who nodded. “At City Hall,” she said, with an Ethel Merman laugh. “On my lunch hour. Actually, I took two hours and had lunch anyway.”
“To who?” said Tom.
“His name is Sol Markowitz. You don’t know him. He runs a hat company on 37th Street. Mr. Mark’s Hats. I met him at the deli on Broadway. He’s very nice. Fiftyish.”
Tommy knew this meant the guy was in his sixties. The last time Celeste had dated someone “fiftyish” he had died of a cerebral hemorrhage when they were at the track together and his horse had won.
Celeste was wearing white toreador pants and a black sleeveless blouse, her hair in an upsweep. “You didn’t get married like that?” said Tommy.
The two women started to laugh. “I asked her the same thing,” Connie said.
“I wore a dress, for your information,” Celeste said.
“Red,” said Connie, bursting into laughter and groping on the ground for her beer bottle.
“So?” Celeste said. “I’m not a kid. Besides, he already had the big wedding, the hall, the flowers, the whole bit. Thirty-five years ago. Who needs it?”
“That doesn’t make him fiftyish,” Tommy said.
“Picky, picky, picky.”
“It’s not like she wants to have children,” Connie said, folding her hands lightly over her stomach.
Celeste shrugged. “Sometimes it’s just time, you know? It’s time to settle down, get on with your life, act your age.”
“Act your age?” Connie said, giggling. “You? Give me a break. Tell me another.”
“How many beers have you had?” Tommy asked.
“The enforcer,” Celeste said in a deep voice, picking up her bottle and taking a mouthful. Tommy flushed bright red.
“Where’s your car, Celeste?” he asked.
“The enforcer,” Connie said.
“He’s sending a car for me,” Celeste said. “Sol is. He had business and I’m going to meet him at home.”
“Where’s he live?” Tommy said.
“Up in Connecticut. You two will have to come up for a barbeque with the kids. He has a pool. We have a pool. That has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? We have a pool. Seven bedrooms. It’s nice.”
“Celeste Markowitz,” said Connie.
“Oh Jesus,” said Celeste to Tommy, “your mom and dad will love that. Don’t say anything, okay?”
“Tell you the truth, Celeste,” said Tommy, pitching his beer bottle onto the grass, the faint beer buzz he got after a long hot day beginning right behind his eyes, “at this point in their lives I don’t think my parents would care.”
“Get out,” Celeste said. “Your old man would care unless he was half dead.”
“He is half dead,” Tommy said.
“Tom,” said Connie, turning to look him in the face, telling him he was spoiling the party.
“Your father will outlive us all, Tom,” Celeste said.
“I think you’ll outlive us all, Celeste,” Tommy said, and suddenly he smiled. “Let me see your ring.”
Celeste held out her left hand so he could see the heart-shaped diamond perched above her big knuckle. It was twice the size of the ring she’d had before. Even in the half-light, Tom could see that it was pale yellow, and he thought again of the shadow a buttercup made beneath your chin.
“That’s great,” Tommy said. “Beautiful. It must have cost a fortune.”
Celeste smiled. Faintly, from the front of the house, a car horn sounded twice. “That’s for me,” she said, getting slowly to her feet.
“Bring him in,” Connie said. “I have cake in the house.”
“Sometime,” Celeste said. “You can’t rush these things.” She turned to Tommy and laid one hand, the nails as slick as patent leather, along his hot cheek. “Be nice to your wife,” she said, in a throaty, intense sort of voice, and Tommy had a heady feeling of déjà vu. Instead of having to root around for it for days, the memory came back to him instantly: Celeste at his wedding reception, shiny in bright blue, dancing with him, looking up to say, her eyes filled with tears, “Be nice to my cousin.”
“I’m always nice to my wife,” he replied now. “When I can find her.”
“Be extra nice to her,” said Celeste, and before Tommy could get the last word she had kissed him, and was gone, a cloud of L’Air du Temps lingering over the lawn chair in which she’d sat. Tommy realized it was a new scent for Celeste, perhaps in honor of the new husband. He leaned over and picked up her beer bottle. The top was red with lipstick. He carried the bottle into the kitchen.
Connie followed him. “Tom,” she said. When he turned she was standing by the stove, smiling, a misty look in her eyes.