Fools Rush in(58)

“Sure,” I said. “Why is it a secret?”

“It’s for Notre Dame. Early decision,” Danny concluded. “I don’t want my dad to know in case I don’t get in.”

My eyes grew wet as I imagined Sam’s joy if Danny went to his alma mater. “If you don’t get in, there’s no justice in the world,” I said. “Of course I’ll help you.”

“Great. You’re the best, Aunt Mil.”

How was it that a compliment from a child, albeit a rather old, very tall child, could make me feel so humble? I squeezed Danny’s arm as Sam clambered back to his seat. He handed me a box.

“Milk Duds,” he whispered, opening his own. “It’s just not a movie without Milk Duds.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A FEW DAYS LATER, after several dozen kisses for her boys and myriad instructions for her parents, Katie climbed into my car for our sleepover.

It was the end of June, a perfect, clear summer afternoon, the temperature about seventy, the breeze just stirring the leaves. Katie and I hadn’t had any real time together for a while, and I felt a rush of love for her as we drove to my house. Each time I thought about my idea that she needed a husband, I felt slightly ashamed. She did seem happy, the boys were wonderful and her apartment clean and cheerfully cluttered. Who was I to say she needed more?

Once home, I showed her the newest changes and additions, pointing out the recent picture of Corey and Michael that I’d had matted and framed. She blushed with pleasure at seeing their photo hung so prominently in my living room and accepted the beer I handed her.

“Is it too early for alcohol?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” I answered. “It’s thirteen minutes after four. Perfectly acceptable.”

“Don’t even think about it, dog,” she said to Digger, who was gently preparing to mount her leg. He slunk away, dejected, and I slipped him a chew stick as a consolation prize.

“Look what I brought, Millie. Just like old times.” From out of her overnight bag, Katie pulled an array of containers…mud masks, moisturizers, nail polish.

We spent a happy hour (so to speak) applying various products to our faces and lounging around, looking at the InStyle and People magazines I had bought for the occasion.

“So things are good, Katie?” I asked, somewhat hesitantly.

She smiled. “Yeah, things are really good. The boys aren’t so demanding, although they tend to bicker a lot these days. And I talked to the bank about a house. My parents will help, but I want to do most of it alone. They’ve already helped me so much.” She leaned her head against the arm of the sofa and looked at her fingernails, now polished a deep red. Her blond hair fell in a smooth curtain, almost touching the floor.

I was struck, as I often was, by her effortless beauty, and even more by the fact that she was completely unaffected by it. Knowing Katie’s merciless four older brothers, I imagined whatever vanity Katie might have once had had long been erased.

She smiled at me. “So, Millie, I’ve been dying to hear. How’s Operation Joe?”

I sat up straighter in the chair I was lounging in. “Well, Katherine, funny you should ask.” I told her about last weekend’s big dinner, Joe’s screwup in nights, the macaroni and cheese, all of it.

“And tell, me, Millie,” my friend asked, “did you…do it?”

I paused for effect. “Yes. We did it.”

“Oh, my God!” she shrieked. “Oh, Millie!” We burst into a fit of adolescent giggling, clutching hands and snorting. “Fifteen years in the making! I can’t believe it!”

“It was sixteen years, thank you very much, and you have to believe it, because it’s true. I videotaped it.”

“Oh, my God, did you really?” Katie sat up abruptly.

“No, no, for God’s sake…well, not yet, anyway.” We laughed some more.

“So.” Katie took another swig of her beer. “How was it?”

My face grew warm. “Well…um, well, it was actually…you know…it—it wasn’t great.”

“Wasn’t great? Not great? Oh, my God! How could it not be great? You’ve been dreaming about this since we were teenagers! What happened?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Needing to look away, I gathered our beer bottles and straightened up the magazines. “It was fine. He was fine. It’s just—I don’t know, I was nervous or self-conscious or something. All the parts went into the right places, you know, but…it just wasn’t…shut up, Katie.”

My oldest friend in the world was shaking with laughter, tears streaming down her face. I glared for a moment, then gave in and laughed with her.

A FEW HOURS LATER, WE WERE at the Orleans Prison, a cute and reliable restaurant that used to be, obviously, a prison. Thick stone walls and barred windows made up the bar, and the restaurant spread out in a new wing behind us. We were deep into a discussion of reality dating shows.

“I’d like to see one that’s really real,” Katie said. “Like, I could tell a guy how my life really is, and then see if he’d want to share his trust fund with me.”

“What would you ask?” I took a slug of my wine.

“Oh, like, ‘Bachelor Number One…my son has diarrhea and missed the toilet. Do you wipe his crusty little bottom first or clean up the floor?’”