18. Franki
eighteen
“Wow. You have so much space,” I say.
Two large tables with ergonomic seating anchor Bronwyn’s craft room, and a cozy chair with an ottoman cuddles into a nook near a large window. Bronwyn has decorated the room with houseplants of various sizes, and a colorful painting holds pride-of-place above an antique sideboard she uses for storage. The effect is expansive, but warm and eclectic.
Bronwyn walks over to throw an arm around my waist. Meanwhile, Charlotte, Sydney, and Janessa are already seated on a comfortable-looking sofa and loveseat. Bronwyn’s grandmother, Rose McRae, sits in the chair near the window with knitting needles already in hand, working on what appears to be a green blanket.
It always throws me off when I see Mrs. McRae doing something so normal. She’s changed into a high-necked ruffled nightgown covered in an elegant silver brocade robe and fluffy slippers for the sleepover craft party. It had been so long since I last saw Mrs. McRae that her new fragility pulls at my heartstrings.
I remember her as an intimidating woman, one who hurt Bronwyn’s feelings so often. Yet, she’s the one who taught Bronwyn how to knit, and Bronwyn’s ubiquitous pearl necklace was a gift from her Grandmother Rose. Even now, Mrs. McRae eyes Bronwyn with a combination of exasperation and love. “Bronwyn, don’t bounce around like that. You need to sit down and rest. Act like a lady.”
Bronwyn pulls a face, then turns back to her grandmother. “I took a nap earlier, Grandmother. But thank you for worrying about me.”
Mrs. McRae purses her lips at Bronwyn’s response, then shakes her head. “You should be convalescing, not entertaining. Don’t overdo things. We almost lost you.”
Bronwyn walks over to bend down and press her cheek to Mrs. McRae’s. “I love you too, Grandmother.”
Mrs. McRae huffs. “Goodness, child.” But she holds Bronwyn’s face to hers with a heavily veined hand for several seconds before she pats her and says, “Go sit down. I don’t like to see you limping around like this.”
For years, I’ve attempted to convince myself that my mother and father love me like Mrs. McRae loves her family. I told myself that they’re simply not the kind of people who know how to show love, and deep down, where I can’t see it, they feel it. But the truth is, I can see Mrs. McRae’s love.
Bronwyn walks to one of the long tables and sits, motioning me closer. “Make yourself at home.” She indicates the table, the shelf-lined walls, and the cabinetry that wraps around the space. “Pick a project. Any project.”
A combination of overhead, ambient, and task lighting lend a cozy, but practical vibe to Bronwyn’s craft room. Bronwyn likes to scrapbook sometimes, and she has a bookcase filled with those. Charlotte started some of them for her when we were just kids.
Charlotte might be an award-winning architect, but she also makes badass scrapbooks. Bronwyn’s are cute and a little cheesy. Charlotte’s look like every page is designed by an expensive New York ad agency.
Mostly, this room is loaded up with tons of different yarn.
“How does it feel to live my dream?” I tease.
Bronwyn smiles. “Advantages to living in a big house in the country.” She indicates my pink pajamas. “I like the pj’s.”
I finger the soft, fleecy fabric covered in cartoon wiener dogs. I put my hair into a braid and took out my contact lenses too. “Henry bought them for me when we were shopping.”
I’d seen them in the store and gushed about how cute they were. He immediately put them in the cart, but I stopped him. “My parents would kill me for wearing something like that.”
He scowled. “What does anyone else have to say about what you do with your own body?” Then he distracted me and, apparently, bought them anyway. As far as the fact that I used an electric scooter to get around the store, he showed very little reaction at all. He definitely didn’t appear to be embarrassed by me.
When I went up to change for our sleepover craft night, the pajamas lay folded on my pillow with a note that read: “Dear Franki, If you want them, you should have them. The pajamas and your bedding have been laundered with the unscented detergent you prefer. Wear them or don’t. It’s your choice. Always Your Henry.”
Bronwyn narrows her eyes, but Charlotte has risen and moved to the center of the room to put an arm around my shoulders.
Charlotte’s blonde hair, several shades darker than Bronwyn’s, is tucked into a headband, and she’s wearing blue and green plaid flannel. She’s always been so down-to-earth. To me, this is what “normal” is supposed to be.
“Do you remember the pajamas I got for you when you were little and came for your first sleepover with Bronwyn?” she asks.
I nod. It was right before the divorce when I still lived with my parents. “I told you my father wouldn’t let me keep them, so you saved them for me at your house.”
These cute dachshund pj’s feel like those ones did, not in fabric or design, but as though, by wearing them, I’m being rebellious, in the warmest, happiest way possible.
Charlotte scrunches her face up with a nose wrinkle. “You wore them until your ankles showed. I gave you bigger ones, but you didn’t want to give up those ducky pajamas for the longest time.”
I smile and lift one shoulder. “They made me feel like I was home.”
Charlotte squeezes harder. “You’re always home with us.”
Emotion rises up inside me, fast and painful. The McRae’s aren’t my family, no matter how much I tried to pretend they were when I was a child.
I hug Charlotte back as Bronwyn says, “I’m sure it didn’t occur to Henry how bad buying an unrelated woman sleepwear would look.”
Charlotte laughs. “Bronwyn, Henry has always been thoughtful. They probably reminded him of Oliver. No one thinks your brother is attempting to seduce Franki with cartoon sausage dogs and fleece loungewear. They’re friends.”
Everyone laughs, including the elder Mrs. McRae. Charlotte has a point. If Henry’s goal were seduction, I imagine something sexy would be the order of the day.
I attempt to shift her focus. “So, what have we got to work with?”
“Scrapbooking over here. Jewelry-making supplies on the table over there.”
Bronwyn holds up a handful of photos. “I’m finally putting my wedding photos in an album.”
I peer over her shoulder, and she spreads them out on the table. They’re all what I assume are cellphone photos. Bronwyn and Dean look so happy. It gives me a pang because I know what happened next and how much they both went through. If I’d seen these, I’d never have doubted her relationship in a million years. “The way he looks at you with his heart in his eyes . . . I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”
“I felt so guilty that you guys weren’t there.”
“Don’t waste time on regrets. We should organize a big anniversary party for you guys. Then we’ll celebrate.”
She wraps an arm around my waist. “That’s a perfect idea.”
“So, what did you wear under the dress?” I ask.
Janessa calls from the sofa, “If you say anything other than Agent Provacateur, I won’t believe you.”
“You don’t need to know about my knickers,” Bronwyn says.
“Aha! Then it was definitely AP,” I say in triumph.
She laughs and shoves a box across the table to me. “If you don’t want to scrapbook.”
I open the box and grin as I pull the thread and beads out. “When was the last time we made friendship bracelets?”
“Too long. Remember when we used to FaceTime while we worked and mailed them to each other?”
“Of course, I remember.”
“Yours were always the best,” Bronwyn says.
“Seriously,” Janessa agrees. “You made the rest of us look like kindergartners.”
I shake my head, but I smile at the memory of how they wore my bracelets until they fell off. After which, they each texted me photos of their bare arms and begged me to send them new ones.
Carrying the box with me, I lower myself carefully onto the big floor pillow near the sofa, lifting the supplies first for Janessa, then Sydney, to choose their colors.
Bronwyn screws her face up, her tongue sticking out one side of her mouth, as she trims a photo with scissors. “Dean is leaning against a railing in this photo, and I’m gonna cut him out so he looks sassy.”
She’s speaking really loudly, almost a shout, but she does that when she’s excited. Charlotte laughs, then covers her mouth with the back of her hand.
Bronwyn looks up at us, her eyes innocently wide. “What? You think my big, muscle-y husband can’t be sassy?”
Through the open doorway, and from a little way down the hall, Dean hollers in a deep, booming voice laced with humor, “Woman, behave yourself.”
Phee giggles from the hall, and we all break into peals of laughter.
Bronwyn must have seen him walking past the door and decided to jerk his chain. Honestly, I don’t know how she ever got the nerve up to tease that man.
Dean is scary looking. Or he was. I haven’t figured out exactly what’s changed. Dean looks the same, but there’s a gentleness in his eyes that I’d never noticed before. He loves Bronwyn just the way she is, and he’s not just patient with Phee, he adores her.
Henry and I could never have a life like this. Even if we were together, we’d be in an apartment in the city, and he would be busy all the time. That’s not even taking into consideration that his marriage proposal all but spelled out that if I married him, I’d be on the back burner of his life. There for the sake of being conveniently available when he was available.
I concentrate on my bracelet, ignoring my achey and clumsy fingers as I weave. I want to do this.
Janessa reaches down and pokes me gently. “Hey, where’s our sunny girl? You look upset.”
“Nothing is wrong.” I’m definitely not worked up over something stupid that I can’t control like wondering how Henry feels about me. This thing with him feels like braiding this bracelet. A little clumsy on my part, and with the potential to turn painful. But, oh, it could be beautiful.
“Who is that one for?” Sydney asks, noting the bracelet I’ve started doesn’t match any of the colors they selected for me to make for them.
“I thought I’d make one for Henry too. In thanks, for the pj’s.”
Bronwyn’s smile is half-cringe. “That’s sweet, but don’t get your feelings hurt if he doesn’t wear it. He’s really picky about what he puts on his body, and he’s not very sentimental. It’s not personal.”
“I know. My feelings won’t be hurt.” Honestly, I can’t imagine him wearing it at all. It’s meant as a gesture on my part, not a demand. “What he does with it is up to him. He can use it as a bookmark or shove it in a drawer.”
I probably won’t work up the nerve to give it to him at all. I hesitate. “You don’t think we’re too old for this? We aren’t teenagers anymore.”
“I don’t give a flying f—” Bronwyn shoots a sidelong glance at her mother, then corrects herself. “Fig if anyone thinks we’re juvenile. We’re grown women. We should be able to enjoy what we enjoy without worrying about what other people think about it. As long as you’re not hurting anyone, what you like to do to relax is your own business.”
There’s something comfortingly nostalgic in the repetitive motions involved, in the sentiment, and even the smell of the cotton embroidery floss. The world is a constant wild riot of change around us, and this one moment feels like an anchor to the best parts of my past. I swipe a tear from under my glasses. I don’t know why emotion has chosen this evening to spill over, and I work to push it back down and keep a smile on my face.
Charlotte reaches down to hug my shoulders and hand me a Kleenex. “You okay, honey?” she whispers.
“I’m being silly. It’s just so rare for us to be together like this anymore.”
“Arden and I didn’t even get to see you when you went to Europe with the girls two summers ago,” she says.
I dab under my eyes with the tissue. “Yes. It’s been too long.”
And I’ve known such a dearth of real affection that experiencing it now is inexplicably painful. I’ve been out in the cold for so long my toes have gone numb. Now, I’m sinking into what should be a comfortable bath, but instead of gentle warmth, it’s an open flame. I’ve become so desperately aware of how much I want. And want. And want.
If I sit in the dark, it’s easy to imagine the room around me has everything I need, but Henry’s attention, and the easy affection the entire McRae family shares . . . They’re shining a light on my empty spaces and making it impossible to pretend that loneliness hasn’t been the soundtrack to my days and nights.
I’m giving myself permission to see what happens with Henry. To remember to look on the bright side and anticipate the possibility of good things. I’ll talk to him, and I’ll take his answers at face value. If I can’t trust Henry, I can’t trust anyone at all.