Writer’s Shop Talk: Meet the Parents!

For Meg Learner….

Your hero is about to meet your heroine’s parents for the first time. Write the moments before their arrival.

I don’t have any scenes like that for the “Present Day” chapters of Reunion: Coda, nor do I plan to write one. However, I do have a similarly themed scene in the last “South Miami High School” chapter. So, without further ado….

As we left the library behind and strolled alongside the tree-lined Fred Shaw Plaza, Marty grabbed my hand and pulled me along one of those bland, concrete walkways that linked the nine buildings of Dade South. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow on the trees, making them wave their branches in a silent farewell. A gentle breeze touched the leaves and made them sway softly.

“Where are we going?” I asked her, feeling a mix of curiosity and excitement.

Marty smiled mysteriously and said, “Building Eight. I believe that’s where the campus bookstore and cafeteria are.”

“Er, do you need to buy a book? Or are you hungry?” I tried to sound casual, but I sensed there was something special to her plan.

Marty glanced at me; her right eyebrow lifted playfully. “My, but you’re full of questions, aren’t you?” she teased me, then her smile widened to a charming grin. Her hazel eyes sparkled in the light. “No, we’re not going to the Book Stop – that’s what they call the bookstore, by the way – and I’ve had my fill of cafeteria food.” She paused, and her face took on a more serious expression. “Just come with me. Unless, of course, being with me is such a dreadful bore?” Her voice trailed off, and she looked at me expectantly.

I blinked, trying to make sense of what Marty had just said. Was she serious? How could she think that being with her was a bore? A surge of panic and guilt flooded my chest, and I quickly shook my head. “No, no. Of course not. I like being with you, Marty. I’m just a bit…stressed out after this whole graduation thing.” I hoped she would believe me, and not think that I was lying or avoiding her.

Marty and I walked side by side from the airy spaces of the Fred Shaw Plaza to Building Eight. The campus was peaceful and calm in the late afternoon. Students, faculty, and staff were going happily about their business, some heading to their classes or offices, some leaving for the day, some chatting or studying in the open spaces. We even saw some of our fellow South Miami High grads, those who were visiting the campus for the first time, admiring the huge concrete buildings, and thinking about the future. More than likely, many of them would attend classes here at the beginning of the Fall Semester. Meanwhile, I wondered what Marty had in mind for me, and why she was taking me to Building Eight.

“Can you at least give me a hint of why we are going to…Building Eight?” I asked her eagerly, hoping to get some clue.

Marty smiled at me and said, “You’ll see. It’s a surprise.” I looked at her questioningly, but I didn’t press her for more details. I trusted her, and I liked surprises. Well, most of the time.

We walked along the wide concrete walkway that separated the Book Stop from the cafeteria, the sun beating down on our heads. Marty turned to me with a bright smile and said, “I want you to meet some people who mean the world to me.” She pointed at the entrance of the Book Stop, where a couple was waiting. They looked like they had stepped out of a magazine. The man was tall and handsome, with graying brown hair and piercing brown eyes. He had a military posture and a crisp white guayabera that contrasted with his khaki pants and shiny shoes. The woman was shorter and plumper, but she had the same features as Marty. She wore a floral dress and a pearl necklace that matched her warm smile.

Marty waved at them and dragged me along. “Mum, Daddy, this is my friend Jim from chorus class…the one I’ve told you about a few times,” she introduced me with a proud tone, then scanned the area, looking for someone else. “Where’s Madge?” she asked.

I felt a pang of curiosity, wondering who Madge was. Marty caught my puzzled expression and said, “She’s my older sister. You haven’t met her yet.”

A stray memory from the start of our last semester at South Miami flickered in my brain. Oh, yeah. She’s studying music in London. I’m glad she was able to come to her sister’s graduation.  

Marty’s mother chimed in, “Oh, you know her. She found out that the Music Department is in Building Eight, so naturally, she had to go check it out.”

Marty sighed. “Oh, right. I should have known.” She rolled her eyes, then gave me a sheepish smile. “She’s always been obsessed with music, ever since we were kids,” she explained, then turned to her parents again. “So, what do you think of Jim?” she asked them eagerly, hoping for their approval.

Before I could say anything, Marty’s father stretched out his right hand, and I shook it firmly. “So, James – or do you prefer Jim? – Martina says you’re going to Harvard in the autumn.”

“Jim is fine, sir,” I said calmly. “And yes. I start school there in early September. We’ll have student orientation, I believe, from the eighth to the eleventh, and then classes begin on the twelfth.”

“Ah. Splendid. Nervous, are you, Jim?” he asked, eyeing me curiously.

Of what? I thought as I tried to keep my eyes from wandering to where Marty was standing. Starting school in Boston? Or this unexpected introduction? I blinked, took a deep breath, then looked at Marty’s dad straight in the eyes. “A bit, yes, Mr. Reynaud.”

“What’s your major?” he inquired; sounding interested.

“History, sir,” I said confidently.

“Oh? What branch? Or are you going to wait till you take your required introductory courses and then choose?” he probed, raising his eyebrows.

“Military history, sir. With a focus on 20th Century conflicts, especially the Second World War,” I replied, feeling more at ease now that I was talking about a topic I liked and was comfortable discussing.

Mrs. Reynaud looked at me approvingly. “It’s nice to see someone your age taking an interest in history, Jim. What is it that Santayana said once? ‘Those who do not remember the past –”

“’– are condemned to repeat it,’” I finished for her.

She laughed, then glanced at her husband. “You see, Thomas? Marty was right. The lad does have a good head on his shoulders.”

Thomas Reynaud chuckled warmly and nodded in agreement. “That he does, Patricia. That he does.” I felt my cheeks get hot, and for a brief moment, I was speechless. I glanced at Marty, but all she could do was give me a shy smile and a subtle shrug of her shoulders. Breathe, Jim, breathe. It’s not as though you’ve just asked their daughter out on a date or anything, my rational mind advised.

“Thank you, Mr. Reynaud…Mrs. Reynaud,” I said gratefully, hoping fervently that I didn’t sound like the nervous 18-year-old that I was at that moment.

Marty’s father leaned toward me, his brown eyes bright and inquisitive, reflecting the golden light of the South Florida afternoon sun. “What will you do? You know…after you get your degree? Write books? Get an advanced degree? Teach?” he asked earnestly as if he genuinely cared about my plans.

Trying not to flinch, I met his firm gaze with one of my own. “Well, sir, I plan to teach history at the college level, so I will work toward a master’s degree in history, maybe another in education if I need to. I also want to write books about World War II for the general public. You know, like Stephen Ambrose and John Keegan.” I said proudly, feeling a surge of passion and excitement as I talked about my goals.

“I like that about you, lad,” Mr. Reynaud said with a broad smile. “You’re smart, motivated, and have your eye firmly on your future.” He paused and looked meaningfully at Marty. “And from what my daughter has told me, you’ve been a good friend and singing partner in the school choir.”

I shifted my gaze down toward my dress shoes, and the fingers of my right hand tapped nervously against my pants leg. “Uh, yes, sir.”

Marty’s dad gave me a sympathetic look. “It’s a shame that the Spring Concert was canceled this year,” he said gently. “Marty said that you two were going to do a duet together.” He looked quizzically at his daughter. “What was that number you were going to perform?”

Marty, caught off-guard by the unexpected question, coughed lightly, then said, “We were going to sing ‘Somewhere’ from West Side Story, Daddy.”

“Right. Right,” Mr. Reynaud said, snapping his fingers. He sounded a bit embarrassed as if he had forgotten something obvious or important.

Marty looked at her parents and said, “Mum, Daddy, can I please have a word with Jim alone for a few moments? I know you have to leave soon for the family graduation dinner, and I don’t want to keep you waiting.” She gave them a pleading look, hoping they would understand.

Her parents exchanged a glance, then nodded. “Of course, darling. We’ll just go and find Madge. She’s probably lost in her little world in one of the piano practice rooms in Building Eight. You know how she loves to play,” Mrs. Reynaud said, smiling.

Mr. Reynaud patted Marty on the shoulder and said, “We’ll see you in a bit, Martina. And you too, Jim. It was a pleasure to meet you, lad. You’re welcome to join us for dinner, if you like.” He winked at me, then followed his wife toward the music department.

Marty and I watched them go, then turned to face each other. We were alone, at last.

“So,” she said after a long, expectant pause that seemed to last an eternity. “This is truly it.” Her voice was soft and warm but tinged with melancholy.

“Yeah,” I managed to say in a low, sad monotone. “I know. You gotta go with your folks. Mom’s probably freaking out, wondering what the hell is taking me so long.”

She looked at me with those lovely hazel eyes that sparkled in the sunlight. We were so close that I could smell the faint trace of Wella Balsam shampoo on her hair, mingling with the jasmine and orange blossoms in her perfume. “I hate this…having to say goodbye again,” she whispered, and for the second time in less than 30 minutes, a single tear rolled down her cheek. My eyes followed its downward path intently until it fell onto the concrete walkway.

For a fleeting moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, I considered telling Marty right there and then how I felt about her. That I loved her. That I had loved her for a long time. That I would always love her, from then until the end of time. I wanted to. Desperately. But I couldn’t overcome my fear…and, anyway, it was too late now. We were going to take different paths now, and who knew when, if ever, they would cross again.

Gently, I reached out with my right hand, as if to wipe away the trail of that single tear from her soft, warm cheek. “Marty,” I began to say.

She closed her eyes and leaned slightly to let me caress her cheek. “Oh, Jimmy,” she murmured.

“I’m going to miss you, Marty,” I said softly, marveling at how beautiful she looked as we stood there, the sun casting our shadows that stretched into the distance.

“I know. I know. And I’m leaving tomorrow…and I don’t know when we’ll come back, so….”

Marty took both of my hands in hers and looked at me with a quiet intensity I had never seen before. “Oh, my knight in shining armor,” she said in a soft, silky voice that trembled with emotion. “I’ll read your letter…tonight. I promise.”

Reluctantly, she let go of my hands and began to turn as if to walk away, then stopped. “Jim?” she whispered huskily.

“Yes, Marty?”

She took one, then two steps to close the gap between us, her eyes half-closed, her lips slightly parted. Slowly, gently, she wrapped her arms around me in a tight embrace, and before I realized it, she kissed me softly on the lips. “For old times’ sake,” she said with a sad little smile.

She pulled away and looked into my eyes as if searching for something. I could smell the minty scent of her breath and feel the warmth of her skin. She kissed me again, briefly, then turned and walked away, without looking back.

I stood there, stunned, watching her until she disappeared from my sight. I felt a surge of emotions in my chest, a mix of joy, sorrow, regret, and hope. I wanted to run after her, to tell her how I felt, to ask her to stay. But I knew it was too late. She was gone. And I had to let her go.