Second First Impressions(90)
I say to Teddy, “It’ll be sad to go back, though.”
A quiet settles over us and when Teddy looks at me, he’s got memories in his eyes. He says gently, “She died happy, and it was because of you.”
Renata Parloni’s funeral was outrageous, and she would have loved it. Dubbed a HOT OR NOT magazine publishing pioneer by newspaper obituaries, her ceremony was attended by fashion designers, magazine moguls, and leggy models who peeked furtively at Teddy in his suit. He was too busy holding Aggie’s arm to notice, and besides, I was on his other arm.
When the priest said that Renata was survived by her wife, Aggie Parloni, a ripple of applause went through the room.
Renata was outrageous in life, and in death, she did something even more outrageous. That thing she’d always joked about. She’d written me into her will. When Aggie told me, it was like the hundred-dollar-bill incident from a lifetime ago. I tried very hard to not take it. I didn’t deserve it. I tried to slip it back, but it was no use.
Renata had decided that I was one of her beneficiaries, and now here I am. In a lovely little apartment in Fairchild, exhausted from a full day of study and work. I’m an intern at the Reptile Zoo and while I have a long, long road ahead of me in my dream to one day become a veterinarian, I am tackling the journey just like a golden bonnet tortoise: one inch at a time.
“I think I need to let a few old things go,” I say to Teddy, and I go to the admin screen of Heaven Sent You Here. There’s a deactivate page button. “If I hit this button, there’s no going back.”
“Would you want to go back?”
I think over the question seriously. I wouldn’t have a tattoo of a tortoise on my shoulder blade. I wouldn’t get to look at that red number 50 that Teddy put on the back of his hand as a reminder of how we found each other at Providence. I wouldn’t be in love, and I wouldn’t have someone love me.
“No, I wouldn’t go back,” I say, and I press the button, and it’s okay. Heaven Sent supported and nourished me during that time of my life that I was alone and old before my time, but I don’t need it now.
“Aw,” Teddy says, linking his fingers into mine. Give. He always, always gives. “I’m really proud of you.”
“It’s growing back so fast.” I put my free hand into his hair, which is tied back into a messy knot at the nape of his neck. “Your crowning glory. But I hope you’ve realized by now that you are not your hair. You’re a business owner.”
“I’m a tattoo artist,” he replies, but he’s smiling. He’s shocked us all by being very, very good at paperwork. Who knew that underneath this chaotic surface was a hidden administrator, dying to be given the opportunity? It’s such a turn-on. He grins at me now. “Just thinking about my hair has made you horny.”
“Teddy, surely you know by now you could be bald and I’d want you.”
“Don’t tell Daisy at Christmas, she might get out the clippers.”
“That reminds me. This Christmas, can I take you home to meet my churchy parents?” I repeat the dating advertisement I wrote for myself, all that time ago, when I was lonely and internet dating felt like a good idea for about two seconds, and then a further two months.
(I should also mention, Melanie is shopping the Sasaki Method manuscript around to literary agents.)
I continue, trying to remember my secret advertisement. “I’m looking for a patient, safe cuddle-bug soul mate.”
“Well, you found him.” Teddy gets up and presses a kiss against my temple. “Let me get some food into you. Oops,” he says and pulls on my cardigan. “You’re buttoned all crooked. There. All better.”
He goes into the kitchen and as he dishes up my dinner, he says, “Of course you can take me home to meet your churchy parents. And they will love me. They’ll think I’m God’s gift. I’m everybody’s type.”
It’s true. He is.
And he’s mine.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
How many times can one author be talked down off the ledge? Ask my agent, Taylor Haggerty. There’s a reason this book is dedicated to her. Thank you for always being on my side, for being a sounding board and a wonderful friend. I can never thank you enough for all you’ve done for me, but a purple book with tortoises is a good start. Thank you to all the lovely people at Root Literary, too. What a stable to belong to! It’s an honor. My editor, Carrie Feron, has guided this book to publication through some rocky waters. She, along with her colleagues at HarperCollins, have had exceptionally trying working conditions in 2020. Thank you, Carrie (and team), for helping me write the best book I can. I find your passion for storytelling very inspiring.
Roland, Tina, Katie, Delia, Sue and David, Lyn, Anne and Bob, and anyone who’s ever asked me “How’s the book going?” even when knowing the answer would be a big sigh: Thank you, I appreciate you. The main character of this book is named for my late grandmother Ruth Lowes, and I cackle imagining the hijinks she would have had at Providence.
The seed of this book is based on a daydream I used to share with Kate Warnock, when we worked together more than ten years ago. We used to tell each other stories about when we were very old and rich. We’d live together in a retirement villa, and we would hire a young male assistant to be at our beck and call. It was such a treat to finally write out this daydream in full.