“We will, thank you. It’s lovely that you girls have reconnected. How special for you all. Will Lynne be at Teresa’s?”
“Nope, she’ll be with her family at her aunt’s house. If she can leave her new dog!” I fill them in on Lynne’s new family member and our afternoon activities. They think it is hilarious. I know I’m just stalling, I need to tell them about Shawn and I’m not really sure how to handle it. Aunt Claire tells a story about when Buddy brought home their bloodhounds, Bob and Bandit, and the neighbors threatened to call the cops if they didn’t stop howling. My mom says that they were like the Bumpuses from A Christmas Story, and Claire sticks her tongue out. We never had dogs growing up because my dad was allergic, but now my mom loves when I go on vacation and Simca comes to stay with her. Spoils her rotten.
I take a deep breath and decide that casual is the way to go on the Shawn thing. If I talk about it like it is no big deal, maybe they will treat it like it is no big deal. “So, New Year’s Eve, I’m bringing a date. Friend of Lawrence’s that I’ve been seeing a bit.”
Aunt Claire stops her drink halfway to her mouth, and my mom drops a cracker into her lap.
“Seeing romantically?” Claire asks.
“Yes. We met at the Halloween party and have been spending some time together.”
“So a couple of months, then. Is it serious?” my mom asks, the cracker still resting on her left thigh.
“It’s very nice, and we are enjoying each other’s company. I don’t know how you define serious, but we like each other and are seeing where it goes.” This seems nonchalant enough. Except my mother’s eyes fill with tears.
“Oh, honey . . . that is so great.” She wipes her eyes, and Claire reaches over and squeezes her hand.
“Yes, it is, doll face, good for you. Tell us all about him.”
“Hey, it’s not a big deal, don’t get all emotional. I’m just dating him.” Oy.
“It’s a very big deal,” my mom says. “I thought that man in France ruined you forever. It makes me very happy that you are dating again.”
This stops me cold. I never told my mom about Bernard, not once. He was a lot older . . . the whole ex-wife nightmare . . . he was my boss. I was pretty sure she and my dad wouldn’t have approved, so I never mentioned him. “What do you mean the man in France?”
“Good Lord, Eloise, do you think we are all dumb? That we all just fell off the turnip truck? When you got home it was clear you had left someone behind, whatever brave face you put on it, and it was even more clear that whoever he was, he had broken your heart into a million pieces. And any suspicions have been amply confirmed by your patent refusal to have anything remotely resembling a romantic life ever since,” Claire says pointedly.
“We have so hoped that you would get over him, get back out there. You deserve so much love in your life, sweetheart,” my mom says through her tears.
“But you never said anything!” I feel like an idiot: of course they would have figured it out. My family is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.
“Wasn’t for us to pry. It’s your life. You live it the way you want. But it’s about time you were at least getting laid,” Aunt Claire says, handing my mother a napkin and retrieving the cracker from her lap.
This makes me blush. “Well, I’m glad to oblige.”
“Tell us the important stuff,” my mom says, finishing her glass of wine, then blowing her nose loudly.
“His name is Shawn and he’s an orthopedic surgeon specializing in sports injuries. He’s from Chicago originally, divorced, no kids, lives in the Gold Coast.” I pause. “He’s very smart and kind and funny, he’s forty-four, former pro football player, good-looking, and he’s African American.”
“Sounds lovely all the way around, dear heart. Is he tall?” Claire asks.
“Six foot five,” I say.
“Whew. That is tall. The two of you must look stunning together!” my mom says. I love that neither of them are commenting on the race thing; not that I was really worried, but you never know.
“Do you have a picture?” Claire asks.
I pull out my phone and pull up the photo of him on his practice’s website, and show them.
Claire snags the phone first. “Hot damn, girl, when you get back in the game you do not mess about. This man is gorgeous!” She whistles softly.
“Claire! Stop that. Gimme,” my mom says and takes the phone. “Well, never mind. Your aunt is right, this man is delicious.”
“Ewww. That is not appropriate, Mom!”
“Well, I’m just saying,” my mom says, handing me back the phone.
“I’m glad you approve. Anyway, you will meet him New Year’s Eve, and I’m counting on you both to behave yourselves.”
“Oh we will, don’t you worry,” Mom says.
“Now, tell us everything from the moment you met and all the dates you have been on since. Don’t leave anything out!” Claire says, snuggling back into the couch like a kid getting ready for storytime.
“Well, leave the naked bits out. I’m still your mother,” Mom says, eyes twinkling.
I sigh. “Okay, well, when we first met at the party, I thought he was gay . . .” If they have been sad and worried about me all this time, and hurt that I never shared my secret Bernard pain with them all these years, then the least I can do is tell them the nonnaked details of the new man in my life. And as the story unfolds I realize two really important things. One, not only should I have been more forthcoming all this time, but I should be more forthcoming in general. My self-protective, secretive nature might suit my natural inclination to not have to listen to outside opinions, but it isn’t fair to the people I love most.
And two? For all my protestations that my relationship with Shawn isn’t serious, it is. It is very serious, at least to me, and that scares me more than a little bit. Because I can feel in the way I am describing him to Mom and Claire—the way I am presenting all the funniest things he has said, the most romantic gestures, the kindest actions—that I am really falling for him.
I want them to be predisposed to love him.
Because I love him.
Damn. That complicates everything.
But as I unfold the tale, I look at their rapt faces and at least I know one thing. If it all ends in tragedy, at least this time I’ll have them to lean on. I promise myself that I will, if I need to, which is as big a step for me as falling in love.
? ? ?
When I get home, after the full tale has been told, and the three of us have decimated a pizza, the story being longer and more hungry-making than anticipated, I call Shawn.
“Hello, you, did you have fun with your mom and aunt?”
“I did have a lovely evening. They are both very much looking forward to meeting you on New Year’s.”
He pauses. “You told them about me?”
“I did.”
“And they didn’t disapprove?”
“Of what?”
“Of you having a black boyfriend.” I can hear in his voice that this is actually something he was worried about.
“Do I?”
“Do you what?”