Dating The Mrs. Smiths

“Tell me again,” Dianne urged, grinning over the rim of her mimosa. She was dappled in the sunlight spilling through mini-blinds we’d half closed because of the glare off the water and sand.

“So glad to provide the entertainment,” I said dryly.

The original plan had been for the kids and me to take Dianne to breakfast before she left this afternoon. With Rose unexpectedly available to babysit, Dianne and I had grabbed the rare opportunity for a more elegant brunch in the restaurant of a five-star beachfront hotel. We didn’t often get to sit down just the two of us, adults only, without being interrupted or having to dice someone else’s food. When we were done here, we’d go to the house so Ben and Sara could say their goodbyes.

Between Dianne’s interruptions and unfeminine snorts of laughter, it had taken me almost forty minutes to relay the full story of yesterday’s events.

She cut off a piece of Belgian waffle. “I’m just glad we got this chance for a girls’ morning out before I left. Although it is weird not to have the munchkins here.”

“‘Weird’ is relative. After yesterday, this hardly qualifies. I still can’t believe she showed up out of the blue like that.”

At least Rose had tempered her declarations that I clearly couldn’t handle the move by myself with the admission that she’d been so excited about seeing her grandbabies, she just couldn’t help herself.

Dianne raised an eyebrow. “Showed up and took over, from the sounds of it.”

It was true that Rose had assigned Sara packing tasks within half an hour of arrival, but I was too tired to resent offers of help.

“It’s her way. You know how she is.” They’d only met on a few occasions, but it didn’t take long for Rose to make an impression.

“Yeah. That, I know. What I don’t know is whether I feel less worried about you because you’ll have her help in Boston or more worried about you and whether or not you’re going to end up needing strong prescriptions for anti-psychotics.”

I laughed and we managed to joke our way through the rest of the brunch. Neither of us wanted some weepy, sentimental goodbye, even though we both knew that our friendship wouldn’t be the same after today. Driving separately back to the house kept me from saying anything that would sound like a badly written greeting card. I parked next to Rose’s rental car, Dianne behind it. When my friend stepped out onto the driveway, she held packages in her arms.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Dianne teased. “Neither of these is for you.”

“Somehow I suspected as much.” I nodded toward the Disney-themed wrapping paper featuring some of my kids’ favorite animated characters.

The kids met us in the foyer, Sara’s cries of “Aunt Di” quickly changing to “Presents!”

Rose hung back in the living room, her lips pursed. “Now, Sara, that’s hardly good manners. Let the ladies at least get into the house before you bombard them.”

“Oh, I don’t mind the bombardment.” Dianne hugged the children close to her. “I’d better stock up while I can!”

This reassurance didn’t really help with the lip-pursing. One of the sources of tension between my mother-in-law and me was that Rose had never warmed to Dianne. When I’d first heard Tom’s co-worker was dating a woman half his age who danced in skimpy costumes at a club on the weekends, I’d formed a premature impression, too—and learned a valuable lesson about rushing to judgment. But no matter how much the kids and I raved about Dianne, Tom’s mother had always seemed annoyed that the children’s closest “family” was the off-Broadway version of a Vegas showgirl. Deep down, though, Rose was probably envious of how little she got to see the kids in comparison.

Either she was respectful enough of my friendship with Dianne not to have made any snarky comments about my splurging on a leisurely brunch when I should be packing, or she was too glad to have an excuse to be alone with her grandkids.

We all adjourned to the living room, where Dianne, the kids and I squeezed onto the couch. I glanced up with the guilty realization that Rose probably felt excluded. Just because I hadn’t expected her to come down right before Dianne’s departure didn’t mean I should be inhospitable.

“Would you like a seat?” I asked. “I actually have something I should go get from my bedroom, anyway.”

Rose shook her head. “Thank you, dear, but no. I’ll go finish up in the kitchen.”

She’d informed me yesterday afternoon that she was here to chip in, and we’d begun the labor-intensive process of wrapping dishes and other breakables and boxing them. It had been a relief that someone besides me could pack the wedding china Tom and I had registered for all those years ago, for use on Thanksgiving and our April wedding anniversary. Whenever I handled the gold-rimmed plates, I was assailed with memories: our first Christmas as a married couple, when I’d overcooked the duck and Tom had assured me it was delicious; my teasing the strapping macho football player about helping me with the bridal registry; the expression on his darkly handsome face when he’d proposed beneath our favorite tree on the UF campus.

With practiced effort, I pushed away the achingly bittersweet past, determined to focus on the present. More important, the future. Though Tom and I wouldn’t have one together, I still had to raise our children with as much love and enthusiasm as I could. After my months of depression, Sara particularly worried when she noticed me looking unhappy.

Summoning a smile, I watched as both kids engaged in frantic tearing, shredding little bits of wrapping paper onto the carpet. Ben had uncovered a soft-to-the-touch choochoo train that made all kinds of noises when you pressed various places and even lit up. One of the sounds was the urgent “ding! ding! ding!” of a railroad crossing.

Dianne’s eyes were bright with affectionate mischief. “I’ll bet you’ll think of me the whooole ride to Boston.”

“I’ll bet the batteries will have mysteriously disappeared by then,” I kidded in return.

Sara unwrapped a purple cardboard box with a clear plastic front that showed dress-up accessories inside. Squeals of anticipation escaped her as she tried to get to the pink feather boa, sparkly tiara, plastic high heels and translucent purse full of makeup.

“Look, Mommy, look!”

While Dianne dutifully helped Sara into her new finery, I slipped out of the room and down the hall. Finances weren’t much right now—I’d pretty well blown any mad money I had on our extravagant brunch—but I’d put together a little something for my friend. I was grinning, thinking about the calendar gag gift, but my mouth dropped open in astonishment when I stepped inside my room.

My clothes were not where I had left them that morning. Dresses lay across the bed, sweaters dangled from plastic hangers on the door, and every pair of shoes I owned was lined up in front of the bureau. Rose. I knew she wanted to help with the packing process, but that’s why I’d given her the kitchen to tackle. I wasn’t wild about the idea of her going through my personal things when I wasn’t around.

If Tom were here, he would have told me she was just trying to make herself useful and I should let it slide; then again, if Tom were here, I wouldn’t be moving to Boston in the first place. Since I was, and Rose and I would presumably be seeing a lot more of each other, I thought it would be best to get certain boundaries clarified now. I sucked in a deep breath, prepared to call her in here, but then reminded myself that she was my mother-in-law, not my six-year-old. We could talk about it after Dianne had said her goodbyes to everyone.

When I returned to the living room, Sara and her brother were both wearing pink lip gloss that Sara informed me tasted like strawberries. Sara was teetering in her new heels, with the boa thrown over her shoulders, and Ellie sat on the couch, the “jeweled” tiara perched drunkenly between her plushy elephantine ears.

“I have a little going-away present for you,” I told Dianne, handing over a flat package wrapped in staid paper, a pattern of mauves and muted gold. “Nothing much, just something you can remember us by while you’re at sea.”

Dianne smiled at me and peeled away the curly ribbon and tape to expose a calendar with modern dancers posing on the cover, in contorted yet somehow still graceful positions—except that I’d stapled another calendar entirely inside the cover. She flipped it open, and a green-eyed hunk grinned up at her from February. His naked biceps were flexed as he prepared to shoot an arrow from a bow, and only the fact that he was standing behind a large red heart on a waist-high white column allowed the calendar to be sold in family-friendly stores.

Surprised, Dianne let out a short bark of laughter.

“I’m sure you’ll have a great time onboard,” I said. “But I figured, by that last month, you might be counting the days until you’re permanently on dry land and back to your own place. Might as well have something fun to look at while you’re counting! But here’s your real gift to remember us by.”

I handed her a two-sided, five-by-seven hinged frame that folded shut. On the left was a picture of Dianne and the kids at the beach; on the right was a picture of Dianne and me. We’d been at a bachelorette party for one of Tom’s secretaries. It was before he’d died, before I’d known I was pregnant with Ben. In the photo, I was a lot thinner and I hadn’t developed the matching baggage under my eyes yet. Dianne and I were grinning foolishly at the camera. God, it seemed like a long time ago.

She hugged me fiercely for just a moment, then let me go. “Well. I have to run. But I do have one thing for you first.” She reached into the beige purse resting against the corner of the sofa and pulled out a glossy brochure. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“A day spa I researched in Boston. I’m booking us some decadent treatments for August. I plan to come up for Ben’s birthday.” She turned to Sara. “When I come up, we’ll celebrate yours, too, princess. Which is cool because that means you’ll get presents in June and in August. Deal?”