moppets in Sister Colette Amici’s second grade to the single prom photo Sicily had allowed Lachele LaVoy to take—a picture of Sicily facing away from the camera, her strong, resplendent back bare nearly to the hips, as she fastened a white rose to Joey’s lapel.
Jamie and Gia had been remarkable parents, who had taken their job seriously and done it well.
When Marie was visiting, staying at her sister’s house in Chester, the routine of Sicily’s preschool days never varied: Gia kept a big roll of butcher paper disguised by a circle of garage-sale glass and a big old shawl, as an end table. Before Sicily sat down to a (cooked) breakfast, Gia laid out a full kitchen table’s length of the butcher paper, taping it securely at both ends. As Marie sipped her coffee, Gia would sketch a castle with a tiny princess for Sicily to paint. On those visits, Jamie would come out into the midst of that domestic grandeur and kiss Gia in a way that made Marie’s stomach contract. She had, if she was honest, wanted to be Jamie’s wife—yes, a thousand years ago, but yes—not his pal, the “best gal” at their wedding. She had wanted to be Sicily’s mother, not her godmother.
And yet she’d done her best. The charcoal-on-gray invitations for the engagement party tonight read only ME AND JOE, FOREVER AND EVER . But inside, under the date, time, and location, was a subtle (Marie thought it was subtle) hint that this event also was, de facto, a wedding shower. Not even Kit could convince Sicily to put up with an afternoon of silly guessing games (Why does the groom throw the bride’s garter? Why tie tin cans to the bumper of the new couple’s getaway car?) and to make a keepsake bouquet by pulling the ribbons from each gift through a hole in a paper plate. So Marie had penned in graceful Catholic-school penmanship, Your presents will be your gift .
Sicily pretended to be mortified. But no one on earth loved surprises more than Sicily did. And Marie had one tucked away right now in her enormous purse—a week at a lush tumbledown resort on Big Pine Key.
So maybe she was a parent after all. A hasp in Marie’s spine slipped open and she relaxed. To Sicily, who had disappeared and returned, Marie said, “I guess you puking all over my three-hundred-dollar suede coat the first time you got drunk earns me my spurs.”
“I only did what you told me. We had the never-get-in-a-car-with-someone-who’s-been-drinking talk—”
“Cripes, Sicily. It wasn’t even a week before!”
“I was being cautious,” Sicily said. “I was thinking ahead.”
“You weren’t even sixteen.”
“You literally kicked me in the rear when I was holding on to the toilet, remember? You told me to run away and live with distant relatives. And me, a disabled girl …”
“I didn’t kick your butt until you told me—and I quote—to ‘not make such a big effing deal about it.’ ” Marie didn’t ever use hard-core vulgarity, a trait that was just about perpendicular to the rest of her personality.
“Well, this is all goddamned interesting, but tonight I’m wearing jeans,” Sicily said. “And double cashmere. It’s goddamned cold out there.” Soon Marie had picked out her own variation of the same outfit; black Highbeam jeans and a ruffled Lenore Hannigan blazer. And then there was nothing left to do but wait for six hours or so until the car Marie had hired would come for them.
“I could work,” Sicily said.
“You could sit,” said Marie.
“I could try to wash the tomatoes out of that pan.”
“Let it soak.”
And so they sat. Marie made mimosas. “Do you remember making fake mimosas for me, with ginger ale and orange juice?” Sicily asked.
“I make them for myself still, all the time,” Marie said. “Two real ones and I’m ready to dance on the table to old Blondie songs.”
“I’d pay big for that,” Sicily said. Before either noticed, they were both three mimosas in. “Auntie, will you get married after
Jamie and Gia had been remarkable parents, who had taken their job seriously and done it well.
When Marie was visiting, staying at her sister’s house in Chester, the routine of Sicily’s preschool days never varied: Gia kept a big roll of butcher paper disguised by a circle of garage-sale glass and a big old shawl, as an end table. Before Sicily sat down to a (cooked) breakfast, Gia laid out a full kitchen table’s length of the butcher paper, taping it securely at both ends. As Marie sipped her coffee, Gia would sketch a castle with a tiny princess for Sicily to paint. On those visits, Jamie would come out into the midst of that domestic grandeur and kiss Gia in a way that made Marie’s stomach contract. She had, if she was honest, wanted to be Jamie’s wife—yes, a thousand years ago, but yes—not his pal, the “best gal” at their wedding. She had wanted to be Sicily’s mother, not her godmother.
And yet she’d done her best. The charcoal-on-gray invitations for the engagement party tonight read only ME AND JOE, FOREVER AND EVER . But inside, under the date, time, and location, was a subtle (Marie thought it was subtle) hint that this event also was, de facto, a wedding shower. Not even Kit could convince Sicily to put up with an afternoon of silly guessing games (Why does the groom throw the bride’s garter? Why tie tin cans to the bumper of the new couple’s getaway car?) and to make a keepsake bouquet by pulling the ribbons from each gift through a hole in a paper plate. So Marie had penned in graceful Catholic-school penmanship, Your presents will be your gift .
Sicily pretended to be mortified. But no one on earth loved surprises more than Sicily did. And Marie had one tucked away right now in her enormous purse—a week at a lush tumbledown resort on Big Pine Key.
So maybe she was a parent after all. A hasp in Marie’s spine slipped open and she relaxed. To Sicily, who had disappeared and returned, Marie said, “I guess you puking all over my three-hundred-dollar suede coat the first time you got drunk earns me my spurs.”
“I only did what you told me. We had the never-get-in-a-car-with-someone-who’s-been-drinking talk—”
“Cripes, Sicily. It wasn’t even a week before!”
“I was being cautious,” Sicily said. “I was thinking ahead.”
“You weren’t even sixteen.”
“You literally kicked me in the rear when I was holding on to the toilet, remember? You told me to run away and live with distant relatives. And me, a disabled girl …”
“I didn’t kick your butt until you told me—and I quote—to ‘not make such a big effing deal about it.’ ” Marie didn’t ever use hard-core vulgarity, a trait that was just about perpendicular to the rest of her personality.
“Well, this is all goddamned interesting, but tonight I’m wearing jeans,” Sicily said. “And double cashmere. It’s goddamned cold out there.” Soon Marie had picked out her own variation of the same outfit; black Highbeam jeans and a ruffled Lenore Hannigan blazer. And then there was nothing left to do but wait for six hours or so until the car Marie had hired would come for them.
“I could work,” Sicily said.
“You could sit,” said Marie.
“I could try to wash the tomatoes out of that pan.”
“Let it soak.”
And so they sat. Marie made mimosas. “Do you remember making fake mimosas for me, with ginger ale and orange juice?” Sicily asked.
“I make them for myself still, all the time,” Marie said. “Two real ones and I’m ready to dance on the table to old Blondie songs.”
“I’d pay big for that,” Sicily said. Before either noticed, they were both three mimosas in. “Auntie, will you get married after
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