repeatedly, unsuccessfully, to be more than a friend, but Drew had explained to him why it was impossible. For anything more than friendship—for real romance, passionate love—she would have to feel something very strong, strong enough for her to want to try again. And that wasn’t anything she felt about Stephen.
The telephone rang, and Drew gave a start. She considered not answering, then supposed it might be Stephen.
It was her mother. Drew’s heart sank slightly. “Any good news?” her mother always asked, her tone more dubious as time went on. And though Drew knew her mother worried about her—with her poorly paid job and stubbornly unmarried life—she knew too thatsome of that worry came simply from wanting her to succeed in some clearly measurable way. Drew’s promotion to associate director had taken care of that for a bit. Now, feeling the relief of having something more to offer, she prepared to tell her mother about her progress on the Revskaya project.
Instead her mother said something completely unexpected. “Where did you put it?”
Drew took a long, tense breath, and reminded herself that someone else, someone not directly involved, might find all of this curious and perhaps even amusing. “It” was a photograph, a large, professional—if candid—one, from nine years ago, of Drew on her wedding day.
“It’s just such a beautiful picture of you,” her mother had said, when Drew first noticed it still there on the bookshelf in the family room a year or so after her divorce. The sky behind her a perfect Wedgwood blue, Drew looked even younger than twenty-three, her cheeks full, the bright sun on her face revealing not a wrinkle. Drew’s mother’s face, when she gazed at the portrait, seemed itself to change. Though Drew had asked her once, years ago, to please remove the picture, it remained downstairs, in the big heavy crystal frame that had been a year-end gift from her father’s company.
Funny, really, how people seized on things, things that others might not think twice about. Clearly the photograph meant more to her mother than Drew could understand. Drew had tried to remove herself from the equation, to see simply what that gown and veil represented, something so different from her parents’ brief appointment with a justice of the peace and two friends as witnesses, followed by slices of cake at a tea shop. Even Grandma Riitta had never had a proper wedding; as for her first husband—Drew’s grandfather—Riitta had never legally married him.
But this past Christmas, spending four days with her parents, Drew had decided to put an end to the photograph once and for all.Her decision was nothing premeditated. It had to do with that heavy cloud of guilt that seemed at last to be shifting away. Drew had removed the picture from the frame and, unable, in the end, to discard it, hid it upstairs at the bottom of one of the drawers in her old room. Then she decided that she never wanted to see the big crystal frame again, either, and moved it too upstairs into the drawer.
“You just noticed now?”
“I’m hurt, Drew. You know how much I love that picture.”
“Because you love the person in that photo more than you like me.” It was nothing she had ever thought quite so clearly, but as she said it, she realized it was true.
“That’s a horrible thing to say! Would you say that about your baby photos? I keep those too.” Two of them were on that same bookshelf, next to a photograph of her parents cycling through Lyon.
“My baby photos mean something. But the one of me in my dress—”
“I love it because you look happy!”
“Because you were happy, when you thought you could be proud of me.” If she thought it would make a difference, Drew would have tried to explain that she too still felt that loss, not just of a husband, not just of love, and of a place, a way, to direct that love, but even of her in-laws, whom she had also loved and continued, if in fewer and
The telephone rang, and Drew gave a start. She considered not answering, then supposed it might be Stephen.
It was her mother. Drew’s heart sank slightly. “Any good news?” her mother always asked, her tone more dubious as time went on. And though Drew knew her mother worried about her—with her poorly paid job and stubbornly unmarried life—she knew too thatsome of that worry came simply from wanting her to succeed in some clearly measurable way. Drew’s promotion to associate director had taken care of that for a bit. Now, feeling the relief of having something more to offer, she prepared to tell her mother about her progress on the Revskaya project.
Instead her mother said something completely unexpected. “Where did you put it?”
Drew took a long, tense breath, and reminded herself that someone else, someone not directly involved, might find all of this curious and perhaps even amusing. “It” was a photograph, a large, professional—if candid—one, from nine years ago, of Drew on her wedding day.
“It’s just such a beautiful picture of you,” her mother had said, when Drew first noticed it still there on the bookshelf in the family room a year or so after her divorce. The sky behind her a perfect Wedgwood blue, Drew looked even younger than twenty-three, her cheeks full, the bright sun on her face revealing not a wrinkle. Drew’s mother’s face, when she gazed at the portrait, seemed itself to change. Though Drew had asked her once, years ago, to please remove the picture, it remained downstairs, in the big heavy crystal frame that had been a year-end gift from her father’s company.
Funny, really, how people seized on things, things that others might not think twice about. Clearly the photograph meant more to her mother than Drew could understand. Drew had tried to remove herself from the equation, to see simply what that gown and veil represented, something so different from her parents’ brief appointment with a justice of the peace and two friends as witnesses, followed by slices of cake at a tea shop. Even Grandma Riitta had never had a proper wedding; as for her first husband—Drew’s grandfather—Riitta had never legally married him.
But this past Christmas, spending four days with her parents, Drew had decided to put an end to the photograph once and for all.Her decision was nothing premeditated. It had to do with that heavy cloud of guilt that seemed at last to be shifting away. Drew had removed the picture from the frame and, unable, in the end, to discard it, hid it upstairs at the bottom of one of the drawers in her old room. Then she decided that she never wanted to see the big crystal frame again, either, and moved it too upstairs into the drawer.
“You just noticed now?”
“I’m hurt, Drew. You know how much I love that picture.”
“Because you love the person in that photo more than you like me.” It was nothing she had ever thought quite so clearly, but as she said it, she realized it was true.
“That’s a horrible thing to say! Would you say that about your baby photos? I keep those too.” Two of them were on that same bookshelf, next to a photograph of her parents cycling through Lyon.
“My baby photos mean something. But the one of me in my dress—”
“I love it because you look happy!”
“Because you were happy, when you thought you could be proud of me.” If she thought it would make a difference, Drew would have tried to explain that she too still felt that loss, not just of a husband, not just of love, and of a place, a way, to direct that love, but even of her in-laws, whom she had also loved and continued, if in fewer and
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