Page 77

Story: Lookin’ for Love

seventy-six f

A Wedding

N ick and I set a date for Warren to come to my apartment for dinner.

Nick went out of his way to create a dinner rivaling any five-star restaurant: salmon wrapped in phyllo with a sour cream dill sauce, haricot vert, lyonnaise potatoes, homemade sourdough bread, and crêpes suzette for dessert. I bought a pink damask tablecloth and matching napkins, which Nick folded to look like birds.

Nick was in his element. I was a nervous wreck.

Warren kissed me on the cheek when he arrived.

“Where’s this man o’ yers?” Warren asked.

“Still in the kitchen,” I said. “Wait till you see the feast he’s prepared!”

“Smells scrumptious.”

Nick heard our voices and came out of the kitchen, drying his hands on an old dish towel.

“My two favorite men in the world! Warren, meet Nick Ravelli.” Warren had a face that never lied. His eyes shot over to me, then to the floor. He shuffled his feet, took a deep breath, and finally offered Nick his hand.

“Nice to meet ya,” Warren said.

“Likewise.” Nick smiled broadly at Warren. “Ava can’t say enough about you.”

“Same here,” Warren mumbled.

“Gotta get back to my salmon. Dinner’ll be ready in a few minutes.” Nick hurried back to the kitchen.

I’d rarely seen Warren annoyed. The look he gave me shouted disappointment and confusion.

“He’s an old man,” Warren said in a stage whisper. “What the hell are ya doin’?”

“Age is only a number, and he’s only sixty.”

“What’s gonna happen in ten years? Ya wanna be pushin’ his wheelchair?”

“You never know what life will bring,” I said. “I found somebody I love, somebody who makes me happy.”

“I ain’t gonna tell ya what to do with yer life,” Warren said. “Sixty ain’t old like it used ta be, but from what you’ve told me, the guy’s more like eighty inside. If yer dead set on him, live together but please don’t marry him.”

“Dinner is served!” Nick’s announcement brought an end to Warren’s warnings.

The meal was spectacular. Warren put his feelings aside and changed back into the Warren I loved.

Nick was anxious to set a date for our wedding. I urged him to wait a year. Much as I was in love, Warren’s words lingered in my mind. Nick reluctantly agreed, provided we could continue to live together. We picked Saturday, June 20, 1992, as our date and booked the Titusville Inn on the Delaware River as our venue.

Visiting the Delaware River brought back memories of Jack and my disastrous second marriage.

This time will be different. I was twenty years older, sober for six years, and marrying a talented, sober, kind man.

Warren agreed to walk me down the aisle and give me away. Martie and Warren’s sister, Sally, were my bridesmaids. Chad and Gloria had accepted me into their family. I was confident life and marriage would work out for me as Ava Ravelli.

I thought it best not to invite Tommy and Lee. Tommy had become increasingly distant. Lee had ignored me for years. Still, a large part of me wished they could share my joy.

“I know yer upset about the kids,” Warren said when I told him they weren’t coming. “Think about it from their point o’ view. Tommy won’t know nobody there. Lee told ya years ago he wanted nothin’ to do with you.”

“I know, but they’re the only family I’ve got,” I said.

“Ya got me, Nick’s folks, and a ton o’ friends.”

Warren was right. Family wasn’t bound by blood.

What I remember about my third wedding day is a sparkling blue sky, two hundred well-wishers, and a spectacular feast prepared by the Inn.

We toasted with sparkling grape juice, which tasted sweeter than champagne. After the reception, a limo drove us to the Philadelphia Airport Hilton. We left the next morning for a week in Barbados.

Our gifts and cards were waiting for us when we returned. Most guests had given us money.

“We should do something special with this money,” I said.

“How about we buy a condo?” Nick suggested.

Where did that come from? I hesitated before asking him, “Don’t you like it here?”

“This is your apartment,” Nick said. “I want a place that’s ours . Between the gifts and what we have in the bank, we’ve got a nice down payment. We even have enough for some new furniture.”

Owning our own home would give us roots and stability, two things I longed for. “Let’s do it!”

“My boss knows someone in Willingboro who’s got a condo for sale,” Nick said.

“But we’ve got jobs and friends here.”

“Our friends will still be our friends. And it’s only a forty-five-minute drive to Princeton,” Nick said. “Condos are cheaper down there. And wait’ll you see pictures of the place.”