thoughts of the day, my nervous mind ran through the fast-approaching trip to Sardinia. I dreaded learning what Missy had left undone, knowing there would be hundreds of loose ends. Missy ran her business one way and I ran mine another. The good thing was that I had four days to get my arms around the itinerary and I could catch up as the trip unfolded. In addition, because of the level of hotels we patronized, Iwas sure the concierge would be helpful. Yes, I thought, I will enlist the hotel talent to pull this off.
I turned over to face Michael’s back and readjusted my pillows. My thoughts drifted again to him and wondering what in the world could cause him such anxiety. I thought about my fierce love for Michael and then, for some inexplicable reason, my thoughts were of the lines I had nearly drawn in the sand with my father. How Freudian! I pushed both of them away—that is, my father and even Michael.
Sardinia. I would figure that out and it would be fine. I knew I had all the resources at my disposal to make it happen as it should. But my mind drifted back to Michael again. I couldn’t bear the idea of Michael so upset over something that he would go off alone to cry. That just wasn’t like him. Surely he was frustrated and worried about his mother. I would make a great dinner that night for him and encourage him to tell me what was on his mind. After all, that’s what a good partner would do and what the other would want.
With work tucked aside for the moment and with the framework of a plan for Michael—because, practical girl I was, I realized there was nothing to be done anyway at that hour—I began to dissect my weekend with my family. I had really loved my brief visit with Frank and Regina, although I saw that I had virtually ignored my niece and nephews, and why was that? It was always the same at my mother’s house—chaos caused by feeding crowds, and always the brunt of the work fell to the adult women. It was all we could do to get from meal to meal, and so the only conversation I had with the younger relatives was around the table, and that was scant at best. Nonna and my father seemed to monopolize all the airtime, and sidebar conversations were looked upon as poor manners.
And Nicky? God in heaven! Nicky and that stupid Marianne of his. I envisioned the wedding and the thirty bridesmaids Marianne would want to have at her side. All dressed in lavender taffeta gowns and matching hats copied from Gone with the Wind . There would be a bubble machine and their names monogrammed on every possible item at the reception. Marianne would tear up and her mascara would be blotted by a friend with a lavender linen handkerchief. Everything would be lavender and mint green or pink and she would order so many flowers Big Al would have to pave every parking lot in South Carolina and Georgia to pay for them. They would release doves. The doves would drop poop on Marianne and I would snicker…
I did not think I had turned into a snob. Not really. What kind of a girl had I expected Nicky to wind up with anyway? One like Marianne who worked that southern thing to death. But I surely would have loved a little sister with a brain instead of a bobble head. Regina was great but she lived too far away. Even with e-mail and cell phones, we were too busy in our very different lives to pursue anything more than what we had.
I loved my family and my father with everything I had in my heart. Oh, Big Al, Big Al, Big Al. Why can’t you be fabulous like Paul Newman? Smart like Al Pacino? I knew it was selfish to wish he was a different kind of man. But I did.
At his best, he could pull off a kind of Robert De Niro—handsome and appealing, warm and welcoming and even marginally elegant in some moments. But if Big Al had one too many beers watching the Golf Channel and an ad for Victoria’s Secret went slinking across his giant plasma television, there was no mystery about which part of his anatomy he would grab and yell,
I turned over to face Michael’s back and readjusted my pillows. My thoughts drifted again to him and wondering what in the world could cause him such anxiety. I thought about my fierce love for Michael and then, for some inexplicable reason, my thoughts were of the lines I had nearly drawn in the sand with my father. How Freudian! I pushed both of them away—that is, my father and even Michael.
Sardinia. I would figure that out and it would be fine. I knew I had all the resources at my disposal to make it happen as it should. But my mind drifted back to Michael again. I couldn’t bear the idea of Michael so upset over something that he would go off alone to cry. That just wasn’t like him. Surely he was frustrated and worried about his mother. I would make a great dinner that night for him and encourage him to tell me what was on his mind. After all, that’s what a good partner would do and what the other would want.
With work tucked aside for the moment and with the framework of a plan for Michael—because, practical girl I was, I realized there was nothing to be done anyway at that hour—I began to dissect my weekend with my family. I had really loved my brief visit with Frank and Regina, although I saw that I had virtually ignored my niece and nephews, and why was that? It was always the same at my mother’s house—chaos caused by feeding crowds, and always the brunt of the work fell to the adult women. It was all we could do to get from meal to meal, and so the only conversation I had with the younger relatives was around the table, and that was scant at best. Nonna and my father seemed to monopolize all the airtime, and sidebar conversations were looked upon as poor manners.
And Nicky? God in heaven! Nicky and that stupid Marianne of his. I envisioned the wedding and the thirty bridesmaids Marianne would want to have at her side. All dressed in lavender taffeta gowns and matching hats copied from Gone with the Wind . There would be a bubble machine and their names monogrammed on every possible item at the reception. Marianne would tear up and her mascara would be blotted by a friend with a lavender linen handkerchief. Everything would be lavender and mint green or pink and she would order so many flowers Big Al would have to pave every parking lot in South Carolina and Georgia to pay for them. They would release doves. The doves would drop poop on Marianne and I would snicker…
I did not think I had turned into a snob. Not really. What kind of a girl had I expected Nicky to wind up with anyway? One like Marianne who worked that southern thing to death. But I surely would have loved a little sister with a brain instead of a bobble head. Regina was great but she lived too far away. Even with e-mail and cell phones, we were too busy in our very different lives to pursue anything more than what we had.
I loved my family and my father with everything I had in my heart. Oh, Big Al, Big Al, Big Al. Why can’t you be fabulous like Paul Newman? Smart like Al Pacino? I knew it was selfish to wish he was a different kind of man. But I did.
At his best, he could pull off a kind of Robert De Niro—handsome and appealing, warm and welcoming and even marginally elegant in some moments. But if Big Al had one too many beers watching the Golf Channel and an ad for Victoria’s Secret went slinking across his giant plasma television, there was no mystery about which part of his anatomy he would grab and yell,
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