A girlfriend that resurfaces every few years called. It's one of those crazy, precious friendships that I pray lasts forever. It has survived 30 years and 3,000 miles. That's some mileage. We're both flight attendants, but with different carriers. We hadn't seen each other for a couple of years. She was flying to JFK from Milan.
"Can we see each other?" she asks. "If it doesn't work out, we can do it another time."
She had had cancer, for gawds sake! I thought of two other women with stage 4 cancer that I had known. "No, my friend. Now is the time. I'll rearrange. I'll cancel appointments. No excuses!"
Life's thrown her some curve balls: divorced from a man with an addiction, BRCA gene leading to breast cancer, injury at work, devastating hurricane in her hometown, but three wonderful and typical teen-agers and a zest for life.
My life: a little steadier. Same husband, decent health, and two wonderful and typical teen-agers and a zest for life.
I pick her up at JFK. She's now cancer-free and it shows. She looks healthier than when I saw her two years ago in LA, where she lives. We settle in for the two hour drive out to my week-end house on Long Island. How is it we talk and laugh as if we just saw each other last week? I guess that's why we'll always be friends.
On the drive, we talk about our past. We talk about our present--like what's for dinner! I prep her for my favorite restaurant where we are going in a couple of hours. "It's like gliding onto the set of The Great Gatsby, so we have to dress accordingly," I advise. I don't often care how I dress, but for evenings here, I do. I choose my Anne Fontaine crisp, white shirt with turned up cuffs and my $20 geometric tri-colored, Pucci-esque wide-legged, flowing pants. I bottom them off with my 3-inch strappy 80's style wedges. If I turn my ankle, I'm done for.
My friend has a flowing black and white long-sleeved dress that ends above the knees. It has a cut-out in the back. Her strappy sandals are slightly more practical than mine, by a quarter-inch, maybe.
We share the same lipstick she just bought in Milan. She pulls her wavy post-chemo hair into a band, wishing she had her sunglasses so she'd look more glamorous. We are both hoping to look a bit Italian, I think.
We drive 15 minutes in my convertible to the restaurant. The ocean-side homes on Dune Road are large enough to host parties for a couple hundred. On the bay-side, the homes are slightly more modest, but they make up for it by mooring their boats in their watery backyards. The drive is a lovely prelude to the evening.
We climb out and she asks should she lock the door. "I don't think locking it would be much of a deterrent." We laugh.
Dockers, the outdoor restaurant, has the same effect on everyone. Chill. Glamour. The Hamptons. We drink in the view--dark blue water, waving sea grass, and over-baked Hamptonites-- as we sip peach bellinis, our last cocktails of the summer.
Half-way through our lobsters, a band starts up---Mean Machine. Ugh! What a name. I just want to talk with my friend and stare off into the horizon.
She looks at me as the lead singer grabs the mic. "I'm dancing!" Off she goes, headed to the dance floor, bib still attached. I tear mine off and quickly follow. After all, it is the last unofficial hurrah of summer. Labor Day has come and gone, but the temperatures still register into the 80's. Summer does not want to leave.
My friend and I dance through Songs in the Key of Life ( Stevie Wonder). We Freeze Frame (RIP J. Geils) and revisit the Glory Days with Bruce. No beach dance night would be possible unless we put our toes in the water, ass in the sand with Zac Brown. When the band turns techno, I turn to sit. But I was alone. Apparently, techno is big in LA. I don't leave my friend. I know she wouldn't leave me.
She and I dance the night away, prolonging summer, loving life.
