illness,” Liz said. “Zack barely knew Bev before she was diagnosed, but she looked forward to his visits. She said he never treated her as if she was sick.”
“They had some spirited conversations,” I said. “They’re both such strong personalities, I wasn’t sure they’d get along, but they did. Bev said Zack was an acquired taste.”
Liz was the model of patrician civility, but for the briefest moment there was a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Graham, perhaps you and Zack should spend some time together.”
Graham was smooth. “I can’t imagine Zack and I acquiring a taste for each other’s company, but if you think it’s a good idea, Liz, we’ll give it a try. We could invite the Shreves over for a barbecue.”
Liz’s laugh, like her daughter’s, was full and throaty. “Graham, you are such a bullshitter,” she said.
Graham laughed too. “It keeps you coming back,” he said.
The servers came in with the entrée, a chicken breast stuffed with something and bathed in something else. Everyone at our table was a veteran of fundraising luncheons, so no one commented on the food. We ate as much as we could and pushed back our plates.
When dessert was served, it was time for a segment the program referred to as “Memories of Beverly.” Graham spokefirst. After he thanked everyone for coming to the luncheon, he leaned close to the microphone. His baritone was pleasantly mellow.
“From the beginning, Beverly was her own person,” he said. “When she was four, she asked me where she went after she fell asleep at night. I explained that while she slept she stayed in her bed. She considered my answer, then she said, ‘You’re wrong, Daddy.’ After she’d given the matter more thought, she said. ‘You’re wrong about a lot of things.’ ” When laughter rippled through the audience, Graham raised his hand to still it. “Oh, she wasn’t finished. Beverly never let me off the hook easily. She pondered the question for at least another thirty seconds before she made her final pronouncement. ‘Daddy, maybe you’re wrong about everything.’ And with that she wandered off to find her mother.” Graham smiled at his wife, but Liz’s face remained stony. He paused for a second, then carried on. “All her life, my daughter believed I was wrong about everything. But that didn’t stop me from loving her and it didn’t stop her from loving me.” Graham’s voice broke. He returned to our table, murmured apologies to the president of the university and his colleagues, brushed Liz’s cheek with a kiss that she seemed not to notice, then left. In Margot’s words, a smooth-as-silk performance.
As the reminiscences continued, Liz and I both kept our eyes focused on the centrepiece of vibrant multihued Gerbera daisies. Gerberas had been Bev’s favourites. We were both fighting tears and our strategy seemed to be working until the last speaker came to the podium to propose a toast. Mary Sutherland had managed the university bookstore for as long as any of us could remember. Mary’s toast to Beverly was brief and graceful. She closed with the Dr. Seuss line: “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”
We raised our glasses to Bev, sipped, and the luncheon was over. The salon emptied quickly. It was a workday andthe guests had commitments. They lined up at the tables where they could leave cheques for the scholarship and say their final farewells before leaving.
Liz and I lingered at our table for a moment, then we both picked up our things. Liz leaned across the table, plucked two gerberas from the centrepiece, handed one to me, and pressed the other inside her program. We walked downstairs in silence, crossed the lobby, and stepped through the glass doors at the gallery entrance. The rain had stopped. The sun was peering out, and the air smelled of wet leaves and grass. Liz touched my arm. “I know how busy you are, Joanne, but could you indulge me for a few
“They had some spirited conversations,” I said. “They’re both such strong personalities, I wasn’t sure they’d get along, but they did. Bev said Zack was an acquired taste.”
Liz was the model of patrician civility, but for the briefest moment there was a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Graham, perhaps you and Zack should spend some time together.”
Graham was smooth. “I can’t imagine Zack and I acquiring a taste for each other’s company, but if you think it’s a good idea, Liz, we’ll give it a try. We could invite the Shreves over for a barbecue.”
Liz’s laugh, like her daughter’s, was full and throaty. “Graham, you are such a bullshitter,” she said.
Graham laughed too. “It keeps you coming back,” he said.
The servers came in with the entrée, a chicken breast stuffed with something and bathed in something else. Everyone at our table was a veteran of fundraising luncheons, so no one commented on the food. We ate as much as we could and pushed back our plates.
When dessert was served, it was time for a segment the program referred to as “Memories of Beverly.” Graham spokefirst. After he thanked everyone for coming to the luncheon, he leaned close to the microphone. His baritone was pleasantly mellow.
“From the beginning, Beverly was her own person,” he said. “When she was four, she asked me where she went after she fell asleep at night. I explained that while she slept she stayed in her bed. She considered my answer, then she said, ‘You’re wrong, Daddy.’ After she’d given the matter more thought, she said. ‘You’re wrong about a lot of things.’ ” When laughter rippled through the audience, Graham raised his hand to still it. “Oh, she wasn’t finished. Beverly never let me off the hook easily. She pondered the question for at least another thirty seconds before she made her final pronouncement. ‘Daddy, maybe you’re wrong about everything.’ And with that she wandered off to find her mother.” Graham smiled at his wife, but Liz’s face remained stony. He paused for a second, then carried on. “All her life, my daughter believed I was wrong about everything. But that didn’t stop me from loving her and it didn’t stop her from loving me.” Graham’s voice broke. He returned to our table, murmured apologies to the president of the university and his colleagues, brushed Liz’s cheek with a kiss that she seemed not to notice, then left. In Margot’s words, a smooth-as-silk performance.
As the reminiscences continued, Liz and I both kept our eyes focused on the centrepiece of vibrant multihued Gerbera daisies. Gerberas had been Bev’s favourites. We were both fighting tears and our strategy seemed to be working until the last speaker came to the podium to propose a toast. Mary Sutherland had managed the university bookstore for as long as any of us could remember. Mary’s toast to Beverly was brief and graceful. She closed with the Dr. Seuss line: “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”
We raised our glasses to Bev, sipped, and the luncheon was over. The salon emptied quickly. It was a workday andthe guests had commitments. They lined up at the tables where they could leave cheques for the scholarship and say their final farewells before leaving.
Liz and I lingered at our table for a moment, then we both picked up our things. Liz leaned across the table, plucked two gerberas from the centrepiece, handed one to me, and pressed the other inside her program. We walked downstairs in silence, crossed the lobby, and stepped through the glass doors at the gallery entrance. The rain had stopped. The sun was peering out, and the air smelled of wet leaves and grass. Liz touched my arm. “I know how busy you are, Joanne, but could you indulge me for a few
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