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“Go. Mom and I have catching up to do,” I assured him.
“He looks younger,” Mom said after he was gone.
“It was the beard. Thank god he shaved it. I hated it.” I rolled my eyes. “Plus, he’s on this health kick. He’s working out like crazy. Not that I’m complaining, it’s just an explanation.”
“Well, it probably wouldn’t hurt for you to get on that health kick,” Mom said sagely. “You know, when you hit thirty, this is all going to fall apart. Thirty is when I got fat. And you’re going to want to fit into your wedding dress.”
Oh. This was going so much better than I had expected.
* * * *
Neil’s fifty-first birthday party was nowhere near as big as his fiftieth, but the occasion wouldn’t go unmarked. In addition to myself, Mom, Michael and Emma, we’d invited Rudy, Valerie, Holli, Deja, Ian and Gena, as well as other assorted people from Neil’s social circle. Only thirty in all, but still a bigger birthday party than my mom was used to.
“Are you sure they don’t need any help?” she asked me for the millionth time as she nervously watched the caterers carrying their gleaming steel chafing dishes from the kitchen to the buffet set up in the dining room.
“They get paid to do this, Mom. Trust me, they know what they’re doing.” I smoothed the already taut front of my hot pink Herve Leger Sarai bandage dress.
Mom reached over to futz with my straps. “I don’t know why you need to wear something so…tight.”
I rolled my eyes and brushed her hand away. “Because it’s my fiancé’s birthday party tonight, and I want to look hot for him.”
I did look hot, too. I’d done shimmery white eyeshadow and a long swoop of liquid eyeliner like a vintage Barbie. My hair cascaded in Rita Hayworth curls over my shoulders, and my lips were so shiny with petal pink gloss Neil would ache to taste them.
I think Mom would have preferred a nun’s habit.
I wriggled my toes in my pale nude Louboutins as I checked the clock over the stove. “Okay, Mom, let’s get out of their way and let them do their thing.”
My mom looked small-town glam as always. She’d French-braided her hair and donned a black maxi-dress beneath a floaty jacket of zebra print chiffon. She’d refused to compromise her personal style on our recent trip to Macy’s.
We couldn’t go to Barney’s, because she thought it sounded too fancy.
The dining room was set up with hot hors d’oeuvres and a cocktail bar, and the living room was lit softly by the inset lights and the groups of candles I’d had Julia help me arrange earlier in the day.
“I just want things to be as casual as possible,” I said, more to myself than to my mother. Neil and I had finally settled into our life here. I vainly wanted people to see how comfortable we were in our new surroundings. My wedding nerves were also partially to blame. I was still rattled from our sudden encounter with Elizabeth, and I wanted to prove to my mom and, hell, to everyone that Neil and I setting up house together was a good thing, and it was going to work.
“Casual parties don’t require caterers, Sophie.” Mom reminded me.
I looked across the living room to the wide foyer. The coat check guy I’d hired for the night was helping a woman out of hers, and when she turned and her huge belly came into frame, I squealed, “Emma!”
I ran after her like a shot, my arms out wide for a hug. She wasn’t a big hugger. I was, so I employed a lot of these surprise hug attacks. I could never tell if she put her hands up defensively or just out of pure shocked reflex, but it always ended with a hug, so I didn’t really care how it started.
“Oh my god, my ankles are so swollen,” she complained over my shoulder. As her pregnancy advanced, her list of discussable subjects had narrowed to whatever part of her was uncomfortable at the moment. In the past, Holli and I had made fun of women who got so caught up in their pregnancies that they couldn’t think of anything else, but I pitied Emma. I wouldn’t have wished her puffy legs on anyone.
“Sophie, is this her?” I heard Mom approaching. I stepped out of the way and ushered her over with one hand as Michael stepped over to join us. I gave him a quick hug, too, before I introduced everyone.
“Mom, this is Emma. Emma, this is Mom.” This was the moment. The woman who once owned a “People Eating Tasty Animals” t-shirt was going to meet the living embodiment of the stereotypical outspoken big city vegan she ranted about at holiday dinners. “And this is her husband, Michael.”
“Oh, look at you!” Mom gushed, putting her arms out. The gold bangles on her wrists clinked as she made a gesture to approximate Emma’s size. “You’re as big as a house! Well, not this house. That’s got to be a relief, right?”
“Um. Thank you?” Emma threw a puzzled look to me. “Where’s Dad?”
“I think he’s hanging out in the bar with Rudy.” I motioned in that general direction. “Where’s your mom? I thought she said she was coming.”
Not that I would be absolutely devastated if she missed it.
Emma knew exactly what I was thinking, because she had the same wry twist to her mouth that her father always got when he could sense my seething, illogical jealousy. “She’s driving in separately, so she can leave early.”
“Oh. That’s…a shame.” I smiled, unapologetic in my churlishness, and Emma laughed.
