"Whole milk!" Julia said, appalled. When Lance looked at her, she threw her hands to Heaven and said, "Skim!" Then she got out of the kitchen.
In the living room later in the day, things only got worse.
One television set plus two virtual strangers must be a recipe for disaster, Julia thought, realizing she should probably write down that pearl of wisdom—it would make a great chapter for a book someday. As Lance zoomed through seventy-five channels at Olympic-record pace, she thought she could now understand a little of what married women go through. His underwear hadn't appeared on the bathroom floor yet, but one could only assume it was just a matter of time.
That's assuming he wears underwear, her inner Nina chimed, so Julia went outside to take a head-clearing walk.
When she came back, Lance had settled on a station. It was ESPN Classic. Where is the suspense in watching something that happened twenty years ago? When he said, "I remember this game!" it took every ounce of her restraint not to say, "Then why do you need to watch it again?"
Instead, Julia settled herself in the comfy chair and picked up a book. She consoled herself by realizing that at least when he was watching TV, he wasn't walking around on her creaky floorboards, making more noise than a marching band, disturbing the blessed stillness of her quiet house. Even on the couch, however, he still managed to shatter her peace with the perpetual shaking of ice cubes in his glass of Coke. Full-calorie Coke. Julia winced and Lance asked, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I'm just not used to other people's noise."
He looked at her as though she'd just told him she kept a UFO in the basement, then went right back to cheering for a team he already knew was going to lose.
She shivered and began to regret telling him where to find the thermostat. Sun streamed through the windows, and outside it had to be near eighty, yet the house was a brisk sixty-nine. She wanted her chenille afghan, but it was beneath his beefy leg.
"You've got to watch this shot," he said as he held the remote control like a magic wand that he could use to manipulate the players. "Wait, it's coming up," he said. "It's coming . . . it's ..."
The doorbell rang, so Julia had to miss whatever play had happened so many years before. She went to the door and looked through the peephole, thinking it would be Nina or Caroline.
"Yoo-hoo!"
Miss Georgia's drawl was like sugar dissolving in tea. "Anybody home?"
With one eye glued to the peephole, the surrealness of her life was starting to seep in. There was a man spread across the couch behind her and a porch full of Georgias in front of her. Julia had never felt so trapped. The doorbell rang again and she felt Lance come to stand behind her. "Press?" he asked.
She shook her head, turned the dead bolt, and opened the door.
Pink must have been the color of the day because the Georgias were all decked out in different derivations of the shade: Miss Georgia in fuchsia, Georgia A. in baby-girl, and Georgia B. in magenta. Standing together and leaning forward with grins on their faces, grasping their coordinating handbags, they looked like a float in the Rose Parade, something titled "Tickled Pink."
"Don't you all look nice!" Julia said, remembering her upbringing.
Georgia A. was all smiles as she said, "We tried calling, but your phone must be off the hook."
"I was afraid we might get some unsettling calls," Julia admitted, a little guilty about that decision.
"Oh, darling," Miss Georgia jumped in. "You don't owe us any explanation. When I was in the Miss America pageant, I had my line disengaged for three weeks. I know exactly what you're saying."
"Thank you," Julia said. Noticing the way the three pink flowers seemed to be wilting in the sun, she felt compelled to add, "Won't you come in?" They didn't waste one second before plowing past her toward Lance, who was standing between the door and the stairs.
Georgia B. looked him up and down, then said to Miss Georgia, "I think it's going to fit. Don't you, Evelyn?" Only then did Julia notice the garment bag that Miss Georgia had draped over one of her impossibly well-toned arms. Miss Georgia answered, "I think it might."
Georgia A. turned to Julia and explained: "When we got home yesterday evening, we remembered that Lance wouldn't have known to pack his tuxedo," she said in a "we're so silly" tone of voice, and Julia remembered that the Georgias are not regular people.
Georgia A. continued, saying, "Of course, when I was your age, a man never traveled without at least one formal suit, but I know that times have changed."
Oh, Georgia, Julia thought, you have no idea.
Miss Georgia had taken a tux jacket out of the garment bag and was helping Lance slip it on. The Georgias stood back and admired him as Lance worked his arms back and forth, trying out the fit.
"How does that feel?" Georgia B. asked. "Not too snug, I hope?"
"No," Lance said and grinned at her. "It's perfect."
There were congratulations all around as the Georgias stood in Julia's living room, looking excessively proud of themselves. Julia was taken aback when she saw tears swelling in Georgia B.'s eyes. "Georgia," she said, "what's wrong?"
"Oh, nothing, dear," she said while dabbing at her eyes with a pink handkerchief. "It's just that Rosemary would be so proud to see this."
Julia couldn't believe her ears. Aunt Rosemary thought of this? She couldn't think of a single time in history when Ro-Ro had done anything for anyone. She certainly couldn't remember Ro-Ro shelling out to buy something that must have cost as much as that tuxedo. "Rosemary bought Lance a tuxedo?" Julia asked, disbelieving.
"No, dear," Georgia B. said, still dabbing at her eyes. "This was Wally's old tux—the one he wore to their wedding. Yesterday, when she realized how similar he and Lance were, she decided that someone should be getting some good out of it."
So, okay, Ro-Ro had given Lance a sixty-year-old tuxedo— that was more like it. But it was still the favorite tux of her favorite husband, and that fact struck Julia to the bone.
"A cut like that never goes out of style," Georgia A. said, admiring the jacket. "My William had at least twenty tuxedos in his life, and the first one he owned was more in style when he died than the last one he bought. Wally was the same way. Men like that are timeless."