(7)
—Originally publshed in The Roanoke Review, Fall 1996
Continued from page (6)
When the dishes were done, they closed the glass doors to the balcony to block
the cool breeze from the Golden Gate and lit a fire in the fireplace. They sat in the
flickering light and sipped sauterne—Clarissa’s last bottle of Chateau d’Yquem.
“When’s your flight?” Grace asked Sam.
“I have to check into Travis tomorrow at twenty-two-hundred hours.
That’s ten P.M. for the non-military among us.”
Grace nodded. “The reception should be over long before that. I’ll
drive you.”
“Where’s the honeymoon?” Sam asked Clarissa.
“Military secret,” Clarissa said with a smile.
“A place in the Carmel Highlands,” Grace said. “Close to Point
Lobos. Called The “Tickle Pink.”
Sam winced.
“Jamey wanted it,” Clarissa said.
Sam shook his head. “Sounds like one of the places with heart-shaped bathtubs
and pink satin sheets.”
“Not that bad,” Clarissa laughed. “I saw the brochures. Besides,
the Bach Festival will be on.”
“Tickle Pink,” Sam said. “Doesn’t sound like your style.”
“There’s a lot,” Clarissa said, “about this marriage that
isn’t my style.”
“Don’t be silly,” Grace said. “What doesn’t suit
you? Jamey? He’s crazy about you.”
“Is he?” Clarissa asked. “Maybe. I wonder what will happen when
he gets to know me. Nobody who knows me thinks much of me.” She smiled. “Except Sam, of
course.”
“Why do you always say things like that?” Grace said. “Sometimes
you sound positively suicidal.”
“How can Jamey love me if he knows me?” Clarissa said. “I’ve
told you that I have my reservations about him, but—” She tossed her head. “As you’ve
pointed out, I can’t remain single forever. I need to make a good match. And as I’ve
pointed out, I need to . . . be on my own.”
Grace bristled. “If you don’t care for Jamey, for God’s sake,
don’t marry him.”
“Ma, stop it. We’ve been all through this. I do care for him,
but not in the way he’s going to want. I’ll learn how. I know I can.”
TOM'S TALES