The Promise (3 page)

 4 

A
fter a brief wait, the maître d' sat them at a cozy table not far from the outside wall. The courtyard area just beyond was full, but Marilyn could still see and hear the trickling water flowing down from the fountain. They'd walked around it once before they sat down. Goldfish and little turtles swam over the fountain's floor, which was covered with shiny coins.

The restaurant was only two streets away from the hotel. Walking there through the dazzling city lights and sounds, crossing intersections as they dodged small European cars, made her feel like she was walking through a movie scene. Over the past few months, she and Jim had watched a number of old films shot in Italy to help get a sense of what to expect. It had been so much fun.

But nothing compared to actually being here.

“So what do you think?” Jim said, reaching for her hand across the table.

“Jim, it's wonderful. I still can't believe we're here. I've wanted to visit Italy for so many years.”

“I know,” he said. “I'm sorry it's taken so long.”

“Don't be. Some people never get to experience something like this.”

“But we could have. We should have come here on our twenty-fifth anniversary. If I hadn't been such an idiot back then.”

“The cruise was very nice.”

He took a sip of water. “You're just being kind. It was a beautiful ship and we saw some interesting places, but I blew a great opportunity. Spent most of my spare time reading that stupid business book.”

Jim was still so hard on himself, even seven months after their marriage crisis had resolved. Marilyn had completely forgiven him and could see his heart had changed in some foundational ways. He wasn't perfect by any means, but as the weeks and months had passed, she had felt genuine joy and a growing excitement about their future, even before he'd surprised her with this trip.

She squeezed his hand as they gazed into each other's eyes. “There's no fruit in regret, remember? You've got to stop looking back and condemning yourself like this. God forgave you, and so did I. What did they say in that small group discussion last month about repentance? That genuine repentance is more than saying you're sorry. It's about changing direction, asking God to help you go a brand-new way. Well, you've done that, in so many ways these past seven months. Here we are, in Rome, on an amazing trip together. The old Jim would have never taken part of that property sale and wasted it on something like this.”

“It's not a waste,” he said. “You're the most important thing in my life.”

She loved hearing him talk this way. “See? The old Jim wouldn't have thought something like that, and he sure wouldn't have said it out loud.”

The waiter came up. “You are Americans?” he asked with a strong accent.

“Yes,” Jim said. “Our first time in Rome.”

“So glad you are here. I speak pretty good English.”

“You speak it very well,” Marilyn said.

“Grazie. I mean, thank you. Have you had time to look over the menus?”

“Actually, no,” Jim said. “We've just been talking. But we'll look at them now.”

“Of course. Take your time. We are in no hurry. May I ask what you would like to drink? Signora, starting with you?”

“I'll have a Diet Coke.”

“And you, Signore?”

“I'll have the same, thanks.”

He wrote it down. “Very good. You look at the menus, and I'll be back shortly.”

“I love the way the Italians talk,” Marilyn said after the waiter was gone. “You hear the way he said that? Seen-
yor
-ay.”

“You have to roll the
r
's,” Jim said.

Marilyn tried it again. “Seen-
yor
-ray.”

“That's it.”

“And I love the rhythm in their sentences, the way the words go up and down. It has almost a lyrical quality to it.”

“Well, Seen-
yor
-ruh, we better open these menus.”

Marilyn began to read. She was relieved to find English explanations under the Italian dishes. But she had no idea how much things cost. “Jim, do you understand these prices? I don't want to pick out something too pricey for our budget.”

“Budgeets?” he said with an accent. “We don't need no steenking budgeets.”

Marilyn laughed. “I think the movie quote is
badges
,” she said. “And you sound more like a Mexican.”

“The point is, don't worry about the price. Pick out anything you want. We haven't splurged on a dinner out in ages.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure,” Jim said. “Tonight, we celebrate.”

Marilyn smiled and began to read through the menu items. Before she made it halfway down the first page, Jim said, “I love you, by the way.”

“I love you too.” He said it all the time now, and she never grew tired of hearing it.

After a few more minutes, Marilyn selected a dish of homemade ravioli filled with crab in a lemon butter sauce. Jim picked out swordfish agnoletti with red pepper sauce. The waiter returned with their drinks and took their orders. Jim ordered for them. She got a kick out of the way he talked, butchering the Italian accent.

“Very good choices, Signore,” the waiter said.

Jim noticed her laughing. “Hey, at least I'm trying. You wait, by the time this trip is over, I'll have this thing nailed.”

“I'm sure you will.” As the waiter walked away, she looked at all the paintings, the thick beams in the ceiling, and the ancient stone fireplace on the far wall. “This is a lovely place.”

“Isn't it?” Jim said. “It kind of reminds me of something you'd see at Disney or Epcot. Except there, you're just seeing replicas of places like this. This is the real deal. I'll bet this building is hundreds of years old.”

Marilyn thought about the last time they had visited the Magic Kingdom. They were all there together as a family. Michele and Allan weren't even a couple then. Tom and Jean had joined them; little Tommy was just a toddler. “Remember the last time we were there?”

“At Disney? That was a couple years ago, wasn't it?”

“I think so,” she said. “That was so much fun.”

“Tom and Jean really had their hands full with little Tommy. Remember?”

She did. The terrible twos. Tommy had spent at least half the time whining and crying. “He screamed bloody murder
whenever any of the Disney characters came within ten feet of him. Remember what Jean said?”

“I don't remember seeing this on the brochures.” Jim tried to imitate Jean's voice.

They both laughed. “It was still a great trip,” Marilyn said.

“It really was,” Jim said. “I just wish Tom hadn't been so uptight the whole time. Guess he thought Tommy was ruining everything for the rest of us.”

Marilyn remembered that too. “Speaking of Tom . . . I've been meaning to talk to you about something. I've been having some concerns about him. About them, as a couple.” Jim got a look on his face. “What's wrong?”

“We weren't going to do that tonight, remember?”

“Do what?”

“Talk about our problems . . . or our kids' problems.”

“I'm sorry. You're right. I forgot.”

“New subject then,” Jim said. “Have I told you how incredibly beautiful you look tonight?”

After a delicious dinner, topped off with a tasty torta di ricotta and coffee, they walked slowly back to their hotel on Via Nazionale. Once they passed through the lobby and up the elevators, Marilyn said, “Do I get my surprise now?”

“Yes, you do,” Jim said as he led her by the hand down the hall and into their room. Inside, he walked her straight out to the balcony until they were leaning against the rail.

“Look at the city lights,” she said.

“It's amazing. But that's not the surprise. Turn around. Tell me what you see.”

She did. They were facing the double set of doors that led back into their room, bordered by a row of brilliantly colored Italian tile. She could see the king-size bed centered in the room,
but given the occasion, that hardly seemed like something he'd consider a surprise.

“Look down,” he said gently.

“Okay, I see a balcony.”

“A big, wide balcony,” Jim said. “I asked the front desk clerk for the room with the biggest balcony, and it just so happened to also have the best view of Rome.”

It was a great room. And it did have a wide balcony with a splendid view. But Jim had just said that wasn't the surprise.

“When I talked to the tour people about the trip,” Jim continued, “I found out there really wouldn't be any opportunities to dance together the whole time. I thought, I'm going on my second honeymoon with my beautiful wife in Italy, and we're not even going to dance?”

“So what did you do?”

He led her to the center of the balcony. “We're going to dance, my love. Just the two of us.”

“Out here?”

“Right out here. We'll leave the doors open. I put together a short playlist of our favorite songs. The music will be playing softly in there, so it won't disturb anyone else in the hotel. We'll step out here, with the moon and the stars and the night lights of Rome behind us, and dance off all our carbs. Just you and me. See?” he said, spinning around. “With just the two of us, there's plenty of room.”

“For slow dancing, you mean.”

“Nice and slow,” he said. “Starting with one song we have never danced to, but one I've been wanting to dance to with you for the last seven months.”

“What is it?”

“It's the reason why I wanted you to wear that dress.” He walked past her into the room, tapped on his iPad, which earlier he'd set on some speakers. He rushed back out and took her in
his arms. A moment later, a familiar song filled the room and flowed out onto the balcony.

Chris DeBurgh's “Lady in Red.”

He swung her out, then pulled her back and whispered in her ear. “That's who you are.
My
lady in red.”

 5 

J
ean heard the crashing sound over the roaring vacuum cleaner. She looked at Carly sitting in her playpen. She'd heard it too. Jean shut off the vacuum. “Tommy?” she yelled. He wasn't in the living room. “Are you okay?” He didn't answer. “Tommy?”

She ran around the family room couch toward the hallway. As soon as she reached it, she felt instant relief. Tommy was standing halfway between her and the front door, his little hands covering his mouth, eyes popped wide open. He looked at her, then at the framed portrait lying on the hardwood floor by his feet, then back at her. Her broom lay next to the portrait.

She figured out what had happened. He'd knocked over the broom, which knocked the portrait off the wall. The look on his little face made the situation almost comical. He lowered his hands and said, “Mommy, I bwoke it. Not me. The bwoom did it. It fell on the pitcher and bwoke it.”

How could she be mad at that face? It was really her fault anyway. She should have known better than to leave the broom leaning against the wall like that. She bent down. “Come here. Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

He walked over and held out his arms. “No, but it scared me.”

“I'll bet it did,” she said. “That was pretty loud. You go into
the family room and watch Carly a few minutes while I clean this up. Can you do that?”

He nodded then looked back at the portrait on the floor. “But it's bwoke, see? The glass cwacked.”

Jean looked. It was cracked, diagonally from the top left to the bottom right corner, like a lightning bolt running right through the three people in the photo. The wooden frame around it was slightly bent. But as far as she could tell, the portrait looked just the way it always had, hanging up there on the wall. “That crack was already there, Tommy. You didn't make it any worse.” She hugged him. “It's okay. Now go keep an eye on Carly.”

He ran off.

She picked up the frame to examine it more closely. It was a sturdy thing, to take a hit from that height and not break any further. Ugly . . . but sturdy. By the sound it made she'd expected to find something smashed to pieces. She stood and turned, intending to hang it back on its hook. That's when she saw the hole.

The stupid thing was so heavy. When Tom hung it up a few years ago, he had to drill a big hole in the plaster and insert a plastic anchor. When the picture fell, it yanked the anchor right out of the wall. She looked around on the floor till she found it. The anchor had slid all the way down the hall onto the welcome mat by the front door.

She set the picture down and picked up the anchor. It was all bent and twisted. There was no way it would go back in that hole. And the plaster around the hole had split, making the hole too big, even if she could find another anchor somewhere in the garage.

She dreaded the thought, but she'd have to tell Tom about this when he got home from work.

Tom loved this portrait almost as much as she hated it. It wasn't the picture inside so much as the whole look of it that
she disliked. They'd had an argument over it the first week they moved into the house five years ago.

Before they'd moved in, Tom had promised she would be in charge of decorating the house. He'd take care of the landscaping and everything in the garage, she'd get to make all the calls inside. Things had gone smoothly until she proudly showed him the family picture wall she'd created in the hallway.

Her family always had one growing up. Tom's did too. Family photos of all different shapes and sizes, people and places arranged just so on the hallway walls next to the stairs. On one side, the family pictures from the past—a few of Tom and her as kids, their parents, some pics of their siblings, aunts, uncles, and grandparents.

The opposite wall was mostly empty . . . for now. Just a few 8-by-10s from their wedding day. The idea was to fill this wall with pictures of
their
family in the years to come. To Jean, it was perfect. Just the way it was.

Tom had taken one look at the family picture wall and said, “Where is it?” He wasn't smiling.

Somehow she knew which picture he meant but pretended not to. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I'm talking about. Where is it?”

“There's no room for it, Tom. You can see that. The whole wall is filled up.”

“Then we need to make some room. I want that portrait on this wall. Where is it?”

It was time to take a stand. “Whatever happened to ‘I'm in charge of the outside, and you get to be in charge of the inside'?”

“You are in charge of the inside,” he said. “But this isn't a decorating decision. You get to decide where it goes on the wall, not whether it goes up there at all.” He sighed, the way he did when he was trying to tone down the edge in his voice. “Jean, that portrait is important to me. You know that. I can't believe
you thought you could leave it out. It's the only picture of my grandfather, my dad, and me together. The only one.”

She did know that. She knew it then and she knew it now, standing there in the hallway alone.

She looked at the picture again. Tom was only four years old at the time, maybe six months older than Tommy was now. He was sitting on his grandfather's knee; his own father, Jim, stood behind them, his hands resting on his father's shoulders. Although the crack ran right through the faces of the three Anderson men, she could still see the resemblance between Tom and their sweet little son, especially the way he smiled.

Part of the reason she didn't like the portrait was that Tom was the only one in the picture who was smiling. Jim, her father-in-law, and Tom's grandfather both stared straight ahead with stern looks on their faces, like people did back in the 1800s. Jean had heard that the two older Anderson men barely got along. Maybe that had something to do with it. But why couldn't they set their differences aside and smile for a family portrait?

She'd asked Tom about it several times, but he didn't know the answer and he kept forgetting to ask his father about it. She might have been able to look past the serious looks on their faces, if Tom would have let her replace the broken glass and get a decent frame for it. But he wouldn't hear of it. “That's the original glass and frame,” he'd said. “The same one my grandfather put the photograph in when my dad gave it to him. I don't ever want to change it. Why do you care how it looks anyway? It's not like we're trying to impress anyone. None of the other picture frames match.”

Holding the portrait up again, she looked it over. Not only was the glass broken and the frame bent, but it was also all scratched up. Not in a way that made it look old and collectible, but in a cheap and crappy way. She wasn't even sure if it was real wood.

She looked at Jim's unsmiling face again as he stood there behind his father. She was struck, by contrast, how much Jim smiled these days . . . and how little Tom did. Tom's typical expression now looked more like Jim's stern image in the portrait. They were probably close to the same age.

Tom and Jim had always been so much alike; everyone thought so. That was, until seven months ago, before Tom's sister Michele got married. Just before that, Jim and Marilyn had gone through a major marriage crisis. It was hard to believe that just a few months ago, Marilyn had moved out of their big house in River Oaks. Tom was afraid she'd left for good. But God seemed to do a remarkable work in Jim's heart that turned everything around. Jean smiled as she remembered that amazing scene at Michele's wedding when the two of them danced for the first time. That beaming smile on Jim's face.

Jim was smiling almost every time she saw him these days. He was probably smiling right now. She looked down at Tom's face in the portrait.
Why don't you smile anymore, my love?

Carly started crying. “Mom!” Tommy yelled. “Carly won't give back my truck.”

“I'll be right there. Don't you grab it from her.” She lifted the broom off the floor and put it in the hall closet for now, then carried the bent anchor and portrait into the family room. She'd leave them on the kitchen counter for now, out of the kids' reach until Tom got home.

Hopefully, he'd come home in a better mood than the one he'd been in the last several weeks. No, more like the last several months. He said it was just some things going on at work but that he didn't want to talk about it.

She needed him to be in a better mood soon. She had something more important to talk with him about than this portrait falling in the hallway. For the last several mornings she'd been fighting off waves of nausea. She was pretty sure she knew why.