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I'm totally willing to do that.
I want to do that. If she wants me to.
Because she’s absolutely worth waiting for.
I say goodbye to Max, take off around the block, pop into a corner store, and grab a sheet of paper, an envelope, and a pencil.
I write a short note and draw a simple picture on the bottom.
A man and a woman. She’s sitting in the O of the giant YO statue outside the Brooklyn Museum. He cups her face, looking at her like there’s nothing else in the world for him. Like she’s the only thing worth looking at.
I go to her place and slip it through the slot in her mailbox. When she gets home, she can open it. And it’ll say . . .
Let me wait for you? As long as it takes?
I love you.
When I leave, I don’t return to the garage. I don’t tinker with the Datsun. I don’t spit-shine it to within an inch of its life.
Instead, I grab a bag of ready-made sandwiches at the deli on the corner and head to the old schoolhouse, where I watch the sun shine on the mural Ruby and I painted together and share my late lunch/early dinner with two homeless men already settling down inside.
“I bet a lady painted it,” the older, bearded guy says around a mouthful of egg salad.
“Looks like something a woman would paint,” the shorter, younger man agrees.
“No, not a woman,” the other man corrects him. “A lady. Someone sweet and classy. And kind.”
“She’s all of those things,” I chime in. “And talented and strong and funny.” I sigh. “The whole package.”
The older man smiles. “I thought so.” He claps me on the back. “It’ll work out, son. Don’t worry. Love finds a way. It really does.”
I want to believe he’s right.
If he can believe, what excuse do I have for staying a pessimist?
But I doubt I’ll feel right until I hear from her, until I know how she feels about me waiting.
And find out if she might decide to wait for me too.
27
RUBY
At my parents’ brownstone, I let myself in through the side gate and make my way down the narrow alley to the back garden. I can’t hear anyone back there, but it’s a sunny vacation day afternoon after Mom and Dad’s customary three o’clock tea-and-pie time.
I can’t imagine any place my mother would be other than her small garden, surrounded by veggies and flowers.
When I emerge from the alley, she’s exactly where I imagined: kneeling in the middle of the lettuce patch, pulling weeds while wearing a big straw hat and weathered green garden gloves. On impulse, I pull out my cell, turn off the sound, and take a few pictures before she realizes I’m here.
I’m going to paint Mom like this, but with lettuce as high as skyscrapers reaching to the clouds all around her, a symbol of how she makes things grow with such grace and dedication.
She grew the family business into a nation-wide phenomenon, the place to purchase holiday pies. She grows her garden every summer. And she grew me, never taking her hand from mine, even when I faltered or fell flat on my face.
She won’t abandon me now.
I know it the way I know the sun will rise no matter how dark and deep the winter’s night. But as I cross the paving stones to the raised planter beds, my heart lodges in my throat.
Mom glances up, grinning as she lifts a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. “Hey there, pumpkin. How was your trip?”
I grab the garden stool from the planter next to hers and swing it into the shade, sitting so I’m closer to her level as I say, “I think it’s going to change my life. I did a lot of thinking. Thinking that I’ve avoided for way too long.”
She sits back on her heels, pulls off her gloves, and gives me her full attention. “Okay.” She rubs her hands on her jean-clad thighs. “Tell me everything.”
I take a deep, fueling breath. “First, I want you to know that I love Sweetie Pies.” I bring my hand to my heart, which is already beating faster. I don’t want to screw this up. I have to find the perfect words. “I love what it means to you and Dad. I love what it means to Gigi. And I love what it’s done for our family.” I swallow, a little roughly, and my mother nods, urging me to continue. “But what I love most about my job is illustrating the menu every season. I look forward to it all quarter. When I sit down at my desk and start to sketch, I’m excited to be alive. You know?”
She smiles warmly, but a little uncertainly too, as if she’s not exactly sure what I’m getting at. “Even when you were little, we had to bribe you with ice cream to get you to leave the museum without tears. Never saw a kid stand and stare at pictures the way you did.”
