by Emily Giffin
Before I could talk myself out of it, I called Frank about the opening, and he invited me to interview at his small Chelsea studio. Right away, Frank both impressed me and put me at ease. He had beautiful silver hair, impeccable clothing, and a soft-spoken kindness. There was also something subtly effeminate about his mannerisms that made me think he was gay—which at that point in my life, hailing from a blue-collar town and a conservative Southern school, still felt like a sophisticated novelty to me.
I watched Frank sip his cappuccino as he reviewed my amateur portfolio housed in a faux-leather album. He flipped the pages as he murmured approval. Then he closed the book, looked me in the eye, and said although he could see that I had promise, he wasn’t going to sugarcoat it—he already had a first assistant, and mostly just needed a lackey. Someone to pay the bills, go on coffee runs, and stand around a lot. “Decidedly unglamorous work,” he finished.
“I can do that,” I said earnestly. “I was a waitress. I’m great at standing. I’m great at taking orders.”
Frank remained stone-faced as he told me that he had just gone through four second assistants. He said they all had better credentials than I, but had been lazy and unreliable, every one of them. Then he paused and said he could tell that I was different.
“You have a sincerity about you,” he said. “And I like that you’re from Pittsburgh. That’s a good, honest place, Pittsburgh.”
I thanked him, flashing him an ever-eager-to-please smile.
Frank smiled back and said, “The job is yours. Just show up every day, on time, and we’ll get along fine.”
So I did just that. I showed up every day for the next two years. I willingly and gladly took orders from Frank and his first assistant, a quirky, older woman named Marguerite. Frank and Marguerite were the creative geniuses while I quietly handled all of the background details. I secured certificates of insurance for larger shoots—and sometimes even hired police. I handled the rental equipment and set up lights and strobes under Frank’s detailed specs, beginning many days’ work at dawn. I loaded film (by the end of my tenure, Frank said he had never seen someone load so quickly, which felt like the highest of praise) and took literally thousands of lighting meter reads. In short, I learned the ins and outs of commercial photography while I became more and more confident that I would someday strike out on my own.
And that’s where I was when Andy came to me.
They say timing is everything, and when I look back, I am a big believer in this theory. If Andy had asked me out any sooner, I might have viewed the invite as a pity maneuver, something Margot had put him up to. I would have said no, flat out, and because Andy isn’t the most aggressive guy, that likely would have been that. And, more important, I wouldn’t have had time to squeeze in my incidental, insignificant, but still very important rebound guys, most of whom lasted only one or two dates.
But if he had made his first move any later, I might have become cynical—a difficult feat for a woman pre-thirty, but one that I felt grimly capable of. Or I might have begun to seriously date someone else—maybe someone like Leo since they say you usually date the same type, again and again. Or I might have become too absorbed in work.
Instead, I was optimistic, content, self-sufficient, and as settled as you can really be when you’re young, single, and living in a big city. I still dwelled on Leo (and “what went wrong”) much more than I cared to admit to anyone—even myself, and the thought of him could still stop me in my tracks, send a ripple through my heart, fix a knot in my chest. But I had learned to manage those emotions, compartmentalize them. The worst of the pain had receded with time, as it always does, for everyone. I mostly saw Leo for what he was—a past love who was never coming back, and I saw myself as a wiser, more complete woman for having lost him. In other words, I was ripe for a new relationship, a better man.
I was ready for Andy.
Eight
I will never forget the moment when I knew that Andy was interested in me as more than just his sister’s best friend, or even, for that matter, his friend. Interestingly, it didn’t happen in New York, even though Margot and I saw Andy on a fairly regular basis, usually out at the bars for a few drinks, our group of friends mixing well with his.
Rather, I was in Atlanta, home with Margot and Andy for Thanksgiving, the three of us flying in the night before. It was well after we had finished the feast that Margot’s mother, Stella, had prepared single-handedly (the Grahams’ longtime housekeeper, Gloria, had been given the week off), and the worst of the dishes had been cleared and loaded into the dishwasher. Andy and I were alone in the kitchen after I had volunteered to wash the crystal and silver (and nobody objected, which made me feel even more welcomed), and Andy had quickly offered to dry—which I thought was particularly nice in a traditional family where the men seemed to have a complete pass on any domestic duties.
Meanwhile, Margot, her parents, and her brother James had all retired to the “TV den” and were watching The Shawshank Redemption. Incidentally, there were about three other rooms that could be called dens, but instead were called the game room, library, and family room. The entire house was grand and sprawling and filled with fine antiques, Oriental rugs, oil paintings, and other valuable heir-looms collected by way of exotic travels and deceased relatives. Yet despite how formal the house was, every room managed to feel cozy, which I attributed to the warm, soft lighting and the plethora of comfortable chairs to curl up in. Stella did not believe in a lot of things—store-bought salad dressings, regifting, hyphenated last names, for example—and a big one was uncomfortable seating. “Nothing ruins a dinner party faster than hard chairs,” she offhandedly told me once. When she offered gems like this, I always had the feeling I should jot them down in a notebook somewhere to consult for future reference.
But in a house full of beautiful, comfortable rooms, the kitchen was probably my favorite. I loved the caramel-colored walls, the slate countertops, and the heavy copper pots and pans hanging from hooks over the island. I was enchanted by the picture window overlooking the back terrace and the stone fireplace beside which everyone congregated. It was just the sort of spacious, bright kitchen that you see in the movies. A kitchen featuring a large happy family with a strong yet traditional mother at the helm; a handsome, doting father; a gracious, well-groomed daughter; and a couple of good-natured sons who pop in to dip wooden ladles into simmering pots on the oversized Viking stove and praise their dear mom’s—or dear housekeeper’s—cooking. Everything about that kitchen was perfect—just like the family in it.
That is what I remember thinking as I plunged my hands into hot, soapy water and fished out two silver teaspoons. I was thinking how lucky I was to be here—that this was exactly how Thanksgiving was supposed to feel—except, perhaps, for the near sixty-degree weather.
My own family had disappointed me that year—which was not uncommon since my mother’s death. My father tried for a few years to continue our traditions, but Sharon changed all of that—not in an ill-intentioned sort of way, but simply because she had her own children and her own way of doing things. That year, she and my father had gone to Cleveland to visit Sharon’s son, Josh, and his new wife, Leslie, who was a former cheerleader from Ohio State, a fact that Sharon seemed exceedingly and disproportionately proud of. This left Suzanne and me to fend for ourselves, and although I was dubious about two single sisters creating a satisfying Thanksgiving, a holiday revolving around food, when neither of us was adept in the kitchen, I was willing to give it a go. Suzanne, however, was not. She made it clear to me that she wasn’t going “to do the holidays this year.” I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but I had grown accustomed to her moods and knew that forcing a traditional Thanksgiving upon her was unwise. So I was beyond grateful when Margot invited me home with her.
I told Andy some of this now, as he asked about my family, careful not to sound bitter and betray my father and sister. Or worse, sound like Margot’s pitiful, matchstick friend.
&
nbsp; Andy, who had just strapped on a frilly blue apron, more for the comedic effect than any utilitarian purpose, listened intently and then said, “Well, I’m very glad you’re here. The more the merrier, I always say.”
I smiled, thinking that a lot of people use that expression, but the Grahams truly believed it, and so far today, at least a half-dozen friends had dropped by to say hello, including Margot’s high school boyfriend, Ty, who had brought over two-dozen famed, pastel thumbprint cookies from Henri’s, a long-standing Atlanta bakery. Margot denied it, but Ty was clearly still in love with her—or at least he was still smitten with her family. I could see how it could happen.
“You know,” I said to Andy, “most families aren’t like this.”
“Like what?”
“Functioning,” I said. “Happy.”
“We fooled you,” Andy said. “It’s all a façade.”
For a second, I was worried, nearly disillusioned. Was there a dark family secret I didn’t know about? Abuse of some kind? White-collar crime? Or worse, a final-word, no-hope diagnosis, like the one that changed everything for my family? I glanced at Andy and saw his jovial expression, feeling awash with relief. My vision of the Grahams as, against all odds, well off and well adjusted was safely intact.
“Nah. We are pretty functioning…Except for James,” he said, referring to his younger brother, the lovable screw-up of the family who at the time was living in the guest house in the backyard, hence earning the nickname Kato Kaelin. James had just lost another job—he had more “God-awful bosses” than anyone I had ever known—and had recently totaled at least his third fancy, free car. Yet even James’s antics seemed to add only good flavor, the rest of the family simply shaking their head in fond disbelief.
Andy and I were quiet for a few minutes, our elbows occasionally knocking together as we worked, until he said, out of the blue, “So you ever hear from that guy you used to go out with? Leo, is it?”
My heart jumped. I had just thought of Leo earlier that morning, wondering if he was with his own family in Queens, or whether he was taking a break from the holidays, Suzanne style. I could see him pulling a similar stunt, particularly if he was on a tight deadline. Still, thinking about him was one thing, speaking of him was another. I took a breath, choosing my words carefully. I had the sense that I was going on record, and although I wanted to be accurate, I also wanted to come across as strong. “No,” I finally said. “It was a clean break.”
This was a bit of an exaggeration, given my grieving period, but I reasoned that it was clean on Leo’s end. Besides, if you never contact someone even once after your final breakup, isn’t it, by definition, clean? No matter what you feel like on the inside? I thought about the one occasion that I almost called Leo. It was right after September Eleventh. At most a week had passed, but the country—and certainly the city—was still in that awful haze of grief and fear. I knew that Leo’s offices and home were nowhere near the World Trade Center, and that he seldom had an occasion to visit New York’s financial district. But still. There were so many crazy stories that day—stories about people being in places where they normally weren’t—that I started to imagine the worst. Besides, I reasoned to Margot, I was getting lots of calls from old friends, even minor acquaintances, who were checking on me. Wasn’t it the compassionate, decent thing to do? After all, I might have had bitter feelings toward Leo, but I wanted him to be alive. My rationalizing got nowhere with Margot who convinced me that I couldn’t, under any circumstances, contact Leo, and she did so with one simple, irrefutable argument: “He’s not calling to check on you, is he?”
I added a bit more detergent to the running water, the scent of lemon filling the air, as Andy nodded and said, “Clean breaks are always good.”
I murmured my agreement. “Yeah. I never really understood those people who are all buddy-buddy with their exes.”
“I know,” Andy said. “Someone’s still holding a flame.”
“Like Ty,” I said, laughing.
“Ex-actly,” Andy said. “I mean, c’mon, man, let the dream die already.”
I laughed, thinking that I had certainly let the dream die with Leo, not that I had much of a choice in the matter.
“So,” Andy came right out and asked next, “are you seeing anyone now?”
I shook my head. “No. Not really. Occasional dates here and there—mostly compliments of Margot. I think she’s set me up with every straight, single man in the fashion industry…But nothing serious…What about you?”
I asked the question even though I basically knew his status—he was single again after a short stint with an off-Broadway actress named Felicia. Margot didn’t know many details, only that they had broken up, and that she was pretty sure it was mostly Andy’s doing. Apparently Felicia was too high maintenance—a drama queen even off-stage.
Andy confirmed with a chipper, “Single,” as I handed him a crystal goblet.
He shot me a sideways smile that made me suddenly wonder if he was doing more than making small talk and helping with the dishes. Could Margot’s brother actually be interested in me? Not possible, was my first instinct. It didn’t matter that Andy was approachable, friendly, and somewhat goofy; he was still Margot’s very cute, very successful, older brother, which made him feel, somehow, out of my league, or at the very least, off-limits. So I pushed any romantic thoughts of Andy out of my mind as we continued our rhythm of washing and rinsing and drying. Then suddenly, we were finished. And surprisingly, I was sorry we were.
“That about does it,” Andy said, drying his hands, untying the apron, and folding it neatly on the counter. I pulled the stopper out of the sink and watched the water drain, slowly at first but then in a loud whoosh. I dried my hands and wiped down the counter with a monogrammed G hand towel. I had the sense that I was stalling, but stalling for what, exactly, I wasn’t sure.
That’s when Andy looked at me and said, “So. Ellen?”
Feeling somewhat nervous, I avoided his gaze and replied, “Yeah?”
Andy cleared his throat while he fiddled with a box of match-sticks on the counter and then said, “When we get back to the city…what do you say we go out? Grab some dinner or something…Just the two of us?”
There was no mistaking it—Andy was asking me out. My mind raced, thinking about the implications of going out with my best friend’s brother. Wasn’t it a risky proposition? What if we got serious and things ended badly? Would Margot take sides? Would our friendship survive? Or at the very least, would it be too awkward for me to ever return home with her? And so it occurred to me, in that second, to say no or to make up an excuse of some sort and avoid any potential conflict of interest. There were thousands of eligible men in Manhattan; why go down this road?
Instead, I looked into his blue eyes, icy in color, but warmer than any brown eyes I had ever known, and said coyly, carefully, “I think that plan has some potential.”
Andy crossed his arms, leaned back against the island, and smiled. I smiled back at him. Then, just as we heard Margot making her way into the kitchen, he gave me a mischievous wink and whispered, “And just think. If all goes well…you’ve already met the family.”
For the rest of the weekend, my excitement grew as Andy and I exchanged many knowing glances, particularly the following evening when Stella probed into her two sons’ dating status.
“Isn’t there anyone special?” she asked as we played Scrabble at the leather table in the game room.
James laughed and said, “Yeah, Mom. There are lots of special girls…If you get my drift.”
“James,” Stella said, shaking her always professionally coiffed golden head, and feigning exasperation for her middle child, as she spelled out the word gnomes with her remaining letters.
“Good one, Mom,” Andy said adoringly. And then to me, “Do you know that Mom never loses this game?”
I smile, noting how Southerners drop the word my when talking about their parents. “I’ve heard that,” I said, feeling
both impressed and slightly intimidated by the Graham matriarch. In fact, winning board games was only one of the many things I’d heard about Stella over the years that contributed to her beloved, almost cult-like, status in her family. Smart, stunning, strong Stella. Charming and charmed, she certainly wasn’t going to die of cancer—I was sure of it—but rather asleep in her own bed, at the ripe old age of ninety-four, with a smile on her face, and that perfect head resting on her silk pillowcase.
“That’s ’cause she cheats,” James said in his slow, deep drawl, an accent so much thicker than rest of the clan’s—which I chalked up to his general slothfulness that permeated even his speech. He winked at me and said, “You gotta keep your eye on her real good, Ellen. She’s a slippery one.”
We all laughed at the preposterous image of the ever-proper Stella Graham cheating, while she shook her head again, her long neck looking particularly graceful. Then she crossed her arms across her gray couture dress, the heavy gold charms on her bracelet sliding toward her elbow.
“What about you, Andrew?” Stella asked.
I felt my face grow warm as I fixed my gaze on her Eiffel Tower charm, undoubtedly a gift from Margot’s father, who I call Mr. Graham to this day, the only one not playing tonight. Instead he was reading The Wall Street Journal by the fire and occasionally consulting the dictionary and playing arbitrator of controversial words.
“What about me?” Andy said, evading his mother’s question while looking simultaneously amused.
“He dumped Felicia,” Margot offered up. “Didn’t I tell you that?”
Stella nodded, but kept her eyes on Andy. “Any chance of reconciling with Lucy? Such a sweet, pretty girl,” she said wistfully. “I loved Lucy.”
James cracked up and then imitated Ricky Ricardo, “Luuuuuuuu-cy! I’m home!”
We all laughed again, while Andy shot me a fleeting, eyebrows raised, insider’s look. “Nah. I’m over Lucy,” he said, his bare big toe finding my stocking-covered one under the table. “But I do have a date lined up next week.”