“Frances,” Mom said. “Happy birthday, darling! We didn’t expect you tonight.”
Frankie couldn’t let go of Henry’s hand; he felt like her lifeline. “Dad. Mom. I think you know Henry Acevedo. We’re … dating.”
“Henry,” Dad said, striding forward, smiling that big, inclusive smile of his, the one that made everyone feel welcome and important. “Good to see you again.”
“Dr. Acevedo,” Mom said, practically beaming.
Henry said, “Could I speak with you a moment, Connor? Privately.”
Dad frowned briefly, then nodded. “Of course. Of course.”
While the two men walked down the hallway, Mom sidled close to Frankie. “Is this what I hope it is?”
“Mom, I have never been able to divine your thoughts,” Frankie said. It had never occurred to her that Henry would formally ask Dad for her hand in marriage. It felt so old-school, so Ozzie and Harriet in this Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice world.
Moments later, Henry and Dad walked back into the room. “Bette, we will have a son-in-law! Welcome to the family, Henry!”
Mom gave Frankie a fierce hug. When she drew back, there were tears in her eyes. “A wedding. A grandchild. Oh, Frances, your whole world will change when you hold your baby in your arms.”
Henry moved in, put an arm around Frankie, held her so close she wondered if he thought she wanted to leave.
“Welcome to the family, Henry,” Mom said. Then she looked up at Dad. “We need champagne!”
When her mother limped away, Frankie turned to Henry, put her arms around his neck, and stared up at him. “Are you sure we need an actual wedding? How about a quick zip in and out to the justice of the peace?”
“No way. This baby is a miracle, Frankie. Love in this screwed-up world is always worth celebrating. When Susannah died, I thought it was over for me.”
She felt his love for her, for their child, felt his dream for them unfold and take flight. It filled her with hope.
“I want to see you walk down some aisle toward me and hear you say you love me in front of your family and friends. I want a baby girl who looks just like you.”
“Or a boy who looks like Finley,” she said, daring to dream it. “I guess that means there’s a honeymoon in our future.”
“Baby,” he said, “our life is going to be one long honeymoon.”
Twenty-Eight
December 20, 1972
Dear Barb,
Thanks for the birthday card!
I’m writing an identical letter to Ethel. Should I call? Yeah. Sure. Of course.
I just can’t. Maybe I’m becoming a coward in my old age, I’m not sure.
Anyway, I’ll cut to the chase. I’m pregnant.
Who saw that coming, right? Although I do recall you mentioning birth control a million years ago when I lost my virginity.
Henry and I are getting married. I know, it’s a lot, and fast, and I’m a modern woman, I can raise a child on my own, but, well, there’s something special about Henry. I think I’ll learn to love him. More importantly, it seems impossible, but I’m already in love with the baby in my womb. How can that be? Sometimes I’m giddy and embarrassed by how much I want this. (Her, I think.)
The wedding won’t be much, probably something small in our backyard or on the beach.
You’ll come? Be my maid of honor? Ethel can be the matron of honor. She’ll love how old that makes her sound.
Love ya—
F
* * *
Henry slipped his grandmother’s diamond ring on Frankie’s finger on Christmas morning, saying, “Forever, Frankie, and longer.” They decided on Saturday, February 17, for the wedding, and sent out a small number of casual, handwritten invitations.
Henry taught Frankie how to spin a dream into something tangible: a nursery. They started with furniture—bought a crib and a changing table—and then went to the hardware store together early on a Saturday morning and picked out a sunny shade of yellow for the walls. They spent the next two weekends and several weekday evenings readying the small bedroom at the end of the hallway.
A yellow room, with big windows and new gingham drapes.
Henry was sitting on the floor now, with white crib pieces scattered all around, counting out screws, swearing under his breath. “Why in the hell do they give you more screws than there are holes?”
Smiling, Frankie left him with the incomprehensible instructions and headed to the kitchen. It took forever to wash the yellow paint off of her hands and cheeks. It was even in her hair, and she’d worn a kerchief. At last, she started dinner and made an apple pie for dessert.
“Something smells good,” Henry said an hour later, when he walked into the kitchen.
“That’s me,” Frankie said.
He took her in his arms, pulled her close. “I love a woman who smells like apples and cinnamon. You made a pie?”
“From scratch, I might add. It’s Ethel’s family recipe.” She smiled. Pregnancy had calmed her. For the first time in years, she was sleeping well. Her moods had evened out; finally, she thought, she was becoming herself again.
“I assume you’ll start knitting booties. Or making your own baby food.”
Frankie smiled. “Are you suggesting I’m going overboard on the whole nesting thing?”
“Never.”
He kissed her, then led her down the hallway to the nursery. In the soft yellow room with bright white trim, the new crib stood against one wall.
She went to the crib, touched the rocket-and-stars mobile that hung over it, remembering the disagreement they’d had about this mobile: Should it be rockets or princess castles? I want our daughter to know she can fly to the moon if she wants to, had been Henry’s winning argument.
A new rocker sat in the corner, next to an empty bookcase that she would soon fill with her favorite childhood stories. She sat down in it, pushed off with her feet. The chair made a creaking, clacking sound on the floor. She bumped the bookcase and a stuffed blue octopus fell into her lap. Idly, she stroked its soft fake fur.
Henry moved closer, gazed down at her, his clothes splattered with yellow, his graying hair a ragged mess.
“I love you,” she said, and just then, as he pulled her up for a kiss, she thought it was true. Or at least that it could be true.
She wanted it to be true.
* * *
In the first week of the new year, 1973, they started a tradition of weekly dinners with Frankie’s parents. Dad and Henry never seemed to run out of topics to talk about, even though their political views differed. The clinic Henry and his colleagues had worked so hard to create was months away from opening, and he could wax poetic about their big plans to help addicts and alcoholics heal. Mom had offered to spearhead another fundraising campaign with other Junior League wives. She was already shopping for a gown for the opening.
Dad seemed thrilled that his daughter had finally stepped onto the accepted female life path: marriage and motherhood. Mom talked excitedly about the wedding, pressed for a small reception at the club after the backyard ceremony, a request that Frankie politely denied.
Now they were in the living room, gathered in comfortable chairs around the fireplace, with a fire roaring. The television in the corner was on. Cronkite was reporting on the Watergate scandal. The aroma of pot roast wafted in from the kitchen.
In the middle of the broadcast, Frankie got up from her chair and headed to the bathroom. She was back in the hallway, heading for the living room, when Henry appeared, looking worried.
“Are you okay? You look pale.”
“I’m Irish,” she said. “And I currently have a bladder the size of a pea, which I’m pretty sure our daughter is sitting on.”
He put a hand on her belly, leaned down to say, “Hey, baby. Daddy’s here.”
Frankie’s pregnancy was barely showing. There was just the tiniest bump in her belly, which she touched often, stroked, imagining her baby (a daughter, she still thought) like a little fish in there, swimming around, doing effortless somersaults.