A Good Day

    A Good Day
 “If all I did in a day was watch the sunset, I’d call it a good day,” Derek says. I smile.  Although I feel exactly the same way he does, I would never ever openly admit.  Yet he did and I like him a little bit more.  We’re sitting outside on the villa’s southern terrace with our feet on the railing, glasses of wine in our hands.  The sun’s last rays are painting gorgeous pink and orange streaks across the vast expanse of sky in front of us.  This is my second Thanksgiving here in this villa.  Last year Jon and I came with three other couples and their kids.  This year we’re here with three of our four kids and their significant others.  Only Rose is not here.
Derek had jumped at our invite to spend Thanksgiving in Italy.  “Positano!  That’s on the top of my list of places to see,” he immediately told Lindsay, our 31-year-old daughter. “We’re in!” He and Lindsay have been living together for three years.  Last Christmas she gave him the ultimatum: propose by New Year’s Eve 2009, their five year anniversary, or she would propose to him.  He had made it clear, however, that he didn’t want her to propose; he wanted to be the one to pop the question. 
As each major, minor, or non-existent holiday passes with no news on the engagement front, we have given up speculating on when--or even if, it is going to happen.  Certainly we are no longer holding our breaths.  We only know it’s definitely not going to happen here in Positano where the whole family can gawk at them.  If there is one thing Derek hates, it’s being the center of attention.
Ever since September, however, our younger daughter Rose keeps reminding her dad to notice Derek if he should come anywhere within a fifty-foot radius of him.  “Dad, maybe Derek wants to ask your permission to marry Lindsay.”  Rose knows that letting go of his girls isn’t easy for him to do.  Sometimes it can take two years before he remembers the name of a boyfriend. 
Thanksgiving was gorgeous—so warm the kids swam in the sea.  The whole time we’ve been here the weather has been more like summer than early winter.  But today, our last day, we awake to heavy rains and winds.  Tomorrow morning we head to Naples to drop off Mark and Cindy at the airport.  From there they fly back to NYC.  The rest of us will continue on to Rome where Derek and Lindsay will spend a couple of days before heading back to San Francisco. John, Andy and I fly on to London.  However, that’s tomorrow.  Right now with heavy rain falling outside, we make ourselves comfortable in the living room reading, writing, talking.  I hang the boys’ jackets which reek of smoke over some chairs.  They must have had a good time last night drinking and smoking in the garden. 
By noon everyone is up but Derek.  “He’s not feeling well,” Lindsay tells us.  “He just wants to stay in bed and rest.”
“Cuban Night too much for him?” laughs 23-year-old Andy.
“How late did you guys stay up anyway?” asks Jon.
“Not much past 3 a.m.,” Our older son Mark grins.  “Was it the whiskey or the Cuban cigars that did him in?  Or both?”
Finally around 3 p.m. Derek, not looking good at all, makes his appearance.  Turning down all offers of something to eat or drink, he sits down quietly by Lindsay.
“Are you ready for Rome tomorrow, Derek?” Lindsay asks him. 
“Should be by tomorrow,” he responds weakly.  “Yah, Cuban Night was great!”
“You guys just want to skip Rome and come to London with us instead,” asks Jon, looking up from his computer.  “If there are seats available, we could try to change your tickets.”
Lindsay and Derek look at each other and immediately answer, “Sounds good!  Better than strapping on backpacks and trapping around Rome.  Yah, London it is.” 
”Ok,” says Jon.  Within ten minutes he looks over at the kids, “Done.  You two are now on our flight  tomorrow to London.”
“Great, Dad!  Thanks!” says Lindsay.  Derek, too, seems pleased. 
“”Do you want to go for a walk, Lindsay, say just a short one?  Maybe a bit of fresh air will do me good.”
“Sure, if you think you’re up to it.”  Getting their coats and umbrellas, they head out. 
Jon and I decide to do some grocery shopping.  The pasta here is so inexpensive compared to London that we’ve brought a spare suitcase to fill up with Italian cheese, pasta and biscuits.  We hop in the van and head towards Positano. 
It’s dark by the time we’re done.  Driving back along the curvy road which clings to the side of the steep hill, we keep looking for Derek and Lindsay.  It should be easy to spot them as the road is so narrow. But we don’t see anyone out walking.
The other kids are still sprawled about the living room when we get home.   I empty the groceries into the suitcase and then pick up my book to read.  John goes to the computer.  “Has anyone checked in yet for tomorrow’s flights?” he asks.  No one has.
About ten minutes later in walk two very damp kids.
“We kept looking for you.  Where were you? ” I ask.
“Yah, we were looking for you guys, too.  When did you get back?” asks Lindsay.
“Just about ten minutes ago.  We should have seen you walking along.”  After a week of being together non-stop, this missing-them-along-the-road topic is fodder for a good fifteen minute conversation.
 “Andy, I’m checking you in.  Do you want aisle or window?” asks Jon.
“Aisle.  Thanks, Dad.”
“Did you see us pass you by?”
“No, I didn’t.  I didn’t see any car that looked like you.”
“Strange.”   
“OK, Andy.  You’re checked in.  Mark, what about you?  Aisle or window?”
“Window.  Thanks.”
For some reason I look up.  Lindsay is sitting at the dining room table across from Jon.  She’s turned towards me with her left hand lying palm down on her chest.  She looks bashful yet she’s beaming.  I do a double-take and see the ring.  Oh my gosh, it happened.
I jump up and run over to hug her.  Halfway through the hug I think I should be hugging Derek, not Lindsay—he’s the one who finally made the move.  I hug him--hard.  Everyone (almost) realizes what is going on and rushes over, too, hugging Lindsay, hugging Derek.  Everyone hugging everyone.
“Momma, do you want aisle, too?” Jon still sitted at the table asks me.  What?  I can’t believe this.  John is asking if I want aisle or window?  He’s got to be kidding.  But I look at him.  He’s serious.  Ok.  Yah.
“Yah, aisle,” I say.  He types it in. 
“Oh my gosh, we have no champagne,” I moan.  I always have a bottle champagne in the refrigerator—always.  Now our daughter just got engaged and my refrigerator is a gazillion miles away. 
“How about you, Lindsay?  Aisle or window?”
We all look at one another.  Could this be happening?  Is Jon, the man who can speak to anyone about anything at any time, that out of it?
“Aisle or window?”
“Window,” she says looking around at all of us a bit bewildered.  I’m thinking someone needs to do something here.  Mark realizes it, too.  He rushes into the kitchen, grabs the whiskey, pours out a shot and hands it to Derek.  “Here, Derek! Congratulations!”
Derek dutifully drinks.
“No, we all need something,” yells Andy.  “Limoncello!”
“Right!”  Mark heads for kitchen again to grab the limoncello while Andy brings out seven small liquor glasses.
“Cindy, and you?  Aisle next to MarK?”
She looks at Mark, beseeching him.  “Yah, aisle would be fine.”  
“OK, guys, gather round.  Come on, Jon.  Let’s take a picture.” Jon leaves his computer and comes over to stand with the rest of us.  We hold out our little glasses of limoncello.  The happy couple beams.  “To Lindsay and Derek!” we shout while Cindy takes our photo.
Jon has only himself now to check in.  He hasn’t said a word to either Derek or Lindsay.  Yet for me to say something to him in front of everyone will only make it worse.  I’ll just have to keep ignoring it.
We drink the limoncello.  I’ve never seen Lindsay or Derek so happy.
“We have to call Rose—she’ll die that she isn’t here!”
“But it’s 6 a.m. in Hawaii,” counters Jon.
“Doesn’t matter.  We have to call.” We wake Rose up to tell her the news.
We’ve now hugged, screamed, beamed and qawked for about as long as we can.  What do we do now?  Of course, we play Banagrams.  But first Jon heads to our bedroom.  I follow.
“I can’t believe you kept checking us in!!  Do you know what just happened there?” I explode.
“You shouldn’t be calling Rose, telling everybody,” he answers back.  “We don’t want to put pressure on him.”
“Pressure?  We’re done with pressure!  We’ve moved on!  We’re celebrating!!  They’re engaged!!  Say something to him, to them.  If you don’t, Lindsay will think you’re mad and Derek will think he blew it by not asking you for permission beforehand!”  I storm back into the living room.  My charming, socially suave husband doesn’t even realize he’s blown it.
So we play banagrams.  In between the peels and the splits we hear the story.  He asked her on Positano’s main beach.  He asked her first standing up eye-to-eye, then again on bended knee.  Why now today with all of us around?  Because suddenly their stay in Rome got cancelled and he wanted to propose in Italy.  All at once, Cuban Night or not, he only had now.  The ring in his sock in his suitcase had to come out.







That evening we hop into the van and drive in the rain to find a place to eat.  Being off-season we pass many closed restaurants and only a few open ones.  Eventually Jon pulls over and asks some men walking by if they know of any good restaurants that would be open tonight.  They tell us there is a one near the top of the hill so we keep on driving uphill.  Finally we see its lights, park and go in.  Sitting down at a large table, Jon immediately asks for Blanc de Blanc, my favorite champagne, the one that’s in the refrigerator back home, but, of course, they don’t have it.  Prosecco will have to do.  The waiter pours each of us a glass.  Jon then raises his, looks at Derek and Lindsay and, finally, offers them a gracious toast. 
Jon has done a lot today: bought a suitcase full of pasta, checked everyone in for our flights tomorrow, and toasted our daughter’s engagement.  I wonder if he thinks that is enough to call it a good day.