Page 3 of Never Marry the Best Man (Whatever It Takes #4)
“At the end of the day, it’s just another wedding.
And the bachelor event next weekend will be just a bunch of nice young men fly fishing, playing thirty-six holes of golf, and drinking beer and margaritas, same as usual.
I’ll only be there to kind of be the mom: keep a low profile, hand out aspirin, and discourage felony.
That’s how I got assigned to it–I’m the only project manager old enough to play the mom role.
I’ve done it about a hundred times now. This one will be no different. ”
“Hm.” Nessa was unconvinced.
When they emerged from DeLuca’s, Nessa fished through the groceries in Ranney’s bag, extracting her jar of olives and transferring it to her own shopping bag.
Kissing her mother’s cheek, she headed off in the direction of the Mass.
Ave T station, back to her apartment and her boyfriend and her friends. Back to her own life.
Ranney watched her go, feeling the complicated swirl of emotions that the parent of a grown child experiences whenever that child demonstrates their independence.
This, of course, was the goal all along: to raise a competent adult, capable of navigating the world on their own.
But does any parent truly believe their daughter or son is fully capable of that?
Sighing once again, Ranney turned in the opposite direction, wondering if having more than one child would have made this easier or just multiplied it.
She suspected it was the latter. And when, if ever, did it end?
Did Mame still worry this way over her and her brother, Evan, now an M they had vintage jewelry, cool barware, antique silver accessories monogrammed with the initials of someone who’d once led an impossibly elegant life.
On the walls were small, framed watercolors and funky wooden signs.
Coffee-table books were stacked everywhere, full of beautiful photos illustrating esoteric topics that you suddenly wanted to know all about.
The only unifying element at Meet Cute was the owner’s eye for design.
It was not the kind of place you wanted to visit with a friend. You needed to be free to assemble the perfect stack of bracelets or search for your own initials on a sterling julep cup, with no pressure, no matter how long it took.
This was Ranney’s moment. Down the steps she went.
Twenty minutes later, she was paging through a hardcover copy of Peter Beard’s The End of the Game when the shop door opened and a couple entered.
“–don’t know why you would want to come in here?” the young woman was saying. She lowered her voice but they were only a few feet apart and Ranney could hear every word. “Copley Place is just a couple of blocks away, and they have all the designers there.”
“I just want to look,” her companion–uncle?
older brother?– said. He was maybe in his late thirties; she looked to be about Nessa’s age.
Both spoke with English accents. Was British Airways offering a special fare this month?
If so, she hoped Carmine wasn’t taking advantage of it to bring the family for a visit. But no, Nessa would have told her.
Ranney went back to the book.
The young woman stood by the door, doing and saying nothing yet somehow still managing to draw attention to herself.
“These earrings would look fantastic on you, Thea.” Pointing to something in the display case, the guy was obviously trying to engage his–niece?
sister?–with no success. Despite herself, Ranney was drawn into the little drama playing out in front of her.
People, after all, are endlessly fascinating.
With human interest stories all around her, she was rarely bored in an airport waiting area; she could dine alone in a restaurant and not feel lonely. What was the story unfolding here?
This man was extremely good-looking, but not in a cold or intimidating way.
Laugh lines were beginning to show around his eyes and mouth, and his voice was soft and warm.
Thea wasn’t supermodel beautiful but she had the complete self-assurance of youth and personal style that is often mistaken for beauty.
Or for charm, which Ranney didn’t see much evidence of.
Thea’s eyes flicked to the earrings, then away again dismissively.
She pulled her phone out of her bag and became engrossed in checking her messages.
Shrugging, the guy moved on to a shelf of cocktail shakers.
Ranney thought he looked like he could use a good dry martini, although maybe she was projecting.
“Is that Peter Beard?” Now he was standing next to her, looking down at a black and white shot of a pair of leopards. It was a double spread, the spotted coats of the leopards replicated by the black stones on white sand of the African ground they walked on.
“Yes,” she answered, startled. It was a little bit like having an actor in a play suddenly break the fourth wall and speak directly to you. Looking up, she saw his interested blue eyes studying the photo.
“Is it a first edition? I met him once–what a life he lived. You couldn’t do it now, those days are over, I’m afraid.”
“Not a first edition. I couldn’t afford that–but an early one, 1965.” She hesitated, then asked curiously, “What was he like, when you met him?”
“It was at a party in London. I didn’t get to have a private chat, but that’s probably just as well. I was too impressed to be coherent.”
“He’s so hauntingly authentic. Doesn’t flinch from depicting reality. That kind of eye comes from a deep centeredness,” Ranney remarked. “Or arrogance.”
“Seemed to be a balance of all that,” the man said with an intrigued chuckle, giving Ranney a long look.
“I think I’m going to buy it.” She chuckled softly. “You never know what great thing you’re going to find when you come in here.”
“Do you live here? In Boston, I mean?”
“Yes, a few blocks away.”
“Thea, did you hear that? I’ve met a native Bostonian who says this shop is well known for having great things. Thea?”
“ Gucci has great things, Tom,” was the pointed answer, “and they’re closing soon. And we still have to walk there. Unless we call an Uber.”
“I guess I’d better call an Uber, then,” he muttered to himself, then gave Ranney a resigned smile. “Enjoy your book.”
“Enjoy your visit,” she replied, ending the exchange, but he turned back.
“Thea’s the visitor. I’m relocating to Boston. Maybe I’ll run into you here again.”
Ranney smiled politely. He was really a very charming man, although of course too young–and too ridiculously handsome–for her.
It was fun to interact and to speculate on his life, but only in the way that you might speculate about, say, President Macron of France: His wife is what?
Twenty years older, maybe more? She doubted that the Macrons ran out of things to talk about; when you’re dealing with national strikes and entertaining heads of state at dinner, it probably didn’t matter if you both remembered Live Aid or had lived through the decade of shoulder pads.
When it came to May-December marriages, of course, her ex-husband Carmine Martini was the poster child for the whole phenomenon–although if there was a child involved, it had been Natalya.
It was only with the birth of their fourth daughter that Ranney had stopped referring to her replacement as Lolita.
And yet, as incomprehensible as that whole situation had been to her, the funny thing was, it was practically normal compared to the other way around. Older man, younger woman? Eyebrows might raise, but these things happened.
Older woman, younger man? Unthinkable.
Anyway, as she had told Nessa earlier, she didn’t find British accents attractive, and not just because they reminded her of Nessa’s dreary little stepsisters.
It wasn’t just the accent, either–it was the whole cultural disconnect.
Some people love exotic qualities in a romantic partner, another language, another cuisine, a different view of life. They find it exciting.
Not Ranney. She didn’t want to have to remember that crisps meant chips but chips meant fries. If something happened to trigger a memory and she sang out, “ Meet George Jetson ,” she wanted her partner to laugh, not stare at her blankly. And vice versa–she’d never seen a single episode of Dr. Who .
In a way , she thought, a different age group is like another country .
Well, the show was over here, and the yogurt in her grocery bag was getting warm.
Closing the book, she carried it to the counter and took out her credit card.
It was mid-afternoon now, still early enough in the spring that the light was beginning to get low.
She’d go home to her pretty apartment, make a quiche for her dinner, watch the sun set over the Charles River.
Maybe have a long bath. Read her new book.
Peaceful.
Like life should be at her age. She wondered idly what Tom and Thea would be doing tonight.
Their relationship remained undefined, but she suspected they were not brother and sister.
Dinner at a trendy restaurant, she supposed, then what?
A club, dancing? Or would they skip dessert, rush home to his place, make passionate love till they fell asleep in each other’s arms, exhausted and sated?
In her imagination, Ranney saw Tom naked, poised above her as she ran her hands over his muscular shoulders, then–
Oh, for heaven’s sake! Where did THAT come from?
Quiche. Sunset. Bath.
Perfect.