Page 8 of Supernova

“I’m sure you will. My mom cooks more food than the three of us will be able to eat in a year, much less a month, so I’ll make sure to invite you over for lasagna or something.”

“I bet she’s a fabulous cook.” Jo tilts her head to one side. Her hair has been set and is brushed into a soft style that gathers at the nape of her neck. Jo is wearing sparkling diamond studs in each earlobe, and—true to form—a dress that she made herself, though you might not guess just from looking at it. Jo is an amazing seamstress, and in the time that they’ve known one another, Frankie has grown to admire the way Jo can take a pattern and turn it into a dress that looks as if she bought it off the rack.

“She is, and I think they’ll have a good time here. They’ve worked hard for a lot of years, and I want my parents to relax.” Frankie’s brow creases as she thinks of her parents and the lives they’ve led. They are true immigrants who came to this country with nothing but a strong work ethic and a desire to survive and thrive, and they've raised a beautiful family and given their children lives they could have only dreamed of for themselves. “They came to America in 1913, lived through the Great Depression, raised four children on almost nothing, and they deserve to sit in the sun and splash in the ocean now.”

Jo’s eyes search Frankie’s face as she listens. “Where are all your siblings? In New York?’

“My sisters are in New Jersey,” Frankie says, “and my brother is in California.” She smiles as she thinks of her sisters and their kids and husbands; leaving New York had been necessary for Frankie, but leaving her family behind had hit her right in the heart. “It’ll take some adjustment to get used to living under the same roof as my mom and dad again, but it’s just a month. And it’ll give me something to do while Ed is gone.”

“Hey,” Ed says, swooping in and putting an arm around Frankie’s waist. He kisses her lightly on the cheek and she can smell whiskey on his breath. “Can I get a dance with my best girl?”

“Same here,” Bill Booker says, holding out a hand for Jo, just as Arvin North has done to his own wife. The women follow their husbands to the dance floor, where they join the crush of other couples swaying lightly to “(There’s No Place Like) Home For the Holidays.”

“You look stunning,” Ed says for the sixth time since Frankie had emerged from their bedroom dressed for the holiday party. He’s looking deep into her eyes as he holds her hand in his lightly, his other hand resting on the small of her back. “I’m the luckiest guy here tonight.”

Frankie can’t help but be flattered; after all, Ed is her husband, and she knows plenty of women who would kill to have the man they married acknowledge the effort that they put into looking nice.

“Thank you,” Frankie says, not pulling her eyes from his as she smiles at her husband. “You look pretty damn good yourself.”

And he does look good: Ed is dressed in a black tux and bow tie, and his shoes are shined so that they catch the light as they dance. Ed is the kind of man she’d always hoped she’d end up with, but there are moments—just very small windows that close as quickly as they’ve opened—when Frankie wonders if, deep down, Ed is the same as all the other men she's known: flatterers. Insincere opportunists. People who want something from her that she isn’t sure she wants to give. He's never shown himself to be this way, but so many of them are, that she's got to wonder if maybe they all just hide it from their wives.

Frankie shakes her head gently to knock this thought from her mind. Ed is not insincere, and he is not asking her to compromise herself in any way.This is your husband, you fool, she reprimands herself as she leans in closer, putting her chin on Ed’s shoulder so that she can look out at the other couples asthey dance.This man would never hurt you—he’s only vowed to love and protect you.

Frankie knows these things are true. She does. She has never felt unsafe in Ed’s arms, not even for a moment, but she can’t help the thoughts from creeping into her mind sometimes, and she can’t stop the way her mind flashes back to the ways that men whoaren’ther husband have hurt her.

“You okay, Frankie?” Ed asks, his lips warm against her ear lobe as he speaks. “You feel tense.”

Frankie takes a deep breath and relaxes as she watches her other women friends smiling and talking to their own husbands as they dance. Carrie and Jay are over by the makeshift bar, arms around one another as she tells a story animatedly; Barbie and Todd are dancing and looking peaceful and happy with one another; Jude and Vance are dancing, but he looks distant and she’s hanging on him a bit too heavily; and Jo and Bill are close by, talking softly as Bill leads them. They look as if they’ve taken lessons to be as in step as they are.

“I’m fine,” Frankie says evenly. “I was just thinking of my parents arriving tomorrow, and about the things I need to do when we get home tonight.”

“Baby, you’re fine,” Ed assures her. “Your parents love you, and they won’t mind if you haven’t vacuumed lines into the carpet before they get here.”

Frankie gives ahmph. “You don’t know Allegra Lombardi like I do,” she says. “My mother will storm through the door and give me a stern talking-to if she thinks I’m not keeping the house the way she would.”

Ed can’t help laughing. “Wow, my mother would never do that.”

Frankie pulls back so that she can look him in the eye. “Of course she wouldn’t,” she says flatly. “You’re a man. No mother is going to come over and tell her son that he isn’t keeping a nicehouse. You know what she’ll do instead?” Frankie doesn’t wait for his answer. “She’ll tell every woman she knows that her son is married to a tramp who can’t pick up a mop or a duster.”

Ed laughs again. “No way. My mom wouldn’t do that.”

Frankie arches an eyebrow. “If you think your mom hasn’t already told your sister exactly what I’m not doing right, then you don’t know women at all.” Ed looks dubious, but Frankie knows she’s right. “Anyway,” she says with a sigh, “I want to make sure the house looks good. I need to start this visit off right, and trust me when I say that I know what my mother will expect when she walks in the door.”

Ed acquiesces. “You would know better than I, my love.”

After the dancing and the champagne, there is a sit-down dinner that’s served at a series of round tables covered in white linen. The astronauts from various missions are all there with their pretty wives, and everyone looks happy and glittery in the candlelight as they laugh and clap along with the comedian who has been hired to entertain them. Dessert is miniature three-layer cakes for each person, and at the end of the night, the women all hug one another and wish each other Merry Christmas as they slip on mink shrugs and clutch beaded purses beneath their tanned arms.

“That was a lovely evening,” Frankie says to Ed as they drive through the darkened streets of Stardust Beach with the top down on his white Corvette. Above them, the stars glimmer against a navy blue sky, and the storefronts they pass are dark but ringed in colored holiday lights, as are the palm trees on the main street of town.

“It was nice,” Ed agrees, looking over at her as he puts his right hand on her thigh.

Frankie glances down at his hand. It’s resting there hopefully, posing a question that only she has the answer to. Her parents arrive tomorrow, and if she changes into her nightgownand turns her back to Ed, then they won’t be alone at all before he leaves for Seattle, and they won’t have an opportunity for any sort of private time. But if she steps out of her white dress and looks at him with any sort of invitation, they’ll make love, holding one another close as Frankie reminds herself how much he loves her.

The question of what she’ll do plays in her mind during the short drive, and once they’re in the house, Frankie sets her bag with its dainty pearl embroidery on the kitchen counter, turning on the light over the stove and locking all the doors and windows.

She walks back to the bedroom, where Ed has hung his tux in the closet. He puts his cuff links and watch away in the wooden box on top of their shared dresser.

Frankie doesn’t say a word, but she unzips her white dress, letting it fall to the floor as she steps over it. She’s standing there, looking at her husband’s strong back when he turns around to face her. Frankie’s heart flutters as Ed takes in her silver heels, her sheer white nylons, and the white lace of her bra, panties, and garter belt. She feels like a naïve schoolgirl, and the nervousness in her belly echoes that of a blushing bride on her wedding night.

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