I bring out the punch bowl, a crystal bowl of peanuts, a stack of cocktail napkins embroidered with cherries that I found at an estate sale, the tablecloth we use for Thanksgiving. I put a few roses on the piano, where Stormy used to sit. I make a punch with ginger ale and frozen fruit juice—no alcohol, which I know Stormy would have balked at, but not all of the residents can have it, because of their medications. I do put out a bottle of champagne next to the punch bowl, for anyone who wants to top off their punch with a little something extra. Lastly, I turn on Frank Sinatra, who Stormy always said should’ve been her second husband, if only.
John said he’d come if he made it back from Rhode Island in time, and I’m feeling a little nervous for that, because I haven’t seen him since almost exactly a year ago, on my birthday. We were never a thing, not really, but we almost were, and to me, that’s something.
A few people file in. One of the nurses wheels in Mrs. Armbruster, who has fallen to dementia but used to be pretty friendly with Stormy. Mr. Perelli, Alicia, Shanice the receptionist, Janette. It’s a good little group. The truth is, there are fewer and fewer people that I know at Belleview. Some of them have moved in with their children; a few have passed away. Not as many familiar faces in the staff, either. The place changed while I wasn’t looking.
I’m standing at the front of the room, and my heart is pounding out of my chest. I’m so nervous to make my speech. I’m afraid of stumbling over my words and not doing her justice. I want to do a good job on it; I want to make Stormy proud. Everyone’s looking at me with expectant eyes, except for Mrs. Armbruster, who is knitting and staring off into space. My knees shake under my skirt. I take a deep breath, and I’m about to speak when John Ambrose McClaren walks in, wearing a pressed button-down shirt and khakis. He takes a seat on the couch next to Alicia. I give him a wave, and in return, John gives me an encouraging smile.
I take a deep breath. “The year was 1952.” I clear my throat and look down at my paper. “It was summer, and Frank Sinatra was on the radio. Lana Turner and Ava Gardner were the starlets of the day. Stormy was eighteen. She was in the marching band, she was voted Best Legs, and she always had a date on Saturday night. On this particular night, she was on a date with a boy named Walt. On a dare, she went skinny-dipping in the town lake. Stormy never could turn down a dare.”
Mr. Perelli laughs and says, “That’s right, she never could.” Other people murmur in agreement, “She never could.”
“A farmer called the police, and when they shined their lights on the lake, Stormy told them to turn around before she would come out. She got a ride home in a police car that night.”
“Not the first time or the last,” someone calls out, and everyone laughs, and I can feel my shoulders start to relax.
“Stormy lived more life in one night than most people do their whole lives. She was a force of nature. She taught me that love—” My eyes well up and I start over. “Stormy taught me that love is about making brave choices every day. That’s what Stormy did. She always picked love; she always picked adventure. To her they were one and the same. And now she’s off on a new adventure, and we wish her well.”
From his seat on the couch, John wipes his eyes with his sleeve.
I give Janette a nod, and she gets up and presses play on the stereo, and “Stormy Weather” fills the room. “Don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky . . .”
After, John shoulders his way over to me, holding two plastic cups of fruit punch. Ruefully he says, “I’m sure she’d tell us to spike it, but . . .” He hands me a cup, and we clink. “To Edith Sinclair McClaren Sheehan, better known as Stormy.”
“Stormy’s real name was Edith? It’s so serious. It sounds like someone who wears wool skirts and heavy stockings, and drinks chamomile tea at night. Stormy drank cocktails!”
John laughs. “I know, right?”
“So then where did the name Stormy come from? Why not Edie?”
“Who knows?” John says, a wry smile on his lips. “She’d have loved your speech.” He gives me a warm, appreciative sort of look. “You’re such a nice girl, Lara Jean.” I’m embarrassed, I don’t know what to say. Even though we never dated, seeing John again is what I imagine seeing an old boyfriend feels like. A wistful sort of feeling. Familiar, but just a little bit awkward, because there’s so much left unsaid between us.
Then he says, “Stormy kept asking me to bring my girlfriend to visit her, and I never got around to it. I feel bad about that now.”
As casually as I can, I say, “Oh, are you dating someone?”
He hesitates for just a split-second and then nods. “Her name is Dipti. We met at a Model UN convention at UVA. She beat me out for the gavel for our committee.”
“Wow,” I say.
“Yeah, she’s awesome.”
We both start to speak at the same time.
“Do you know where you’re going to school?”
“Have you decided—?
We laugh, and a sort of understanding passes between us. He says, “I haven’t decided. It’s between College Park and William and Mary. College Park has a good business school, and it’s really close to DC. William and Mary’s ranked higher, but Williamsburg is in the boonies. So I don’t know yet. My dad’s bummed, because he really wanted me to go to UNC, but I didn’t get in.”
“I’m sorry.” I decide not to mention that I got wait-listed at UNC.
John shrugs. “I might try and transfer there sophomore year. We’ll see. What about you? Are you going to UVA?”
“I didn’t get in,” I confess.
“Aw man! I hear they were insanely selective this year. My school’s salutatorian didn’t get in, and her application was killer. I’m sure yours was too.”
Shyly, I say, “Thanks, John.”
“So where are you gonna go if not UVA?”
“William and Mary.”
His face breaks into a smile. “Seriously? That’s awesome! Where’s Kavinsky going?”
“UVA.”
He nods. “For lacrosse, right.”
“What about . . . Dipti?” I say it like I don’t remember her name, even though I do, I mean, I just heard him say it not two minutes ago. “Where’s she going?”
“She got in early to Michigan.”
“Wow, that’s so far.”
“A whole lot farther than UVA and William and Mary, that’s for sure.”
“So are you guys going to . . . stay together?”
“That’s the plan,” John says. “We’re going to at least give the long-distance thing a try. What about you and Peter?”
“That’s our plan too, for the first year. I’m going to try to transfer to UVA for the second year.”
John clinks his cup against mine. “Good luck, Lara Jean.”
“You too, John Ambrose McClaren.”
“If I end up going to William and Mary, I’m going to call you.”
“You better,” I say.
I stay at Belleview a lot longer than I expected. Someone brings out their old records and then people start dancing, and Mr. Perelli insists on teaching me how to rumba, in spite of his bad hip. When Janette puts on Glenn Miller’s song “In the Mood,” my eyes meet John’s, and we share a secret smile, both of us remembering the USO party. It was like something out of a movie. It feels like a long time ago now.
It’s strange to feel happy at a memorial for someone you loved, but that’s how I feel. I’m happy that the day has gone well, that we’ve sent Stormy off in style. It feels good to say a proper good-bye, to have the chance.