Page 33 of The Vineyard Bride

A book?Of all my stories?

It was better than any scrapbook.Audrey gripped her hand adoringly as Mark Rathburn beckoned for Lola to come to the stage.As Lola rose, she forced herself to blink out across the audience, to take stock of every shining face, all pointed toward her.They honored every minute she’d ever strived for perfection, every night she’d ever stayed up till dawn writing, and every moment she’d ever cried and thought, maybe it all wasn’t worth it.As she strode to the podium, her heart pounded with a resounding truth: it all actuallywasworth it.Every moment.

At the podium, Mark Rathburn stepped to the side as he continued to applaud, his eyes illuminated.Lola nodded and positioned herself behind the podium, forcing any last fear into the pit of her stomach.What did she care what these people thought of her?She’d already proven herself.

“Good evening,” Lola began, her voice clear.“I can’t thank you enough for the honor of this certificate of excellence.Now that I’m forty years old, I look back on the past twenty-one years of my career and think to myself: how did any of that happen?Especially to a silly girl with a dream?”

Before her, the crowd laughed good-naturedly, grateful that Lola could joke about herself in a lighthearted way.

Lola knocked her head back to allow her long hair to cascade down her back.“When I was a child, about seven or eight, I had a tape recorder with a microphone attached.I felt like that thing gave me access to another world, a world that was elevated from normal reality.I sat on the kitchen counter with the microphone extended toward my mother, asking her question after question, imagining myself like a television reporter.My mother always played along, pretending to be everything from a bank robber to a weatherwoman to Madonna.She would make up these little characters and answer my questions, making the interviews whimsical and alive.She forced me to consider how to sculpt the interview to make the best story, something that I required in my career.”

Lola’s eyes watered at the memory.She hadn’t actually planned to share those stories with this crowd yet felt the words flow through her, uninhibited.Her eyes met Audrey’s over the crowd.They were heavy with tears for the memory of this woman Audrey had never been allowed to know.

“My mother died when I was only eleven years old,” Lola continued, clearing her throat.

The crowd seemed unsure of where to look.How could they all collectively handle one woman’s intense sorrow?

“But after her death, I carried her with me in everything I did.I felt her at every interview, as I stayed up late to write stories or wait tables, and even as I washed my dishes, usually with tears running down my face.Everything I did, I did due to some belief in a greater mission.And today, here with my daughter, journalist Audrey Sheridan, I feel, finally, that I succeeded.I passed on my mother’s love for storytelling, both to my daughter and the Greater Boston Area.And I couldn’t be more pleased with myself.I strive to continue to bring storytelling and curiosity to the eastern seaboard, no matter the article’s contents.The news is ever-changing— but our approach to releasing the truth to the masses never does.Thank you so much.”

Lola stepped away from the podium as Mark Rathburn took a few steps closer to deliver a gold-plated award, which was sculpted into an opened newspaper.Lola’s name was printed along the base— LORRAINE SHERIDAN, which, she decided then and there, she would never change to GASBARRO.How could she?Her love for Tommy had nothing to do with wanting to remain a Sheridan, to link herself forever to Anna, to Wes, and to their shared past.

“Thank you,” Lola mouthed to Mark as the crowd continued to roar.“This is one of the greatest days of my life.”

When Lola returned to the table, Audrey flung herself up to wrap her arms around her mother’s neck.“I’m so proud of you, Mom,” Audrey whispered into her ear.“The life we’ve had together is the most beautiful thing I know.”

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