Chapter 19
Moira’s cozy living room was illuminated by the gentle glow of multiple table lamps and the television, which played quietly
in the background. The show—a familiar favorite for each woman—was The Golden Girls, its muted sound providing a comforting backdrop to their conversation. The five friends had swapped their cruise dresses
for their pajamas and sprawled out on the oversized couch with blankets while passing around a platter of milk chocolate bear
claws.
Moira had taken out the white and gold wedding album from a drawer of an antique chest in the living room. For half an hour,
they passed the book around, each page serving as a time machine to the past. They laughed and reminisced, pointing out the
signature ?90s touches: the clothing, the big hair, the heavy makeup. It was hard to ignore how handsome Jeffrey looked as
the groom, his smile bright and genuine.
The album also included pictures from the reception, where Moira’s hair, decorated with sprigs of baby’s breath, had come
undone while she danced like a madwoman to Janet Jackson hits. There were several candid photos of Sean and Celia Kate twirling
across the parquet floor of the Tunnell Hill Golf and Country Club, and even one of Tyler in the background, next to the punch
bowl, looking smug.
“That’s him. That’s Tyler,” Gemma said, tapping on the album page as Nell and Erin leaned in to get a closer look at the evening’s villain.
“I do see the resemblance to Jake Ryan,” Erin noted while CK suppressed an audible gag.
“He made fun of me that night,” Gemma continued, looking away from the album and squinting her dark eyes in an effort to remember.
“What was it about? Oh, gosh, I can’t recall exactly. But he said something that really hurt my feelings. Maybe it was about
the bridesmaid dress?” She frowned, trying to dig deeper into the memory. “Nearly thirty years. Has he really been putting
me down for thirty years?”
CK bit the inside of her cheek, feeling angry at the thought of the years of insults Gemma had endured. She wanted to claw
Tyler Gardner’s eyes out.
“Let’s move on,” Moira suggested as she turned to the last page of the album.
The final photos were of her and Jeffrey ducking into the back of the limo, caught in the flash as the photographer snapped
the shot just before the door closed. In one Moira was halfway in, her veil trailing behind her. Her bouquet of white peonies,
eucalyptus, and pale pink roses was clutched in one hand. Her dress was bunched in her lap, messy and beautiful, like she
hadn’t cared about perfection for hours.
Jeffrey was already inside the car, looking out at her with that smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. One of his hands
reached for her and his other arm was flung casually over the dark leather seat, his bow tie already loosened and his shirt
collar opened.
Confetti clung to them both—little specks of gold and ivory in their hair and on their shoulders.
The words “Just Married” were scribbled in white shoe polish on the rear window behind them.
There was a blur in the picture, like joy was too excited to hold still.
The crowd behind them was out of focus, but Gemma was noticeable, waving with her glass of wine raised.
Moira touched the edge of the photograph and remembered exactly what Jeffrey Allyson had said when the door closed them inside
the limo.
“We’re going to make a good story, you and me.”
And they had.
Soon, the happy feelings turned into sadness for Moira. So she went over to the antique chest and tucked the album away.
“Okay, girls, what do you want to do now?” she said when she returned to the couch. “I thought maybe we could light up the
firepit and hang out down by the water?”
“I’m kind of glad to be inside and out of that wind. I don’t think my hair can take another tangle,” Gemma said.
“Me too. I’d love to just hang out in here,” Celia Kate suggested.
“Sure, whatever you all want to do is fine with me.” Moira leaned her head back on the tan sofa cushion and sighed. “I can’t
believe this is the last night of my forties. How did I get here? How did all of us get here?” She looked around the room
at her friends. “Those wedding pictures don’t seem like they were taken decades ago. In fact, it feels like just yesterday
we were carefree high school kids, doesn’t it? Back then, we didn’t even need to wear bras—just Band-Aids.”
Gemma burst into laughter and replied, “Not me. I have been wearing a bra since I was eight! I couldn’t get coverage from
any kind of bandage unless it was one of those extra-large ones for serious wounds.”
“You know what I miss the most about being young?” CK said.
“Playing basketball. I have to admit that I’m sad none of my children are interested in sports.
I’m proud of my kids and love that they have different interests—fishing, golfing, crafting, drawing—but I was raised in a sports-oriented household.
If my parents weren’t watching my brother and me play in a game, we would all huddle in the living room and eat pizza and watch basketball or baseball on TV.
Tucker and Sean like to watch the Braves, but no part of our life revolves around sports and schedules.
Sometimes I wish it did. I mean, I thought it would.
I thought I would raise them the way I was raised. ”
“I played a little,” Erin said. “I think I scored a total of twelve points throughout my entire high school career, but I
understand where you’re coming from, CK. Some of my best memories are from being part of the team and the bond I shared with
those girls.”
“I still feel like I’m that cheerleader in the Tunnel Hill High School gym,” Moira continued, clapping her hands stiffly.
“I mean, aside from perimenopause, hot flashes, night sweats, frozen shoulder, and hormone replacement—”
Gemma started clapping and chanted, “We’ve got razzmatazz! Pep, punch, and pizzazz!”
And then Moira joined her in unison, “Hey, you—you’ve been had! Tunnel Hill Tornadoes got razzmatazz!”
Erin, her eyes wide with concern, interrupted everyone’s laughter.
“Wait, go back to what you were saying, Moira. Frozen shoulder? You’re traumatizing me,” she exclaimed as the others teased her again about being the youngest. “I know you all see me as the baby of the group, but I have to write everything down or set reminders on my phone. My mother went through this too—she struggled to remember things she’d always known, like birthdays and anniversaries.
It was so wild to me back then—like, how can you forget your sister’s birthday?
But now I get it. The other day I couldn’t for the life of me remember PJ’s phone number. My own son’s phone number!”
“I write things down on a calendar and put them in my phone and still forget,” Gemma confessed. “I’m liable to miss Carolina’s graduation.”
Gemma’s joke made Moira feel a pang of guilt as she recalled dashing up the bleachers at Monterey Prep’s football field last
May. She could sense the critical, disapproving eyes glaring at her as her heels clicked against the steel seats. The cocktails
she’d had while getting ready to watch her youngest receive his diploma that evening made it difficult for her to keep her
footing steady. She stumbled as she squeezed down the bleacher row and plopped down next to her son Bradford and her older
brothers and their wives. Bradford, MerryLee, and Tabitha immediately scowled at her, both for being late and for the sweet
whiskey scent wafting from her breath. She quickly pushed the entire memory back down again.
CK shook her head in bewilderment. “It’s strange,” she murmured while tracing her fingers across the top of her opposite hand.
“I don’t feel middle-aged either. But when I look in the mirror, I see my mother. I see her face in mine, in the wrinkles
beginning to form. I see her hands when I look at my own. And you know what? I often think I look old and awful, decrepit
like the Cryptkeeper. But to me, my mother never looked that way. Mama was beautiful. She was perfect.” Feelings of grief
and yearning for her mother washed over her. “I miss her so much.”
“She was beautiful, CK, both inside and out. And you’re just like her,” Gemma said. With a wry smile, she added, “I definitely inherited my mother’s thighs, all thanks to her biscuits.”
“I also see my mother when I look in the mirror,” Nell agreed. “I can also hear her, especially when I’m frustrated with the
kids. I sound just like her when I say, ‘What in Sam Hill were you thinking?’” She imitated her mother’s elegant Southern
drawl, then ran her hand across the embroidered throw pillow in her lap and said seriously, “We’re at the front of the line
now, aren’t we? Our parents are dying—not our grandparents, but our parents. And we have been pushed right to the front.”
Not just our parents, but our husbands too, Moira thought.
“Do men realize how fortunate they are?” CK broke the somber mood. “Sean is more handsome now than when we met two decades
ago. I’m slathering fifteen creams on my face every night while he’s aging backward like Benjamin Button.”
Nell snapped her fingers. “Yes! Besides going a little thin on top, Chip is aging in reverse too. He’s two years older than
me and still hasn’t bought a pair of reading glasses. I need glasses to read the captions on the television because my hearing
isn’t as good anymore either.”
“Most guys age like fine wine, but Tyler Gardner? He’s aging more like milk.” Gemma immediately clapped a hand over her mouth,
surprised that she let that slip, and the other ladies snickered at her. “Oh my goodness! Did I say that out loud?”
“I hope it felt good to say that, because it certainly felt good to hear it,” Celia Kate remarked, thinking that Tyler Gardner’s
athletic physique was long gone and that the thick, dark Jake Ryan hair he once had was now thinning and turning gray.