The Last Romantics(46)

Where, I asked myself even then, was my high shelf? And what wonders would I find there?

*

With Will gone I searched in earnest for Noni, worrying that she had seen us speaking and that I would be forced to explain. Noni did not recognize boundaries when it came to us, her daughters, our skin problems or boyfriends or job prospects. Her questions were always frank and pointed, designed to elicit answers that contained enough salient information for her to critique. Dodging Noni’s questions had become a sport for my sisters and me, a verbal tennis match with Noni always retaining the serve. I could only imagine what she’d do with Will and the kiss he’d delivered.

But I didn’t need to worry. When I found her, Noni stood alone at the edge of the party, looking out of place but not uneasy in her black cotton dress and chunky hippie necklace. In late middle age, Noni carried a mystical sort of self-possession that set her apart from all the showy money here. She never wore makeup, and had let her hair grow long again, curled and crazy like mine.

“It’s about time,” Noni said as we hugged. “I was thinking you’d forgotten how to get uptown.”

“I’m not that late,” I said, feeling chastised and annoyed and then silly for feeling chastised and annoyed. I was a grown-up. I could come and go as I pleased.

“I was trying to talk wedding details with Sandrine’s mom, but she kept asking me about the feral-cat problem.” Noni rolled her eyes. Sandrine’s mother, Jacinda, bore an eerie resemblance to Iggy Pop: blond and bland, thin as a racing dog. She spent the majority of her time serving on the boards of various charities related to pets. It did not surprise me that she and Noni had trouble communicating.

“What did she say about cats?” I asked, remembering the ones from Caroline’s new house. I had in the end taken them all to a shelter in Queens. My feckless roommates hadn’t wanted a kitten, not even the smallest one with the white-blue eyes, but I had lied to Caroline and told her I’d found homes for them all.

“Apparently it’s a huge problem in the suburbs. All these dirty, skinny cats wandering around. Jacinda wants to tour some pet place when she comes to Bexley.” Noni had invited Sandrine’s parents to stay overnight with her later in the week, a decision she regretted deeply once she learned that Jacinda was gluten-intolerant and abstained completely from alcohol.

For a moment Noni and I stood at the window, gazing out as one by one the streetlights flared on in Central Park. Standing so close to this wall of glass induced in me a sense of vertigo, as though the trees and lights and people moving sludgily along the park path were all traveling toward me, or me toward them. Inside and out, up and down. I closed my eyes and turned away.

“And where is Renee?” Noni said, looking at her watch. “Her shift ended an hour ago.”

“It’ll be a miracle if she makes it,” I said. Renee’s job was demanding, complex, the justification for any number of late arrivals and missed events. I always expected Renee to be engaged in more important work than spending time with us, her family.

“She’ll come,” Noni said. “She promised Joe. Send her one of those phone-message things.”

“Text, Noni. It’s called a text.” I took out my phone and typed, where r u?

“Are you nervous to read your poem?” Noni asked, looking around the room. “This is a big group.”

“A little,” I said. I didn’t tell her that it wasn’t the crowd that worried me, it was the presence of Will, Man #23, and how he might somehow reveal my identity as the Last Romantic here, in front of Noni and my siblings. Probably Noni had never before read a blog, but undoubtedly she had her views on them. Especially a blog about female sexuality researched and written by her youngest daughter.

Noni must have seen the discomfort on my face; she took hold of my hand. “You’ll do great, Fiona,” she said. “You’re a firecracker.” Her palm was dry and warm, and the weight of it startled me, the give of the fingers as they circled mine. Noni was not generally a toucher, a handholder, a you’ll-be-okayer. What I’d learned about self-reliance I’d learned from her. Now her unexpected touch calmed me down more than I expected. It was exactly what I needed.

“Fiona, you’re here!” It was Sandrine’s voice behind me. I released Noni’s hand and turned in to Sandrine’s skinny hug.

“You look beautiful,” I said. This was what I always said to Sandrine, because this was what she always wanted to hear. Tonight it was true. Sandrine’s dress was the color of cream, short and tight at the waist with a flared little skirt and a wide neck that showed off clavicles thin as chopsticks. Fat diamonds sparkled on her ears.

She smiled. “Can’t wait for the poem. Just watch for Kyle. He’ll start the speeches.” She winked. “Oh, and, Fiona,” she said, pulling me and Noni closer to her. “I already told your mom, but I’ll have my hairdresser do you both for the wedding.” Her eyes rested briefly on my hair—curly, loose, still wet from the shower. “That way we can all be on the same page. Okay?”

Noni looked at me with wide eyes and shook her head the slightest bit. No, Fiona, do not make a fuss, not tonight.

“Sure, Sandrine,” I said, smiling brightly. “Whatever you want.”

Flutter, flounce, ripple, bony, toothy, tart, brittle.