June
To Emily, June was a month for traveling. It was a month for confirming reservations, for packing, for driving to the Cape. It was the month her flowers bloomed. June was a month of outdoor social events—teas and garden parties, lunches on the verandah. June was a month for weddings.
There were reasons people got married in June. The weather, for one—ceremonies could be held outdoors in the afternoon or evening and no one would wilt in the heat. Rain remained only a distant threat in June, rather than a possibility to prepare for. There was wind in June, friendly, soft wind. There were less questions regarding dresses and suits and the right weight of clothes in June. June was a time for weddings to happen, not for weddings to be planned. The phrase "a June bride," Emily knew, existed because people got married in June. She got married in June.
June was certainly not the month to be making last minute changes to the menu. One shouldn't debate strawberries and raspberries in June, nor base her decision on whichever Jackson thought looked better that week. By June, alterations on dresses should be finished—there should be no more tweaking the hem because of an accident with the measuring tape that led to the dress dragging a fraction of an inch in front where it shouldn't. In June, RSVPs should already be counted, and seating arrangements should already have been made, and everything should be set in stone, ready, and perfect.
People, Emily thought darkly, got married in June. They did not plan weddings in June. People who planned weddings in June ended up worrying about thunder and lightening storms. They worried about humidity, and whether or not said humidity would make their hair get horrendously huge like in that episode of Friends where they're all in Bermuda or the Bahamas or wherever and Monica's hair swells up to eight times its natural size—although what Lorelai was talking about when she said that, Emily had no idea.
People who planned weddings in June still had too many details left to consider, and it was really all very ridiculous.
Lorelai, Emily had to constantly remind herself, was not, nor had she ever been, people.
She had tried to talk her daughter out of it. "What about bees?" she'd asked.
Lorelai had looked at her, utterly baffled. "I don't know, Mom. What about bees?"
"What are you going to do about bees? Bees, Lorelai! With all the flowers and the people—bees can be very dangerous!"
"Well, Mom, then we'll keep an EpiPen handy in case someone gets stung and goes into anaphylactic shock and we have to shoot him full of adrenaline to keep him from swallowing his tongue," Lorelai said. "What is a wedding, after all, without a thrilling floor show? It'll make it all the more memorable."
Bees, Emily conceded, had been a weak approach. "You know it's going to be dreadfully hot."
"That's why we're having the ceremony in the evening, Mom," Lorelai said. "Evening means less hot. And," she added, seeing her mother prepared to continue, "you know, if it's hot, people will sweat. Nature's little cooling system."
"Lorelai!"
She rolled her eyes. "Sorry. If it's hot, we'll provide everyone with big paper fans and talcum powder, and people can just sit around, waving their fans and patting their bosoms with handkerchiefs and saying things like, 'Lawd, Millicent, has the heat evah been so dreadful?'" She spoke the last in an affected Southern accent.
"Really, Lorelai. You have no common sense."
"And yet, Luke's marrying me anyway," Lorelai said. "So what does that say about him?"
"You know he's just going to melt in his tux."
Lorelai had choked slightly on the iced tea she was drinking. "Well, no, Mom, he's not."
"No? Are you psychic now? Is that how you can so successfully plan a late summer wedding and account for all these minor details, as you call them?" Emily asked.
She had averted her eyes guiltily. "Well, no, Mom, although psychic powers would come in handy for conversations like this. I just know that Luke won't be melting in his tux because Luke isn't wearing a tux."
At that point, Emily just had to leave the room.
She knew that Lorelai understood, however dimly and in whatever back corner of her brain where she stored such unpleasant information, that the wedding was the last important thing Emily could plan for her daughter. There had been the baptism, of course, and the multitudes of birthday parties, but upon the advent of Rory, all such grand celebrations hadended. There had been no coming out party, not even a sweet sixteen. There had never been a graduation party or another birthday party. Emily tsked in distaste, thinking of the last wedding shower and bachelorette party Lorelai had had—neither of which Emily had really been asked to be involved in. The reception in February had been one thing, she thought. That she'd at least had control over, and it went off perfectly (if the reception room was a little bare, no one seemed to notice but her, and after a few champagne cocktails, she'd forgotten until the next morning as well). But it somehow wasn't enough, now. The closer the wedding date came, the more useless and insignificant Emily began to feel.
She'd wanted to take Lorelai to New York to shop for a gown. When Lorelai told her in January that she would be wearing the most fabulous dress known to man, Emily had just assumed that meant something with a designer name—a Vera Wang, at the very least, though she knew certain other names were becoming en vogue now as well, but Caroline Herrera just didn't have the ring of a Vera Wang. But then she'd had tea with her daughter at the Dragonfly on an afternoon in May, just after the completion of Win's house, and Lorelai had mentioned in a deliberately casual tone that she'd just begun work on her dress and she'd really like Emily's opinion. Lorelai watched her carefully over the rim of her coffee cup; Emily felt herself go white to the lips, immediately unsure ifthe smirk she saw as Lorelai sipped her coffee was real or imagined.
Unable to speak, she pushed herself away from the table and strode purposefully to the door. Lorelai followed, calling out to her. Emily had stopped on the threshold, her back to her daughter. She didn't trust her voice: her throat was constricted, choked with tears pushed ever closer to the surface by the palpitations in her chest. Before she turned, she straightened her head and smoothed her skirt. The look on her face was a practiced one, haughty and cold.
"Yes, Lorelai?"
Lorelai chewed her lower lip. "I'm sorry if I upset you."
"Upset? No, Lorelai, you didn't upset me."
"No? Then why—"
"You've offended me is what you've done," she said; she could hear her voice rising and the anger thickening it. "For heaven's sake, Lorelai, are you ever going to let me do anything for you?"
The sympathetic head-tilt and soft smile was infuriating. "Mom. You do lots of things for me. You know that. You probably have a list in your purse."
"You're getting married, Lorelai."
"No, really? Damn. And I was so looking forward to getting bat mitzvahed."
"How can you wear a handmade dress at your wedding? Have you any idea how simple that is, how crass? I wanted to take you to New York, to choose something lovely and have it altered or if we couldn't find anything then hire someone to make it for you—that is what you do for a wedding, Lorelai, not slap together a dress in your kitchen." She sighed. "This is what mothers are supposed to do when their daughters get married, Lorelai—and it's just unkind of you, is what it is."
Lorelai looked down at her toes, her hands on her hips. When she raised her chin again, her features were carefully neutral, controlled. "Mother, while I appreciate that you would like to do something nice and buy me a wedding dress, I don't need you to do that for me.I am not going to slap together anything. I've chosen the designs I'm working from, I've hand-picked the fabric, I've thought this through very, very carefully." She paused. "This is important to me, Mom."
"But why?"
"Because of the chuppah."
"The chuppah?"
"It's a long story, and I'll tell you all about it sometime, but for right now, can you put the self-righteousness in the freezer for awhile and let me show you what I've done so far? You can thaw it out in a few weeks and it'll be just as fresh," Lorelai said.
It had only been drawings and swatches that day, but Emily kept tabs on the dress as it progressed. Lorelai only worked on it during the day and, before the moving and construction began on the house, hid it in the downstairs bathroom, explaining to Emily that she could lock it from the outside and that Luke didn't have a key. When the time came, she'd have to transfer all her things to Sookie's house, but in the meantime, the bathroom was working just fine.
Emily had to admit the dress was quite something. It was classic, all clean lines and elegant falls of fabric, and the color suited Lorelai's complexion perfectly. The lighting in the room had been terrible, of course, but even under the terrible lighting she could see that it was going to be lovely. One afternoon in late May, Lorelai called her over to show her the progress she was making. They stood in the bathroom, admiring the gown draped over the dressmaker's bust. Lorelai had stroked the fabric with a wistful smile as she pointed out the details, and for an instant, Emily didn't care that the dress didn't have a designer name attached.
"Oh, but I named it," Lorelai had told her. "I'm calling it Pretty Pretty Princess for now, but when it's put together a little more, it's really going to need a better name. Something silky," she said.
"Grace Kelly," Emily had said.She idly fingered an edge of the fabric.
"What?"
She looked up to find Lorelai's eyes fixed on her. "Well, if you're calling it Pretty Pretty Princess," she said, with a note of derision, "you might as well just call it Grace Kelly, because that's what she was."
"Mom, that is so brilliant," Lorelai said, marveling. She laid one hand on the shoulder of her dressmaker's mannequin, the other on Emily's wrist. "Hello, Lorelai's wedding dress. I dub thee Grace Kelly from henceforth on."
"You are the strangest girl," Emily sighed. "Will you at least let me take you into the city to buy some decent shoes?"
Lorelai shrugged. "Well, if you insist," she'd said with a grin.
When she and Richard left for the Cape, Emily decided to stop thinking about Lorelai's wedding. If it wasn't going to be when it should be, and she had already done her part by choosing and printing and sending the invitations, and Lorelai was being so impossible and doing everything on her own, there was no reason Emily needed to expend any more time on it either. She would go to the Cape and work on her novel and spend time with her husband and relax.
When it came right down to it, though, she'd never really been very good at relaxing.
She sat in the kitchen of their rented bungalow, drinking her third (fourth?) cup of coffee of the morning. She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. She had an engagement to play tennis with Bitty Charleston that afternoon, but that was still a few hours away. She'd read the paper already and gone over the menu and the shopping list with the cook. She'd called Rory. Richard still had her manuscript. How long could it take a man who read as much as Richard did to get through a manuscript? Especially one that wasn't more than half finished?
Emily was just about to rise from her chair and begin pacing when Richard ambled into the room. He still wore his reading spectacles and held the sheaf of papers that contained Emily's work of the last few months. He was absently patting his chest as he walked, as though looking for something in his breast pocket.
He peered at Emily over the top of his classes. "I seem to have misplaced my pen."
She handed him a ball-point she'd been using on the newspaper's daily crossword puzzle. She watched him scratch something on the manuscript. He returned the pen and took off his glasses.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Richard!" she cried. "Well?"
"You have a grammatical mistake here," he said. "I've corrected it for you."
Emily stared, mouth agape. "You've had it three hours and all you can think to say is that I have a grammatical mistake?"
He blinked. "What would you like me to say, my dear?"
"Something! Anything! What do you think?" she demanded.
He weighed his words carefully before he spoke. It riled her. "I think," he began slowly, "I would have liked to have known this Winifred person and her husband. They seem quite the interesting pair."
Emily's lips twitched. "They were at that. But the story, Richard. What do you think of the story?"
He laid the manuscript down. "I think the story is very fine, Emily. In need of some editing, but very fine."
She blushed, surprised at how relieved she was to hear his good opinion—she'd feared that he would take his honesty a step too far, as he was wont to do on occasions like this. "Yes, well, it's been some time since Rory has been able to work with me now that she has that internship, and she's been my editing guide up till now." She paused, clasped her hands. "Oh, Richard, do you really think so?"
"I look forward to reading more," he answered. "It will be an exceptional book, Emily. And now, I am off to humiliate the young folks at the golf course."
He left her with her novel and a kiss on the head. Emily ran her fingers along the lines of print—the electric typewriter had really been a good investment, no matter how much Rory had protested in favor of a laptop. Emily sighed. How she had gotten to this point, taking this project so seriously, immersing herself in it, she was unsure. It had been because of the letters, at first; they were good letters, full of wit and color and vivacity, and they deserved to be read. It had been for Win, too, who had so little left at the end of a life spent cataloguing the thoughts and motionsof others. Win would have liked this project.
Over the last few months, however, it had turned into something more. Emily found the work of revising the letters engaging, and the story seemed to fill itself in for her. The scenarios of what Win did and how she looked and moved and read Harry's letters—it was all-consuming. Emily found herself thinking of it at the oddest times: in the middle of a DAR function or while she was getting her hair done, even in the shower. It wasn't something she felt she could explain to her husband. She saw it all so clearly, heard it all so precisely. It lived for her.
It should have felt silly. Emily Gilmore was not a woman who fantasized or daydreamed. Romance like that was the domain of younger people, those who were capable of changing their lives, who had not yet been disillusioned by the hard realities of day-to-day existence.To play pretend in her head all day long, every day, wasn't her province. She was a woman with a grown daughter, a grandchild, a woman who had been disappointed in her expectations of how certain things in her life had transpired—Lorelai's entire life after age fifteen, for one, her separation from Richard, for another.She had come to terms with the majority of it, this was true, and if she were forced to say so under the threat of scalping, she wouldn't have it any other way given all the outcomes and in spite of the pain. It didn't do to dwell on things, though she did, or idly wonder how things could be different, though she had. This actively constructing some fictional world, however, built around two people who would rather eat crow than honestly admit how deeply they cared for each other, was something else altogether.
It had made Emily wonder if it was really possible to start all over again whenever a person wanted to. Was that what she'd done? Leaving Richard, coming back again? Having a job, working for Win after all those years of housewifery? Writing?
She set the manuscript aside, put it in the silverware drawer.She was overwhelming herself with thoughts like that. Perhaps that was why she concentrated on the wedding the way she did. That at least was familiar.
As was tennis with Bitty Charleston, who would be expecting tea after the set. Emily became purposeful, called the cook in from the garden. Raspberries or strawberries with their shortcake?
Dear Mr. B—
Have you read Richardson's Pamela? Dreadful stuff. Only a middle-aged man would believe a sixteen-year-old girl should behave the way Pamela Andrews does. Her Mr. B is nothing short of a villain. And you? I'm inclined to think you'd aspire to villainy if you thought you could successfully get away with it. Your better angels keep you in check.
Am I to assume from your silence lately that my letters have gone astray? Or that you've grown tired of me? You're too stubborn to let the war prevent you from writing. Set my mind at ease, will you? Wondering like this will give me prematurely gray hair, and I'd hate to have to blame you for that. I'm sure my mother would be less than pleased.
In all seriousness (a rarity we avoid at all costs, I know), this business of not writing for some unfounded belief that I am better off not hearing from you and that I will in the end only regret having known you really must end. I won't have it. I mean to harass you unmercifully until the end of days, and protesting through silence is as useless as it is silly and beneath you.
I expect a reply. I am wholly unused to failing expectations, and I don't intend to become accustomed to them now.
—Red
This particular letter fell somewhere near the end of Harry's second year away. His letters had become increasingly bleak and short, without the natural verve he'd had at the start. The more sordid corner of Emily's imagination attributed this to a drunken liaison with a French waitress that resulted in pregnancy.She saw, however, a pair of broken blue eyes, distraught and betrayed, and knew that neither the Win of her creation nor the Win she'd known in life would have stood for it. Further, a man as far gone as Harry wouldn't submit to the baser impulse to stray, not when he felt that he'd met his match. She decided that he'd stopped trusting himself in the midst of the violence and death, that he didn't want to mar the bright, simple bond he and Win had with the sense of hopelessness he'd acquired as the war progressed.
It was such a man thing to do, she thought, to pull back instead of attempt resolution. She frowned as she framed the scene in her mind, pictured Harry reading the letter both delighted and torn. Really, it was all just too depressing, Emily thought. She reached for the phone.
"You know, Grandma," Rory said, some time later, "you might be onto something with that. I'll pick up some of his poetry and thumb through it, see what he was writing at the time."
"When do you think you might be able to come down and see us?" Emily asked. She hoped that she sounded less pathetically eager to Rory than she did to herself.
"This weekend, actually, if that's okay with you," Rory said. "This has been the longest week ever, and seeing as it's only Tuesday, I think a little beach time would be nice, and it's been so long since I've seen you and Grandpa, I miss you both."
"We miss you, too," Emily said. "And any time you'd like to come down you're welcome. You and your mother."
"You should call her," Rory said. "I'm sure she'd love it."
Emily thought about this a moment after hanging up with Rory. She wandered to the den that Richard had claimed as his and stood in the doorway. "What would you think about having the girls down for a weekend?"
"I think barbecue," Richard said. "Let's."
And so she had the phone in her hand again, feeling slightly tired of chasing after people instead of being called upon herself.
"Dragonfly Inn, Lorelai speaking."
"Hello, Lorelai."
"Mom! Hey, how's the Cape? You and Dad having fun? We're not going to see you topless on the cover of any tabloids, are we?"
"I should say not," she replied, aghast. "Really, Lorelai."
"You know me, Mom. Just like to spice things up."
"Yes, well how do you feel about spicing up a weekend down here with us?" she asked. She was about to continue when Lorelai heaved a sigh.
"Oh, Mom, you have no idea how fabulous that would be," Lorelai groaned. "I can't even tell you—my God, it's been the most hectic month. I'm exhausted."
Emily blinked rapidly. "You want to come, then."
"If you're offering, I'm accepting," Lorelai said. "Mom, can you hang on a sec?" There were muted noises for a few moments before Lorelai again sighed gustily. "I swear, I'm going to kill everyone."
"That's hardly wise," Emily said dryly. "Come this weekend. Rory will be here. Your father wants to barbecue."
"Oh, even better," Lorelai said.
"And Luke? Would he like to come as well?"
"You don't want Luke around right now, Mom. He's insanely grumpy. He makes psycho Jack Torrence look like Elmo."
"You don't sound terribly bothered by it."
"What can I say, Mom? The blush has yet to fall from the rose. That, and he's not here right now and it's much easier to put up with his moods when he's not in the immediate vicinity. When he's around, then it's, you know 'here's Johnny!'"
Emily paused. "Yes, well, I'm sure that's… unpleasant."
"You're telling me. I will not hide in the bathroom like some meek Shelly Duval, however… you have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"
"No, but I rarely do," Emily sighed. "Will you come, then?"
"If you build it, Mom, we will come."
"Lorelai."
"We're there," she said sheepishly. "Bye, Mom."
The impending visit gave her something else to do for the next few days, a welcome interruption to the rather bland routine she and Richard enjoyed at the Cape. There were bedrooms to be prepared, and menus, and new deck chairs to get, and a grill to set up. Planning was a language Emily liked, one she spoke fluently, and by the time Thursday evening arrived, she was pleasantly wearied of getting things ready. She sat down to her desk and surveyed her papers with a slight sigh. What would happen to it all, she wondered. Where would the stories go when she was done with them?
Dear Red,
I won't attempt an explanation for my silence, and I don't think you really want one. I won't apologize, either, because I can't in my right mind apologize for something I did with the best intentions and the sincere belief that it was the only thing to do. In the end, though, I value your letters, your words, your very person, more than anything else in this sorry excuse for a world, and perhaps it's selfish, but I'm finding I really can't do without them.
When this war is over, we're going to go fishing, you and I. Some afternoon, I'll stop by your mother's house in whatever vehicle I can wrangle that day, and I'll lean on the horn until you come out looking fresh and bright as you do. We'll stop somewhere and buy a lunch, and then we'll drive to the lake. We'll sit on the dock, and we'll cast our lines out, and we'll sit together in the sun, waiting for the fish to bite. It will be an afternoon that lasts forever and we'll forget to go home until it's growing dark and you know your mother will be angry and you won't be allowed to see me for a week because I've kept you out scandalously late, but we won't care (much) because we'll have had a perfect afternoon, sitting by the water in the sun with our lines out before us.
Or we'll go dancing, some night. The music will be too loud and the room will be too hot, and there'll be a crowd, but it won't matter. We'll drink slow gin fizzes or whiskey sours or whatever it is that's popular to drink and we'll laugh, and I'll try to kiss you, most likely. And we'll forget to go home until it's growing light and you know your mother will be angry and you won't be allowed to see me for a week because I've kept you out scandalously late, but we won't care (much) because we'll have had a perfect night dancing by the window to music we never really hear.
Yours,
Harry
PS Just in case you're worried, fishing need not involve actual fish.
Emily was in the garden, cutting blossoms for her table, when she heard the first car pull up. She hurried through the house, still wearing her gardening gloves, to the driveway. She stopped short in the front doorway when she saw Lorelai swing the driver's side door of her Jeep open and stumble out. Her daughter smiled brightly at her and waved before she disappeared behind the front seat again in search of her overnight bag. Emily crossed her arms over her chest, forgetful of the dirt on her gloves, and watched Lorelai with a sour expression as she approached.
Lorelai's smile had changed imperceptibly from genuine and relaxed to stiff and forced during the short walk to the door. "Hi, Mom," she said tightly. "What's up?"
"Where is Luke?"
Lorelai dropped the pretense of smiling and rolled her eyes, slumped her shoulders. "Luke is in Stars Hollow, Mom. He had to work this weekend."
Emily narrowed her eyes. "You're not fighting again?"
"No, we're not fighting again!" Lorelai cried, a bit defensively, Emily thought.
"Are you sure?"
"Hey, it's nice to see you, too, Mom, and I would love to put my things down and get a cup of coffee, thanks so much for asking," Lorelai said, her voice flat. "Can I come in, please?"
She paused a moment and looked at Lorelai's bag critically. "You do realize you're only here for the weekend," she drawled, gesturing to the rather overly-fat bag.
"Mom. I'll take you down if you're keeping me from the coffee."
Emily stepped aside and closed the door behind her. She gestured for Lorelai to follow her into the kitchen, where Lorelai dropped her bag unceremoniously on a chair and fell into another with a sigh. Emily held her tongue as she went about arranging the coffee service and pouring the fresh brew into a china pot.
"Mom, seriously?" Lorelai said. "I'll totally just drink it out of a trough, so there's no need for the fancy."
Emily didn't reply as she carried the tray to the table. "Would you like to sit on the patio outside?"
"I really wouldn't," Lorelai replied. "In a bit. Right now, I want to keep sitting. I'm exhausted."
"And why, might a person ask, are you so tired?"
Lorelai poured herself a cup of coffee and took a long swallow before she answered. "Hellish few weeks at the inn."
"And the house?"
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Dear mother of pearl, is that a way bigger pain in the ass than I ever expected. Which was stupid, because the Dragonfly was under construction not that long ago and I remember what that was like, so I'm not sure why I thought this would be all pie-like and easy."
"I imagine because you knew Luke would be there as well," Emily said lightly. She sipped her coffee and eyed Lorelai over the rim of her cup.
"Yes, because that somehow makes all the difference," Lorelai drawled. She paused. "Well, it does, I guess." She looked at her mother. "You want to ask, Mom, so just go ahead and ask."
Emily pursed her lips a moment before giving it. "It's just that when I spoke to you earlier in the week you made it sound as though Luke would definitely be coming with you, and I just don't understand why, if things are going well, he wouldn't be here with you right now."
Lorelai sipped her coffee and exhaled shortly. She pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes, and Emily could see her reigning in her irritation slightly. "Well," she began, "you know that Luke and I were supposed to go away together."
"I do know that, yes," Emily said.
"And Luke took the whole weekend off, Friday morning to Monday morning, so that he could go with me. It was a little bit of a pain in the ass for him because it's tourist season in the Hollow right now, but he arranged it all anyway. He was great. And then, the day before we were supposed to go, we had a little emergency at the Inn," Lorelai said. She sighed heavily. "Little meaning disgusting. Three of our toilets just spontaneously exploded. Like, exploded, exploded. Porcelain flying through the air. Water all over the place."
Emily's mouth dropped open. "What on earth—"
Lorelai put a hand to her forehead. "Oh, there was some sort of build up in the septic system, gas or something, I don't know, but it just—exploded. It was bad. And I couldn't just leave, not with all that was going on, so I had to sort of cancel the weekend Luke had planned for us."
"You sort of had to cancel," Emily said.
"I did cancel. Well, I postponed, technically, but we still didn't end up going when we were supposed to," Lorelai said. "And then, this weekend, Luke had already given most of the weekend off to a lot of his staff in exchange for when he'd be gone, so he has to be at work this weekend so that the diner can even stay open, and it's just—it's a whole thing," she finished. "It sucks, but it is what it is."
Emily refilled their cups. "And is Luke angry with you?"
Lorelai poured cream into her coffee, her mouth set in a hard line. "He's not—he's not pleased, or anything, but he's not really mad at me. He knows I don't have any control over the explosive tendencies of the Inn's plumbing." She stirred her coffee. "I really wanted to go. I think he knows that."
"And he's all right with you being here now?"
"If he's not, he didn't say anything," Lorelai replied. "I needed to get away from that inn. And the town. And my life. That he definitely knows. It's just been crazy, with the whole flying poo fiasco It would be better if he were here, but he's not, so we'll see each other on Sunday and we'll go away together another weekend and hopefully the gods of fecal matter—"
"Lorelai!"
"—will not conspire against us again." She shrugged. "I told him I would stay home with him, but he told me to come see Rory, that that was more important."
Emily softened slightly. "That was an extremely generous thing to say."
"That's Luke."
They fell into idle chatter a few moments before they heard the sound of wheels on gravel outside. Rory was at the door, letting herself in, before they rose from their chairs. She hurried into the kitchen, breathless and smiling. "Oh, man," she said, "I'll give you both a proper hello in a sec, but first I really hafta pee."
Emily closed her eyes and shook her head. "Little apples," she sighed.
Lorelai snorted into her coffee cup. "Says the original mother tree."
It was a bright day, the sky hard and blue and cloudless; the breeze coming in off the water kept the Gilmores cool as they reclined in chairs on the beach. The women sat in a row, Lorelai, Rory, Emily, all wearing sunglasses and hats, all with books spread open on their laps and bottles of water in their hands. Richard snored under an umbrella just behind them, dozing after the filling lunch he'd just had. Lorelai was recounting in graphic detail the story of the exploding toilets for Rory complete with sound effects. Emily closed her eyes and leaned her head back. This, she thought, was what people meant when they talked about relaxing.
"And then I had to shower for, like, hours and hours and hours," Lorelai finished.
"You made a rhyme!" Rory giggled. "And, while I know it was traumatic for you, the story seriously gets better every time you tell it."
"How many times have you heard it, Rory?" Emily asked.
Rory feigned thoughtfulness. "At least half a dozen. My favorite addition is about reading the patterns on the wall for omens."
"You didn't think that was a little over the top?" Lorelai asked.
"If the image of the Shit Demon Caldron of Death wasn't over the top, I think playing fortune-teller with the bathroom walls is all good," Rory chuckled. "What do you think, Grandma?" The Lorelais leaned forward in their chairs to peer at Emily.
She raised an eyebrow. "I think your mother should consider installing bidets," she said. She had no idea why her daughter and granddaughter found this so funny.
It was one of the more pleasant days of recent memory. Emily had reconciled herself years ago to monotony, to the point that she found a certain comfort in its stability and the no-nonsense quality of it, but she had to admit that change was refreshing. The girls were exuberant and joyful together, constantly falling into fits of laughter, jabbering on like teenagers at the mall. She felt younger in their presence, and more than that extraordinarily pleased to see them both so happy. Rory seemed weary but upbeat; she found the work at the magazine, she said, interesting and challenging and fun. She added that living with a two-year-old was a similar and more tiring experience. And smelled slightly less appetizing. Lorelai, Emily thought with a chagrined sigh, was Lorelai: chatty, goofy, entirely ridiculous. It was pleasant to listen to them trading witticisms, gratifying to be occasionally included.
It was after dinner and port that Lorelai herded Emily and Rory into her bedroom and told them to sit tight. She disappeared into the bathroom. Emily looked a question mark at Rory, who shrugged. They sat together, side by side on the bed, talking idly about the book. Rory thought Harry's poetry particularly depressing during the period when the letters had temporarily ceased.
"But really, Grandma, I don't know how much that will help you, because all Harry's war poetry was depressing," Rory said. "This was just… uber-depressing."
They heard a slight crash from the bathroom. Emily rolled her eyes. "For heaven's sake, Lorelai, what on earth is going on in there?"
The bathroom door swung open. "Just a little sartorial mishap," Lorelai said. She peeked around the door. "Okay, so, I need you to be honest about this." Off Emily's look, she nodded. "And I mean that in all sincerity. Honesty, no holds barred, okay?"
Rory furrowed her brow. "Mom?"
Lorelai took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the door, the expression on her face both tremulous and tentative. "It's the first time I've tried it on all put together, and in front of anyone," she said. She shuffled into the bedroom and folded her hands demurely in front of her. "What do you think?"
Both Emily and Rory were on their feet. Rory clasped her hands in front of her, hopped up and down on the tips of her toes as she cooed in delight. She clapped her hands, laughing. "Mom!" she cried. "You look beautiful!"
Lorelai bit her lower lip. Her eyes were bright. "You think?"
Rory held out her arms to her and stepped into a hug. "You're in your wedding dress!"
Lorelai rocked Rory a moment, looking over her daughter's shoulder at her mother. "Mom?"
It fit her beautifully: the bust and waist hugged her curves, but not in any way overtly suggestive—rather, they accentuated how fit and young and lovely she was; the skirt fell from her hips in smooth cascades, the lines clean, deliberate. The color, a rich ivory, complimented Lorelai's complexion, set off her freckles and her eyes. Emily saw hints of fine needlework, detailing that was barely visible but accented the cut of the dress. Lorelai disentangled herself from Rory and smoothed the front of the dress with her hands.
"What do you think?" she asked in a small voice.
Emily said nothing a moment, but stood shaking her head. She cleared her throat. "It's lovely."
Lorelai's face broke open in a watery smile. "Really? You think so? It passes the Emily Gilmore muster?"
"Does it really matter whether or not it passes my muster?" Emily asked.
She saw her daughter's expression falter. "Yeah, Mom. It does." She paused, pouting. "I mean, I know you'd rather I get married in Caroline Herrera, or something, but this is my wedding dress, and I would like it if you didn't think it was heinous."
"I don't think it's heinous," Emily said gently. "I think you've done a very fine job. Caroline Herrera should be taking notes."
"Yeah?"
She nodded. "Yes. Shall we go downstairs for some coffee?"
Emily and Rory helped Lorelai out of her dress and the three women wandered down to the kitchen for their after-dinner coffee. Lorelai listened as her mother and daughter talked about their novel, nodding occasionally in agreement, but mainly she was quiet, blowing into her coffee. Her lack of contribution to the conversation distracted Emily—Lorelai's brow and mouth were set in thoughtful lines, and Emily found it drew her attention away from the topic at hand more than any witty aside or silly pun could.
"Lorelai, may a person ask what it is you're thinking of?" she asked.
Lorelai looked up from her cup, startled slightly. She sat up straighter in her chair. "Oh, just—I was just thinking—nothing," she said. She shook her head, more sheepish now than thoughtful. "Really, nothing."
"Come on, Mom," Rory said, teasing. "It's just us girls. Grandpa's already snoring in the study."
"He is at that," Emily intoned. "It's not even eight o'clock yet."
"It's seriously nothing. Less than nothing. I just—you're talking about the book, which I want to read, but I don't want to read it until it's all done, so I zoned out, a little. Like Angela Chase in English class."
"If it's nothing," Emily said, "then it won't hurt to share it, now, will it?"
Lorelai sputtered a moment. "I was just wondering—thinking—whatever, but about—about TiVo."
"TiVo?"
"I'm thinking about getting TiVo," she said. "And how weird our recommendations are going to be, after Luke and I program in the shows we watch. I mean, hello, between his sports stuff and my shows, like, you know, Veronica Mars, we're going to end up with stuff like—like—like Space Balls."
"Space Balls?" Emily asked.
"Since when do you watch Veronica Mars?" Rory asked.
She smiled enigmatically and sipped her coffee. "That's what I was thinking about. It's a really good show. That Kristen Bell, she's sassy." With that, Lorelai rose. "But I'm-a going to bed. I'll see you both in the morning."
Emily watched her go. "She's very happy these days," she remarked.
Rory nodded. "She is. She's working too hard, between the wedding and the inn and the addition to the house, though. Luke says she never sleeps anymore."
"This incident with the—the exploding bathrooms," Emily said, "was it really so bad as she makes it out to be?"
"It was bad, Grandma. They had reservations for those rooms and there was nowhere to put those people for two weeks. Mom actually downplayed it—not the messy part, with the stuff everywhere, because that was disgusting, but it really did some damage."
"Is she doing all right, financially speaking?"
Rory shifted uncomfortably. "She doesn't talk about that sort of thing with me."
"But you have a guess?"
She sighed. "I know that last fall things were going okay—they were understaffed all the time and they had to raise their minimum hiring wage because they weren't making competitive offers, but by Thanksgiving the booking had picked up and they were doing all right. They added that extra room, out back, so that helped, but there's no cushion with all the loans and everything. Mom thought she and Sookie would break even after a year, but I don't know that they did." Rory toyed with her coffee cup, ran her finger around the rim. "Luke put up all the money for the addition—"
"Even after that loan he gave your mother last year?"
Her granddaughter's mouth quirked in a smile. "You're just all full of questions tonight, Grandma."
"It's not as though your mother tells me these things, you know."
"I know," she said softly. "But it's not as though she tells anyone else, either. I picked this all up from things I've overheard or that Luke's told me, and even he hasn't really had a conversation about it with her."
"Is he worried?" Emily asked.
"No, I don't think so. He told me not to worry, anyway," she said. "But he would say that even if he and Mom were walking around in barrels." She looked up. "I know that the diner does well, consistently, so Luke's income is pretty steady, and that even though he had to use a lot of his savings, Kirk says he has a solid investment portfolio and it won't take too long for him to recoup some of that."
"Kirk?"
"Kirk, the guy from town?" Rory said. "He said he heard it from Taylor, the town magistrate, and I don't know how he knows, but it's probably reliable information. Anyway—they're not necessarily in the best shape right now at the inn, but Mom's plan has always been optimistic. Between she and Luke, they're going to be okay." She paused. "I mean, at least she's not losing her staff on a regular basis anymore, and the restaurant's been making great reviews, so there's that going in her favor. It's just going to take a lot longer than any of us thought, and it feels like that's not such a great thing with the wedding coming up, but I think in the end everything will even out."
Emily sat silently a few moments, her lips pursed tightly together. "Has your mother—has she mentioned—she or Luke—how these sorts of things will figure into their plans if they have children?"
Rory's eyebrows shot up. "Children?"
"They are planning on having children, aren't they?"
Her eyes faltered. "I haven't asked, but I wouldn't be surprised. They should. They'd be great parents together. And if they do, they'll take care of whatever they have to, money-wise. I know Luke, Grandma, and if he knew he was having a baby—or, I mean, Mom was having a baby with him—he'd plan ahead. He probably wouldn't tell anyone, but he'd do it."
Emily pushed out of her seat and took the dirty cups to the sink. She braced herself against the countertop with the palms of her hand, hot anger suddenly swelling in her throat. "They're both so damned independent!" she cried. "Can't they ever just ask for anything?"
Rory laughed. "And you're surprised?"
She looked over at her granddaughter. "What?"
"Grandma," she said gently. "This is how they are. It's what they do. Stuff happens all the time—stuff nobody ever knows about, I'm sure, and they deal with it. You know how independent Mom is, and Luke's the same way. At least they're together, now: the two of them working together is better than either one of them fighting out this stuff alone. Yeah, it can be annoying, but they're taking care of each other."
Emily pouted. "Asking for help is not a sign of weakness, Rory."
"I know."
She let her shoulders fall. "Well, good. Let's go to bed, shall we? We'll have the whole day tomorrow to bully your mother into some downtime." She walked down the hall with her arm around Rory. They stopped together at the bottom of the stairs. "Rory, what on earth is a TiVo?"
The subject of the honeymoon came up the next afternoon, when the Gilmore women were walking up from the beach to the house. Lorelai had successfully negotiated the conversation away from the wedding for most of the morning, but as she trudged back up to the house she whined that she didn't know when she'd have a vacation again.
"What about your honeymoon?" Emily inquired.
"What about it?"
"Aren't you going on a honeymoon, Lorelai?"
"We are," she said. "I don't know where, though."
Emily looked at her askance. "How can you not know where you're going on your honeymoon?"
Rory giggled. "Luke won't tell her."
Lorelai shot her a look. "No, he won't, and you're taking far too much pleasure out of that. There is a good reason for it."
"Which is?" Emily asked.
"He thinks I can't keep a secret, and we're telling no one where we're going," Lorelai said.
"You're not telling anyone where you're going? Lorelai, that's not safe."
She grinned. "No, Mom, that's not what I said. We're telling no one." She nodded, her expression gleeful. "Huh, huh?"
"Lorelai, I really have no idea what you're talking about," Emily sighed. "Please don't be cryptic."
"We're telling no one," she said again. "And by no one, we mean Rory, Jess, and you and Dad, just in case of emergencies. If we said we weren't telling anyone, then that would be a lie, but if we say we're telling no one, we're not really lying, we're just going by a different definition of no one. It's genius, I swear." She tossed her hair. "So, if someone asks you where we went, you can just shrug and say 'oh, they told no one where they're honeymooning; no one knows.' And since you're no one, you really do know! This way, we won't have people calling us from the diner or the inn, but if there's a real emergency and we need to come home, the most important people will be able to get in contact with us."
Emily considered this a moment. "I can see why you might do that, but why won't Luke tell you?"
"Because he doesn't think she can keep it a secret before they go," Rory supplied. "He thinks she'll tell Sookie or someone and ruin the whole plan."
"Which is just so ridiculous," she whined. "I mean, really, I can totally—"
"Not keep a secret," Rory interrupted.
"You know, I'm starting to feel like Rodney Dangerfield."
Emily looked a question at Rory, who rolled her eyes. "She gets no respect," she said. "When is Luke going to tell you?"
"When we get to the airport, apparently," Lorelai muttered. "It's all very demeaning." She slipped her shoes off as they entered the house. "But I'm sure he'll tell you as soon as he has everything confirmed, Mom."
"Is he really not wearing a tux at his own wedding, Lorelai?"
In response, Lorelai only laughed.
Dear Mr. B,
It's a clear night, here, and hot. My mother is currently wilting in a cool bath upstairs with mint leaves in the water and packs of ice over her eyes. Why she feels the need to rest, I've no idea, as she wasn't the one on her hands and knees in the victory garden all day, positively baking in the sun. I am Red tonight in more ways than one.
Have I told you I've taken up a job at the public library, in their town archives? The books all smell dreadfully old and musty, and the light in there is terrible. There are some documents I just can't make out, but I will, eventually. Your great-great-grandfather had terrible handwriting in particular, but I have complete confidence I'll crack him eventually. I always do.
I'm afraid this is a boring, horrendously boring letter. I've nothing really to say—only that I'm here, and it's summer, and you're far away—it's summer where you are, too, I know, but somehow it feels as if it can't be—and it seems to me that, near or far, we're both lonely. How lucky we are to have found another lonely person to listen to our complaints.
Regardless of what my mother might say, when this war is over and you keep me out far too late and set people to talking, I think a week of being locked in my ivory tower is just far too long. What a relief it is to know that even ivory towers must have windows and that forbidden things are not necessarily impossible to achieve. Take me dancing, take me for a midnight picnic (instead of fishing, which, even without fish, is unappealing at best)—my mother can tell me I'm not allowed to see you for ten years and it won't keep me from doing just as I please, should it be seeing you or not.
I'll write again when I have something slightly more interesting to say, when I'm not wasting paper just for the sake of scrawling my name.
Keep writing.
Yours,
Red
It was quieter when the girls left, which Emily knew shouldn't surprise her. Nor should it surprise her, she knew, that the older she and they got, the more she enjoyed their company, their gossip, their chatter. In spite of everything, after all the years of silence and anger between her and Lorelai, she felt closer to her daughter than ever—she understood her now better than she used to, though she wasn't sure what had changed. Lorelai claimed that Emily herself had changed, that she'd become softer somehow, more giving and less critical, more allowing of the frailties of others—Emily wasn't so sure that all that was true. She didn't think she'd changed so much; she only felt she understood now where she stood in the universe, and that change was incremental. She was a wife and a mother and a grandmother, and those were definitions constantly in flux in the Gilmore family. When she knew that to be true, Emily thought, it became easier to be all three.
She told Richard she was going home for a DAR function she couldn't get out of, which was only partly the truth. She decided to drive up from the Cape, rather than hire a chauffeur or take the train; there was something rather liberating in the whole affair, something clandestine. At home, she changed and showered and went to the hotel for the reception, and when her function was nearly over, she excused herself on the pretense of a family obligation. The drive to Stars Hollow was short. Emily knew it would be faster to go to the Dragonfly directly, but she liked driving through the center of town, honking at Gypsy and slowing down for a momentary bitch session with her old landlord and surprising friend; she enjoyed driving past the persnickety grocer and his silly soda shop, slowing down with great effect and sarcasm that was always lost on him; she was always comforted by the sight of Luke in his diner as she drove past, solid and reliable and irritated with the world, a condition she understood; she paid her silent homage to Win in her drive as well, rolling past the house that was intended for her little departed friend. It helped to see the house standing and complete, and that there were people there that could enjoy it, people she could talk to about Win if she felt the need. She passed Win's house at a crawl and took a short detour to Lorelai's house, just to check, and found it overrun with construction workers in a way that worryingly resembled an ant hill. The Dragonfly, by contrast, seemed serenely quiet when she pulled her car up beside the stables.
Lorelai was in the kitchen with Sookie, tasting cake frosting. "God," she said loudly, "this is like pure cocoa powder! It's almost disgusting, and I love it!"
"It's not supposed to be almost disgusting," Sookie said, her voice worried. "What's disgusting about it? More sugar? Less chocolate? Oh, Emily. Hello."
"Sookie, have we not learned this lesson before? Joking that my mother is in the room is not in any way going to distract me from—"
"Hello, Lorelai."
Lorelai dropped her spoon with a shriek. She turned, her smile tight and false. "Mom!" she said, her voice unnaturally high. "Hi! What brings you here?"
"I had a DAR event in Hartford I couldn't miss. I wondered if you had a moment?"
"Do I have a moment?" Lorelai repeated. "A moment, huh? Do I have a moment? Let me think about this, a moment, a moment, huh…"
"Lorelai."
"Of course I have a moment, Mom. Would you like to sit outside? Maybe have a cup of tea?"
"That would be lovely."
They made easy small talk for afew moments before Lorelai very directly cut to the point. "So, Mom. What're you doing here?"
Emily smoothed her hair into place. "I have something for you."
"Something for me? Why? What's the occasion?" she asked, delighted.
"It's a gift for your wedding."
"For the wedding? But, Mom—"
She reached down into her purse for the small box she'd brought with her when she left her house that morning. "It's not your wedding present, I feel I should clarify that for you. Your father and I have something lovely for you and Luke—"
"This isn't the gift you bought me for the Wedding That Wasn't, is it?" Lorelai asked. "You never did tell me what that was."
"You'll find out eventually," Emily said dryly. "This is something that's just for you. Consider it a bridal present. I know that you have your dress taken care of—"
"Yes, Mom, I do."
"—and you probably also have your something old, something new, borrowed, and blue, all those things?"
Lorelai nodded. "The dress and the shoes will be new, and I'm borrowing an anklet of Rory's. The blue is going to be… well, let's just say it's under the dress."
"And the old?"
She shrugged. "I don't have that yet."
Emily pushed the box towards her. "Consider these your old, then." She spoke as Lorelai lifted the lid and stared at the contents of the box wordlessly, her eyes wide. "They were my grandmother's. When my mother married my father, Grandmother gave them to her to wear. I wore them when you were christened. I would have given you the tiara, but it seems a little ostentatious for what you'll be wearing…" She trailed off. "These seemed to suit you better."
Lorelai lifted the combs from the box gingerly, with shaking fingers. Emily couldn't count the number of times she'd worn them, securing some elaborate upsweep of curls, a French twist or chignon from one formal event or another. Lorelai ran her fingertips along the pearls and diamonds interwoven above the teeth of the combs. Emily could see the way they would look set in Lorelai's dark hair, pale and shimmering at once. Her daughter took a slightly ragged breath and looked up. The jeweled combs rested in the palm of her hands and she held them cupped with a reverence Emily had never seen before.
"I used to—I remember seeing you and Daddy leave for the symphony fundraiser or the hospital wing dedication or whatever huge event you were going to, how you would always slip these into your hair on your way out the door," she said softly. "I remember these. I—I remember the times you would let me watch you get ready, when you would lay out all your jewelry, how much you loved these." She stroked them gently once more. "These were always my favorite, too. I thought they looked so beautiful in your hair. They always made me think of—of Rita Hayworth or Ava Garner or some other glamorous movie star, you know? I always thought if I could wear these, I'd be—I'd be—"
"Grace Kelly," Emily suggested. "I did always love these. But it's long past time you have them," she said. "They'll look lovely with your dress, that ring." She held out her hand, gesturing that Lorelai show her the ring. Emily hoped Lorelai wouldn't see the slight tremble in her own hands when her daughter laid her hand in hers. She feigned a critical expression. "It's really quite lovely—an exquisite setting." She turned the platinum band slightly. "The stones are good quality, too—sapphires can be difficult to match, you know, but these look—" She stopped abruptly. "It's a beautiful ring, Lorelai. Was it in Luke's family?"
She shook her head, her hair swinging lightly at her shoulders. "No—Luke's dad couldn't afford a ring when he asked Luke's mom to marry him," she said. "And then after Luke and his sister were born, she was ill. Luke says it just stopped being important. He says his dad regretted it, after." She wiggled her fingers in Emily's hand. "He got this one at an antique jewelry store, but—"
"It seems made for you," Emily finished. "I quite agree." She paused. "Regardless of what Luke does or does not wear—" Lorelai snorted in laughter. "—or what your dress looks like, though I do like it very much, it will be a beautiful wedding." She released Lorelai's hand, only then aware that she had been gripping it tightly between her own.
Lorelai smiled. "Thank you, Mom. Really." She put the combs back in the box. "And thank you for these."
"Wear them well," Emily said. She got to her feet. "I should go. Your father's waiting."
Lorelai walked her to her car, chatting idly about the weather at the Cape. As Emily put her hand out to open the car door, Lorelai pulled her mother into a tight hug. "Thank you, Mommy."
Emily raised a hand uncertainly, smoothed Lorelai's hair down from the crown of her head to her shoulders. "You're welcome, Lorelai." She took a breath, held it. "I love you."
Her arms tightened convulsively around Emily. "I love you, Mom."
She drove back to the Cape feeling curiously light.