Happy Saturday, people!
The usual stuff:
1. THANK YOU ALL so much for all the reviews. I love, love hearing your thoughts, especially now that the story is winding down. After this one, we have two chapters to go. I know, I know ... I'm not ready to say goodbye to these two either.
2. HUGE thank you to Team Momo, who work tirelessly to help me make this readable. My stories wouldn't exist without them and I'm so grateful they're in my corner. Alice's White Rabbit and Midnight Cougar are in the editing chairs. AGoodWitch, IAmBeagle, Driving Edward and RobsmyyummyCabanaBoy pre-read.
3. I still don't own - SM does. But I still own a collection of mugs.
It looks like Ivorella (Credit to Trina Smusic for this one, I LOVE IT) and EditorWard have some major decisions to make.
Shall we?
BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 35
It's Sunday night after our trip to New York.
Bella and I decided to spend the weekend at Wisteria House, have some time to ourselves, and tackle the pros and cons exercise.
I also made an appointment with Dr. Maggie for next week. Talking to Bella helped me dispel any lingering dread from my latest nightmare, but I figured having a session with my therapist wouldn't hurt. Bella agrees.
Because we had no inclination to cook after our trip, we're gorging on a gigantic order of Chinese takeout in the front room, stealing morsels from each other's containers.
"Were you planning on feeding Mac with any of this at some point?"
"Nope. One word: leftovers. Being back from a trip always wipes out my energy. It takes me a while to get back into gear, and I have a full schedule this coming week. I'm planning ahead."
The idea has merit. "We do eat every day, in fact. Good thinking."
"I'm glad you see it my way," she comments with a chuckle. "So, are we ready for the pros and cons exercise?"
I set my container of spicy beef and broccoli on the coffee table, reaching for a napkin. "Sure. Do you want to start?"
She shakes her finger at me. "Not here. We need space and supplies. In the library," she orders, pointing upstairs to the room that occupies the rest of the second floor.
Yes, Wisteria House has a library. Its walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling oak shelves, filled to the brim with a book collection that originated with Bella's grandmother, then increased through her father's acquisitions and hers. Bella's own piles of books have found a home there, too, arranged based on a system that isn't remotely logical to me, but Bella always finds everything.
The library also boasts a huge, old oak desk with all sorts of secret compartments, a reading nook by the bay window that overlooks the front yard, and a couple of plush armchairs. In a word, the room is massive. I could live in there.
The only other rooms in the house that rival it in size are the kitchen and Bella's music room, which originated from merging together the old butler's pantry, a closet, and a small office that abutted the kitchen. After all, the music room has to accommodate Bella's Bösendorfer piano, and that thing is humongous.
Bella discards our empty take-out containers in the trash, then we climb upstairs to the library. When she closes the door, she reveals an honest-to-God whiteboard hanging from the top of it.
"You have a whiteboard at home? How come?"
"It was one of Charlie's things when he was at MIT. He used it for equations and such. Now it comes in handy when I'm composing or for shit like this."
I shake my head, amused. "This house is always full of surprises."
"Shall I put that in the pros column?" she asks, wielding a bouquet of whiteboard markers.
"Maybe? How are we doing this? You're the expert; lead the way."
Standing by the whiteboard, she's tapping her foot to the floor and her finger to her chin. In sync, I might add. She ponders, and taps, for a few minutes longer. Then she erupts. "Ah! Got it!"
She starts drawing a grid on the board, then adds tags to the squares. The top half of the board is for the loft, the bottom half for Wisteria House. Pros on the left, cons on the right.
"Okay, that looks clear enough. Who starts?" I'm hoping she will because I still need to clarify a few things in my head, and seeing what she's going for might help me home in on some details.
"I sense some resistance in the force. Don't think I wouldn't call you out on it." She's wagging her finger at me again. "Fine, I'll start. How's this? I'll give you my pros for the loft. The kitchen. The bathroom in the owner's suite. Everything is on one floor. I like the general décor. The T stop is close by."
"And your cons?"
"The whole building is a little aseptic for my taste. I hate that I'd probably have to hijack half of the lounge room for my piano and equipment. The acoustics are horrendous, and fixing them would be a pain in the ass. There are only two bedrooms. It's not a child-friendly space at all. No backyard. Your turn, baby. You speak; I'll write."
"I agree with some things you already added."
"Nope, don't get lazy on me. Be specific, please."
I raise my hands. "I was getting there, Miss Impatient."
She motions for me to continue, and I oblige.
"I wouldn't have to move. Kitchen and owner's suite—sorry for the repeat, Ladybug, but facts are facts. My bed is comfier and bigger than yours. The loft is mostly paid off, but on the other hand, I'd get a lot of equity back if I sold it. Public transportation is close by. Secure garage. The building has really good security."
"We're aligned on the pros, I'd say. Cons?"
"It's been a house so far, but it's not home. Not enough bedrooms, or space for children, or a good space for your music room. I want you to have your music room. No backyard."
She writes it all on the board, adding an "E" next to the items we agree on. "Fair enough. Now, Wisteria House. Do you want to go first this time?"
"I'll bite. I love the kitchen. The backyard is amazing. I could live in this library. It's a house with character. It's a home. There are three bedrooms. Three big bedrooms, love. And you'd have a music room worthy of you."
After she's done listing my pros on the board, she approaches me, sits in my lap, and loops her arms around my shoulders in a tight hug. "Thank you. It means a lot to me that you'd call this home," she says, kissing the tip of my nose.
"I love you, and I love this house."
She nods, then returns to the whiteboard. "But we have to be methodical and objective. Cons, please!"
"The main bathroom on this floor could use some sprucing up. Your bed's on the smaller side and the mattress is too lumpy for my poor back. I don't know if my car would fit in the garage. Technically, there's no room I could use as an office."
She scoffs at my last remark. "Because this is an imaginary room? Of course, you could set up shop in here, silly. Heck, there's so much space we could even add a desk. Want to hear my side?"
"I'm on pins and needles. Go ahead."
"So, my pros. Finance wise, this place is fully paid off. I inherited it, remember? We could remodel the bathroom in our suite. A bed is a bed; we can buy another one. There's a load of crap in the garage, and most of it should end up in a dumpster. I guarantee you that transatlantic you call a car will fit once we clean out the crap. What do you think about doing some remodeling? I want a shower like yours."
"If it's the only room we have to remodel for now, it sounds doable and wouldn't break the bank. Mac could help, and we could use the other bathroom while the main one is out of commission. We don't need to buy a new bed. I can just measure if mine would fit. You're sure another desk wouldn't ruin the aura of this room?"
"We can find you an antique desk. With an antique typewriter, maybe?"
It's coming together. We're not saying the words yet. But our ideas and wishes are lining up almost perfectly.
Now that it's all black on white—with a few splashes of green and red here and there—it's undeniable. Writing things down like this helps. Our decision jumps out at us from the whiteboard full of scribbles in Bella's hand.
At length, Bella speaks again after adding the last notes to the board. "So, we're in agreement. We're moving in together?"
"Here. At Wisteria House."
She jumps into my arms, almost knocking me out of the chair. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She rains kisses on my face, and I'm more than happy to oblige. "When? When are we doing this?" She's bubbling enthusiasm from head to toe.
"Well, how about this? I'll start moving the rest of my shit—clothes and stuff—over the next week. We'll clean out the garage together and enlist Mac to see what it would take to remodel the bathroom. We'll also need him as muscle to move and reassemble my bed here. Then I need to find a realtor and put the loft on the market. It will sell quickly; the unit Jake rented was vacant for barely two weeks, so we need to make sure I'm moved in and functional here before I list the loft. Did I forget anything?"
"Kitchen gadgets. Do you have good plates and stuff? I have my grandma's china, but everyday stuff is thin on the ground. It's a mishmash of things."
"That would be a yes. I have a bunch of other stuff we could consolidate. The rest we could donate. Anything else?"
"Your desk. Let me get one for you, as a housewarming gift? Please?"
"I'll pay for the bathroom remodel then. That NASA-worthy shower you love doesn't come cheap, and I'll help Mac. There are a couple rooms here that could use a fresh coat of paint, too."
She nods, then kisses me again. "That works. I can help paint, though."
"We'll ask the whole gang if they want to help, and ply them with food afterward. It'll make things faster."
"We're moving in together. We're making a home. We're building a future."
"Yes, my love. We are."
&&&IVORIES&&&
The remaining weeks in September crank up the busyness meter to eleven for Bella and me. Our top priority is the move, which entails a project management list worthy of the Big Dig, hopefully without the lawsuits or decade-long delays.
Mac is on board to remodel the bathroom and quite enthusiastic about it. He and Ross are also helping clean out the garage this weekend and will take my kitchen cast-offs. Because neither of them was domestic before moving in together, they said they could use them.
Bella's also juggling a schedule that filled to the rafters at lightning speed after our New York trip. Her classes started this week, and she's due to submit her PhD proposal in mid-October. On top of that, she's busy planning and rehearsing the Isabella: Unplugged show that will be recorded live at Sharps & Flats in November.
To ease her workload, I've taken charge of the move. The loft's listing will go live on October 1, just after the big weekend I've planned with Mac and Jasper to help clear the garage and move my bed to Wisteria House. Home.
The word fills me with peace and warmth every time I think about it. Even now when I'm turning the key in the front door after an exhausting day in the newsroom and my session with Dr. Maggie after work.
Dr. Maggie is pleased with my progress and isn't too worried about my latest nightmare. She doesn't see it as a setback and mostly agrees with Bella's considerations. She took the opportunity to chide me a bit on my over-compartmentalizing, though. I also announced my plan to reconnect with some of my CPJ colleagues and look into volunteering opportunities. Dr. Maggie actually high-fived me at that. All in all, it was an emotionally draining but beneficial talk.
When I step inside, the sound of Bella's playing filters in from the music room. She's been composing new pieces, and some of them are slated to debut to the masses during the Unplugged concert. Right now, though, she's playing "Sea Glass."
I dump my coat and messenger bag in the hall, dreading the climb that awaits me later. That's been my biggest learning curve so far—getting used to living in a house on multiple levels again. The loft made me lazy. Now I have to remember not to disseminate shit all over the place because running up and down the steps every time my cell phone rings is getting old fast. It's a huge pain in the ass.
I tap on the doorjamb of the music room, then call out, "Ladybug, I'm home!" It's become my standard greeting every time I return.
Bella stops mid-chord, raising her head from the keyboard to look at me. "Edward!" Then she runs into my arms.
"Yes, I believe that's still my name. Even if my brain feels a tad scrambled."
She frowns, probably remembering my appointment. "Dr. Maggie? How did that go?"
I wave her off. "Well enough. I'm exhausted; between work and everything, I'm running on empty. Oh, before I forget. I have a conference call with one of the CPJ guys tomorrow before lunch, so it might run over. Come extract me when you get to the newsroom, will you?"
We've been keeping up with our weekly lunches, but at the moment, they're on a floating schedule, depending on how our days look. Tomorrow's Friday, but it's the only day that works for both of us.
"Will do. I'm bringing Ross and Jake along. He said he and Seth could help out during the weekend, too."
"That's good of them. I'm not going to refuse help from those two burly guys. There's a lot of crap in your garage, Ladybug."
She shakes her head at me. "What did I tell you? Our garage."
"Our garage. Our crap. What about our dinner?"
She giggles, burrowing into my chest. "I have a seafood lasagna ready to go."
"Do I have time for a shower? I want to wash the newsroom off me."
She raises her gaze toward me with a diverted grimace. "Go, stinky man. If I start it now, dinner will be ready in half an hour."
"Yes, dear."
She laughs at my sarcastic answer, swatting playfully at my ass.
I love living with this woman.
&&&IVORIES&&&
"Thank you for calling me back, Félix."
We've had to postpone the conference call for a week, but I'm not begrudging him that. Félix Fragonard is a busy, busy man. He's a foreign correspondent for Le Monde, and he just returned from some far-flung locale he can't disclose, which conveys a fair idea of what he does for a living. I'm grateful he found the way and the time to talk to me despite his impossible schedule.
"No problem, Edouard." He's been around the world, but he'll never lose his Parisian accent. "I'm glad you contacted me. It's been a long time, n'est-ce pas?"
"First of all, I had no idea the people in the CPJ office in New York would end up pestering you. So if this isn't in your wheelhouse, I apologize in advance."
"Non. Don't worry. We discussed it, and I've wanted to talk to you for years. I want to thank you for what you did for Rémy's family after Homs. I never had a chance to tell you before because you …"
He wasn't in Syria in 2012, but he knew Rémy personally.
"I went incommunicado, and I'm sorry about that. Please, don't even mention. It was my duty."
"Certainement. But I understand, please. No apologies necessary. Now, what is this I hear about you possibly jumping into the fray again?"
I chuckle at his gracious deflection and at his characterization of my newest endeavor. "Well, not quite. But I'm looking into possibly showcasing stories of people who suffer from PTSD, possibly members of the press who've been in conflict areas. As you know—"
"Oui, many of them experience PTSD. Now, this is an informal finding, based on anecdotal evidence, and you'd need …"
I chuckle at his caveats. I've heard that verbiage so many times before. "I'd need to talk to them myself, and you're not a therapist, so you can't diagnose anyone, especially to a third party like me. Yeah, yeah, I know the spiel. But would the committee have a handle on who to contact, where?"
"It would depend on the scope of your project. Also, if I may, military milieus have more of a handle on this phenomenon, especially on your side of the ocean. Counselors, therapists, too."
"Yes, you're right. Veterans and PTSD are an established pairing here."
"And your military accepts embedded reporters regularly, if memory serves, oui?"
"They do. I never managed to do that, but …"
"My other piece of advice, mon ami, would be to start locally. It would be easier to find contacts and sources if you remain stateside."
"Yes, it makes a lot of sense. So, basically, what you're telling me is that the CPJ knows of this stuff—"
"But it's outside the scope of what we do. We advocate for journalists in crisis and for freedom of the press in conflict situations. Which you've known for years, of course, but it made sense to go through us first. We see too much of this merde up close. In short, if any of our people end up with PTSD, which is, again, understandable, we don't handle them ourselves. We don't have the manpower or the structure for it."
I nod, even if Félix can't see me. He's giving me a lot of good information. Before I can come up with an intelligent reply, he's speaking again.
"You know, when I got your message, I had another idea somehow."
"And what would that be?"
"I thought you might be getting ready to write your own story, Edouard. After all, it's newsworthy and deserves to be heard."
I bristle at the thought of putting myself in the spotlight. Still, there's something intriguing with the idea. "What became of the old adage of not becoming the story, huh?"
"Ben," he counters. I can picture his dismissive shrug. "In this case, it's a worthy story. Give it a think, will you? I'm surprised nobody's asked you before."
The way he rolls his R's is so distinctly French it almost distracts me from his observation. Almost. "Oh, you can bet they did. I wasn't … It was too soon, and I didn't want to commodify my experience. Gross."
"Oui, I can see that. But now, it's different. You'd have control over it. How do you Americans say that? Food for the brain, non?"
"Food for thought," I correct him gently, then continue. "Yes, you have a point. Thank you for your honesty and for the information. You gave me a lot to process."
"Bien. I'll leave you to it. Don't be a stranger, okay?"
"I have your contact details. I'll keep you in the loop. Thank you again, Félix."
"Thank you for reaching out, Edouard. I have no doubt you'll do something meaningful with this. A bientôt," he says, disconnecting the call.
I wonder what I'm getting myself into? The notes I just jotted stare back at me from my notebook.
Veterans' orgs.
Local scope.
Military milieus.
CPJ does not handle PTSD internally.
Telling my own story?
Food for thought, indeed.
&&&IVORIES&&&
"Good afternoon, people."
I'm at a rec center in Somerville, in one of those multi-function rooms dotted with flyers about the kids' Trunk or Treat for Halloween, yoga for expectant mothers, painting, ceramic, or creative writing classes for all ages. A separate flyer with the heading "support groups" is pinned on a cork bulletin board far away from the other flyers. It stands out, maybe because of the void around it.
A choir of voices answers Dr. Maggie's soothing, relaxed voice. There are about twenty people here, sitting in a circle. When the variegated wave of their greetings dissipates, their regards shift from Dr. Maggie to me, the stranger beside her. I feel like I'm under a microscope for a few seconds until she speaks again.
"This is Edward, and he'll be joining us today. Does anyone want to start?"
A diminutive lady in a navy blue sweater set, a string of pearls around her neck, and her dark hair in a neat bun at the nape of her neck timidly raises her hand.
"Hi, Sadie. It's good to see you," Dr. Maggie says, then motions for her to speak.
"I passed a toy store yesterday. There was a playset in the window similar to those Dylan loved so much, with a fire truck and everything. A shop assistant was showing a parent how to operate it. The sound of the sirens took me by surprise. I had to sit on their front ledge because I couldn't breathe. I felt so ashamed, so out of control. How do I get past this?"
"Thank you for sharing, Sadie."
The other members of the group echo their own thanks, then Dr. Maggie brings the meeting to order.
"There is no timeline on controlling one's triggers. There is no shame in not managing them at times, especially when they take us by surprise. If and when it happens, we've discussed what our first priority should be, and it is …"
"Our safety," the support group replies as one.
"In that, Sadie, you didn't fail. You did the right thing by taking a seat and stopping for a moment. Did you try your coping exercises?"
Sadie dabs an embroidered handkerchief at her eyes. "Yes. As soon as I realized it wasn't a real fire truck, I did. It worked," she replies. The tone of her voice borders on pride. I know that feeling. Conquering a trigger is always a small triumph.
"Excellent. I'm proud of you. Anyone else?"
A tall, gangly man around Bella's age raises his hand. There's a haunted, vigilant expression in his deep blue eyes.
"Yes, Tom?"
"I went on a date last night. For the first time in two years. I really like this guy and was afraid he wouldn't want to see me anymore if I told him about my past. But when I told him I'm a survivor of abuse and explained about my triggers, he was wonderful. He asked—asked—if he could hold my hand, and asked how he could help me if I had a bad day or a trigger hit. He was compassionate and understanding. So, what I want to share today is that there's life after trauma. The only way is through, and there's life worth living after."
The two people sitting on either side of him fist bump him, and he reacts with grateful smiles.
A few other people share stories and recent incidents. All sorts of trauma surround me. PTSD can originate from a variety of circumstances, and these people's backstories run the gamut of them. Abuse, sexual assaults, horrific car accidents, house fires, school shootings, service members who went through the horrors of war, first responders, medical professionals, a teacher who witnessed one of her students attempt suicide.
It helps put my own trauma in perspective and changes the ideas I've had swirling in my head about my yet undefined project.
Toward the end of the meeting, one person raises their hand. "I recognize Edward from the TV. Why is he here today?"
Dr. Maggie turns to me, raising an eyebrow. She's silently asking me what I want to do.
"My name is Edward, and six years ago, I survived a bombing in a war zone …"
When the end of the meeting comes and goes, nobody stirs. Nobody leaves. They're all still listening.
And the more I talk, the more my conviction solidifies. It's not my place to chase other people's stories. Not yet, at least. How would they feel if I told them I was here to listen, then merge all of their pain into a six-thousand-word piece that would run locally, and maybe even end up in a book? Would they trust me? Would they open up to me? No. They wouldn't. To them, I'd be just another vulture treating them as lab rats for the sake a few thousand clicks.
What I need to do, what I can do, is tell my own story. That's something I can control, something I can choose. It's not just Félix's suggestion niggling me at the back of my head. I wouldn't be doing it for the glitz and glamor. It wouldn't be a commodification either, as I thought a long time ago. In fact, I've always sought substantive ways to honor Marie and Rémy's memories, so far without success. Telling their story along with mine would be a way of doing that.
And maybe, just maybe, telling my story would also mean I'm letting it go.
&&&IVORIES&&&
By mid-October, Bella's submitted her PhD proposal, which received enthusiastic approval from her thesis advisor, and I've sold the loft. An offer came in last week for twenty-five thousand dollars over asking price, paid closing costs, short close, and they'd even keep some of the furniture we have no use for at Wisteria House. I jumped on it.
After we announce it to the gang during one of our lunches at the Bull & Crown, Jake offers to close the club for one night next week to give a housewarming party for Bella and me. When I protest that housewarming parties normally take place in the house in question, Jake won't hear of it.
"Nah, man. You and Bella are busy as hell, one of the bathrooms looks like the Hulk walked all over it, and you'd have to clean up the place afterward if you had the party at your house. At the club, you don't have to do any of that. Hell, I'll throw in the catering. You're welcome."
It's hard to argue with his logic. So we don't. "Thank you, Jake."
And that's how we end up congregating at the club on the third Friday in October. Bella does try to argue with Jake that it doesn't make sense for him to lose all the potential business of a Friday night, but he just shrugs and gives her a one-word answer. "Unplugged."
His reasoning is that the show will bring even more business for the club, so one lost Friday night will likely end up being a wash for his bottom line.
The crowd tonight looks a lot like one of Bella's early shows here last February. The entire newsroom of the Tatler is here, with a few additions. Cheney arrives with Angela on his arm—yes, the President of the Duckling Army, no less. Tanya brings a couple of her friends from church who want to meet Bella. My uncle and my cousin arrive with my parents. Riley is suffering under Ross's razzing because they're coworkers at Cullen & Cullen where she's getting her feet wet while she's at law school.
"Ross and the concept of a rookie don't mix," I whisper sardonically in Bella's ear.
We're standing a few feet away, enjoying the show. Everybody's here now, mingling, nibbling on appetizers, and sipping cocktails.
"You've met her, haven't you?"
"Oh, yes. Here, in fact."
Bella's smile turns wistful for a second.
I know without asking where her mind went. It took me a minute to realize how fate's been throwing coincidences at me for the last few weeks. Then, when all these dates jump at me, I stop regarding them as coincidences. Her Unplugged show will be recorded here, in the same spot where we met, almost one year to the day. Almost because the anniversary of our first, tempestuous meeting will be on the day before the show's recorded.
I have a plan for that day. A secret plan. And that's why I lift Bella's face and trace her lips with my finger. "No frowning, my love."
"But …"
"It was the day I met you, and it could never be a bad memory for me," I whisper, kissing her forehead.
"Tanya's right."
"What's Tanya got to do with it?"
"She says we're going to give her cavities one day," she says, rolling her eyes.
"Oh, that. Well, we can't disappoint her, can we?"
"No," she admits.
Then we both erupt into carefree, diverted laughter. Right here, in the place where we met almost a year ago. Right here, standing among our friends, among the family we chose.
Some people would argue that life doesn't get any better than this. They might be right.
Me? I'm going to try to challenge that in a few weeks while I decide if I'm ready for more change. Ready to unveil my inner turmoil to the world and become the story instead of telling it.
Because when it comes to the rest, I've already set a course to change something more than my mailing address. But it all hinges on an answer.
A very short answer from my Ladybug.
&&&IVORIES&&&
"I can't believe those two! Can you believe them?"
Bella's befuddlement meter is off the charts; she's gesturing and huffing while we walk to our couples' cooking class a couple of weeks later.
Ross and Mac disappeared from public view over Halloween without explanations. Mac only told me beforehand because he had to ask for the time off, which was a first. But he became tight-lipped in the extreme when pressed on it.
Now they're back in town, and the reason for their impromptu trip has been revealed. Mac's behavior at the time makes sense.
"Mac was nervous as hell when he told me he needed a few days off."
"And you didn't ask him for details? Some boss you are," she grouses. She's taken their deception personally.
I'd love to shrug it off, but I won't. Their actions clearly hurt her, so I'll give her some time to decompress while she realizes they may have had their reasons for escaping to Vegas to get hitched away from prying eyes.
"I did ask, for what it's worth," I hedge.
"Grr. What did the traitor say in his defense?"
"Something along the lines of 'I gotta do stuff.' You realize I can't demand explanations from employees, right?"
"Yeah, yeah. He's entitled to his time off. Blah, blah, blah."
There's a bench a few yards ahead. If we walk into a cooking class with Bella's temper running this high, we won't need a steamer for our vegetables. She can just huff in their general direction and be done with it.
"Let's sit for a spell, Ladybug."
"I'm sorry. I'm being a brat about it," she grumbles, sitting down beside me.
Boston is gracing us with clear skies and higher temperatures than usual for early November, which is why we decided to walk to the venue for the cooking class. We're hoping they'll give us generous samples of the wine pairings, too.
"This is affecting you deeply. Why? What is it about their subterfuge that rubs you the wrong way?"
She takes a deep breath. "She didn't tell me, Edward. Ross is my closest friend, and she didn't breathe a word of it to me. They flew to Vegas and got married, and she excluded me."
"Did you want to be her maid of honor, with requisite poofy dress for the day? Maybe in one of those pastel colors you hate?" I'm joking, and I'm hoping she'll see it.
I'm in luck because she does and rewards me with a wicked smile and shocked expression. "Me? Hell, no! Do you see me wearing one of those meringues of tulle? No, it's not that."
"Do you think they're making a mistake? That this is too rash?"
Please don't say they are. Please.
"No, no. It's not that either. People who impose artificial timelines on relationships are stuck up idiots. Every couple is different. Those two were made for each other, insults and everything."
"Do you think Ross compromised on her wishes for Mac's sake? Do you think he forced her to go along with his ideas in any way?"
Mac doesn't mesh with structured, public ceremonies. He hates them, from the monkey suits to the interminable receptions. He made an exception for the CPJ Gala for Marie's and Rémy's sakes.
"No. It makes sense for them to elope. Ross's mother with her ideas of a socialite wedding would have turned it into a three-ring circus. Ross would have gladly spent her parents' money out of spite, but would have hated every minute of it."
Suddenly, I have a lightbulb moment.
"Did you want to be there for her and feel like she deprived you of it?"
She turns to me with an adorable pout and glassy eyes. She nods as a lonely tear falls on her cheek.
"Oh, baby. Come here."
She melts into my side, mumbling into my coat. "I'm a spoiled brat. This isn't about me, but I feel like she's leaving me behind."
I enfold her in my arms. "She's not. She's living her life. She's making a future for herself and Mac just as we are. Whose considerations would matter to you, if you were in her shoes? Yours or other people's? Would you let other people's wishes dictate that day of your life, of all things?"
"Oh, God. You're right," she admits in between sniffles.
I pull her onto my lap and take a good look at her. "Are you feeling better now?"
"Yes, thank you. I love you."
"I love you, Ladybug. Let's go cook."
And we set off for our destination with lighter hearts and rumbling stomachs.
A short while later when we reach the cooking class location, we happen upon a gaggle of TV sets that silently regurgitate cable news. The venue is a high-end home appliances store, and they've partnered with a cooking school in the neighborhood for the class. We're going to be using their kitchen exhibit, but as usual, they have other appliances on display.
"Did you catch that?" Bella asks, elbowing my side.
I start shaking my head, but the lower third grabs my attention before disappearing.
"Holy shit. Senator Caulfield lost his re-election bid."
"Election Day was yesterday; would they already know so definitively?" she murmurs.
There aren't many people here yet, but she's right not to broadcast the subject of our conversation.
"The senator and his wife both look like death warmed over, and the campaign manager stands to the side looking anywhere but at the senator—he's mentally rewriting his resumé. There's no perfect daughter on display like a show pony. The senator is giving his concession speech; look at the caption ... There it is!" I point at the flashing Chyron. "My best guess is he knew last night but hung on until the last minute."
And because bad news always come in two's, a rather unflattering image of Kate pops up on a nearby screen. We can't guess what the reporters in the studio are saying because of the muted volume on all screens, but lower third on CNN helps again. They're having a field day with this family. Ratings galore.
"Internal investigation underway at MSNBC – Chief Foreign Correspondent Kate Caulfield accused of misconduct."
"Crap," Bella whispers. "When it rains, it pours."
Indeed.
A couple things:
- CPJ is a real organization, it stands for Committee to Protect Journalists. They do wonderful work around the world to protect freedom of the press and journalists in conflict situations. They do hold an annual Gala at the Grand Hyatt in New York. You can find out more about their work at cpj dot org.
- I'm leaving on a jet plane on Monday for my annual Italy trip to see family, attend my cousin's wedding, and play with the real Miss Bea and her little sister. Updates should be on time, but I'm in a different time zone, so they might be early or late depending on where you are.
- the Election Day they're discussing here is the 2018 midterms election. There's no actual Senator Caulfield, but it's entirely possible that a standup guy like him could have gotten the boot in that election cycle ;-)
See y'all next week!
