Page 55 of Sassy & Sixty
A chorus of cheers (and a few confused murmurs from those who hadn't been warned about Emma's penchant for impromptu events) filled the air.
"Now," Emma continued, somehow managing to look both regal and slightly unsteady as she climbed onto a chair, "we'll be going room by room, sharing our favourite memories of Rosie's house. And for each memory shared, we'll raise a toast! Don't worry, I've prepared non-alcoholic options for the lightweights among us." She winked at Lisa, who rolled her eyes good-naturedly.
What followed was a meandering, slightly chaotic, but ultimately heartwarming journey through Rosie's home. In the kitchen, Mary (who had arrived fashionably late with the twins in tow) recounted the time she'd tried to surprise Rosie with breakfast in bed, resulting in a small fire and the discovery that pancake batter could, in fact, defy gravity if applied with enough enthusiasm to the ceiling.
In the living room, Catherine shared the story of their first book club meeting, which had quickly devolved into a wine-fuelled debate about whether Mr. Darcy or Heathcliff would make a better modern-day boyfriend. "For the record," Catherine hiccupped, already three glasses into Emma's punch, "I still say Heathcliff. A man who can brood like that must have hidden depths."
As they moved upstairs, Julie insisted on recreating the infamous "Yoga Incident" in Rosie's bedroom, nearly taking out a lamp and two unsuspecting guests in her enthusiastic demonstration of a "downward-facing disaster."
Each story, each memory shared, felt like a thread weaving together the tapestry of Rosie's life in this house. There were tears, as Rosie and Mary hugged, and there was laughter – particularly when Emma recounted the time she'd tried to install a disco ball in the guest room as a "surprise home improvement."
Through it all, Rosie felt Mike's steady presence beside her, his hand occasionally finding hers in quiet support. She caught him more than once looking at her with an expression that made her heart flutter in a most unseemly (but not unwelcome) way for a woman of her age.
As the tour wound down, ending back in the living room, Emma called for silence. "And now," she said, her voice taking on a theatrical solemnity, "it's time for the lady of the house herself to share a memory. Rosie, darling, the floor is yours."
All eyes turned to Rosie. She felt a moment of panic – how could she possibly sum up thirty years of life in this house in one memory? But as she looked around at the faces of her friends, old and new, she knew exactly what to say.
"My favourite memory of this house," she began, her voice strong despite the lump in her throat, "is happening right now. This house has been a home not just because of the memories it holds, but because of the people who have filled it with love and laughter. Yes, even you, Emma, with your glitter-based solutions to life's problems."
A ripple of affectionate laughter went through the room.
"I thought selling this house would be an ending," Rosie continued. "But being here with all of you tonight, I realise it's just the beginning of a new adventure. So thank you – for the memories we've shared, and for the ones we've yet to make."
There was a moment of silence as her words sank in, broken only by the sound of Catherine blowing her nose loudly into what appeared to be one of Julie's paintbrushes.
Then Emma, never one to let a moment become too sentimental, raised her glass high. "To Rosie!" she declared. "May hour next home be filled with as much love, laughter, and impromptu dance parties as this one!"
"To Rosie!" the room echoed, glasses clinking and voices raised in a cacophony of affection.
As the party resumed its cheerful chaos around her, Rosie found herself by the window, looking out at the garden where she'd spent so many peaceful mornings. She felt rather than heard Mike approach.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
Rosie nodded, smiling up at him. "You know, I really am. It's bittersweet, of course, but... I'm excited for what comes next."
Mike's hand found hers, their fingers intertwining naturally. "I'm excited too," he said. "Especially if it involves more parties like this. Though maybe with slightly less anatomically incorrect cake decorations."
Rosie laughed, leaning into him slightly. "Oh, I don't know. I think the Sensational Sixties Squad Headquarters might need a mascot. Why not a misunderstood vasectomy cake?"
Their moment was interrupted by a crash from the kitchen, followed by Emma's voice floating out: "Nobody panic! The punch bowl is safe. Can't say the same for Rosie's fine china, but really, who needs plates when you're starting a new adventure?"
Rosie sighed, but couldn't keep the fondness out of her voice as she said, "I should probably go see what's broken. Coming?"
Mike grinned, squeezing her hand.
As they made their way to the kitchen, navigating through guests who were now engaged in what appeared to be a very competitive game of charades (Julie was currently trying to act out "Fifty Shades of Grey" using only a feather duster and a very confused looking houseplant), Rosie felt a surge of affection for this motley crew she called her friends.
The kitchen was a scene of cheerful disaster. Emma, covered in what Rosie hoped was just punch, was attempting to sweep up shards of her best serving platter while simultaneously arguing with Lisa about the merits of using a salad bowl as an emergency punch container.
"It's the perfect solution!" Emma insisted. "It's big, it's deep, and let's be honest, nobody was going to eat salad at this shindig anyway."
Lisa, looking torn between exasperation and amusement, caught sight of Rosie and Mike. "Oh, thank goodness," she said. "Rosie, please tell Emma that we can't serve punch out of your salad bowl. It's... unsanitary."
Emma scoffed. "Unsanitary? Lisa, darling, I’m glad we didn’t know each other when I was younger and drinking cheap wine out of shoes.”
Rosie held up her hands in mock surrender. "Far be it from me to get between Emma and her mission to serve alcohol from increasingly inappropriate containers. Use the salad bowl if you must, but please, for the love of all that's holy, wash it first."
As Emma crowed in triumph and Lisa muttered something about investing in plastic cups for future gatherings, Rosie turned to survey the rest of the kitchen. It was a mess, to be sure – dishes piled in the sink, half-empty glasses littering every surface, and what appeared to be the remnants of Catherine's attempt at flambéing something (despite the distinct lack of a proper flambé dish or, indeed, any culinary skill whatsoever).
