Page 2 of Supernova

“Francesca Maria Lombardi,” Ed said, looking up into her face from where he knelt on the cold cement of the sidewalk. Behind him, the ice skaters still looped around the rink, the lights of the giant tree of Rockefeller Center twinkled with bright colors, and the sounds of Christmas carols played over the rink’s loudspeakers. “Frankie, I love you with all my heart. Nothing you’ve told me—nothing you could tell me—would change my mind. I want you to be my wife.” He stopped and watched as Frankie’s eyes filled with tears yet again. “I want to be your rock. Your protector. Your best friend. Your biggest fan. I want to be your husband. Will you let me?”

Frankie put both gloved hands over her mouth as her eyes went wide. This was not what she’d expected—not at all. It was more than she could have ever hoped for from any man, much less a man as sweet and kind as Ed Maxwell. She'd known plenty of duds in her life, and Ed wasn't one of them.

“You…want to marry me?” Her cheeks were bright red with joy and surprise, and people had stopped skating inside the rink just to watch. A small crowd was gathering, expectant faces framed by woolen hats and scarves as they held onto the low wall and watched the handsome, clean-cut man down on one knee proposing to the extremely glamorous brunette with her mink collar.

“I do,” Ed said firmly. “What do you say?”

Frankie let her hands fall to her sides as she began to nod vigorously, tears streaming down her smooth cheeks. “Yes,” she said, her voice going up an octave with each ensuing word. “Yes, yes, yes!”

Hoots of joy, applause, and shouts of “Nice work, buddy!” rang out from the rink as the bystanders cheered them on.

But Frankie and Ed heard none of it. The rest of the world ceased to exist as he stood up, pulling her close.

Frankie had said yes, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.

ONE

december 1963

FRANKIE

Frankie Maxwell standsbefore her pink-flocked Christmas tree with an unlit cigarette in one hand and a clear glass ornament in the other. Elvis is singing “Santa Claus is Back in Town” on the radio that sits on her windowsill, and she’s wearing a sunny yellow halter top and matching shorts. Her feet are bare, and her nails are polished a festive holiday red.

“Coming!” Frankie shouts when the doorbell chimes. She throws open the door to find Jo Booker standing there with a covered dish in both hands. The bright December Florida sunshine spills into her foyer. “Treats for me?” Frankie asks, nodding at the dish.

Jo frowns, ignoring her friend’s question as her eyes travel to the cigarette in Frankie’s hand. “I thought you were quitting.”

Frankie steps aside, waving the hand that’s not holding the cigarette. “I’m trying,” she says. “But my hand feels empty without a cigarette in it. Part of the joy of smoking is having something to do with my hands.”

“That’s a crock,” Jo says as she makes a beeline for Frankie’s kitchen. “You’re going to light that as soon as I step into the bathroom, aren't you?”

“Ha!” Frankie follows her, leaning one hip against her own kitchen counter as she watches Jo move around capably. “I haven’t had a cigarette in two days, Joey-girl. So there.”

“Okay, I’ll lay off,” Jo says. "After all, you do share them with me on our walks, so I can't be too judgmental." She sets her covered dish on the counter and takes off the Saran wrap. “I brought double-chocolate brownies.”

“So we’re not watching our waistlines then?”

“You don’t need to. None of the girls do.” Jo looks Frankie up and down. “Honey, the other ladies will be here in less than an hour. Are you getting dressed, or is this a pool party?”

Frankie’s hand flies to her head, where her pink plastic Spoolies hair curlers are still working their magic. “I guess I should finish getting ready, huh?”

Jo shoos her away with one hand and walks over to the nearly naked tree with its boxes of ornaments resting in tissue paper all over the carpeted floor. She rests her hands on both hips and surveys the half-decorated room. “Are you sure you want to do this with us and not with Ed?” Jo says, turning to Frankie. “I’m always happy to help, but it seems wrong to decorate the tree if he wants to help?—“

“He’s fine!” Frankie assures her. “Trust me. I make him un-decorate the house on New Year’s Day every year, and that’s enough futzing with ornaments for him.”

When Frankie emerges from the master bedroom ten minutes later, it's with her dark hair long and waving over both shoulders. She’s traded in the shorts and halter top for a white dress with big red dots all over it, and on her feet she’s wearing shiny red patent leather flats.She does a twirl for Jo.

“Better?” Frankie looks at Jo for approval.

“Much. Not that you don’t look lovely in shorts and curlers, but I think you’ll be happier to have your hostess face on, won’t you?”

Frankie gives Jo a look. “Yes, Mom,” she says, cracking a smile. “Now, let’s make the punch so we can pour drinks when the other girls arrive.”

By the time the doorbell starts to ring and Frankie opens it to let Barbie, Jude, and Carrie in with their covered potluck dishes in hand, they have a pink vodka party punch mixed up and ready to serve. The buffet that runs along one wall of the living room is soon covered in brownies, a giant cheeseball with crackers, bacon cheddar deviled eggs, peanut butter and pimento cheese stuffed celery sticks, and slow cooker cocktail smokies. Eartha Kitt is singing “Santa Baby” on the record that Jo put on, and Frankie has erected the card table and folding chairs at one end of the living room.

“Are you ready for me to wipe the floors with you, girls?” Barbie asks, rubbing both hands together with a gleam in her eye.

Jo laughs. “I had no idea you were this competitive.”

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