“Oh my goodness,” Macy said, falling into the chair beside her (it was painted Caribbean blue, though Liz noted in some small, rational part of her mind that it could use a fresh coat). “We did it!”
Liz tried to muster up a smile but she was too blurred at the edges to care. How many glasses of wine had she had? Just one, she was sure of it. But there had been that hard lemonade, and someone had placed a glass of peach sangria in her hand. She didn’t remember drinking it. “I suppose we did,” Liz said.
“Well, I mean, this was really all you.” Macy laughed lightly. “I just posted the event on Facebook and made a few caprese skewers.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” Liz was on autopilot, saying the things that should be said, though they made little sense to her. “They were delicious.”
“You had one?”
“Several.”
“And a few glasses of wine, I’d wager.”
“Just the one.”
But Macy winked at her and dissolved in a fit of giggles. Impossibly, illogically, Liz found herself joining along. They were almost hysterical, their outburst more appropriate for teenagers than women of their age and sophistication. Macy liked to say, “We’re not old, we’re elegant.” Elegant indeed.
Liz dabbed at her eyes with hands that, though strong and familiar, were covered in skin like crepe paper and lined with pale blue veins. When had that happened? When had everything started to unravel? Liz felt like her life was a tapestry that was unwinding all around her. Who had pulled that first thread? How could she ever weave it all back together?
“You okay?” Macy asked, leaning forward.
No, she was decidedly not okay. But admitting that had never been an option. Liz took a deep breath. Forced a smile. “Fine. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” And because she willed it so, it was. There was no handbook for this. Liz Sanford would have to write her own. If she wanted to, she could reach out and snag a star from the sky. Stand beneath the twinkling lights and sing a lullaby in her more-than-passable husky-sweet voice. Kiss a stranger.
“What is that look for?” Macy reached over and slapped Liz’s bare knee.
Liz crossed her legs primly, sweeping her ankles to the side so that her calves were accentuated. Jack Sr. had always told her she had gorgeous legs. Her stomach lurched at the thought and she uncrossed them again. “Nothing at all.”
“Oh, come on. I saw the way that Arie looked at you all night.”
It was true. Liz had felt his glances against her skin like a sigh. He had sipped wine from one of her stemmed glasses and tossed back his head to laugh at her jokes. There was something downright attractive about him in a pair of linen shorts and a white button-down shirt. Cuffed at the elbows, untucked. And no Vikings cap. Liz had hardly recognized him. Now she wondered absently where he had gotten off to.
“He left,” Macy said as if reading her mind. “But he didn’t want to go. You just didn’t give him a reason to stay.”
“I’m a recent widow,” Liz told her.
“Not that recent. You’re young, Elizabeth. You’re allowed to love again.”
“Arie Van Vliet?”
“Not necessarily.” Macy tapped her lips with her fingertips, considering. “You know, lots of people meet each other online these days.”
“Not a chance!” The thought lit a match in Liz’s chest and the flame licked clean any normalcy she had fought to attain. Suddenly she felt off-balance again.
“Fine, fine. It was just an idea.”
“A bad one.” No, Liz wouldn’t consider using a matchmaking service, and, come to think of it, her little buzz was really just the beginning of what would undoubtedly be a mild hangover. How long had it been since that happened? “I’m tired,” Liz said, pushing herself up.
“Leave it,” Macy instructed as she watched her friend survey the damage. The chairs were helter-skelter across the yard, dragged into small groupings and circled close to the two fires that were starting to burn low. The tables that Liz had set up, her careful presentation of food and drink and vases of flowers, were a war zone of tipped-over bottles and half-empty glasses, nibbles of endive stuffed with goat cheese and blood oranges wilting on napkins. While Liz was watching, one of the strands of lights flickered in warning and then went out with a dull pop.
“Lovely party, Lizzie.” Kent came up behind them and slipped a familiar arm around Liz’s waist while curling the other around his wife. He had been almost paternal since Jack Sr. had died, sweet and protective in a brotherly way that Liz in turn loved and hated. Tonight, she loved it and laid her head on his shoulder.
“Thank you,” she said, and felt her throat tighten as she tried not to cry. Cry? For the love. What in the world was wrong with her? Clearly a single glass of wine was her new limit. She really was getting old. But that thought only made her have to blink more furiously.
“Remember that night when all those college kids joined the party?” Kent laughed low at the thought, but his words jarred an unexpected memory loose in Liz’s heart.
“I had forgotten all about that.”
“Me too,” Macy said. “I think I was too worried about the boys to properly enjoy myself.”
Kent guffawed. “No need to worry about them. They were the troublemakers back then, not those sorority girls.”
“That’s exactly why I was worried.”
It had been a rowdy night from the beginning. Maybe it was the fact that it was summer solstice, the longest day of the year. Maybe June had just been long and languid and slightly boring, and they were eager for something out of the ordinary to break the routine. Whatever the reason, when Liz had put up the flag at the end of their dock in her bikini that afternoon, there had been a boat full of unfamiliar coeds floating by. She had felt lovely, brave, and called the news across the water: “Everyone welcome!” Her invitation spread like wildfire around the lake.
“It was really more like a frat party than a Sanford affair,” Kent said, but there was still a hint of a grin in his voice. It was a fond memory for him.
Not so much for Liz. She slipped out from under his heavy arm and bent to pick up a beer bottle that was lying in the grass. There were several other pieces of garbage close at hand and she gathered them up in her arms, irritated at the stink and the mess and the sudden understanding that nothing quite turned out the way a glossy Better Homes and Gardens spread promised it would.
“Here,” Kent said. “Let me do that.” He took the trash from her and wandered off in the direction of the nearest garbage can. Liz had placed them at the corners of the house, out of the way but still easily accessible. Clearly people didn’t know how to throw things away. What was the world coming to?