Читать книгу New Beginnings - Jill Barnett, Jill Barnett - Страница 9

For the six months after that night at the Fillmore, Mike Cantrell had kept a secret part of himself from March. Some days more than others, it was easier to believe the right time to tell her just never came. He told himself she was worried about making the rent when her shift at the bookstore was cut; or about a difficult project for a final exam; a friend from school who couldn’t find his muse without psychedelic drugs. Why worry her?

And those times when they were having fun—so often now—he would think, why screw it up? Other times, in his head, he couldn’t find the exact right words he could say aloud. Funny that he could find the words for justification; he could find the words for his excuses.

To hide one passion while another consumed him was not an easy existence, like straddling life between two worlds. His life was great with her in it. So great he wanted to stand on a mountain and shout. Amazing! Righteous!

But the truth was that March was fast becoming the best part of him. Yet she didn’t know one of the biggest parts of who he was; she didn’t know his dream. Some wounds just ran deeper than love and trust, and got all mixed up in his head when he tried to believe in all of it at once. Families could so simply and unknowingly cut the deepest wounds on one another.

Don Cantrell, his father, was an executive with Spreckles, the sugar company, a success, a man of few words and many expectations. Mike and his older brother, Brad, had grown up at a dinner table with only their mother on most nights, except Sundays when, in the formal dining room, his dad would sit at the head of the table set with china and dominated by a standing rib roast, smoked ham or leg of lamb, knife in hand as he tried and failed to carve some kind of relationship with his sons on one night a week during an awkward, too formal meal; being a father was the single thing at which Don Cantrell failed.

His success was a matter of Cantrell pride, driven by some hungry, innate gene that battled with the few cells his dad inherited that were gentle and understanding. He was self-made, the son of a farmer, grandson of a Swiss immigrant who relocated to America near the turn of the century to save his sons from being conscripted.

Last year Brad had torn up his draft card, stuck the pieces to the refrigerator along with his draft notice, and was now somewhere in Canada, a subject handled in whispers by the family and friends and anyone who knew the truth about his older brother. That their ancestors had come here to escape the draft was almost as ironic to Mike as the idea that his father worked for a company that produced sugar.

Since the day Brad left, everything Don Cantrell had expected from both of his sons fell on Mike’s shoulders. He’d made the mistake of telling his dad about his idea and what he wanted to do with it and his future.

His father laughed at him, until he realized Mike was perfectly serious. Don told him he was a fool who needed to grow up and stop thinking life was only about fun and games and things that weren’t important. What Mike needed was to think straight and find something he could do to make an honest living for himself or for a family, if he ever chose to become responsible enough to think of someone other than himself.

Because the most important man in Mike’s life called him a failure, Mike thought everyone else might believe that, too. He went to college since that was what the world expected, and he didn’t want to find his ass in Dah Nang anymore than the next guy.

But one of his buddies once joked if there had been six feet of snow in the jungle, Mike would have signed the enlistment papers and taken the oath. The joke was too close to the truth. Mike would crawl through jungle, through desert, to get to the perfect hill, to find the perfect conditions, to experience perfect packed snow.

For almost a week straight it had been snowing in the Sierras, a sign it was time to test March, or himself, or what they were together, so with some measure of hope and false courage he walked into her place at five thirty on a Saturday morning, fell on her bed, swatted her on the nicest ass he’d ever seen and said, “Pack some warm clothes. I’m taking you to the mountains.”

They had to chain up on Interstate 80, but came into the Tahoe Basin as the snow stopped and patches of blue grew into a huge bowl of a Sierra sky, the lake shimmering as silver as the ore mined by all those barons from the last century. Mike left the main road circling the lake and soon pulled his old car into the parking lot at a small North Shore ski area.

March turned in the seat. “What’s this? You told me not to bring my skis. Ugh. I hate to rent.”

“We’re not going skiing.”

“I hate surprises more than renting equipment.”

“No, you don’t. What you hate is not knowing the surprise.”

“I must be doing something wrong in this relationship because you understand me. I’m supposed to be the mystery woman, capable of shocking. To be an enigma. To keep you constantly on your toes. A true paradox. I want you to look at me and see fine wine, hundred-year-old Scotch. Smooth and unexpected.” She frowned at him. “Instead I’ve become boring. Like milk.”

“I like milk, and you’ll never be boring. Let’s go.”

He pulled their gear from the back of the wagon, slung the large bag over his shoulder and carried the rest. She took one canvas duffel bag from him, then locked her cold fingers through his and trudged alongside.

In the complete silence of freshly fallen snow, the slick fabric of their winter wear rubbed together and made a scratching sound. The air was cold and tasted pure. Mike was quiet, a million things running through his head and all of them centered on the fact that now it was too late to go back.

After a few minutes she said, “This better be good.”

“Are you warm enough?”

“Depends on what for. I won’t know until I see where you’re taking me.”

“It’s a surprise,” was all her single-minded questioning would get out of him. He took her to the maintenance building—a trio of oversized metal garages where the snow had already been packed down. From behind came the sound of a snow plow engine and a big yellow Cat chugged and coughed around the corner, stopping in front of them.

The engine died and Rob Cantrell jumped down into the soft powder. He pulled off his ice-crusted ski mask, sending his black frizzy hair in every direction and walked toward them, ski vest open over a flannel shirt, a leather bouda bag with a red plastic cap hanging from his waist. “Mike! Hey, cousin. You made it. Great.”

“Rob. This is March.”

Rob stared at March for longer than a couple of deep breaths and said, “I think I’m in love.”

She laughed and Mike punched him in the arm. “Back off. I saw her first.”

“You always were a lucky stiff. Although I’ll tell you something, March. He’s the blackest sheep in the family.”

“Really?” March threaded her arm through his in a way that said everything Mike didn’t have to. “The black sheep? I’m glad to hear it. I would hate to think I ruined one of the good ones.”

One thing about March, she wasn’t easy to fluster. She seldom lost a word battle, seldom missed a beat.

“I like her,” Rob said, recovering well for a first meeting with March Randolph. “And, I guess I was wrong. Your brother Big Brad earned the blackest sheep distinction. Any word from the family draft dodger?”

“Last I heard he was hitchhiking through British Columbia. But that was a few months back.”

“And Uncle Don?”

“Still an asshole.”

“That’s my father’s brother,” Rob said. “Same gene pool. Same personality pool. The war hero in my dad still can’t forgive me for being 4-F. Look. Put your gear in the cab and climb on board. I’ll help March up.”

“Just keep your hands where I can see them,” Mike said.

Minutes passed as they rode the Cat around the base of the mountain, and Rob told March every stupid when-Mike-and-I-were-kids story he could muster up: the time they stole penny candy from the neighborhood market, were picked up by a squad car and brought home with sirens blaring; a Sunday when they put Milk of Magnesia in their grandmother’s famous butter cake; how loud Mike had screamed the day their grandfather chopped the head off a chicken and the headless bird came right at him; and the day they were fishing for snapping turtles and were cornered by their grandfather’s prized bull, an animal Rob swore was the size of Godzilla.

Mike tossed out some terrible Rob-tormenting-his-younger-sister stories, until, shaking her head, March said, “You both have no idea how glad I am I never had any brothers.”

The Cat took a sharp turn and easily rumbled down through the trees and into a clearing where there was a short steep run with a rope tow, chained off with a “Closed” sign. Mike’s cousin killed the engine and hopped down. “Here, pretty baby. Jump into my arms and run off with me. Leave this weird geek. I swear I’ll be sweet to you.”

“Sweet like you were when you locked your poor sister in that trunk.” March jumped down on her own and gave Rob a quick pat on the shoulder. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

“Don’t think I’m terrible. She only cried for an hour. Hell, I couldn’t sit down for days.” He raised his hand to Mike. “Give me a minute. I’ll unlock that chain and start the rope tow. Then the run’s all yours.”

Mike dropped the bags. “I brought three boards. You staying?”

Rob turned around, walking backwards and grinning. “Absolutely.”

“What boards?” March looked over his shoulder as Mike dug through the gear, grabbed his goggles, and pulled on his ski gloves. She leaned closer. “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing now?”

“No.” He unzipped a long ski bag and pulled out three of the latest and best skiboards he’d made in his garage during the summer. The skiboards, wide and formed like a skateboard without the skates, had foot plates and buckled straps to hold regular leather snow boots, and he’d crafted the edges of each board as close as he could to the metal edges on his Rossignol skis.

“Mike?” March asked, frowning.

He slung a board over his shoulder. “We’ll show you. Watch us.” When she started to argue he added, “Stay here, woman, and watch.”

She saluted him irreverently, then gave him the finger.

The rope tow was glacier-slow and seemed to take forever to get to the top of the run. But once there and poised at its crest, a wide chute of white before him, the air like fresh laundry, the sun gleaming almost too white on the powder below, Mike adjusted his goggles and looked over at Rob. “Ten bucks says it takes us twenty passes to the bottom, and you fall first.”

“You’re on.” Rob pulled down his own goggles and they took off a heartbeat apart.

The snow was perfect, the new board design much improved, and better than his skis in deep powder, which showered up and over them. It was something to be on the mountain again. He shouted out, unable to keep his excitement inside, and shook his fists, crossing Rob twice and edging ahead down the run.

The new board turned more easily, cut well, and gave him more control than on these same slopes last spring, when he’d ridden so often his old board felt like skiing on a cloud, a natural extension, floating on the snow, almost like flying.

Years ago, for only a short time, there had been a ride at Disneyland called the Flying Saucers. Inside a huge circular pit in Tomorrowland, the saucers were big, flat, round and rubber. They hovered off the ground just a few inches and could race across the pit when you leaned into the direction you wanted to fly. That is, if you had a clear path. Without one, you bounced off the other saucers like buoyant bumper cars.

That one summer trip, he and Brad had spent half the day and into the night chasing each other around the pit and crashing into each other and the walls, bouncing away, and really flying. It had been the best ride at Disneyland. A true E-ticket, though the park hadn’t been using ticket books much anymore. When the amusement park first opened, they sold ticket booklets for their rides and each ticket was A,B,C,D,E—E being the best rides in the park and the fewest tickets. That was how he felt on this hill, at this moment, on this board. All he had to do was lean into the direction he wanted to fly. His newest skiboard was an E-ticket.

He cut across the hill and flip-turned, then flew past his cousin. Rob tried the same maneuver and went down. “Ten bucks!” Mike hollered as he passed him, whipped down to the bottom and skidded to a stop right in front of March. Snow coated his lenses and he could only see part of her smile, so he raised his goggles and kissed her before she could speak, then lifted her off the ground, spinning around. “God…It doesn’t get any better than this.”

“Yes, it does. I need to be on that hill with you. Let’s go.” She picked up the other board and ran toward the tow ahead of him.

“March, wait!”

But all too fast she was on the board, hanging onto the rope and heading up the hill. About twenty feet up, he said, “Get off now and we’ll take a short test run first.”

“No guts, no glory!”

“Come on. Get off.”

She looked back at him, probably planning to flip him off again, but she lost her balance and slipped off the rope, swearing. So he stepped off and helped her up. “Let me tell you what to do.”

“There’s a man for you, always wanting to tell women what to do.” For just a moment she looked irritated.

“I don’t want to bring you home with a broken leg, sunshine.”

“I’ve been skiing since I was three.”

“This is different than skiing. More like a skateboard. Have you ever ridden one?”

“Yes.” But the way she said it told him March and a skateboard weren’t close friends. Her stance was unyielding. “So come on, big man. Tell me what to do. Time’s a-wasting.”

“I’m waiting for you to tell me what happened on the skateboard.”

“This snow is a lot softer than concrete.”

“Break anything?”

“Nothing important.” She turned and looked up the hill.

“I have all day.”

“Okay, okay. I’m right-handed, and I only wore a cast on my left wrist for six weeks. I can do this. Really. I can.” Then she relaxed long enough for him to tell her how to turn and most important: to dig in her heels to stop.

“You should be good at that,” he said.

“Funny man.” She patted him on the cheek.

“I’ll go first. You can follow, but not until after I stop at the bottom. Agreed?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes…come on.”

“Watch me and don’t go until I tell you. Got it?”

“Yes, master.”

Laughing, he took off down the short, flatter section of the run, stopped and turned back toward her.

“Can I go now, master? Please? Please?”

“Someday your mouth is going to get you in deep trouble.”

“It already has,” she called down to him. “Just ask my father. Although he’s not talking to me this week.” She took off.

To his complete amazement she made three perfect turns—not even a wobble—stopping a few feet from him, grinning and cocky. Rob was at the top of the run, whistling loudly. Typically March, she made an exaggerated bow, her hand gesturing from her forehead like a swami. But she bent too far, lost her balance and fell on her face in the powder.

It took a minute for her to look up at him, snow hiding her expression, her voice a little muffled, “Now will you let me go all the way to the top?”

The first thing out of Rob’s mouth when they came off the rope tow to the top of the run was, “Wow. She’s a natural.”

“Why do you men always talk about us as if we’re not here?”

“Sorry,” Rob said. “But hell…I skidded down the hill on my face the first time I tried this. Tell her, Mike. My nose was bleeding everywhere. Look. No blood. She went down that hill like she’d been doing this for years.”

Mike expected a smart comeback, but March wasn’t paying attention. She stood right at the edge of the run looking down. “You know, if I had poles,” she said thoughtfully, “I could really shove off. Maybe get a little air.”

“You can get air. Just jump,” Rob said. “Like this.” He pulled his knees up and was off.

“No!” Mike reached for her. “Don’t.”

But it was too late. She was already in the air, board pulled up to her chest so tightly she looked like a big, dark human fist, sailing through the air, the fur-trimmed hood on her parka hanging behind her.

He stopped breathing until she landed on the steepest part of the hill. The board flew out from under her and she tumbled head over heels for a good ten feet. When he reached her, she was already sitting up, hands resting on her knees. All she said to him after she spit the snow from her mouth was, “I need poles.”

“No, you don’t. It’s called balance,” he said and took off.

She cupped her hands and called out. “It’s called unfair advantage. Cheater!” She stepped back onto the board and came after him at full speed, yelling at him. He stopped at the bottom of the run, turned just as she sat down low on the board and came right at him.

She took him out, both of them tumbling together in the snow, her laughter muffled until they lay still, dusted in powder. She raised her head and said, “Gotcha. Master.”

“I hate surprises,” he spit snow.

“No, you don’t. What you hate is not knowing the surprise.”

“Funny.”

“I know,” she said.

“I don’t get it. Have you ever surfed?”

“No.”

“Slalom waterskied?”

“A few times. I wasn’t very good. Why?”

“How the hell did you come down that mountain so fast without falling?”

“Talent, my dear. My innate skill. The ability to learn on my feet. With my feet. Ha!” She picked up the board. “Besides, I’m a woman.” Then she began to sing a Maria Muldaur hit about all the things a woman could do.

She stood above him, dancing, singing, and grinning as if the world were hers. He rested his arms on his knees. “What does being a woman have to do with it?”

“Old Russian proverb. Women can do everything; men can do the rest.” She held out her hand. “Get up, pokey. Let’s do it again.”

So that was how Mike spent only an hour teaching March to board, instead of the whole weekend he’d expected. When he thought about it later, driving to his cousin’s cabin near Tahoe City to drop off their stuff, exhausted, high on the day and her, he realized he shouldn’t have been surprised. Nothing about March was expected. How nuts it was that she wanted to be special and thought she was ordinary. She was better than one of his father’s expensive wines, better than any hundred-year-old Scotch.

Sunshine. The name just came out of his mouth at the Fillmore that night, along with everything else he was thinking and feeling. Enter brain, exit mouth. He’d spilled his guts, said exactly what he thought then, all the while expecting her to turn and run. But here she was, now the brightest part of his life. His luckiest hunch.

At dinner that evening with his cousin over draft beer and thick sirloin burgers covered in onion rings, served in red plastic baskets at his favorite place, a small shack near the water packed with locals every night, they sat on metal chairs and ate on old, mismatched dinette tables in front of a huge fire while she quizzed him about everything, how he made the boards and where his idea for them had come from.

“It all started with a sled you could stand on and slide down the hill, a Snurfer. But before I ever saw one, I’d spent plenty of years on a skateboard. Brad and I surfed summers in Santa Cruz.”

“We all got Snurfers one year for Christmas from our grandfather,” Rob told her. “Gramps said they reminded him of when he was a kid and they used to sled down hills standing on barrel slats tied together with clothesline.” Rob nodded at Mike. “Genius here was the one who after one Snurfing season wanted to improve the design.”

“I got tired of face-planting.”

“You always were an over-achieving asshole.”

“Better than just being an asshole.”

“You’re jealous because Gramps liked me best.”

“No. He worried about you the most. It was that IQ test you failed.”

“Screw you, Mike.” Rob laughed, finishing off his beer.

Rob and Mike were the same age, personality and shared the same fire in the heart, both forced to survive in a conservative family run by men who demanded they be anything but what they were. In each other they found the strength to hang onto their fire when others kept trying to extinguish it.

“We had to do a project in my shop class,” Mike went on. “I figured I could combine the idea of a Snurfer with something like a skateboard, a surfboard and skis. That first skiboard was made out of wood and a piece of carpet and aluminum.”

“Man…was it fast.” Rob shook his head. “If you could stay on and if you could control it, you could book-it down a hill.”

“We started racing each other on those.” Mike pulled out his wallet to pay the bill. “I’m still trying to find the right material for the board’s bottom. The aluminum facing isn’t right. Still, these boards are so much more controllable than last year’s. But there’s got to be something better.”

March had one of those contemplative looks on her face again, and for a tough, doubtful moment he wondered if she was thinking like his dad. He worried that he’d just bored her senseless talking about board construction. Rob was right. He was a weird geek.

She tapped the tabletop. “Have you thought about this stuff? Formica? I remember seeing my dad install it in our kitchen. Don’t you laminate it onto a wood base?”

Mike exchanged a look with Rob, who was shaking his head. It was so simple.

“What?” she asked, looking back and forth between them. “You don’t think it’s a good idea?”

“Sunshine…it’s the perfect idea.”

By the time they were scraping the snow off the car, she was talking to him about how he needed to apply for a patent. Back at the cabin they walked inside and she turned around, walking backwards, her hands moving in time with her mouth. “I think you should try to sell your boards, Mike.”

With those few words from her, everything his father had said to him evaporated. March Randolph was the smartest girl he’d ever known and she believed in him. Until then, he hadn’t actually admitted to himself how badly he wanted to be important in her eyes.

Later that night, after they were lying in the dark, legs tangled, March in the crook of his arm, he told her how proud he was when she came down that hill. That he was surprised. Amazed. And his cousin was right. She was a natural.

She told him she loved him and was quiet for a long time, but awake, fiddling with his chest hair. He was almost asleep when she asked, “Mike? Are you awake?”

He looked over at her. Something about her tone said trouble. “Yeah. Why?”

“I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

“When I was about thirteen?” She paused. “Maybe I shouldn’t admit this.” Her voice gave her away. She was trying not to laugh.

He rolled over with her and pinned her to the bed. “Spill it.”

“My dad bought me a Snurfer for Christmas.”

After a heartbeat of silence, he was the one laughing. And he knew then he wanted to live the rest of his life drinking only milk.

“Sweetheart…Can’t you and Mike just have a normal wedding? In a church?”

With those words, March realized that Beatrice Randolph, her mired-in-tradition and old-fashioned mother, didn’t remember there was supposed to be romance in a wedding. Clearly her parents could never possibly understand the open, unfettered appeal of marrying the man you loved outside of a church, on rolling lawns, surrounded by the freedom of open blue skies and cypress trees twisted by the wind. How could marrying on a San Francisco hillside not be the perfect wedding venue, surrounded by nature’s honest realism?

In the time March had lived away from home, nothing had really changed there. Her parents could never see her unique place in the world, as least not in the way she did.

“It’s a religious ceremony,” her mother said, standing in the family kitchen, a large eat-in room with off-white painted cabinets, copper pots hanging alongside fish-shaped aspic molds, and those classic blue and white dishes that had been around for more than a few hundred years displayed on crisp ivy papered walls. “We belong to a perfectly lovely church. The whole congregation has known you since you were baptized.”

“It’s not their wedding,” March said simply. “It’s mine. And Michael’s.” In her heart, she wanted no traditional trappings. She was acutely aware of that fact while standing inside her parents’ home, which only reinforced her determination to make their wedding about the two people taking the vows.

“The wedding is about the bride, dear, not the groom,” her mother corrected her.

“It’s his wedding, too. It’s our marriage. This is important to both of us.”

“Of course it is.”

“We’re only going to do this once, Mother.”

“Then I don’t understand why you want your only wedding to be in the woods.”

“It’s not the woods. It’s a park. You’ve lived here long enough. You know the city. The view from that hillside is spectacular. When you stand up there, you can see from the ocean to the bay, you can see the bridge and all those blue skies.”

“March. Please…” Beatrice Randolph sat down hard on a kitchen chair, a sure sign she was disgusted. Littered across the painted tabletop were bridal magazines and old-fashioned etiquette books with gingham covers her mother had borrowed from the neighborhood library, along with printers’ samples of engraved invitations on heavy cream-colored stationery with vellum inserts and embossed tissue. Her mother must have brought them home and called March after the very first flush of wedding news.

“The park is closer to heaven than inside any stuffy church,” March told her.

“And so windy you’ll blow away. Think of your veil.”

March snapped her fingers. “Not a problem, Mom. I’m not wearing a veil.”

Beatrice sank her head into her hands and groaned.

“No white lace gown with a train either.”

“You need to think about this. It’s outside, March.”

“I know.”

After a too long silence her mother said, “The seagulls will poop everywhere.”

“Oh, Mom…” March burst out laughing. “If we were Greek, that would be good luck.”

“If we were Greek, you’d still live at home and we wouldn’t be having this argument.”

March sat down across from her mother and took her hand, looking her straight in the eye. “Are we really arguing about my wedding?”

Her mother swallowed, clearly uncomfortable, then looked down at her hands, thoughtful. Her nails were manicured into perfect ovals, cuticles pushed back, and painted with her immutable Coty red. The familiar pale skin of her mother’s hands didn’t have a single mark, not even a freckle. Her mother had the ivory complexion of a natural redhead. For as long as March could remember, a bottle of Jergen’s that smelled exactly like maraschino cherries sat next to the kitchen faucet. Her mother’s hands had always been one of the softest things in her life.

Harsh paint cleaners and hard, city water purified with bleach made her own hands a mess, split her impossibly short nails. Her cuticles were hopelessly snagged and often bloody. The engagement ring Mike gave her was lovely, perfect really: white gold and a row of small baguette diamonds around an oval aquamarine, her birthstone. Just looking at it made her unbelievably happy. But her hands were godawful, and she said as much.

Her mother laughed, took March’s hand and looked at the ring for a long time, her expression slowly changing. “I suppose a church can be stuffy,” she said after a minute.

At that moment March knew she had won. Her wedding would be exactly the way she had envisioned: majestic views and green grass, kites in the air and a hundred wind chimes in the trees. Tomorrow, those gingham-covered etiquette books would go back to the library, the bridal magazines to the waiting room of her uncle’s dental practice, the invitations in the trash, or even better, in a folder kept for her sister May.

Beatrice took her other peeling, dry, ugly hand. “The beauty is inside your hands, not outside; it spills out onto blank paper and canvas. You have the creative hands of an artist.”

Not even on her most cynical day, could March miss the pride in her mom’s voice.

Funny how the small and irritating things in a day could evaporate in the face of a moment of honest emotion. Her conservative family, all of them, would wear whatever she asked, hike up a grassy hill and stand in the Pacific wind to witness the moment she promised life’s most important things to the man who loved her.

She’d grown up in this house. For all its unappealing and stodgy tradition, the kitchen was the heart of their home and had only been changed once, when her parents put in all electric appliances like in all the suburban tract homes built in nearby neighborhoods.

Her own place in the Haight had a tiny kitchen with one of those old gas stoves you have to lean into the oven and light with a match. She always expected it to blow up in her face. She’d come home today to tell her mother the latest, most important news, fully prepared for the same kind of reaction.

“I want to show you something.” March put her portfolio on the table and pulled out her initial sketches and samples. “These are my hand-designed wedding invitations. Each one is a little different. See? No printer could create these for us.”

Her mother took each one, studying it before spreading them all out before her. The paper March had used was raw with frayed edges, soft and fibrous, hand-printed with pen and ink like old scrolls or music from the Middle Ages. Birds and stars, music notes and snowflakes were in free-form designs and patterns, some done as borders. Another had a very small pattern of the male and female symbol on each side of a scale, at equal levels. Her mother looked at them for a very long time. “They’re lovely, and very much like you.”

“Take a look at these, too.” March slid two folded note cards across the tabletop, holding her breath for a few counts, and waited.

Her mother looked confused by the soft colors and design.

“They’re both very traditional. I thought you’d like that. See the colors? Pink or blue. We’ll have to send them sometime in October. The baby’s due around October 10th.”

For a few heartbeats her mother said nothing at all. Then Beatrice sank her shaking head in her hands all over again. “Oh my God, March.”

So the wedding was briskly-planned and Renaissance-styled, outdoors in a lush park high on a breezy San Francisco hillside, and the best of days, the way March wanted it to be. The wind was a participant; it kept the bright silk kites flying high in the air and rang the many wind chimes they’d hung in all the trees; it ruffled the sleeves of Mike’s white shirt and blew at their long hair, hers topped with a flower wreath and trailing with candy-colored ribbons.

The wind billowed and flowed against her embroidered peasant dress, made of cotton the color of kite string, and whatever direction that wind blew, it outlined the softest beginnings of the change in her once youthful and free life, the rounded bulge of her first pregnancy and a future: motherhood.