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I followed her gaze to my parents. My father wore a suit, as always, and
Mom was in the dress that she’d worn on her tenth anniversary. Ella had
added sleeves, and the butterflies crammed together on the skirt thinned on
the bodice as if they were taking off, like the tattoo on my wife’s chest.
“You did a good job on the dress,” I said.
“It was fun.”
“How about more?” I waved to my parents, and they made their way to
the bar, greeting guests on the way. “A gallery full of them.”
“It’s not quite art.”
Our drinks came.
“Then make it art. Call it sculpture. Start from scratch, like you said. Or
buy another designer and destroy them. Could be a good business.”
She looked away from my parents to me and fixed my tie. “Not
everything is business, Mr. Crowne.”
“But not everything isn’t, Ms. Papillion.”
She laid her hand on my chest, about to say something, and stopped.
“What’s in here?” She tapped the place where the contents of my breast
pocket made the jacket stiff.
“My first anniversary gift,” I whispered. “I’m taking you on a
honeymoon.”
“Where are we going? Did you get tickets already?”
I laughed when she peeked into my jacket, but I pressed down the lapel
and pulled her into me. “It’s just a card with a list of ideas. But I hear dinner
on an oil rig in the South China Sea is nice.”
“Sounds romantic.” She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed
me.
“That’s enough of that,” my father’s voice came from my left.
Ella and I separated.
My mother was flushed, mouth agape, eyes shifting from me to my wife
and back. She quivered as if a chill ran up her spine, a very different shake
than the one caused by her Parkinson’s.
“Mom?” I asked.
“Oh my! It’s just even when I expect it, it’s unexpected.”
Ted laughed. “Finally!”
“I knew it was coming, Theodore,” she said.
“What was coming?” Colton said, breaking into our circle. Always late
to the conversation.