half after we married that you finally told me you loved me.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “I automatically thought that I was your first love. The running joke was that you were a playboy and playboys don’t fall in love. So yeah, I had no idea that you had actually loved someone before me.”
“Why would I tell you about another woman, Winnie?”
“Because it would have been the courteous thing to do. You loving another woman before me made all the difference in our marriage. I would have never married you had I known that I wasn’t the first woman you fell in love with.”
“What are you talking about?” I see now that she’s holding a cup of coffee in her hands. She takes a sip as she continues to look out of the window. This is Winnie for you, standing in front of floor-to-ceiling windows with the curtains drawn back, every light in the house out, alone drinking coffee. She’s the most ruminating woman I’ve ever met. I went from Jasmine, a debutant and Miss Black Massachusetts—a woman who could see a ray of hope in the devil himself—to Winnie, a woman who often finds comfort brooding in the darkness of an empty home. It drives me crazy. “Winnie,” I say when I can take no more of her silence. “What are you talking about?”
“My mother always, and I means always, has to have a grand walk-in closet in her home. She calls it her chambre , like those Renaissance French women would have. Inside is a bureau, a chaise, a vanity set …” She gives a small laugh. “When I was younger, she kept a small shoebox in her closet, off to the side. In it she had trinkets from high school, corsages from proms, letters from friends and pictures of her first love in it. She never put those pictures of the two of them in photo albums; she always kept them apart from the rest. Everyone in the family knew that this was her high school box, my dad included. It was hardly a big deal. Sometimes I’d go in her closet while she was dressing for a dinner with my dad and I’d sit on the floor looking through the shoe box. I’d ask her the same questions every time I held a picture up: ‘Who is this? What were you doing? What happened that night?’ She’d answer with a smile, always happy that she was able to recall her past and tell its stories, though it was always evident that she loved my father.
“One night, when my dad was stationed in Italy, my parents were on the verandah having a date night, just the two of them. My brothers and I were all supposed to be asleep but I snuck out of my room to see what my parents were up to. They were laughing, as usual. I overheard my mother talking about her ‘glory days’ and my dad saying she was ‘full of it’. They laughed again. Eventually she said she’d prove she was once a size two and she left the verandah and came into the house. I hid on the side of the couch. She came back seconds later with her shoebox, then she opened the box and pulled pictures out. They started talking and laughing again. She showed him a picture of her first love. My father had already seen this picture before of course. He said that my mother had ‘dodged a bullet’ by marrying him. My mother said that my dad dodged a bullet marrying her instead of Martina. I had never heard of Martina but I gathered that it was my dad’s first love.
“Anyway, they talked and drank and laughed for so long that I eventually walked back to my room and went to bed. The night was uneventful.” She takes another sip of her coffee. “It was uneventful because my mom and dad had each fallen for their first love and then they each decided to love each other. They love each other on equal playing fields. Up until five years ago, I thought that was how you and I loved each other. I thought that we were forced to marry but eventually we fell in
“Why would I tell you about another woman, Winnie?”
“Because it would have been the courteous thing to do. You loving another woman before me made all the difference in our marriage. I would have never married you had I known that I wasn’t the first woman you fell in love with.”
“What are you talking about?” I see now that she’s holding a cup of coffee in her hands. She takes a sip as she continues to look out of the window. This is Winnie for you, standing in front of floor-to-ceiling windows with the curtains drawn back, every light in the house out, alone drinking coffee. She’s the most ruminating woman I’ve ever met. I went from Jasmine, a debutant and Miss Black Massachusetts—a woman who could see a ray of hope in the devil himself—to Winnie, a woman who often finds comfort brooding in the darkness of an empty home. It drives me crazy. “Winnie,” I say when I can take no more of her silence. “What are you talking about?”
“My mother always, and I means always, has to have a grand walk-in closet in her home. She calls it her chambre , like those Renaissance French women would have. Inside is a bureau, a chaise, a vanity set …” She gives a small laugh. “When I was younger, she kept a small shoebox in her closet, off to the side. In it she had trinkets from high school, corsages from proms, letters from friends and pictures of her first love in it. She never put those pictures of the two of them in photo albums; she always kept them apart from the rest. Everyone in the family knew that this was her high school box, my dad included. It was hardly a big deal. Sometimes I’d go in her closet while she was dressing for a dinner with my dad and I’d sit on the floor looking through the shoe box. I’d ask her the same questions every time I held a picture up: ‘Who is this? What were you doing? What happened that night?’ She’d answer with a smile, always happy that she was able to recall her past and tell its stories, though it was always evident that she loved my father.
“One night, when my dad was stationed in Italy, my parents were on the verandah having a date night, just the two of them. My brothers and I were all supposed to be asleep but I snuck out of my room to see what my parents were up to. They were laughing, as usual. I overheard my mother talking about her ‘glory days’ and my dad saying she was ‘full of it’. They laughed again. Eventually she said she’d prove she was once a size two and she left the verandah and came into the house. I hid on the side of the couch. She came back seconds later with her shoebox, then she opened the box and pulled pictures out. They started talking and laughing again. She showed him a picture of her first love. My father had already seen this picture before of course. He said that my mother had ‘dodged a bullet’ by marrying him. My mother said that my dad dodged a bullet marrying her instead of Martina. I had never heard of Martina but I gathered that it was my dad’s first love.
“Anyway, they talked and drank and laughed for so long that I eventually walked back to my room and went to bed. The night was uneventful.” She takes another sip of her coffee. “It was uneventful because my mom and dad had each fallen for their first love and then they each decided to love each other. They love each other on equal playing fields. Up until five years ago, I thought that was how you and I loved each other. I thought that we were forced to marry but eventually we fell in
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