offended him somehow. She sighed. Win had clapped her hands and smiled gleefully when she saw the picture there during one of her brief visits from the home where she and her friends planned to live until the house was finished.
"Oh, doesn't he look absolutely horrible?" she'd asked, delighted. "Simply wretched!"
Emily swept her eyes over the room one last time before she turned and descended the stairs. She was hardly aware of her actions as she got in the car, turned the key in the ignition, and drove home.
When the doorbell rang at noon the next day, she was waiting for Lorelai in her living room. Her navy blue dress was ironed and fresh, her make up was subdued, and she had a hanky in her purse. She waited, determined, in the living room until Lorelai stepped in.
"Mom? What's up? Aren't you ready?" Lorelai asked, breathless.
Emily stood and breezed past her daughter. "You're late," she said. She pulled on her coat and opened the door.
"So you thought you'd make me wait in the car, then on the front step, then in the foyer, just to teach me a lesson?" Lorelai followed her out and picked her way back to the Jeep, talking at Emily's back.
"Are we really going in this thing?" Emily asked.
Lorelai inhaled through her nose and closed her eyes. "Yes, Mother," she said slowly. "We're really going in this thing, otherwise known as my car. You've ridden in this thing many times before."
"We are going to a funeral, Lorelai. It requires a bit more dignity than a jaunt into town for a cup of coffee and a donut," Emily shot back.
Lorelai stood on the driver's side of the Jeep, her hands on her hips. She fixed her eyes on the hood of the car a moment as she gathered herself together. Emily watched her daughter, took in the pursed lips and furrowed brow. When she looked up, her face was a mask of resolution.
"Would you like me to drive your car instead?" she asked, her voice deliberate and clam.
Emily rolled her eyes and opened the passenger door. "This is fine."
They were silent for most of Connecticut and into Massachusetts. Lorelai tapped her fingers viciously against the steering wheel and hummed. Emily watched the road signs. The nursing home was in southern New Hampshire, a small coastal town. Emily eyed the map and directions Lorelai had printed out from the internet.
"Lorelai Gilmore!"
She jumped. "Jesus, Mom. I'm right here. What?"
"The estimated time on this trip is three and a half hours!" Emily said.
Lorelai waved a hand. "Those things are never right, Mom. Trust me. Hey, could you hand me a Pop Tart? I keep a box in the glove compartment."
"I certainly will not—you're not speeding, are you? The last thing we need today is to get pulled over by a state trooper for speeding. Three and a half hours—we've barely been on the road an hour and a half and we're—"
"Mom, I told you, it's fine. I'm not going unreasonably fast. Would you just calm down and hand me a Pop Tart?"
"I will not," she said again. "Do you know what sorts of things go in products like that?"
"No, and I don't want to," Lorelai said. She paused. "How are you doing, Mom? With this whole, you know, funeral… thing. Are you okay?"
"I would be much better if people would stop asking me how I am, Lorelai," she said shortly.
Lorelai didn't reply.
"So Rory's spending her spring break with Christopher?" Emily asked, some time later.
Lorelai nodded. "She's spending her break with Christopher and Gigi, but it doesn't hurt that Marty's just around the corner. She was so excited to introduce Marty to her dad, I can't tell you, Mom. It'll be good for them, for Rory and Christopher, to spend some time together."
"It's too bad that realization didn't come much sooner."
"Don't start, Mom," Lorelai sighed. "I don't want to get into any of that today, or anything else, for that matter."
Emily determinedly held her tongue for the rest of the ride. She reflexively remarked on the time when Lorelai pulled into a parking space at the home, earning a grunt from her daughter. She nearly had to jog to keep up with Lorelai as she strode to the building. After a few disorienting moments, she found herself seated in the front row of a small congregation of folding chairs in what seemed to be a parlor. She took in the lectern, the many wreaths and flowers, the minister wandering the front of the room.
She tried to pay attention to the service when it began, but she could only think that Win would have been bored out of her skull were she there. Win would have cut the minister off twenty minutes ago and demanded to know about his life. When he announced Lorelai, Emily could almost feel Win's elbow digging at her ribs: "ah, here we go," she would say, "this is the good stuff."
Lorelai stood at the lectern and looked out over the small congregation. Emily watched her take a moment: she looked down, smoothed her skirt, tucked her hair behind her ears, raised her chin, and smirked. Emily felt the beginnings of a smile twitching at her lips. This was a Lorelai pose she recognized—one, she thought, that Win would appreciate.
"I've tried to think of a good way to begin talking about Winky, but every time I come up with something, I think of what Winky would have said. If I started by telling you that I didn't know her that long, she would have said 'so what?', waved her hand, and told me to start over. If I told you that I've never met anyone quite like her, she would have said that told her absolutely nothing interesting about her character, and character was the good stuff. It's a big responsibility, to talk about the life of a biographer, but I think it's something Winky would have gotten a kick out of.
"I met Winky during one of the worst weeks I've had in years. I was sleep-deprived and emotional and a general mess, and I sat down to tea with this tiny little woman in five layers of clothing and red Chucks who told me to tell her about my life. 'Lives interest me,' she said. I told her about myself, and something unexpected happened: I started to feel better. My problems weren't fixed, they weren't smaller, but I knew they weren't the end of the world, either. And when I think of her now, that's what I remember: Winky had this incredible, bizarre ability to make you feel at home in your own skin, make you feel like you really know who you are even when you're the most confused you've ever been."
Lorelai shook her head, smiling sadly. "I think if she were here right now, she'd tell me to get to the point and stop talking around it. Winky… I didn't know her that long or all that well, but I know that she was unique and sassy, and she was fun, and she just loved her husband, loved talking about Harry. And the reason that Winky was so unique and sassy and fun was because she knew who she was and she knew she was loved, and she was happy."
She sighed. "I guess the point is that I want to be Winky when I grow up—and by that I mean that, at the end of my life, I want toknow those things, too, to know that I loved and was loved and that I was always my own person. I think we all want to be Winky, in the end… She was interested in other people's lives, but hers was the one we all admired." She paused, rolled her eyes. "She might have laughed at me for that, but it's still true. And wherever she is right now, I'm sure she's laughing anyway."
Emily looked at her daughter sidelong as Lorelai sat beside her. Lorelai thumbed away a tear and gave her a watery smile, a shrug. They rose for the final prayer and hymn. Emily remembered the hanky in her purse; she had the vague notion it was wrong that she hadn't needed it. She watched the small crowd file out, waited as Lorelai spoke briefly to some of the residents of the home. She was startled by a touch at her elbow. She turned to be met by a tall, willowy woman with shockingly blue eyes and equally shocking white hair. In her hands, she held an old-fashioned hatbox.
"Charlotte," Emily said. "How nice to see you. I'm so sorry about Win."
Charlotte nodded. "Thank you, Emily. It's been quite a difficult week. With the other papers in her room, Winky left these, and she asked that they be given to you."
Emily took the hatbox Charlotte offered, her forehead set in puzzled lines. "Are you sure?"
"Quite. She said you'd know what to do with them."
They made their goodbyes and Emily sat once more, the box in her lap. Lorelai came to stand beside her.
"What's that?" she asked.
"I don't know," Emily said.
Her daughter pointed toward the door. "I'm going to go make a phone call—meet you outside?"
She nodded. The clicks of Lorelai's heels against the floor seemed overly loud as Emily ran her fingertips around the edging of the lid to the box. Gingerly, she lifted the lid and peered into the box. Its contents, she thought, were unremarkable—she'd been expecting something more momentous from Win Bedermeir than packets of letters tied in faded sateen ribbon and a mass of photographs piled haphazardly among the envelopes. Emily looked up and glanced around her, as though searching out her departed friend, utterly baffled by the gift. She replaced the lid and slowly made her way to the front of the building.
Lorelai stood leaning her hip against the Jeep with her back to the building, once more talking on her cell phone. Emily paused a few feet away on hearing Lorelai's end of the conversation.
"Yes, Rory, that's a great idea," she said dryly. "How exactly would that conversation go? 'Gee, Mom, I'm really sorry your friend died, but could you please stop being such a heinous bitch?'" She sighed. "It's fine—she's grieving, I can deal with it. I am less certain of my capability to deal with driving back to Hartford with the urn of ashes riding shotgun in the Jeep. It's just so creepy. I mean, I loved Winky, and I'm more than happy to do this whole finale rites thing for her, but it's just… In that teeny little jar are a woman's entire mortal remains. Hey, when I die, will you give me a Norse funeral with the burning pyre and the whole raft thing? Or else I want to be displayed in a glass casket in the entryway of, like, Hard Rock London… No, I have it here on the hood of the car," she said, straightening and turning. Her mouth fell open slightly. "Mom!" she trilled. "Rory, sweets, I have to go. It looks like Grandma and I are on our way back."
"Who on earth put you in charge of the ashes?" Emily asked wearily. She opened the passenger side door and carefully negotiated the hatbox into the back seat as Lorelai tucked the box that held Winky's urn and ashes into a safe position behind the driver's seat.
"The head home guy," she said. "What's in the box?"
"Letters," Emily replied.
"From who? Whom? Who? Whom. I think."
She rubbed her temple. "Whom. I didn't examine them that closely."
Lorelai slammed her door shut and put her keys in the ignition. "Home again, home again," she said. "You okay? You want to stop for something to eat, some coffee?"
"No, thank you, Lorelai. I would just like to go home."
"Okay. Home it is." She paused. "Mom, just so you know, I did talk to the lawyers and everybody, and the others are still coming to live in Stars Hollow. The house didn't just belong to Winky, but she made arrangements—"
"I'm aware of this, Lorelai." Off her look, Emily continued. "Win and I talked about it some time ago, how I should proceed should something… like this occur."
"You two talked a lot, then."
"We did."
"I'm so sorry, Mom."
Emily looked out the plastic window, oddly comforted by the way it distorted and blurred the landscape. "Thank you, Lorelai. And it was a lovely eulogy."
"Thanks, Mom."
They were well into Massachusetts when Lorelai's cell phone rang. She immediately reached for it. Emily spoke before she could catch herself.
"You really shouldn't talk on the phone while you drive. It's unsafe."
"Thanks for the tip, Mother," Lorelai replied, flipping the phone open. "Hello? Wait, slow down. You're looking for what?" She paused, working her lower lip between her teeth, her brow furrowed and her expression peevish. "I haven't seen it. Did you check Bert?"
"Who's Bert?" Emily asked.
Lorelai flapped her elbow in lieu of answering. "I don't know where it is, Luke… I know you can't find it, but what would you like me to do about it? I'm sure I'd fold my arms and blink myself right over there if I could, Master, but unfortunately, I don't have those kinds of powers. And, while the Jeep is certainly a utilitarian vehicle, it's not like I can throw it up to warp speed nine and get back to Stars Hollow to help you out." She paused. "Luke, I swear to God if you use the words tape measure one more time… Seriously, are your measuring needs that dire that you can't—fine, you do that. Fine." With that, she clapped the phone shut and threw it over her shoulder into the back seat with an angry growl.
"What on earth was that about?" Emily demanded.
She curled and uncurled her fingers around the steering wheel several times before she answered. "Luke has lost his tape measure."
"So?"
"So, apparently I'm somehow to blame for the fact that the damned thing's gone missing in the first place, and because I can't tell him off the top of my head where to find it, he's pissed at me," Lorelai replied. "I'm surprised he's managed to go this long without losing anything."
"What does that mean?"
"Oh, nothing," Lorelai said. She shifted in her seat. "Things have just been a little…"
"A little what?" When she didn't answer, Emily asked again. "Lorelai?"
"Unsettled, I guess," she answered. "My hours have been just crazy-weird this week, so I haven't been home much. The inn's been hosting lots of parties, and I've been out late, so Luke hasn't been around. And of course, he's still schlepping his stuff back and forth between his apartment and the house every time he does come over—and it's not like he'll put stuff in a bag, or anything, because somehow using an overnight bag is girly. He needs one of those things that you see hobos using in cartoons, the stick with the little bag on the end. What do they call those? We used to sing a song about them in grade school, something really irritating that got stuck in your head until you wanted to just blow your brains out. Damn, that's going to bug me."
Emily waited until Lorelai paused for breath. "You mean he hasn't moved in yet?"
"No, he hasn't moved in yet," she said, rather sullenly, Emily thought. "And he won't even talk about it. He started to do some stuff last month, and then it just—he just stopped."
"And have you discussed this with him?"
"No, Mom, I haven't," she shot back. "There just hasn't been time to talk about anything this week, that's all." She rubbed her eyes with one hand and flicked at the windshield wipers. "He gets all cagey, anyway, if it comes up in conversation. It's better to just let it be for now."
"Is it?" Emily asked.
She looked at her mother archly. "Cute, Mom, but I'm not biting."
Emily didn't reply, just lifted one shoulder and tipped her head in gesture of consent. Several moments later, Lorelai slapped her hands against the steering wheel, crying, "A ha! 'Waltzing Matilda!'"
"What on earth are you going on about?"
She turned to Emily, her face alight with an amused, triumphant smile. "'Waltzing Matilda!' That's what they call those little hobo bags with the stick. 'Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, won't you come waltzing Matilda, with me?'" she sang.
"Are we there yet?" Emily said in reply.
Lorelai giggled. "Told you it gets stuck in your head."
By the time Lorelai pulled the Jeep into the drive, Emily was more than ready to go inside, take a hot shower, and go to bed knowing that she would never have to spend so many hours in such a small space with her daughter again. Lorelai turned in her seat and smiled brightly.
"So, tomorrow, I'll pick you up around four?" Lorelai asked.
"Excuse me?"
"Winky requested that her ashes be scattered at dawn, so I figured we'd go up Thursday night and stay over at a motel instead of driving up in the middle of the night. I told you this, like, twenty minutes ago," Lorelai said.
"I wasn't listening," Emily said. She rubbed her temples.
"I know," Lorelai said cheerfully. "You had that glazed look. Four o'clock tomorrow, okay?"
Richard seemed to understand without being told that what his wife wanted was quiet and rest. He let her be as she had a light supper, gave her privacy when she went up to shower. When he came into the bedroom in his robe and slippers, a book under his arm, she was propped up on the pillows as she watched South Pacific on DVD.
"I can turn it off if you'd like to read," she said.
He kissed her. "Nonsense, my dear."
She fell asleep before Nellie had washed that man right out of her hair.
The next day was dim and rainy, overcast and cold. Lorelai arrived at twenty after four. She was breathlessly apologetic for her tardiness. "Traffic," she explained through gritted teeth. "It's going to be a nasty, nasty drive, Mom. I'm sorry. I should have—"
"While I'm sure you're capable of a great many things, Lorelai, I assume controlling the weather is not one of them," Emily said. "It can't be any more unpleasant than our last outing."
"Gee, thanks, Mom. Your enthusiasm is overwhelming."
Emily's only reply was an arch look. Lorelai laughed, shaking her head. She took her mother's bag. "I know. Pot, meet kettle. I get it."
She had outfitted the Jeep with a CD player for the drive and piled a few pillows and blankets in the backseat. Emily tucked a chenille throw over her lap as Lorelai merged onto I-84, thankful for her daughter's foresight—even with the heat on, Emily couldn't shake the damp chill and the clammy feeling of her skin. Lorelai turned on the CD player with a wicked grin.
"Mom, you are about to be inducted into a very exclusive, powerful club, the only membership requirement being the possession of a very well-kept secret," she said. "This Linda Rhondstat CD you're listening to has been provided courtesy of none other than my fiancé, Luke Danes of Stars Hollow. Yes, Mom, believe it or not, Luke has a soft spot for the ballads of broken-hearted women belting high notes at the tops of their lungs. Last week, I caught him singing in the kitchen. Under his breath," she added. "But let me tell you, the sight of Flannel Man crooning 'Long, Long Time' is one not easily forgotten."
Emily chuckled. "I take it this isn't public knowledge?"
"Are you kidding me? He'd deny it 'till he's blue in the face, but I swear, a good per cent of his happiness to be cohabitating with me in the near future is that it gives him an excuse to stock up on albums he's always wanted because now he can say they don't belong to him."
"The near future—so you've some idea when he's moving in?" Emily asked.
Her face fell. "Not exactly."
"I don't understand, Lorelai—I saw you two together the other day, I've seen the way you relate to each other, but then you say he doesn't want to move in and you're bickering on the phone—"
Lorelai snorted. "Bickering is what we do, Mom. We've perfected it to a near science. That's not new. The moving in thing—in the long run," she sighed, "it's not a big deal, and I know that, but it's—it's more complicated than it seems." She looked at Emily. "Luke and I, Mom, we're solid. We're good. We are the Rob and Laura Petrie of Stars Hollow. There are just… there are a few things that need to get sorted out."
Emily studied her a moment. "I must say, Lorelai, you never cease to astound me."
"How's that?" she asked warily.
"You revel in something so juvenile as Luke's taste in music but you are also incredibly steady and mature when it comes to your relationship with him," Emily said. "It's just not what one would expect."
She shrugged. "That's my charm, Mom—I am a paradoxical, whimsical creature."
"That sounds like something Win would have said," Emily told her.
Her face broke open in a grin. "Mom, that might be one of the nicest compliments you've ever given me," she said. "Really. Hey, do you have any idea why we're going to New Jersey to scatter her ashes? I don't get it."
"It's where they were married," Emily said.
"Really?"
The remembrance of the story made Emily smile sadly. Her eyes were distant as she spoke. "Harry was older than she, you know, by a few years. They met when he was a student at Dartmouth and she worked at the local bookstore. She was seventeen, he was twenty-two, and he had just joined the Army to go to war. They corresponded, and when he came back four years later, they went to Atlantic City and got married."
"That's so romantic," Lorelai breathed.
"Oh, that's only half the story," Emily said. "They were engaged to be married, and they were going to be married in Harry's temple—I forget the town, but his family was from New Jersey. Neither Win nor Harry wanted a big wedding, but Harry's family was rather prominent in the community and his mother had planned a rather large wedding and an elaborate, opulent reception—"
"Imagine that," Lorelai said.
Emily lifted an eyebrow and continued. "So, being the contrary individuals that they were, the day before the wedding, Win and Harry eloped. They were married on the boardwalk at dawn in a civil ceremony officiated by a gay rabbi."
Lorelai's mouth fell open. "That is—seriously? Because that is just the best wedding story ever. A civil ceremony officiated by a gay rabbi?"
"Well, Harry knew he had to be married by a rabbi or his family would cut him off, and it so happened that he knew a fellow in Atlantic City who was a justice of the peace and a rabbi, so technically they were safe," Emily said. "The fact that he was gay I think is just incidental."
She covered her mouth with her hand, snorting this time in laughter. "I may need to pull over," she gasped. "I cannot tell you how very much I wish I had that on tape."
"Yes, well, don't get any ideas, Lorelai," Emily said.
"Tell me more," she said. "I had no idea Winky's life was so interesting. And quirky. I know Harry was a writer, but other than that, we talked more about me than anything else." She paused. "But really, when is that not the case?"
Emily smoothed the blanket in her lap and yawned. "Well, you know Harry wasn't just some writer, don't you?" she asked. She crossed her ankles and continued, telling Lorelai how Harry dictated his work and Win transcribed it, mentioning one of his more famous works.
"Holy crap, Mom. You're telling me Harry wrote that? I had no idea that was him."
"Of course he didn't publish under his real name—Harry Bedermeir isn't exactly the most elegant or authorial name, so he used a nome de plume."
"But Mom," Lorelai said, "the man who wrote that was a Nobel Laureate for Literature."
Emily nodded. "I'm aware of this, Lorelai."
"Wow. Like, really wow. Wow, wow, wow. Winky, our Winky, was married to a Nobel Prize winner."
"Yes, she was," Emily sighed. "And she loved him."
Lorelai shook her head in wonder. "That's just amazing. So, I want to know more. It's a long trip, so start talking, lady."
She hadn't run out of stories by the time they got to New Jersey. Lorelai continually interrupted her, asking questions, making comments, pretending to pull over as the result of shock. Her antics and the stories that Emily didn't even remember she knew made the trip surprisingly short. She only realized how hungry she was when they checked into the hotel and saw it was after eight. They gave their bags to a bellhop and went immediately to the hotel restaurant.
Lorelai held her martini in one hand, sitting back in her chair. Emily could see the appraisal in her look. She set her own drink down and looked levelly at her daughter.
"What?"
Lorelai gestured. "Nothing." She sipped her drink. "Those stories are amazing, Mom. It's too bad Winky was just a biographer of other people, worse that she was never published. Her memoirs would have been amazing." She set her mouth in a line of chagrined disappointment. "It's just a shame that all has to die with her."
"And what, exactly, are you trying to say, Lorelai?" Emily inquired.
"I'm not trying to say anything, Mom," she said smugly. "Nothing at all."
They ate in relative silence, took the elevator up to their rooms. Lorelai stuck her key card in the slot and pushed the door open, calling good night to her mother. Emily followed suit. She grinned and counted to five.
"Ah, shit!"
Emily opened the door that separated their rooms and poked her head into Lorelai's room. "I got adjoining rooms this morning, I hope you don't mind," she said. "I called to check the reservation. It just seemed to make better sense—we have to get up so early tomorrow, this way we can synchronize our wake up calls, and—"
Lorelai smiled tightly. "No, Mom, it's perfect."
"Excellent. Well, I'm going to take a hot shower."
"Thanks for the update," Lorelai said, her tone dry.
She could hear Lorelai on the phone when she stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in her robe. She rubbed the towel hard against her scalp. The door between their rooms was open. As she walked to the mirror over the dresser, Emily told herself it wasn't really eavesdropping: Lorelai hadn't thought to shut the door and it wasn't as though she was trying to hear her daughter's conversation.
"And then they got married on the boardwalk at dawn. Get this, Luke: they had a civil ceremony officiated by a gay rabbi… She had such an incredible life—it's just so sad. Yeah, I know, she was old, but still…" Emily heard Lorelai throw herself on the bed. "The hotel isn't bad—plywood comforters and chlorine sheets, but it's only for one night. Yes, we will be back tomorrow, around noon probably. I'll come by as soon as I get in… No, I know, but this week has been so bizarre and backwards. I feel like Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles: nothing has gone the way it's supposed to." She sighed heavily. "How do you know it hasn't been that bad?" she demanded.
Emily listened to the one side of the conversation as she combed her hair and put on her moisturizer. She had no idea what Lorelai was talking about. It was clear, however, that Luke had been doing what Win called "talking her out of her tree." In the thirty plus years Emily had been married to Richard, she'd had more than her share of long distance phone calls; she'd been Lorelai on more than one occasion, purposefully whiny and begging to be coddled. The fact that he knew what to say eased the pangs caused by absence more than whatever pretended hurts she'd told him of. The things weighing her down at the moment couldn't be teased or reasoned away, and so her own phone call to Richard was brief and cursory. His "I love you" as they said goodnight wasn't a miraculous cure-all as it had been on lighter occasions but it was something, she thought.
She was reading in bed when Lorelai came to the doorway to say good night. Emily peered at her over her reading glasses. There were times when she forgot her daughter was nearing forty, that she herself was getting older; standing as she was, leaning against the doorframe in a Hello Kitty! tank top with matching bottoms, her hair pulled back and her glasses on, Lorelai was twenty-three again. She tipped her head to the side and smiled.
"What?" she asked.
Emily set her book aside. "Oh, it's nothing."
"What are you reading?"
She glanced at the cover. "It's a novel Rory lent me—Possession. Have you heard of it?"
"Oh, I've heard of it," Lorelai said ruefully. "Luke and I tried to read it a few weeks ago, but it wasn't quite his thing. Too much poetry. We gave up about halfway through."
"You and Luke tried to read it?" Emily repeated.
Lorelai stood upright, crossed her arms over her chest, and scratched at one shoulder absently as she sauntered into the room. "It's just something we do, reading together. Well, for the most part, he reads to me, but same difference," she said. She sat at the foot of the bed. "Do you like it? The book?"
"I do," Emily said. "What sorts of things do you two read?"
She shrugged. "Just, you know, whatever. The Once and Future King. A Prayer for Owen Meany." She looked at the ceiling. "What else?" she wondered aloud. "He's a big mystery fan, so sometimes Robert Parker or Raymond Chandler. We're doing The Lord of the Rings right now, but man, that book is nine bazillion pages long."
"Lorelai, are you happy with your life?" Emily asked abruptly.
She looked at her mother, her chin on her shoulder. "Yeah, Mom, I am," she said. "It's hard, sometimes, but I'm happy." Her expression was thoughtful. "Are you happy, Mom?"
Emily took off her glasses and began to slide further beneath the covers. "Of course," she said. "But I am tired, and we have an early wake up call tomorrow. We better get some sleep."
"Sure," Lorelai said. "Night, Mom. Sleep well."
She was up long before the wake up call, already dressed. She sat on the bed, her ankles crossed, waiting. The call came, and immediately Emily rose and opened the door that separated her room from Lorelai's. Her daughter was sprawled across the queen-sized bed, face down between the pillows. Emily laid a hand on Lorelai's shoulder and shook her.
"Lorelai, come along and wake up."
She grunted. Emily repeated the process several times before Lorelai raised her head and regarded her mother with a scowl, her eyes still closed.
"You know, we could just as easily scatter her ashes later as now," Lorelai croaked."At a decent hour. It's not like she'll know."
"Lorelai Victoria Gilmore!" Emily cried. "Are you listening to yourself?"
"No," she whined. "It's too early for that."
"Do not make me forcibly drag you out of this bed, Lorelai. I will do it."
She sat up, growling. "Five minutes," she said. "I need five minutes."
The walked to the boardwalk in silence, the urn under Lorelai's arm. Emily found herself plodding in slow steps. She felt as though the sky, still heavy and overcast, was a weight across her shoulders; she was tempted to grab Lorelai for support, afraid her knees would give out. She glanced at her daughter. Lorelai's early-morning pout was somber, her eyes distant, puffy with sleep.
"It's not even really dawn," Emily said suddenly. "It's so cloudy."
Lorelai looked up, squinted. "It's getting lighter."
"I suppose it is."
They stopped by unspoken consent at a spot on the boardwalk at a spot equidistant from two of the trash barrels that dotted the walkway. Emily resented their existence—there was nowhere they could go and not be bookended by rubbish, and it seemed so inherently wrong, so disrespectful, so inappropriate. She took the urn from Lorelai's hands in both of hers when Lorelai unceremoniously thrust it at her.
"Should we say something?" Lorelai asked.
"What would you like to say?"
She chewed her lip. "Honestly? I'd like to tell her I'm glad I met her, and I'm sorry she's gone, and I'm truly grateful to have learned the things she shared with me."
Emily turned the small receptacle between her palms. "I think that's just fine, Lorelai. I would only add that I am going to miss her."
The two women turned their backs to the wind. Emily loosened the top of the urn. After a moment, she tipped it slightly. The wind picked up, took hold of the contents. Emily heard Lorelai whisper goodbye as the dust dispersed. She echoed the word under her breath; her eyes began to smart. As they turned away from the boardwalk, Emily fumbled to replace the lid of the urn. She sniffled, wiped the back of her hand against her eyes to clear her blurred vision. Lorelai slung her arm over her mother's shoulders and pulled her against her side as they walked. Emily tucked her head to Lorelai's shoulder as the tears spilled over.
"I know, Mom," Lorelai said softly. "I know."
The return trip wasn't quite as cheerful as the ride up had been. Both women were moody and quiet, lost in their own thoughts. Lorelai dropped her mother off with a see you later and a sympathetic smile. Emily watched Lorelai pull away before she turned to the house. She shook her head at the irrational, lonely pang in her chest and went inside.
The hatbox holding the letters was where she'd left it: behind a chair in Richard's study. She held it in her lap and began to sort through them. The packets contained three or four months of letters apiece. After some careful searching, she located the oldest bundle.
The paper was thin, almost brittle. Emily held her breath as she slid the letter from its envelop.
To Harry Bedermeir:
While I consider it an honorable act that you've done in writing to my mother to ask permission to write to me, I must also tell you it was an unadvisable one. Mother was not at all pleased to receive your letter (and I suspect you know this, as you are more than likely fully aware of your reputation in town; I further suspect you wrote to her for the sake of the story you would have as a result). I, however, am not entirely adverse to receiving such communications in the future. You should send all correspondence to my cousin Charlotte at 14 Windsor Road—Charlotte, I must tell you, has only grudgingly agreed to this arrangement because she thinks "you may possibly one day be very talented," though she still sees reason to doubt. Her parents do not monitor her mail as mine do (lucky, lucky Charlotte).
While she may come around in time, I think it best to keep my mother in the dark for the moment. She will be surprised to find that it is really her idea that you and I write to each other while you are away, doing your duty as you must, as she is often surprised by her own good thinking.
Should you choose to respond to this letter and do so in a way I find amenable, I may be tempted to address you as "dear" in my next salutation. You should not take this as a compliment, you understand, or even as a sign of affection, but simply a gesture of goodwill.
Please take care. I would be quite put out should you fail to come home, and you have seen for yourself why I am renowned for my temper.
I am (quite possibly) sincerely yours,
Winifred
PS It would be to your advantage to find a suitable diminutive or sobriquet by which to address me, as I find Winifred an absolutely hateful handle and look kindly on those creative enough to name me themselves.
Emily laughed aloud as she read the letter. There was something familiar in the easy, teasing style. She imagined a smitten young man at the front would be nothing short of tickled to receive such a letter, light and flirtatious in its own fashion, and more than anything affectionate.
"I would be quite put out should you fail to come home," she read aloud. Only Win could tell someone not to die in such terms. Well, she thought, not only. She glanced at an old photograph in an ornate silver frame, a picture of Lorelai at fifteen that had rested on Richard's end table for years. It was a candid, taken by whom, Emily had forgotten. Lorelai was talking to someone out of frame, the expression captured in the photo animated and bright.
Emily returned the letter to its envelope, careful not to tear the paper so brittle with age.
To My Lady Red, the next letter began,
You'll excuse the liberty I take in addressing you as "my lady," I know. I feel sure we're not up to 'dearest' yet, and anything else seems criminally negligent—a cold 'to' won't do.
She was smiling when Richard came in. He sat on the ottoman before her and placed his hands gently on her knees. She looked up at him, tears in her eyes.
"These letters," she said. "They're gems." She laughed as she thumbed a tear from her eye. "He called her Red."
Richard leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. "I'm delighted for you, my dear, that you have them to read." He rubbed her leg lightly with the tips of his fingers. "Rory is here, and I expect Lorelai at any moment."
Emily looked up, horrified. "Dinner! I—I forgot! There's nothing to—"
He waved a hand. "Oh, my dear, it is all taken care of."
She followed him to the parlor and the drink cart, pestering him with questions as they went—what did he mean, taken care of? He smiled in a way that would have infuriated her, had she the energy for it, had she not been emotional enough to enjoy the slight pampering. Rory rose from where she sat on the divan as her grandparents entered the room, and Emily ceased her questioning as she crossed the room and enveloped Rory in a tight hug.
"I am very glad to see you," she said.
"Grandma, I'm so sorry about your friend," Rory said. "I wanted to come with you, but Dad had tickets to this thing, and then there was this dinner, and—"
Emily pulled her down to sit beside her on the divan. "I appreciate the thought, but your mother was quite company enough."
"She always is," Rory agreed.
"Rory, I'm thinking of beginning a project," Emily began; the ringing of the doorbell cut her off.
"I come bearing gifts of food and drink!" Lorelai announced. She stood in the entryway to the room, two paper bags in her arms. "And, while I tried to get Tyler Florence to put in an appearance, he's too busy teaching a housewife in Parma how to fix her watery lasagna to make it, so we're going to have to settle for some guy I picked up off the street in Stars Hollow."
Luke walked past, carrying a similar burden. "Stop announcing me when we go places," he said.
"Come on, you two," Lorelai said. She indicated with her head. "We're going to go hang in the kitchen while the man cooks. I've heard it's quite nice in there."
"Go on ahead," Emily replied. "I need a moment with my granddaughter."
Rory gave her grandmother a questioning look, waiting until Lorelai, Luke, and Richard were well into the kitchen to give in and ask.
"What's up, Grandma?"
Emily smoothed her skirt, chastising herself for the old nervous habit. "I've come into possession of some… rather interesting letters."
"Mom told me," Rory said.
"Yes, well, they're really quite something, and they—with the help of some rather forceful hints from your mother—have given me an idea," Emily said. "I'm—I'm not sure if this is something…" She trailed off. "I want to make a book," she announced, lifting her head. "I—I want to put the letters in a book."
Rory's face broke into an excited, exultant style. "Grandma, I think that's amazing!"
"Well, there's more," Emily said. "I think there should be more, there should be… Like that novel that you lent me, the one with the letters between the poets?"
"You mean Possession?" Rory asked. She thought a moment. "So, you want to write around the letters," she said. "Use them as a framing device, tell a story around them, right?"
She tapped Rory's knee. "That's exactly it. However, I'm not—it's been so long since I've written anything besides letters, myself, and, well, I know that you have a very full class schedule and your work on the paper and your social life, and I don't want to put another burden on you, but—"
"Grandma, I would be more than happy to help," Rory said. "I've never really tried fiction, but it's sort of fiction based on real life, so it shouldn't be too different." She bit her lip. "Why don't we do this, Grandma: you start working on it, whenever you want, and just try your hand at it, and you and I can have a weekly study date where we sit down together and go over it—that way we're writing together, but we have something to start with."
Emily furrowed her brow, uncertain. "I don't know, Rory—on my own? Write it on my own?"
"Why not?" Rory said. "You knew Winky, and you have her letters, and you wouldn't have asked me if you didn't have some idea of how you wanted it to be—and," she added, her voice rising in excitement, "you told me once, when we were in Rome, you told me you wanted to be a writer. Remember?"
"I remember," Emily said softly. "Well, if you think so…"
"We'll just try it for a while," Rory said. She threw her arms around her grandmother. "I'm so glad you're doing this, Grandma. I know it's going to be great."
Later that night in the quiet of her bedroom, Emily curled up once more with Win's letters and photographs. She lifted a picture from the chaotic pile in the hatbox and considered it several long moments. Win couldn't have been more than nineteen, Emily thought. In the photograph, the young girl leaned against a car. She was laughing, her head thrown back, her hair falling in long curls behind her. Win stood with one hip against the car door, her hand on the other. Her posture was easy, and Emily could picture her standing up straighter and walking away, her movements fluid and relaxed. She remembered Lorelai, the day of the funeral, waiting for Emily at the Jeep, remembered the picture she'd just seen of Lorelai in the study. Emily ran her nail along the lines of the polka dot dress Win wore, an old-fashioned (now old-fashioned, she conceded) shirtwaist style, her expression thoughtful.
She put the picture aside and took up another from the same year, a close-up. In this, Win wore her hair pulled back and low, a formal, off-the shoulder dress and pearls. Emily had seen photos like this before—she'd been in photos like this, formal sittings and portraits.
Win had told her once it was easy to be two people at once if you only knew how: the saucy, self-confident, slightly outrageous girl who clung so fiercely to her individuality wasn't held in the stranglehold of the subdued, obedient daughter Win patiently was. To be one, she'd said, you had to put up with the other and make do. "It all evens out in the end," she insisted. "If I hadn't had so many years of practice with my parents, putting up with Harry's foul moods would have been impossible. Pleasing other people doesn't mean giving up who you are," she'd said. "No, Emily, it does not. You have to work with what you're given in life."
Again, Emily traced the lines of the photograph, the curves of her friend's face. Emily had worn her hair that way herself; she'd put on her mother's pearls and smiled. But in the broad, insouciant, friendly smile, in the slant of Win's eyes and the pert, challenging light therein, she saw someone else as well.
"Oh, Lorelai," she sighed.
With that, Emily reached into the drawer of her bedside table and retrieved the journal that Rory had given her months ago. She thumbed the gold-edged pages, opened the cover, smoothed the first page, and began to write.
AN: Just want to add another note of thanks for the reviews and comments again—they're so appreciated, you have no idea. Thanks to the beta for being straight with me on this chapter as well.