Always and Forever, Lara Jean (16 page)

“Yes, within reason, of course,” Daddy says hastily.

“But guys, I’m not stressed out,” I protest. “Focusing on the wedding gives me a sense of peace! It’s very calming for me.”

“And you’ve been a big help, but I think there are other things you could be focusing on that are more worthy of your time. Like finishing out your senior year, and preparing for college.” Daddy has that firm, immovable look on his face, the one I see so seldom.

I frown. “So you don’t want me to help out with the wedding anymore?”

Trina says, “I still want you to be in charge of the bridesmaid dresses, and I’d love for you to bake our wedding cake—”

“And the groom’s cake?” I interrupt.

“Sure. But the rest of it we’ll take care of. I swear I’m only saying this to you for your own good, Lara Jean. No more haggling over prices with vendors.”

“No more impromptu road trips to Richmond for cake tables,” Daddy adds.

I sigh a reluctant kind of sigh. “If you’re sure . . .”

She nods. “Just go be young. Focus on your prom dress. Have you started looking yet?”

“Sort of.” It’s hitting me now that we are less than a month away from prom and I still don’t have a dress. “If you’re really sure . . .”

“We’re sure,” Daddy says, and Trina nods.

As I head up the stairs, I hear Daddy whisper to her, “Why in the world are you encouraging her to go enjoy her hot boyfriend?”

I almost laugh out loud.

“That’s not what I meant!” Trina says.

He makes a harrumph sound. “It sure sounded like it.”

“Oh my God, don’t take everything so literally, Dan. Besides, her boyfriend
is
hot.”

*  *  *

I look at prom dresses on my computer, and I laugh out loud every time I think about Daddy calling Peter my “hot boyfriend.” An hour into searching, I’m fairly certain I’ve found my dress. It’s ballerina style, with a metallic lattice bodice and a tulle skirt—the website calls the color dusty pink. Stormy will be pleased.

With that done, I go on the William and Mary website and pay the enrollment deposit like I should’ve done weeks ago.

*  *  *

Later that week, on the ride to school, Peter says he got out of doing a delivery for his mom, and he can go with me to see the band play in Keswick.

Glumly I say, “It turns out Daddy and Trina don’t want a band after all. Or much of anything, for that matter. They want this wedding to be very low maintenance. They’re just going to borrow some speakers and play music off a computer. Guess what song they picked for their first dance.”

“What song?”

“ ‘From This Moment On’ by Shania Twain.”

He frowns. “I never heard of that before.”

“It’s really cheesy, but they love it, apparently. Do you realize that we don’t have a song? Like, a song that’s ours.”

“Okay, then let’s pick one.”

“It doesn’t work like that. You don’t just
pick
your song. The song picks you. Like the Sorting Hat.”

Peter nods sagely. He finally finished reading all seven Harry Potter books and he’s always eager to prove that he gets my references. “Got it.”

“It has to just . . . happen. A moment. And the song transcends the moment, you know? My mom and dad’s song was ‘Wonderful Tonight’ by Eric Clapton. They danced to it at their wedding.”

“So how did it become their song, then?”

“It was the first song they ever slow danced to in college. It was at a dance, not long after they first started dating. I’ve seen pictures from that night. Daddy’s wearing a suit that was too big on him and my mom’s hair is in a French twist.”

“How about whatever song comes on next, that’s our song. It’ll be fate.”

“We can’t just make our own fate.”

“Sure we can.” Peter reaches over to turn on the radio.

“Wait! Just any radio station? What if it’s not a slow song?”

“Okay so we’ll put on Lite 101.” Peter hits the button.

“Winnie the Pooh doesn’t know what to do, got a honey jar stuck on his nose,” a woman croons.

Peter says, “What the hell?” as I say, “This can’t be our song.”

“Best out of three?” he suggests.

“Let’s not force it. We’ll know it when we hear it, I think.”

“Maybe we’ll hear it at the prom,” Peter offers. “Oh, that reminds me. What color is your dress? My mom’s going to ask her florist friend to make your corsage.”

“It’s dusty pink.” It came in the mail yesterday, and when I tried it on for everybody, Trina said it was “the most Lara Jean” dress she’d ever seen. I texted a picture to Stormy, who wrote back, “Ooh-la-la,” with a dancing woman emoji.

“What the heck is dusty pink?” Peter wants to know.

“It’s like a rose gold color.” Peter still looks confused, so I sigh and say, “Just tell your mom. She’ll know. And do you think you could bring a little corsage for Kitty, too, and act like it was your idea?”

“Sure, but I could’ve had that idea on my own, you know,” he grumbles. “You should at least give me a chance to have ideas.”

I pat him on the knee. “Just please don’t forget.”

IT’S LATE. I’M IN MY
bed looking through my welcome packet from William and Mary. It turns out William and Mary doesn’t allow freshmen to have cars on campus, and I’m about to call Peter to tell him, when I get a text from John Ambrose McClaren. When I first see his name on my phone, I feel a jolt of surprise, because it’s been so long since we last talked. Then I read the text.

Stormy died in her sleep last night. The funeral is in Rhode Island on Wednesday. I just thought you’d want to know.

I just sit there for a moment, stunned. How can this be? When I last saw her, she was fine. She was great. She was Stormy. She can’t be gone. Not my Stormy. Stormy, who was larger than life, who taught me how to apply red lipstick “so it lasts even after a night of kisses and champagne,” she said.

I start to cry and I can’t stop. I can’t get air in my lungs. I can barely see for crying. My tears keep falling on my phone, and I keep wiping it with the back of my hand. What do I say to John? She was his grandmother, and he was her favorite grandson. They were very close.

First I type,
I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?
Then I delete it, because what could I possibly do to help?

I’m so sorry. She had the most spirit of anyone I ever met. I’ll miss her dearly.

Thank you. I know she loved you too.

His text brings fresh tears to my eyes.

Stormy was always saying that she still felt like she was in her twenties. That sometimes she’d dream she was a girl again, and she’d see her ex-husbands and they’d be old but she’d still be Stormy. She said when she woke up in the morning, she’d be surprised to be in her old body with her old bones. “I’ve still got the gams, though,” she said. And she did.

It’s almost a relief that the funeral is in Rhode Island, too far away for me to go. I haven’t been to a funeral since my mom died. I was nine, Margot was eleven, Kitty just two. The clearest memory I have of that day is sitting beside my dad, Kitty in his arms, feeling his body shake next to mine as he cried silently. Kitty’s cheeks were wet with his tears. She didn’t understand anything except that he was sad. She kept saying, “Don’t cry, Daddy,” and he would try to smile for her, but his smile looked like it was melting. I’d never felt that way before—like nothing was safe anymore, or would be ever again.

And now I’m crying again, for Stormy, for my mom, for everything.

She wanted me to transcribe her memoirs for her.
Stormy Weather
, she wanted to call it. We never did get around to doing that. How will people know her story now?

Peter calls, but I’m too sad to talk so I just let it go to voicemail. I feel like I should call John, but I don’t really have the right. Stormy was his grandma, and I was just a girl who volunteered at her nursing home. The one person I want to talk to is my sister, because she knew Stormy too, and because she always makes me feel better, but it’s the middle of the night in Scotland.

*  *  *

I call Margot the next day, as soon as I wake up. I cry again as I tell her the news, and she cries with me. It’s Margot who has the idea to have a memorial service for her at Belleview. “You could say a few words, serve some cookies, and people could share memories of her? I’m sure her friends would like that, since they won’t be able to make it to the funeral.”

I blow my nose. “I’m sure Stormy would like it too.”

“I wish I could be there for it.”

“I wish so too,” I say, and my voice quivers. I always feel stronger with Margot beside me.

“Peter will be there, though,” she says.

Before I leave for school, I call my old boss Janette over at Belleview and tell her the idea about the memorial service. She agrees right away, and says we could have it this Thursday afternoon, before bingo.

When I get to school and tell Peter about Stormy’s memorial service, his face falls. “Shit. I have to go to that
Days on the Lawn thing with my mom.” Days on the Lawn is an open house for incoming first-years at
UVA
. You go with your parents; you sit in on classes, tour the dorms. It’s a big deal. I was really looking forward to it, when I thought I might be going.

He offers, “I could skip it, though.”

“You can’t. Your mom would kill you. You have to go.”

“I don’t mind,” he says, and I believe him.

“It’s really okay. You didn’t know Stormy.”

“I know. I just want to be there for you.”

“The offer is what counts,” I tell him.

*  *  *

Instead of wearing black, I choose a sundress that Stormy once said she liked me in. It’s white, with cornflower-blue forget-me-nots embroidered on the skirt, short puffy sleeves that go a little off the shoulder, and a nipped-in waist. Because I bought it at the end of summer, I’ve only had the chance to wear it once. I stopped by Belleview on my way to meet Peter at the movies, and Stormy said I looked like a girl in an Italian movie. So I wear that dress, and the white sandals I bought for graduation, and a little pair of lacy white gloves that I just know she’d appreciate. I found them at a vintage store in Richmond called Bygones, and when I put them on, I can almost imagine Stormy wearing them at one of her cotillions or Saturday night dances. I don’t wear her pink diamond ring. I want the first time I wear it to be at my prom, the way Stormy would have wanted.

I bring out the punch bowl, a crystal bowl of peanuts, a stack of cocktail napkins embroidered with cherries that I found at an estate sale, the tablecloth we use for Thanksgiving. I put a few roses on the piano, where Stormy used to sit. I make a punch with ginger ale and frozen fruit juice—no alcohol, which I know Stormy would have balked at, but not all of the residents can have it, because of their medications. I do put out a bottle of champagne next to the punch bowl, for anyone who wants to top off their punch with a little something extra. Lastly, I turn on Frank Sinatra, who Stormy always said should’ve been her second husband, if only.

John said he’d come if he made it back from Rhode Island in time, and I’m feeling a little nervous for that, because I haven’t seen him since almost exactly a year ago, on my birthday. We were never a thing, not really, but we almost were, and to me, that’s something.

A few people file in. One of the nurses wheels in Mrs. Armbruster, who has fallen to dementia but used to be pretty friendly with Stormy. Mr. Perelli, Alicia, Shanice the receptionist, Janette. It’s a good little group. The truth is, there are fewer and fewer people that I know at Belleview. Some of them have moved in with their children; a few have passed away. Not as many familiar faces in the staff, either. The place changed while I wasn’t looking.

I’m standing at the front of the room, and my heart is pounding out of my chest. I’m so nervous to make my speech. I’m afraid of stumbling over my words and not doing her
justice. I want to do a good job on it; I want to make Stormy proud. Everyone’s looking at me with expectant eyes, except for Mrs. Armbruster, who is knitting and staring off into space. My knees shake under my skirt. I take a deep breath, and I’m about to speak when John Ambrose McClaren walks in, wearing a pressed button-down shirt and khakis. He takes a seat on the couch next to Alicia. I give him a wave, and in return, John gives me an encouraging smile.

I take a deep breath. “The year was 1952.” I clear my throat and look down at my paper. “It was summer, and Frank Sinatra was on the radio. Lana Turner and Ava Gardner were the starlets of the day. Stormy was eighteen. She was in the marching band, she was voted Best Legs, and she always had a date on Saturday night. On this particular night, she was on a date with a boy named Walt. On a dare, she went skinny-dipping in the town lake. Stormy never could turn down a dare.”

Mr. Perelli laughs and says, “That’s right, she never could.” Other people murmur in agreement, “She never could.”

“A farmer called the police, and when they shined their lights on the lake, Stormy told them to turn around before she would come out. She got a ride home in a police car that night.”

“Not the first time or the last,” someone calls out, and everyone laughs, and I can feel my shoulders start to relax.

“Stormy lived more life in one night than most people do their whole lives. She was a force of nature. She
taught me that love—” My eyes well up and I start over. “Stormy taught me that love is about making brave choices every day. That’s what Stormy did. She always picked love; she always picked adventure. To her they were one and the same. And now she’s off on a new adventure, and we wish her well.”

From his seat on the couch, John wipes his eyes with his sleeve.

I give Janette a nod, and she gets up and presses play on the stereo, and “Stormy Weather” fills the room. “Don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky . . .”

After, John shoulders his way over to me, holding two plastic cups of fruit punch. Ruefully he says, “I’m sure she’d tell us to spike it, but . . .” He hands me a cup, and we clink. “To Edith Sinclair McClaren Sheehan, better known as Stormy.”