Twenty
The World According to Cher
MOLLY HAULS A BLUE-and-white-striped golf umbrella out of a gigantic tote bag and positions it over her grandmother’s head.
“Do you have an ark in there?” Naomi frets. “This rain is coming down in buckets.”
“Relax, Grandma, I’ve got you covered.” Molly smiles.
Paige, who’s standing under the awning next to her sister while we wait for the downpour to stop long enough for all of us to dash across the street without being drowned, jams her hand into Molly’s bag to see what other emergency supplies her twin sister has brought along. She pulls out a tweezers, a curling iron, and the same brand of double-sided tape that Jennifer Lopez used to keep her Oscar dress in place—the dress that plunged in an open V down to her navel.
“Impressive. Looks like Molly has thought of everything.” Paige whistles, ripping off a strip of tape and unzipping her slicker to stick it between her skimpy mini and the very uppermost part of her thigh.
“What, they charged you for this dress by the inch, and you couldn’t afford something longer?” Naomi complains. She squeezes Paige’s hand and apologizes. “Sorry, bubbala, I’m just nervous about the reunions—I mean the Miss Subways reunion,” Naomi quickly says. She reaches into her own bag—a small beaded clutch shaped like an old-fashioned subway token that the girls found at Target to celebrate the occasion—to retrieve a pretty pearl-encrusted comb, which she sticks into her hair at the side of her chignon. Then she pulls the comb back out again.
“You look beautiful, Mom,” I say.
“Thank you, you girls look beautiful, too.” Naomi sighs, stuffs the comb back into her purse, and fidgets with the clasp. “I’m sorry I made you go to so much effort. Maybe we should all just go home now?”
“Not after I found a parking space.” Peter laughs, ducking under the awning to join us. Like a wet Labrador who’s just escaped from the bathtub, he shakes his head and water goes flying everywhere.
“Ew!” Paige shrieks. She grabs the copy of Town & Country that Peter had been holding over his head but as she starts rolling it up to swat him, I snatch it out of her hand.
“Let me see that,” I say, recognizing the picture on the society page of my very own former employee Georgy, looking lovely in a jade necklace and a chiffon lavender gown. I’m glad to see that she’s still working, although I hope she’s charging this particular client a mountain of money—she’s on the arm of the sleazy Colin Marsh. Colin Marsh, the power-abusing D.A. who threatened to dig up dirt on me if I dared breathe a word about his double-dealing two-timing son. Ha, let’s see what he can do to me now that I know he’s dating a call girl!
“Molly,” I say sweetly, “you know that essay that you’re supposed to write for English class called ‘The Most Courageous Thing I Ever Did’? It was stupid of me to tell you not to write about Brandon. In fact, why don’t you enter it in the national competition?”
“Thanks, Mom, I’ll think about it. But right now it’s Grandma who has to be brave. C’mon, Grandma, let’s show them what the Finklestein women are made of!” Then, before Naomi has a chance to protest, Molly takes her grandmother’s hand and tugs her toward the celebration.
WHEN NAOMI FIRST told me about the reunion I didn’t understand why it was being held in a diner—even a hip, retrofitted 1950s theater district favorite—until she explained that the owner of Ellen’s Stardust was a former Miss Subways herself. Inside the front vestibule guests are shedding trench coats and stowing umbrellas. And then there are those who are balancing themselves on one leg to slip out of rain boots into more elegant footwear. “They look like a bunch of flamingos at a designer shoe sale.” Molly giggles.
About fifty of the former Miss Subways winners are expected here this evening, and although they range in age from their fifties to a now-ninety-year-old who was crowned in 1941, a quick look across the room reveals that the only silver fox in the bunch is a real fur one. In a sea of blondes, brunettes, and redheads and by the dint of soft lighting, Botox, and sheer will, it’s hard to distinguish the septuagenarians from their offspring. The diner is playfully decorated with a drive-in movie theater screen and a choo-choo train that whistles its way around the mezzanine. The walls are filled with framed posters of the former Miss Subways. I give Naomi a nudge and, with Peter and the girls trailing behind us, I push her toward the center of the room. Within seconds, she’s surrounded by a circle of women.
“Naomi Finklestein, it’s good to see you!” a big-haired blonde gushes. She hugs my mother, then runs her hand down the hips of the scoop-neck cocktail dress the girls picked out for Naomi to wear. “No girdle,” the blonde reports approvingly. “As I live and breathe, you look fabulous!”
“I hope you should live and breathe—we should all live and breathe for the next one hundred years! Or at least the next fifty!” a redhead jokes.
With obvious relish, the women banter about their conquests—remembering the smitten fellows who proffered orchids, diamond rings, and the one who sent a proposal hidden inside a three-foot-wide lemon pie. “Can you imagine how much weight the girl who married him must have gained!” The big-haired blonde giggles. Naomi’s laughing, too, and despite my mother’s worrying—over coming or not coming, what she was going to wear, and even how her pelvis might measure up—within moments she’s clearly feeling at ease in this sorority of former beauty queens.
As I listen to their stories I realize that while none of them became the next Doris Day, Naomi was right. They’re an accomplished group of women, including a supreme court appellate judge, a former FBI agent, a woman who worked with the Red Cross after 9/11, and of course Ellen Hart Strum, the owner of the nostalgia-filled diner. When a svelte brunette who’s a senior dancer with the Nets asks what Naomi’s been up to, I hold my breath. After all, this is the question she’s been dreading. Still without missing a beat, my mother points to me and the girls. “These are my proudest accomplishments.” Naomi beams, and from the easy, infectious smile on her face—the one that for all those years I had so much trouble coaxing from her—I know that she means it.
Molly guides me over to the wall of posters. “Says here that three decades before Vanessa Williams was crowned Miss America there was an African-American Miss Subways. And look, there’s Grandma! ‘Beautiful Naomi Finklestein has appeared in school plays and plans to pursue a career in modeling. She is also devoted to children and helping make the world a kinder, gentler place,’ ” Molly reads aloud. I always thought that last part was a lot of malarkey. But now it has the ring of truth.
“Check this out,” says Paige, looking at a photo of the Keehlers, the only pair of twins to reign simultaneously. “This says they were ‘as identical as two cigarettes in a pack.’ Nobody could ever say that about us,” my blond, straight-haired daughter says, pointing to her sister’s curly brown locks.
“Thank goodness,” Molly teases. “I wouldn’t want to grow up in Manhattan looking like a California surfer girl.”
“And I wouldn’t want to be a slave to detangler.”
“And I wouldn’t change either of you for the world,” I say, drawing the girls in for a hug.
“Okay, Mom,” Paige says, moving a step away from my clutches. “We know, we should ‘celebrate our uniqueness!’ Yikes, you said that so many times when we were growing up I used to think it was like the state motto.”
“It’s the Newman motto.” Peter laughs as he brings me a Perrier. “Whether it’s about looks or personalities. Or,” he says, with a wink, “career choices.”
“O-M-G, you guys are so weird,” Paige says. “But now that we’re talking about careers, you never really explained why you and Sienna closed your temporary help agency. Did it go bust?”
“Not exactly. Let’s just say that it was a learning experience. A chance to get my feet wet. And I’m looking around for something else to sink my teeth into.”
“Mom, could you use a few more clichés?” Molly, my budding writer, asks.
“Okay. Whatever. One day we’ll get it out of you,” Paige wheedles. Although I know they never will.
I take a sip of water and hand it back to Peter. The ice-filled glasses at these parties are always too cold to stand around holding, although Peter’s happy to be of service—just another of about a thousand reasons I can think of these days that I’m grateful for my husband. A waiter wheels out a four-foot-high chocolate fountain and Molly gasps. “That must be the Magic Mountain. I think I saw it once in a Disney movie.” Paige takes her sister’s hand and the two of them walk off trancelike toward the cascading tiers of velvety liquid.
“Bring me back a strawberry, dripping in chocolate,” Sienna calls after the girls as she joins me and Peter.
“Oh no, no, no, no, no! I know you’re not on television anymore, but you never know, somebody might let you be a newscaster again. Just in case, you should stay in shape,” coos Tiffany Glass, who’s followed Sienna over to our little group. Tiffany’s wearing one of her trademark body-hugging dresses and she’s arm in arm with the “plus one” that Naomi invited her to bring along to the reunion. The “plus one” I so helpfully introduced Tiffany to—our old Veronica Agency client Gary, the sexist stallion.
“I just signed a book contract. My figure can go to hell; nobody cares what an author looks like.” Sienna laughs. Tiffany dispatches Gary to get her a drink. Then emotionally she clasps my hand between hers.
“Tru, thank you again for Gary. I have to tell you, after striking out with Peter and Jeff Whitman I was starting to wonder if I’d ever trap, er, I mean, attract a man again. But Gary calls me his treasure.”
“He also calls her his cheap date,” Sienna whispers, as Tiffany leaves to go congratulate Naomi. “Gary must still be pinching himself that a woman will sleep with him and he doesn’t have to pay for it.”
“Tiffany’s not so bad.” Although what I probably mean is that I’m finally secure enough about Peter—and myself—that I don’t see her as a threat. Especially now that Tiffany’s made Peter head of all U.S. operations. And she’s moving to Hong Kong to develop BUBB’s Asian markets.
The overhead lights blink on and off and a sonorous voice over the loudspeaker summons the former Miss Subways. “It’s tiara time, ladies. Please join us in the backstage area to don your sashes and for hair and makeup touch-ups.” Naomi sweeps past us in her glittery dress and Sienna asks if she needs any help.
“I’m pretty good with a hot roller,” my best friend volunteers.
“No, stay here!” I say, pulling Sienna back to my side. “Paige and Molly should go with their grandmother. It’s important for the girls to see how much work it is to be a beauty queen.”
“So they give up their dreams of becoming Miss America and decide to go to college and become brain surgeons?”
“Something like that. I pause. And because Bill is going to be here any moment and I want you two to make up.”
“Whoa,” says Paige, who’s finally come back with those chocolate-covered strawberries. “Good one, Mom. Can’t we stick around and see what happens?” I raise an eyebrow and reluctantly the girls go backstage. Sienna smoothes her hands across the bodice of her ruched dress.
“I suppose if Bill’s finally decided to apologize, I’ll let him.” Sienna sniffs. “After I make him grovel.”
“Bill doesn’t exactly know that you’ll be here,” I admit. “He thinks he’s meeting me at the diner for a cup of coffee and to go over the Veronica Agency’s dissolution agreement. You’re both so pigheaded. I figured the only way I could get you two back together was if I ambushed you.”
Peter laughs. “My wife, the matchmaker.”
“Your wife the crazy woman! Listen, you two. I’m willing to buy wildly expensive perfume, hobble myself in five-inch heels, and freeze my ass off in a backless dress and bare legs at some fancy over-air-conditioned restaurant. But I draw the line at ambushing Bill—or any man—into falling in love with me.”
“He’s already in love,” Peter says.
“And you are, too. It’s just that one of you has to be willing to make the first move.” I look up and spot Bill at the entrance to the diner. “Be nice when you see him. Remember the Javan Rhino.”
“The what?” Peter asks.
“Tru has some idea that you and Bill are the last two good men left on earth.”
“Two of the last fifty,” I chirp.
“Is that better than one in a million?” Peter asks.
“Meet me in bed in a couple of hours and we’ll do the math,” I say with a wink.
Minutes later, I’ve explained the situation and literally had to drag Bill across the room. He stands stiffly in front of Sienna and pretends to look past her. “I want to state for the record that I had no idea you were going to be here.”
“Believe me, I wouldn’t have been here either if I knew you were coming,” Sienna snaps. Her eyes narrow and Bill mimics her High Noon stance.
“Good. Important to get the dialogue going,” I say perkily. Then, before I can coax another word out of either one of them, a buzz ricochets through the room like a small jolt of electricity. I look around to see what’s causing the commotion.
“I heard that the blond mom from Gossip Girl might stop by,” a woman in front of me squeals.
The woman next to her stands up on her tiptoes to get a better look. “No, this woman’s got dark hair. Lots of it.… Oh-my-god, it’s Cher!”
“Cher? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure it’s Cher,” the woman, who’s now jumping up and down for a premium view, reports. “She’s wearing skintight leather jeans and a bitchin’ leather jacket that has no right to look so good on her!”
“I thought that after forty we were supposed to stop dressing like our daughters,” a woman next to her nitpicks.
“Hell, if you look like that you can dress like a kindergartner!” the first woman cries.
As people repeat the superstar’s name a chant goes through the diner that could be straight out of a socialist rally: “Cher, Cher, Cher, share!” the audience sings. The orchestra plays “I Got You Babe” and people pull out their cellphones to snap photos. Cher smiles and graciously signs a few autographs. She makes her way through the throng and hesitates, before climbing onto a platform at the front of the restaurant. “I nearly didn’t make it up here in these boots!” Cher whoops, tapping the tops of her thigh-high stilettos. “But ladies and gentlemen, tonight isn’t about me. I’m here, like all of you, to celebrate a national treasure. The superlative Miss Subways! So please join me in welcoming them now!” Cher punches her fist in the air and the crowd roars. As she walks toward the edge of the stage to make her exit, a man steps out of the shadows and extends his arm to help her down.
“Jeff Whitman!” Peter hoots, pulling me in for a hug. “Honey, I have to hand it to you. First you get Bill to show up. Now Naomi’s old boyfriend. With Cher, no less! How in the world did you get them here?”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
Sienna looks at me skeptically.
“What, you think I wouldn’t take credit for this if I could? I’m as much in the dark about this as all of you.”
I’m just starting to push through the crowd toward Jeff Whitman to find out what the heck is going on, when the overhead lights dim—and we’re really in the dark. A spotlight beams on to follow a suave-looking man in top hat and tails onto the stage, and there’s a clamor of plates as the waitstaff—all aspiring actors and actresses—abandon their trays to join the emcee. The audience is stilled as the orchestra leader raises his baton. Then the band starts playing and the singers break into a chorus of The Most Beautiful Girl in the World—adding an “s” after the noun so that none of the women feel excluded. With a follow spot guiding their way, the beauty queens in their tiaras and blue satin sashes swan gracefully around the restaurant. Friends and relatives shout out enthusiastic congratulations.
Molly, who’s devouring a last bite of chocolate-covered strawberry, comes over to stand next to me. “Look, they’re doing the Miss America wave! You know, where they just turn their wrist back and forth in a single motion so they don’t exert too much pressure on their elbows.”
“Love the tiaras,” says Paige, clapping. “I wonder if Grandma will lend me hers to wear with her amaazing harem pants.”
As Naomi sashays by I pat her lightly on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Mom,” I say.
“Me too,” says a man coming up behind her. Despite the roar of the music and applause and the general din of excitement, I know that my mother heard the clear baritone greeting. And I know that because she ducks down, huddles toward the glamour girl in front of her, and tries to keep walking.
“Mom, it’s Jeff,” I say as I gently guide her out of line. “Jeff Whitman, the man who fell in love with you when the two of you were just teenagers. The man you arranged to have help me in Hawaii. The man who’s been waiting for five decades to hear your voice again.”
“I know who it is, damn it! I’m not senile,” my mother snips.
“That’s the Naomi I remember!” Jeff laughs. “The dulcet vocal tones, the gorgeous face! I’ve been watching you from across the room, my darling. You’re still as beautiful as ever.”
“And you’re still as charming! How are you doing?” Peter says, patting Jeff on the back.
“I’m good, I’m good. And everyone, this is Cher,” Jeff says, as if the beauteous Oscar, Grammy, and every other kind of award winner—who’s got her arm draped arm around Jeff’s shoulder—needs introducing.
“Nice to see you again,” Naomi says politely to Cher.
“Mom, you know Cher?”
“Of course, who doesn’t know Cher? I enjoyed that Moonstruck, good work. And I liked how you cast a spell on Jack Nicholson in The Witches of Eastwick.”
Out of an oeuvre that includes dozens of roles as independent, headstrong women, my mother managed to pick the one Cher movie where she uses magic to get what she wants. I guess I come by my superstitions honestly.
“Thanks. That movie was fun, but I don’t really believe in all that hocus-pocus. We make our own luck,” Cher purrs, casting a lascivious gaze on Jeff and fingering his collar. “And I hear you and Jeff were … childhood friends?”
“Yes, something like that,” my mother says, evasively.
Molly leans her head toward mine. “I have to hand it to you, Mom,” she whispers. “Getting Grandma’s old boyfriend and a celebrity to show up at the reunion. Wow!”
“But I told you, I had nothing to do with it!”
“Tru’s right. I invited Jeff to come,” Naomi says, straightening her sash. “But now I’ve changed my mind. I’m sorry you had to drive from the airport through all that horrible Midtown tunnel traffic. But I’m glad you have another woman friend to keep you company,” Naomi says as if the iconic pop star is just “another woman friend.” And Naomi didn’t have something more in mind than a three-minute hello when she hauled Jeff here from Hawaii.
“Naomi?” Jeff pleads.
“The man flew five thousand miles, Mom. The least you can do is say a civil hello.”
“A civil hello,” Naomi parrots.
“Mom, turn around.”
“No,” Naomi barks. She straightens her shoulders and turns around. Then she follows the spotlight through the darkened room as if it’s the North Star to make her way back to the line of Miss Subways.
“I’m sorry, Jeff. You know how stubborn my mother is,” I apologize.
“Me too, Jeff. Do you think I laid it on a little too thick?” Cher asks. She turns toward us. “Jeff used to be my manager, back in the day. He’s the one who convinced me to record my comeback record, Believe. I’d do anything for him! Although I told him all along I didn’t think this was a very good plan. Send a woman a Ferrari and tell her you love her. That’s what always works with me.”
“Jeff, you have to stop trying to make people jealous!” Peter chuckles.
“But it worked for you and Tru. Look at how happy the two of you are! I’d like to think I can take just a little credit for your reconciliation.” And I’d like to think I can take just a little credit for world peace. Which I suppose I can since Peter and I have stopped fighting. Though our détente was despite Jeff, not because of him.
“This isn’t about Grandma being jealous,” Paige says. She cranes her head to spot her grandmother in the pageant line and as the Miss Subways make another circle around the room past us, Paige pulls Naomi out of the procession. For the second time in practically as many minutes.
“What is it with you people?” Naomi yelps.
“Sorry, Grandma. Glam-ma. It’s just that this is so romantic.” Paige tries tugging Naomi’s hand toward Jeff’s, but Naomi wiggles free of her clutches.
“Paige, stop it, everybody stop it! This man is a stranger, I don’t know what I was thinking telling him he could come here! I haven’t seen him in a hundred years. I don’t know anything about him!”
A Cheshire cat smile crosses Paige’s face, as if she’s the older, wiser family member, instead of Naomi. “But Grandma, you know everything about him. You said that men tell women all we need to know about them in the first hour. It’s just that we women have to listen,” Paige says smugly. “Listen to your heart, Grandma. Don’t be like Newland Archer.”
“Newland Archer?” I say bumping into Peter and nearly spilling my drink.
“Don’t be so shocked, Mom, I watch old movies. Newland Archer, from The Age of Innocence? He was in love with Michelle Pfeiffer for his whole life. But when they were old and he had a chance to see her, he didn’t. He was afraid the reality wouldn’t be as good as their memories. Don’t be afraid, Grandma.”
“You have a smart granddaughter,” says Jeff.
Naomi smiles. “You’re a chip off the old block, bubbala,” she says, leaning in to give Paige a hug. Then she beckons for Molly and me to join them. “I have two gorgeous, smart granddaughters. And a very gorgeous smart daughter,” she says squeezing my shoulder. Then my mother steps forward and plants a kiss on Jeff Whitman’s cheek. “The Finklestein women aren’t afraid of anything!” Naomi says boldly. “Now, does anybody mind if I enjoy the next few minutes parading around this damned restaurant?”
Jeff taps his finger on the spot of the kiss that he’s been waiting for for fifty years. “But Naomi, does this mean …”
“It means that we’ll talk, I’m not promising anything,” Naomi says with a grin. A grin that despite her words seems to be filled with promise.
“Your mother’s a spitfire.” Jeff laughs. “And she’s still a stunning woman.”
“That she is,” I agree. But she’s also a great deal more. So much of not only Naomi’s life but mine was shaped by the fact that she was beautiful. It’s ironic that at an age when her natural beauty is fading, Naomi’s inner beauty is taking root. Maybe the Bikram yoga sweat away all of her demons. Or maybe my mother’s heart attack is responsible for her change of heart—if something like that can’t shake you into letting go of past disappointments and making the most of the years ahead, what can? And from the looks of it, Naomi’s going to make the very most of these upcoming years.
Peter comes over to stand behind me with his hands resting comfortably on my shoulders. He juts his chin in the direction of Sienna and Bill. Bill, who’s standing awkwardly with hands stuffed in his pockets, is stealing glances at Sienna. And Sienna, who’s fiddling with the neckline of her off-the-shoulder dress, is looking back. It’s just that their eyes never meet. “One down, two to go. Think you can sprinkle some fairy dust over them?” my husband asks.
Determinedly, I walk over to face my two best friends. “Okay, now what about you two?” I scold. “I know that neither one of you has ever been in a long-term relationship before so you’re fairly lame about what you need to do to get back together. But let’s do this, people!” I say in a take-charge tone. One of the things about running the agency is that it taught me that you can get a lot more accomplished if you tell people exactly what you want them to do. “On the count of one, two, three …”
My efforts are met with the sounds of silence. “Again!” I say even more forcefully. “One, two, three …”
“I’m sorry,” Sienna says, so softly that I practically have to read her lips to be sure of her words.
“I’m sorry,” Bill tells his shoes.
“Geez, you guys!” Molly says.
“Bill,” I say, planting myself nose-to-nose with my ex-partner. “Sienna loves you, she wants you, she needs you. And I know that you want her, too. She’s strong-willed and passionate; I know that can make her hard to live with. But that’s probably what makes her hard to live without, too.”
Sienna takes a step closer to Bill. “Can’t live with me, can’t live without me. Quite a dilemma, huh?”
Bill shakes his head. “Not so bad.” He reaches for Sienna’s hands and gently kisses her fingertips. “At least we never want to kill each other.”
“Well, sometimes I want to kill you, when you toss your jacket over the living room chair, or …”
“Ssh,” Bill says, wrapping his arms around her.
“And I want to kill you when you say ‘Ssh,’ ” Sienna starts to say, and then she laughs. “Bill, I love you.”
“I love you too, Sienna. I’ve never said that to any other woman.”
“And I’ve never told another man that I want us to spend our whole lives together. I’ve never been willing to share my heart with anyone.…”
“Or your bathroom,” I note.
“Hmm, the bathroom …” Sienna smiles. “Why don’t we start with my letting Bill leave a dish in the sink every now and then, and see where we go from there.”
Bill gathers Sienna in his arms and pulls her close for a kiss. “Sienna, you’re my, you’re my everything!” Bill says, unable to find a word large or important enough to encompass everything that he’s feeling.
“And you’re my Javan Rhino.” Sienna giggles.
“She’ll explain later,” Peter leans in toward Bill to whisper. “Trust me, it’s a good thing.”
PETER ENCIRCLES ME in his arms. “You really are pretty good at this matchmaking stuff.”
“I am, aren’t I?” I say contentedly, snuggling against Peter. Then excitedly, I turn around. “Don’t think this is crazy, listen to the whole idea … but what if I started a matchmaking business? A real matchmaking business, pairing people together to help them find love,” I say, making an important distinction between this new idea and my last venture.
“You know, you really don’t have to work anymore; BUBB is starting to pull in the big bucks and …” Peter pauses and shakes his head. “I think that would be a swell idea, honey. And I think you’d be good at it. I even have the perfect name, Tru Love! I guess if we can’t open a diner just to call it ‘Tru Grits,’ this is the next best thing.”
“Tru Love,” I say, rolling the words around in my mouth. “It’s destiny! Finally, I understand why the universe allowed Naomi to name me Truman.”
“Are you and Daddy making word plays with your name again?” Molly says, as she and Paige walk over and catch the last part of our conversation. “I thought you were going to come up with a perfume and name it ‘Tru Romance’?”
“That was just a pipe dream.” I laugh. “But I think I can really do this. I can’t give people romance in a bottle. But I can help introduce them to the love of their lives.”
“Oh groan, Mom. Just promise you won’t have a teenage division, okay?” Paige teases.
“I promise.” I laugh. “Besides, your dad and I aren’t planning on letting you date again until you’re thirty-six.”
“How about thirty-two?” Molly smiles.
“We’ll talk.”
“Tru, that could be perfect!” Sienna yelps. And then realizing what she’s said, she backtracks. “I mean it could be very, very good.”
Cher cocks an eyebrow.
“My mom has this thing about not tempting the fates. If you say something’s perfect, it’s sure to go to shit,” Paige explains. “I mean, it will turn bad.”
“Perfect. Very, very good. Ladies, I told you, we make our own luck! I’m living proof!” Cher hoots. “My career’s been up and down more times than Kirstie Alley’s weight. But at the end of the day I’ve sold more than one hundred million records. I’m the oldest artist to have ever had a hit record in the Hot One Hundred. And I’ve never been happier. If you really want something you can figure out how to make it happen. And oops,” Cher says, looking at her watch and blowing us all air kisses. “What I need to make happen right now is not missing my plane.” She loops her arm through Jeff’s. “Tell Naomi I’ll sing at the wedding. Hell, I’ll sing at your wedding, too,” she says, waving toward Sienna. Jeff helps Cher make her way past her adoring fans and then he finds Naomi. From a few feet away I see him gazing at my mother with that goofy, cockeyed look of a man who wonders how he got so lucky.
“If Naomi’s ever worried about staying young, all she has to do is catch her reflection in Jeff’s eyes,” I say.
Peter smiles and turns my head toward his. “You could say the same. We didn’t meet when we were sixteen, but you were my first love, too,” he murmurs. “Looks like a happy ending.”
“More like a new beginning, for everybody,” I say, leaning into Peter’s body and interlacing my fingers with his. “I’m glad they’re getting a second chance.”
“I’m glad we’re getting a second chance,” Peter says, kissing me, and discreetly moving his lips down my bare shoulder.
A tingle goes through my body, the familiar yet new tingle that pleasures me, comforts me, and still surprises me after all of these years. “Hey, mister, when we get home there’s been something I’ve been meaning to show you,” I say, remembering the musical toy I bought all those weeks ago on my shopping expedition with the girls from the Veronica Agency. “Think you can dig up a recording of The William Tell Overture?”
Across the room, in a corner, Bill and Sienna are can’t take their eyes—or their hands—off each other. Over by the chocolate fountain, Paige is sweet-talking a waiter into giving her extra strawberries and Molly seems to be flirting with a cute boy I’m guessing is somebody’s grandson. There’s another raucous round of hooting and clapping as the Miss Subways take a final bow. Then, just as the band is reaching a last crescendo, I hear the unmistakable crash of thunder.
“Rain is lucky, at least at a wedding,” I say, looking up at Peter. “The last time I tried to convince myself that bad weather was a good omen was the night of the global warming benefit. And we all know how that turned out.”
“Not so badly,” Peter says, wrapping his arms around me.
“If you really want something you can make it happen.” I laugh, repeating Cher’s words, which I’ve vowed to make my new motto. We make our own choices. We chart our own course. We make our own fate. Then, just as Peter’s about to kiss me, I finger the turquoise scarab necklace that Sienna gave me the night of that other, fateful party. Because I’d have to be a complete idiot not to realize that right now, at this very moment, I’m the luckiest girl in the world.