Getting to Happy (50 page)

“Okay! We get it!” Bernadine says.

“Count me out,” Gloria says.

“Me, too,” Robin says. “It doesn’t sound like much fun at all. And cruises aren’t cheap.”

“What would you do about your husband?” Bernadine asks.

“My
husband
already knows I’m not going to stop doing things with my friends just because I have a
husband
. The same holds true for him. We’ve already talked about this. We’re not twenty-two. We’re grown-ups. We know who we are, what we’ve got and what we’re doing.”

“Cool,” Savannah says, and then she starts looking up at a chandelier as if she’s daydreaming. “How about we go somewhere exotic next year—early next year—on a plane. Someplace none of us has ever been.”

“And the purpose of this trip, since you always have some kind of agenda for us, Savannah, is . . . ?” Robin asks.

“To have fun.”

“That’s it?”

“Everything doesn’t have to have a purpose, does it?”

“Where would you suggest we go?” Robin asks her.

“Where would you suggest we go, Robin?”

“I don’t know.”

“There has to be somewhere you’ve always wanted to go,” Savannah says with a sigh.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Tahiti,” Gloria says.

“Rio,” Robin says.

“I’m dying to go to Venice and Rio and I could do Tahiti,” Savannah says. “I’ve always wanted to go to Kenya. On a safari.”

“I’m not going near any wild animals,” Robin says. “Jeep or no jeep.”

“Me neither,” Gloria says. “Rio, maybe. But I’ll be damned if I get naked prancing around anybody’s beach.”

“What about Barcelo—oh-oh,” Bernadine says and stands up. “I think I hear our anthem!”

The DJ is indeed spinning the first few bars of “It’s Electric,” and as if this is about to be one huge baptism, hundreds of people flock to the dance floor and immediately start bending over and rocking their shoulders.

“I’m not going out there,” Savannah says. “I’ll watch.” She crosses her arms tightly.

“Oh, yes, the hell you are,” Bernadine says, as she and Robin and Gloria surround her and tug on her arms until they fall apart.

“Wait! My shoes are under the table!” she says.

“I thought you said they hurt,” Robin says.

“They do!”

“Mine are killing me, too,” Bernadine says, and kicks hers off.

“Wait a minute,” Robin says. “Did you get those at Nordstrom’s?”

“Shut up!” Gloria, of all people, yells. “Everybody leave their damn shoes right where they are!”

And they do. The four of them dash out to the dance floor like they’re on
So You Think You Can Dance
and wiggle their hips to carve out enough room, but only two can fit in the same row, so Robin and Gloria slip in behind Savannah and Bernadine. The crowd is already moving, and it takes a few seconds for them to get into the groove. Savannah looks over her shoulder and rolls her eyes at Gloria and Robin and then at Bernadine. They just roll theirs right back.

Seconds later, all four of them are popping their fingers, and when they take three steps back and tap their feet, then take three steps forward and tap again, by the time they cross one leg over the other and slide left to right and back, they start getting fancy and add an extra skip here and an extra dip there, but the next few times they sashay backward and forward their hips seem to have a mind of their own, because even when the song ends and the DJ overlaps it with a jam that takes them way back
—
“Everybody Dance Now”
—
they don’t lose the beat and not a soul leaves the dance floor. When someone yells out, “Party over here!” these four women—these four friends—cannot stop swaying and shimmying to this brand-new beat, and the next thing they know they are jump-jump-jumping up and down and waving their hands in the air like they just don’t care. But they do. They definitely do.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The last few years have been rough. It’s hard to write when you’re angry, or numb. It’s hard to do anything when you’re angry or numb. There are, however, quite a few folks I would like to thank for their ongoing support, understanding, and patience; who helped me to relocate my center and get back to doing what I love to do: Molly Friedrich, my agent, tops this list, for letting me drive her crazy with rough drafts before they were meant to be read; Carole DeSanti, my amazing editor, for respecting me as a writer and for “getting” these women’s plight; Lucy Carson, for knowing how to read, and for being so smart and tactful; Beena Kamlani, for her keen eye and ears and first-rate work on the book; Blanche Richardson, my longtime friend, for everything, but mostly for listening to me read passages and chapters over the phone and for lying to me that the dreadful drafts were good; my wonderful and efficient assistant, Roberta Ponder; my smart and organized cousin, Jacqueline Dixon; my friends who kept me afloat: Lynda and Leon Drummer; Gilda Kihneman, Valari Adams, Susan Taylor and Khephra Burns; and Bonnie Ross. I am thankful for my sisters: Vicki, Crystal and Rosalyn, who held on tight and made me feel loved. I am also grateful to The Corporation of Yaddo for giving me uninterrupted time to write; to the W Hotel where I edited and ordered room service and didn’t do dishes or clean for weeks; and to NYC for helping me feel electric again! More than anyone, I want to thank my son, Solomon, for his faith in me, for his concern for my well-being, for being the man in my life who made sure I was going to flourish, and for asking me, “Mom, do you have anything I can listen to today?” as he sat down in a chair in my office time after time, giving me high fives along with the warmest hugs ever. He is the best thing that has ever happened to me.