but I had lied to Caroline and told her I’d found homes for them all.
“Apparently it’s a huge problem in the suburbs. All these dirty, skinny cats wandering around. Jacinda wants to tour some pet place when she comes to Bexley.” Noni had invited Sandrine’s parents to stay overnight with her later in the week, a decision she regretted deeply once she learned that Jacinda was gluten-intolerant and abstained completely from alcohol.
For a moment Noni and I stood at the window, gazing out as one by one the streetlights flared on in Central Park. Standing so close to this wall of glass induced in me a sense of vertigo, as though the trees and lights and people moving sludgily along the park path were all traveling toward me, or me toward them. Inside and out, up and down. I closed my eyes and turned away.
“And where is Renee?” Noni said, looking at her watch. “Her shift ended an hour ago.”
“It’ll be a miracle if she makes it,” I said. Renee’s job was demanding, complex, the justification for any number of late arrivals and missed events. I always expected Renee to be engaged in more important work than spending time with us, her family.
“She’ll come,” Noni said. “She promised Joe. Send her one of those phone-message things.”
“Text, Noni. It’s called a text.” I took out my phone and typed, where r u?
“Are you nervous to read your poem?” Noni asked, looking around the room. “This is a big group.”
“A little,” I said. I didn’t tell her that it wasn’t the crowd that worried me, it was the presence of Will, Man #23, and how he might somehow reveal my identity as the Last Romantic here, in front of Noni and my siblings. Probably Noni had never before read a blog, but undoubtedly she had her views on them. Especially a blog about female sexuality researched and written by her youngest daughter.
Noni must have seen the discomfort on my face; she took hold of my hand. “You’ll do great, Fiona,” she said. “You’re a firecracker.” Her palm was dry and warm, and the weight of it startled me, the give of the fingers as they circled mine. Noni was not generally a toucher, a hand-holder, a you’ll-be-okayer. What I’d learned about self-reliance I’d learned from her. Now her unexpected touch calmed me down more than I expected. It was exactly what I needed.
“Fiona, you’re here!” It was Sandrine’s voice behind me. I released Noni’s hand and turned in to Sandrine’s skinny hug.
“You look beautiful,” I said. This was what I always said to Sandrine, because this was what she always wanted to hear. Tonight it was true. Sandrine’s dress was the color of cream, short and tight at the waist with a flared little skirt and a wide neck that showed off clavicles thin as chopsticks. Fat diamonds sparkled on her ears.
She smiled. “Can’t wait for the poem. Just watch for Kyle. He’ll start the speeches.” She winked. “Oh, and, Fiona,” she said, pulling me and Noni closer to her. “I already told your mom, but I’ll have my hairdresser do you both for the wedding.” Her eyes rested briefly on my hair—curly, loose, still wet from the shower. “That way we can all be on the same page. Okay?”
Noni looked at me with wide eyes and shook her head the slightest bit. No, Fiona, do not make a fuss, not tonight.
“Sure, Sandrine,” I said, smiling brightly. “Whatever you want.”
Flutter, flounce, ripple, bony, toothy, tart, brittle.
For a few uncomfortable minutes, Sandrine remained in our small circle while Noni issued compliments about the food, the view, the very nice waiters. Then Ace appeared beside us.
“Fiona Skinner, how the hell are you?” he said, and leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. “You look fantastic.” Ace made a show of looking me up and down in a way that was not flattering but appraising, the look you’d give to a length of wood you were considering for a fence post. Was I durable? Would I need two coats of paint or three?
Ace had expensive shoes and impressive biceps from sessions with a personal trainer, but he still laughed with the same sharp bark I remembered from the pond. To me he would always be that little boy: not necessarily someone who acted with bad intent, merely one too weak and careless to follow through on the good. Now Ace worked in the music industry—not the creative side, something related to marketing—but still it