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She turned to grin at him, her arms full of flowers. “I do, don’t I?”
Ben had been right—things fell apart and came back together again in a new shape. And she had a very distinguished family.
They stood among the crowds on a granite terrace in Brooklyn Bridge Park, and from every angle more people streamed in. They’d walked past television crews, food trucks, big movie-size screens all over the park showing different angles of the bridge-ship, showing the crowd, showing the roped-off part of the pier that served as a stage and the number of minutes left before something would happen on it. Four minutes and counting. And everything festooned with flowers—real flowers, freshly cut, in vibrant color against concrete and fabric and the open sky. Allie’s armful of blossoms seemed insignificant by comparison, though she and Winston had bought out two different flower vendors of their roses and lilies, her mom’s favorite.
Allie held onto them anyway, because she wanted to put them in her mother’s arms, a tribute to the woman who had brought her here, given her everything she had, and made this morning possible.
May came up with Ben. She had mascara smeared across her cheekbone, and she’d worn a white sundress with a corset-style bodice and the big full skirt that Allie had sent her in the mail last year and forgotten all about. She looked beautiful. Allie reached for her sister’s hand.
“It feels so hopeful, you know?” May said. “With all the stuff going on in the world, to have this, all these people here, and everyone so happy. I can’t stop smiling.”
“They’re saying there’s just as big a mob on the Manhattan side,” Ben said. “Did you see Bea’s video?”
Allie had. Beatrice had been out since before the sun came up, and she’d brought a camera crew of film students with her, as promised, shooting short films and interviews, posting them on social media. Bea’s film of the sun coming up to reveal the ship had gone viral and become one of the first things thousands of Americans had clicked on in bed this morning.
May squeezed her hand. “We’re going to do it,” she said. “Let you invest in the restaurant, and expand. The whole thing. I know I kind of freaked out when you tried to tell me about it before, but this morning we talked about it, and it just seems right.”
“You’re sure?” Allie looked at Ben. “I’m going to be up to my elbows in your business. You’ll have to let me make decisions and everything.”
“I’m sure,” Ben said.
“But I don’t want you to manage my art stuff,” May said. “If anyone’s going to help me launch my career, I want it to be her.” She was looking at the bridge.
“Yeah, good call.” Allie tightened her hands around the flowers just to squeeze something. She thought about Nancy Van Der Beek running a May Fredericks gallery, and it gave her the same feeling she got when she was closing a good deal.
Ben leaned close and said something in May’s ear. She kissed him, grinning against his mouth, and said, “I’m going to make Ben hover over people and look menacing in the hope we can score somewhere to sit. My feet are killing me.”
The stage area was at ground level, with wide granite steps above it where the lucky had managed to score a seat.
“All right. Text if you need to find us later.”
“Yep.”
The more of New York arrived, the harder it became for Allie to keep track of all her people. She’d lost her dad an hour ago and could only assume he was where he wanted to be, with his corsage in a box, his pleat-front chinos and sport coat and the tie he wore to the nuclear plant’s Christmas parties.
Bea had been flitting in and out with her cronies, Jean was somewhere nearby with his mom and the niece who lived with them, and Chasity had brought some entire crew of extended family that included her own mama, her boyfriend, brothers and sisters, and too many children and babies to keep track of. Nev and Cath had gone over the bridge so they could see the rigging and sails more closely, Cath practically out of her skin with excitement, talking about whether they could get Justice and Nancy to do something with the V&A, complaining about how women artists never got their share of credit because of sexism and child-rearing and it was about goddamn time she did something about it.
Two minutes left on the clock. A worker came onto the stage and set up a microphone stand, tested it, and walked off.
Winston put his arm over her shoulder and drew her close to his side. “Are you nervous?”
“I think I’m excited.”
“This is a big day for you.”
She glanced at him. He’d worn a cream summer-weight linen suit with a crimson pocket square to match her dress. He’d asked her specifically this morning what color she would be wearing, very formal despite being buck naked with his dingle dangling, having just stepped out of the shower.
She’d chosen that moment to tell him she was pretty sure she’d fallen in love with him.
“It’s a big day for both of us.”
The timer counted down to zero. The speakers, which had been blasting ocean-themed music all morning, cut out. A man walked onto the roped-off portion of the terrace. Allie could see him, small in front of her, huge in one of the screens between her and the bridge. He had thin sandy hair and big glasses. She recognized him from Pulvermacher’s.
“I’m Justice,” he said, and the crowd went absolutely bonkers.
He waited patiently for the noise to settle down. “I’d meant to tell you,” Winston said in her ear, “I met with him yesterday.”
“I thought you canceled.”
