Chapter Twenty-Two
The wind blew heavily, sending petals from the wisteria to float and dance upon the currents like blue-violet snow whorled by a winter gust. The blooms frolicked on the drafts, darting and flitting from one errant zephyr to another with neither a care nor worry in the world. They danced in ignorant bliss of the fate that awaited them once they landed. They did not care that they were destined for the rubbish bin once their naïve games had come to an end. The petals had wrested themselves from the reserved opulence of their sconce-like prisons lining the courtyard. However, soon, the wind would die, and so too would their games. They would quite willingly put away their simple frivolities for the more sophisticated follies of maturity, much as a toddler does not realize the weight of her decision to set her dolly to sleep in the toy chest rather than on the pillow beside her head each night.
Much like the toddler, she had relinquished her own fairies and baubles of her springtide for the work and dedication of her summer years. Servants and employees became her fairies, lists and plans her baubles. Gone were her games, her larks, her dreams; the harsh disappointments and regrets of aestal maturity became her constant companions, her only bosom buddies. "Now is the winter of our discontent," the Bard had said. She chuckled ruefully and sipped her wine; the Bard was wrong in his imagery. Summer, not winter, was the season of regret.
And now, as summer fast approached, Emily could not help but scoff at the anticipation with which most people waited for the great season of fun and gaiety to begin. Fools. They were as foolish and misguided as the petals that swirled and capered in the night air above the patio beyond the large bay window. Nezario would have to sweep the patio tomorrow; the petals had a tendency to collect in drifts like the snow they so readily emulated. Pity, really, the drifts would be a lovely sight: soft fluffy banks of purple down collecting in the flowerbeds with hyacinth, freesia, and lavender dotting the crests like pearls on a pillow.
Regrets were like that sometimes.
Besides, the neighbors would notice and talk—the neighbors always talked—and Richard's reputation would suffer. She could not have that. Richard was a businessman and needed to be respected and well thought of by his neighbors and colleagues. A blight on his yard, such as a pile of petals or autumn leaves, no matter how picturesque they might seem, would be a blight on Richard's estimation and applied not only to his home but to his work as well. A man's work is only as good as his home—or so the neighbors would say. Sometimes, she despised having neighbors or being mindful of their opinions and social graces. Sometimes, she wished she were more like Richard: oblivious to the world and its slings and arrows. Or, perhaps, Lorelai. Her daughter never gave a whit for what Society thought; she appeared so calm and sure of herself it always seemed that their dispersions washed over her like water off a duck's back.
She laughed at the irony.
It seemed preposterous to her to envy her daughter—the daughter who had a child at sixteen and ran away from comfort and family to work as a maid and live with her newborn in a potting shed behind an inn. The daughter she had insulted months ago at her vow renewal.
In all honesty, in those secret quiet places in peoples' minds where they retreat inside themselves to whisper their dreams and fears and lock them up tight in boxes made from cedar and pine, Emily had long ago confessed to herself that she did not approve of Christopher. She considered her daughter well rid of the rake despite her claims and past attempts at matchmaking. However, the dunce was Rory's father and from good stock, that had to count for something. The neighbors would finally stop talking.
All of her machinations had been for naught, however. The neighbors still had a great deal to discuss. Her meltdown at the mall, her daughter's "relationships", Richard's business bungle with that farce Jason Stiles, all had whetted the neighbors' appetites for dirt. She had thought that with Richard returning to the firm and Lorelai's success with the inn, the neighbors would finally be silent. The separation had foiled such hopes. The days during her estrangement with Richard had been filled with visits from "concerned" Samaritans—gossipmongers the lot of them. They whispered about Lorelai's "condition" between banal condolences and well wishes. Twenty years later, and they were still talking about that. To think that they would not have noticed her daughter's absence bordered on lunacy. She could picture them now, standing around the drinks cart commenting about how the Gilmores were floundering, the mighty clan shattering as their house of cards crumbled. Bitsy Harwood would lean over to Missy Redgrve and whisper conspiratorially about how "that Lorelai was as uncontrollable as ever, and that she and Emily were obviously fighting—Emily's fault, no doubt." Their husbands would shake their heads in shame and Missy would poo-poo about "poor Richard" and his "dreadful homelife." They all would nod and comment on how the neighborhood was turning into a slum.
Christopher would have made all these accusations go away. Or, at least, most of them. Rory would finally have her father and Lorelai would finally have a husband the Society and Richard would approve of. Most importantly, Christopher would not hold back her daughter. Lorelai was destined for greatness and Christopher would not stand in the way of that greatness. He certainly would not eclipse her with his own goals. Her daughter would shine brilliantly—just as she was never able to. But, Lorelai had wanted more than a dullard of a bystander to her success. She had wanted a partner to stand beside her in the limelight. Luke had been that person, that partner. He would never hold Lorelai back, but push her forward, supporting her the entire way as he would Rory. Emily had seen it the first night she met him at Rory's sixteenth birthday party. He knew her girls so well that he had anticipated Lorelai's lack of foresight and brought ice to the celebration. She saw it again later that year when he had rushed Lorelai to the hospital to be with her ailing father. He took care of the girls and even comforted a woman who obviously despised him and though him beneath both her and her daughter. He supported Lorelai with her inn and advanced her money when her own ran out and her pride would not allow her to ask her parents for yet another loan.
In that secret quiet place in her mind, that same place where she had confessed her deprecations toward Christopher, she had conceded her approval of Luke. Howevr, she had shut it up in a box of cedar and pine and hidden it back in that secret corner and focused on her daughter.
A rush of pride filled Emily's chest as she contemplated her daughter's success. Lorelai was supposed to be more than a housewife with a shrew for a mother-in-law. She would graduate from Yale, marry well, and run a business—a law firm perhaps, or a brokerage. Lorelai would stand tall and bright, shining before a sea of admirers, not shrouded in the successes of her husband, her life given to supporting him.
However, Luke was uncouth and unwashed, despite his numerous qualities. He was not a suitable match for her daughter. The neighbors would talk. Christopher at least looked the part.
Emily had pursued her vision of the perfect Society family with single-minded tenacity. It had cost her that very family she had fought so hard to create. Rory was barely civil to her and her own daughter behaved as though she were a leper. Worse, actually, at least lepers were mocked in public. Lorelai seemed content to pretend that Emily had never existed.
She sighed again and watched the wind carry more wisteria petals into the drifts. Lorelai would have laughed, and probably danced in the petals like a child—dragging Rory along with her. Emily could almost see the two dancing in the night air with petals swirling around them like pixies in a fairy tale.
She could almost see herself dancing with them.
The wind picked up briefly and knocked a tree branch against the window, startling her from her reverie. Quickly, she composed herself and shut up her fantasy into the cedar and pine box in that secret quiet corner of her mind. The petals swirled higher in the air, carried by the powerful gusts. They snapped and grabbed at her dress and coat, as though drawing her back into her fancy. The petals curled around her back and caressed her cheeks; they ran through her hair like fingers and pirouetted about her in a child's ballet.
She was nearly a mile outside Hartford and heading towards Stars Hollow before the petals settled about her shoulders and she was able to see clearly. For a moment, she was overcome with panic, and her hands shook on the wheel as she thought of where she was headed and the petals that waited in the corners and flowerbeds on the patio. Emily shook her head fiercely and pressed harder on the accelerator. She wanted her daughter back, and she wanted her happy. The petals could wait for another time. Damn what the neighbors might think, let them talk.
The wind blew steadily, pulling at her coat as Emily walked the few steps to the diner. The scent of wisteria still clung to the air, masking the aroma of fries and grease. Emily felt her lip curl in a condescending sneer. The place reeked of the disgusting common food that was barely fit for consumption.
She remembered living off the things back in college and high school. Howevert, that was before time and a reproving social circle had beaten all such cravings from her. She sighed, ignoring the sudden pang as she caught the rebellious scent of onion rings and chili fries as she stepped back into a world she had though long forgotten. The few times she had entered the diner, she had always recalled the malt shop she had frequented in college. It was the place she had tasted her first milkshake and fries, her first onion rings with ranch dressing, her first hamburger with the works.
It was where she first saw Richard.
She had to tear herself from the visions the place called to mind—Richard laughing at the counter with his Wiffenpoof friends while she sat in a corner and prayed no one noticed her devouring chili fries. Back then, she would have died if anyone saw her of knew she occasioned such dives. She would die if anyone found out now. Emily had fallen for Richard instantly, he seemed so calm, so sure of himself. He was clearly the leader in his group of friends. The more she saw him, the more her admiration grew. A war began within her after those first few days: her love of fast food and the free spirit she secretly harbored versus her burgeoning infatuation with Richard. Richard would never approve of a woman hanging out in a malt shop consuming onion rings and coney dogs. That was common food, reserved for common people, not the elevated elite such as them. However, ideas began to come to her, ideas of a life beyond cotillions and social engagements. Ideas that the DAR barely knew existed.
An image had begun to form in her mind of a businesswoman; articulate, intelligent, and powerful. It had been unheard of in her day. It was unrealized now.
The bell chimed again and the image shattered into a thousand tiny fragments, carried away to that box of cedar and pine on a wisteria-scented breeze. Such were the regrets of maturity. Now, she needed to prevent more regrets from growing.
The diner was nearly empty, only a few oddly attired customers and a lone waitress filled the room. Rory's Korean friend gave her a startled gasp and darted to the kitchen. Emily ignored her and her skittish nerves and focused her interest on the unwashed man who appeared to be doing his very best to ignore her presence.
"We need to talk." He opened his mouth to protest, but he nodded after she gave him a look. "Alone." He turned on his heel and headed up the stairs.