Page 24 of The Sun and the Moon
Just suggesting you ease up on the vinegar douse
Three blinking dots.
Slowly let the sweetness in
“Should we grab champagne for the table?” Rick asks, breaking us from our covert convo. “This is a celebration.” So earnest.He looks like a male version of his daughter, except for the salt-and-pepper hair. Big, doe-like blue eyes, a downturned mouth, wide, glistening smile that draws you in, strong jaw, and strong presence.
“Wouldn’t you agree, dear?” Rick turns to my mother, the term of endearment hovering in the air like a wasp.
The waiter arrives just in time for her to smile back, wink, and say, “I’ll never turn down some bubbly.”
“A bottle of your finest,” Rick says to the waiter.
“Or maybe just a bubbly that you couldn’t buy at the gas station,” Sydney chimes in. “No need to break the bank on us, Dad.” Clever girl. This is such a good icebreaker, immediately getting the pretense that we can’t discuss money or other more personal topics out of the way. Setting us up to launch our scheme.
“Let him spoil us,” Moira says, looking at Sydney. “Who’s it gonna hurt?”
Sydney’s face doesn’t ever slip from the sanguine expression—that go-with-the-flow energy she is so good at giving off. But I can feel her nerves jolt, an electric current, a Spidey-sense that practically makes the hair on my arm stand at attention.
The waiter looks uncertain until Rick’s face cracks open with a smile, a laugh rumbling in his throat. “Finest champagne it is.”
“And some whipped feta with honey,” Moira adds. “Extra naan.” Her eyes travel to me. “Anything to add, Cadence?”
“You seem to have it covered,” I reply, closing my menu even though I haven’t decided what to order for my entrée. My stomach is a violent storm. I might just stick to liquids. I turn my attention to Rick as my mother’s eyes bore a hole in the side of my face. “Thank you for the champagne, Rick.”
For a second, no one speaks. Whether because this is the mostI’ve said at one time since we’ve all met or because the awkwardness of this situation is finally starting to dawn on the parents and now they aren’t sure how to surmount it so we can enjoy our dinner. I ball my hands into fists against my thighs, letting the short tips of my nails dig into my palms. As a rule, I rarely try to lead conversations in social settings. I’m much more content to ride out the ebbs and flows of empty silences if that means I can keep my input to a minimum.
“Moira, Dad told me you two met on that dating app for the over-fifty crowd,” Sydney says, her voice easy and charming. I’m struck immediately by a bolt of gratitude that I’m not trying to tackle this thing alone, relying on my skills—or lack thereof—of communication.
“Silver Sweethearts,” Rick pipes up, reaching across the tabletop to take Moira’s hand, right between their sets of silver cutlery.
“Silver Sweethearts,” my mother repeats, lifting her free hand to rest it on top of their clasped ones. “Although, I joined through the website—Lola helped me, as you know, Cadence.” She focuses on me. My eyes, my reaction. She’s trying to position us as having communicated about this before, like a normal mother and daughter would.
“I’m sure you didn’t give her a choice.” I’m surprised when the words leave my lips, and even more surprised when she laughs.
“There’s always a choice.” Light flickers in her eyes, brazen. This is exactly what she wants. While I push connection away, Moira runs headlong into it. “But even without Lola’s support,” she continues, “I felt that soul-deep certainty that always accompanies an intuitive hit from the Universe that it was the right thing.” She lets her gaze drift over to Rick’s face. It settles, stays, turning into something almost gentle. All the hard lines, thosesharp cheekbones, her piercing eyes—all tender. For a second she looks more like me than ever before. “And look at us, within a day Rick had sent me a nudge.”
“And she had messaged me to get a cup of coffee.”
The waiter reappears with a bottle of Bollinger, hitting the pause button on the rest of the story as he makes a big show of removing the metal cap on top of the cork.
“Shall I do the honors?” he asks Rick. His teeth gleam. “Or would you prefer to take the reins?” He lifts his brows in question. Rick releases my mother’s hand to raise both of his in the air, waving them dramatically in surrender.
“I couldn’t, I couldn’t. You’re the expert,” he says, flashing a smile that’s somehow even more charming than the young waiter’s. Something tells me Rick very muchcouldand probablywouldfind some way to make it magical if he did. But he’s letting the waiter do his thing—not trying to steal the show—and I can’t help but feel a surge of respect that he is.
The waiter positions his thumb at the rim to pop it open, then works it slowly from the confines of the glass until it slips free without bubbling over.
“Bravo!” Moira chimes in. “Didn’t waste a drop.”
Historically, my mother is a red wine drinker almost exclusively. I’ve never known her to do bubbles or whites, and as a rule, sweet is always out.
“Is it spilling or just toasting with an empty glass that’s considered bad luck?” Rick asks, taking a glass from the waiter’s hand and passing it over to Moira.
“Bad luck isn’t real.” The words, said in unison with my mother, create a harmony of her deeper tones with my brighter ones.
“You don’t think so?” Rick asks as the waiter passes another glass to me. I follow Rick’s lead and hand it to Sydney. Our eyes meet briefly as our fingertips touch.
I seal my lips, happy to let Moira chime in first. She was the one who taught me that the events of your life aren’t determined by luck.
