Dating The Mrs. Smiths. Tanya Michaels

all adjourned to the living room, where Dianne, the kids and I squeezed onto the couch. I glanced up with the guilty realization that Rose probably felt excluded. Just because I hadn’t expected her to come down right before Dianne’s departure didn’t mean I should be inhospitable.

      “Would you like a seat?” I asked. “I actually have something I should go get from my bedroom, anyway.”

      Rose shook her head. “Thank you, dear, but no. I’ll go finish up in the kitchen.”

      She’d informed me yesterday afternoon that she was here to chip in, and we’d begun the labor-intensive process of wrapping dishes and other breakables and boxing them. It had been a relief that someone besides me could pack the wedding china Tom and I had registered for all those years ago, for use on Thanksgiving and our April wedding anniversary. Whenever I handled the gold-rimmed plates, I was assailed with memories: our first Christmas as a married couple, when I’d overcooked the duck and Tom had assured me it was delicious; my teasing the strapping macho football player about helping me with the bridal registry; the expression on his darkly handsome face when he’d proposed beneath our favorite tree on the UF campus.

      With practiced effort, I pushed away the achingly bittersweet past, determined to focus on the present. More important, the future. Though Tom and I wouldn’t have one together, I still had to raise our children with as much love and enthusiasm as I could. After my months of depression, Sara particularly worried when she noticed me looking unhappy.

      Summoning a smile, I watched as both kids engaged in frantic tearing, shredding little bits of wrapping paper onto the carpet. Ben had uncovered a soft-to-the-touch choochoo train that made all kinds of noises when you pressed various places and even lit up. One of the sounds was the urgent “ding! ding! ding!” of a railroad crossing.

      Dianne’s eyes were bright with affectionate mischief. “I’ll bet you’ll think of me the whooole ride to Boston.”

      “I’ll bet the batteries will have mysteriously disappeared by then,” I kidded in return.

      Sara unwrapped a purple cardboard box with a clear plastic front that showed dress-up accessories inside. Squeals of anticipation escaped her as she tried to get to the pink feather boa, sparkly tiara, plastic high heels and translucent purse full of makeup.

      “Look, Mommy, look!”

      While Dianne dutifully helped Sara into her new finery, I slipped out of the room and down the hall. Finances weren’t much right now—I’d pretty well blown any mad money I had on our extravagant brunch—but I’d put together a little something for my friend. I was grinning, thinking about the calendar gag gift, but my mouth dropped open in astonishment when I stepped inside my room.

      My clothes were not where I had left them that morning. Dresses lay across the bed, sweaters dangled from plastic hangers on the door, and every pair of shoes I owned was lined up in front of the bureau. Rose. I knew she wanted to help with the packing process, but that’s why I’d given her the kitchen to tackle. I wasn’t wild about the idea of her going through my personal things when I wasn’t around.

      If Tom were here, he would have told me she was just trying to make herself useful and I should let it slide; then again, if Tom were here, I wouldn’t be moving to Boston in the first place. Since I was, and Rose and I would presumably be seeing a lot more of each other, I thought it would be best to get certain boundaries clarified now. I sucked in a deep breath, prepared to call her in here, but then reminded myself that she was my mother-in-law, not my six-year-old. We could talk about it after Dianne had said her goodbyes to everyone.

      When I returned to the living room, Sara and her brother were both wearing pink lip gloss that Sara informed me tasted like strawberries. Sara was teetering in her new heels, with the boa thrown over her shoulders, and Ellie sat on the couch, the “jeweled” tiara perched drunkenly between her plushy elephantine ears.

      “I have a little going-away present for you,” I told Dianne, handing over a flat package wrapped in staid paper, a pattern of mauves and muted gold. “Nothing much, just something you can remember us by while you’re at sea.”

      Dianne smiled at me and peeled away the curly ribbon and tape to expose a calendar with modern dancers posing on the cover, in contorted yet somehow still graceful positions—except that I’d stapled another calendar entirely inside the cover. She flipped it open, and a green-eyed hunk grinned up at her from February. His naked biceps were flexed as he prepared to shoot an arrow from a bow, and only the fact that he was standing behind a large red heart on a waist-high white column allowed the calendar to be sold in family-friendly stores.

      Surprised, Dianne let out a short bark of laughter.

      “I’m sure you’ll have a great time onboard,” I said. “But I figured, by that last month, you might be counting the days until you’re permanently on dry land and back to your own place. Might as well have something fun to look at while you’re counting! But here’s your real gift to remember us by.”

      I handed her a two-sided, five-by-seven hinged frame that folded shut. On the left was a picture of Dianne and the kids at the beach; on the right was a picture of Dianne and me. We’d been at a bachelorette party for one of Tom’s secretaries. It was before he’d died, before I’d known I was pregnant with Ben. In the photo, I was a lot thinner and I hadn’t developed the matching baggage under my eyes yet. Dianne and I were grinning foolishly at the camera. God, it seemed like a long time ago.

      She hugged me fiercely for just a moment, then let me go. “Well. I have to run. But I do have one thing for you first.” She reached into the beige purse resting against the corner of the sofa and pulled out a glossy brochure. “Here.”

      “What’s this?”

      “A day spa I researched in Boston. I’m booking us some decadent treatments for August. I plan to come up for Ben’s birthday.” She turned to Sara. “When I come up, we’ll celebrate yours, too, princess. Which is cool because that means you’ll get presents in June and in August. Deal?”