I was lucky enough to go on a book tour with her twice. We had so much fun we couldn’t believe we were getting paid to be together! I got to see her in her groove. Talking to packed theaters, libraries, schools, bookstores where the masses would come to hear her talk. If you have ever seen my mom speak, then you know it was a little like stand-up comedy, but then she would open her heart and read a passage from one of the books she had written, and it was like looking into her soul. She connected with her readers because she wasn’t afraid to go deep. She could make you laugh and cry and also give you something to think about. Her stories were sad and heartwarming but they were also funny. Humor, my momma always taught me, is the sharpest tool in one’s toolbox. You can say anything, if you make them laugh.
Maybe that’s what I miss the most, making her laugh. Every single day we talked . . . usually a few times . . . and emailed, texted, etc. I would try to make her laugh. Whenever I did it was like hearing a love song. Her laughter was approval. She would say, “Oh, Victoria, you’re so crazy. I love you girl” and my day would be made.
I MISS MY FRIEND. I miss my soul mate. I miss the moon to my tide. I was lost at first, but then I remembered she gave me everything I needed to dig deeper, to try harder, and to never forget to create magic. She gave me hope, and faith in myself and my ability to go on. I am not lost. I am very grounded. My children will always know her, she will never be forgotten. My wonderful, magical Momma.
Right before she got sick, she attended her high school reunion, and was going to write a book about her memories, her friendships, and the women she knew when they were girls. Instead, now we women, her friends and fellow storytellers, have all come together in a reunion, to write about my momma, and how she created inspirational magic in their lives. I hope you read these memories and stories inspired by the great and wonderful Dorothea Benton Frank. If there was one thing my mom inspired and encouraged it was the power of women coming together, and especially to share stories.
Bridesmaids
Patti Callahan
1
The Answer
Lachlan was waiting for an answer. Beatrice’s answer.
And she didn’t have one.
The lemon-light of the restaurant’s overhead chandeliers fell onto the linen-covered tablecloth in shaded patterns, imitating branches of a naked tree. Beatrice stared at that pattern because she couldn’t look Lachlan in the eye, her mind scrambling for the right words.
As if there were right words.
“Beatrice.” Lachlan said her name softly, and she finally lifted her gaze to his. “Are you here?”
“I am. I just don’t know what to say.”
“It’s simple,” he said.
“And complicated,” she said.
They, by all rights, looked exactly like who they were: a middle-aged and quite beautiful couple in love at a fine restaurant—the Olde Pink House on Abercorn in the heart of Savannah, Georgia. Soft music played in the background from a piano player in the far corner by the fireplace. Lachlan, in his fifties, silver at his temple with tortoiseshell glasses reflecting the candles. Beatrice, with her thick chestnut hair tied in a low bun at the nape of her neck, her hands clasped in her lap.
“It’s not that complicated,” he said, his voice tightening. “It’s a yes or a no. Really, that’s all it is.”
She held his gaze; his beautiful gaze she had come to love so much—the green eyes rimmed in blue, almond shaped with thick black eyelashes; usually gentle and teasing at the same time. But now serious.
He was right; it wasn’t that complicated.
For the second time within a single minute, he lifted the blue velvet box for her to see. It was open and inside rested a two-carat solitaire round diamond surrounded by sapphires, her birthstone. Lachlan didn’t miss a beat. He never had and probably never would. He loved her as deeply as she could dare ask. And she loved him. His shoulders a shelf for her to rest upon; his laugh a symphony, and his voice deep enough to make people turn when he spoke. Yet he wasn’t a pushover—this ask, for the second time, was as good as his heart exposed.
But marriage? My God. Not again. The first had lasted fifteen years; years that Beatrice had believed were true and real, but that marriage had been over for ten years now. Why would she do that again?
“Will you, Beatrice, marry me? Yes or no.”
Other patrons of the candlelit restaurant were beginning to stare, whisper quietly, maybe prepare to clap in an outburst when she assented.
How easy it would be to say yes. But the word stuck in her throat, or somewhere even deeper than her throat for that matter. She leaned across the table and placed her hand over the box, shut it, and held his hand under hers. Annoyance rose like smoke—why did he have to do this in public where it would now shame them both? But she wouldn’t show irritation; he was trying to be romantic.
“Lachlan, I don’t want to say no. It’s the wrong answer. But I can’t say yes either. I don’t know why. I beg you to understand.”
“I think I understand.” He stood and his face burned red with embarrassment. She wanted to fix it for him, to say yes and get it over with, to lessen his despair.
He turned and walked out of the restaurant, deliberately, with wide strides, his long legs taking him to the door within seconds. He was a proud man, and there was no way he would sit there in humiliation—he’d left his full champagne glass on the table, yet had taken the velvet box, tucked it in his pocket. The hushed voices around Beatrice
