Page 68 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

“Vera Robeson, née Branca. I’m Brody’s widowed, uncool aunt.”

I laugh as I sit on the sand next to her. I don’t have a towel, but it’s warm enough and the sand is hot enough that I’m sure I’ll dry off soon.

“Not interested in snorkeling?”

“I’m not interested in any of the prewedding activities, but Brody’s my favorite nephew, so here I am. My children, who are much smarter than I am, are flying in just for the ceremony.” She sighs and rearranges her shawl again, and I notice what looks like a silver wedding band on her right hand. “I’m on spring break, so I had no excuse.”

“What do you teach?”

“High school art. Which is basically little pay and even less prestige.” She laughs, pulling on the shawl, which I now see, when I examine it more closely, looks almost hand-painted. “I also married an art teacher.” She twists the ring on her finger and, seeing my attention, takes it off to show me.

“Is this a quarter?”

“That’s how poor we were, for a little while. Vernon was just a couple of years older, but you know, public school art teacher. Basically as poor as employed, college-educated adults can be.” After I’ve thoroughly examined the ring, I hand it back, and Vera smiles down at it. “Took him two years to propose. I was so tired of him saying he needed to save up for a proper ring, I told him I’d marry him with a paper ring.”

“Like Taylor Swift?”

“I assure you, we had the idea before Taylor.” She slides the ring back on her right hand. “I’m left-handed, but those fingers have gotten chubbier. Anyhow, Vernon got the hint, transformed a quarter from the year we met, the year he said his life began.”

“I can’t imagine a more romantic proposal.”

“Neither can I.” Vera smiles.

It takes almost an hour of small talk before I convince Vera to come into the water with me.

“No one wants to see this body in a bathing suit,” she protests.

“I mean no offense, but”—I gesture to Vi and Khloe, who because of some weird twin synergy are standing next to each other, juxtaposing their perfect boobs and tight, high asses—“no one is looking at you. Or me.”

“Lucas Murray’s been looking.”

It takes all my willpower to not-look in Lucas’s direction.

“You know Lucas?”

“Brody has talked about you and Lucas for years, Lorelai. Years. Told me all about the LSAT thing you built him, Lucas saving his butt when they were undergrads. Story after story about his two best friends.”

“No way Brody said the words best friends.”

“I have two grown sons. I’m translating.” Vera places a hand on my arm, and I glance quickly at where I know Lucas was a few minutes ago, when I’d last allowed myself to look.

“No need to check. Thirty years of teaching high school. I know what pining looks like.”

I’m tempted to pursue this line of conversation, but I don’t want to lose track of the main goal. “Quit stalling and come extreme snorkeling with me.”

Vera hesitates for another moment before standing up. The shawl is, as I guessed, Vera’s own creation. She explains to me how she splattered it with hot wax that then dried and cracked, allowing dye to flow along the cracks. The process itself sounds lovely. Vera folds it carefully on the towel before taking my hand.

Lucas comes over while we’re still waist-deep and practicing because even though there are technically instructors, all three of the men who are supposed to be guiding us are clustered around Vi, Khloe, and the other girlfriends and wives.

“You two look as though you’re having fun.”

Lucas and Vera introduce themselves to each other before I get the chance to retort.

“It’s because I’m a fun person.”

“Maddeningly so. Though I thought I was grounded from talking about the past?”

“Talking is fine. Prying questions are forbidden.”