The Daughters Break the Rules

by Joanna Philbin

  “Me too,” Carina said, suppressing a swiftly forming lump in her throat.

  “Bye, honey.”

  “Bye,” she said.

  She tossed the phone away from her. Hot tears welled in her eyes but she swallowed them away. So her mom didn’t have all the time in the world to talk to her. So what? It wasn’t her fault that some magazine wanted to interview her.

  But that old feeling swept through her again. That feeling she’d had on and off since she was ten, when her chest would get tight and her mouth would get dry and she’d feel a terrible sense of homesickness, like walking through a ghost town of a place she used to know. Talking to her mom did that to her sometimes. Whenever this feeling came over her, she needed to distract herself from it as soon as possible, so she reached for the stress ball on the coffee table and worked it in her palm as she thought.

  She needed a job. That was all that mattered right now. And tomorrow, she’d get one.

  chapter 8

  “But have you ever worked as a barista before?”

  The college-age girl with pink hair squinted at Carina from behind the counter, her pierced eyebrow already raised in serious doubt. Behind her, Carina could feel the line of customers getting restless.

  “Well, not exactly,” Carina finally said. “But I think watching you guys counts, and I have lots of experience doing that. And I’m sure once I actually got behind the counter I’d just pick it right up.”

  The pink-haired girl looked at the tattooed guy hovering over the milk steamer and sighed.

  “Hold on,” she said, utterly defeated. “I’ll get the manager.” Then she leaned past Carina to address the next person in line. “Can I get something started for you?”

  Carina stepped out of the way and positioned herself near a display of chocolate-covered espresso beans. Her feet were killing her, the tip of her nose was still numb from the cold, and her stomach was growling. So far her job search had been a complete bust. First she’d tried a tiny bookstore on the corner of Seventy-fifth and Lexington, where the manager had laughed in her face when she’d asked whether he was hiring. Then she’d tried a clothing boutique across the street, where the woman at the register just shook her head and went back to talking on her cell phone. Lastly, she’d wandered into a toy store, where the hordes of screaming kids and their miserable-looking parents had made her run right back onto the street.

  Java Mama didn’t look so promising, either. The pink-haired girl seemed worn out and harried, and the tattooed guy with the perma-frown seemed to take milk steaming very, very seriously. And just looking at the line of tense yoga moms attached to gigantic strollers and ordering half-caf skinny lattes made her tired. Almost every woman had a designer-made leather diaper bag hanging from her shoulder. How did everyone afford this stuff? And why had she never noticed how wealthy everyone was in this neighborhood?

  After a few more minutes of watching the pink-haired girl continue to ring people up, she decided that she’d done enough job searching for one day. Her dad’s couch was calling her name, and so was his fridge.

  She’d barely reached the door when a girl her age barged inside and almost knocked her down with the help of three enormous shopping bags from Scoop. As soon as Carina saw the auburn curls, the silver Searle Postcard coat, and the knit cap with devil horns, her mood sank even lower. It was Ava.

  “Oh, sorry!” Ava said, gathering her bags. When she saw who she’d bumped into, her smile faded. “Oh, hi,” she said coldly, straightening her hat. “Sorry ’bout that. What’s up?”

  “Not much. How’s everything going with the event?” Carina stepped closer to Ava to make room for a mom with a stroller, and almost choked on Daisy perfume.

  “Great,” Ava replied. “We just had one of our committee meetings. It was sooo fun,” she said pointedly. “It’s too bad you didn’t want to join.” She took off her devil cap and shook out her lush curls with a dramatic, shampoo-commercial toss of the head. “So aren’t you getting something?”

  “What?” Carina asked.

  “To drink,” Ava said.

  “Hey!”

  Carina whipped around to see the pink-haired girl at the counter, standing with a stocky, balding man wearing a smock.

  “Did you still want to speak to the manager?” she asked, jerking a thumb in his direction.

  “No, that’s okay!” Carina yelled back.

  “What’d you need to speak to the manager about?” Ava prodded. “Did they mess up your order?” She lifted one hand to play with her diamond A necklace, showing off her immaculate, black-and-white zebra-striped manicure.

  “Actually, I was just here for my dad,” Carina said. “He’s hosting a tea for some media people at our house and I just came in to see if they’d cater it for us.” She couldn’t believe she’d just thought of that off the top of her head.

  Ava narrowed her eyes. “Really?”

  “Uh-huh, but now that I think about it, this isn’t really our speed,” Carina said grandly, looking around. “I should probably go to Serendipity. Or Sant Ambroeus. Someplace a little more high-end.”

  “So you help your dad plan parties?” Ava asked, sounding genuinely interested.

  “Oh yeah, all the time,” she said. “I mean, I’ve been watching his people do it for years so I’ve really picked it up by now.” She snuck a quick peek over her shoulder. The manager was still standing at the counter. She turned back around.

  “You must have a lot of connections, then,” Ava said, turning the A on her necklace backward and forward. “Like, with the best chefs, the best florists, the best DJs, right?”

  “Pretty much. My dad and I only like to work with the best. You know how it is.”

  Ava folded her arms and leaned back on her heels. Carina half expected her to burst out laughing, but her expression was deadly serious. “How’d you like to plan my event?” she asked.

  “What?” Carina wasn’t sure whether she’d heard Ava correctly over the din of crying babies. “You mean the Silver Snowflake dance? Aren’t you doing that?”

  “Oh God no, I’m just dealing with the guest list.” She sighed, pulling out a leather-covered notebook from her black Hervé Chapelier bag. “This is everyone who goes to school in the city and at boarding school, and of course I have to figure out who’s actually cool enough to invite, you know what I mean?” She opened it to reveal a single-spaced list of names on the first page, and then clapped it shut. “So I’ve got my hands full with that. All that other stuff—the DJ, the food, the decor—someone needs to handle that. And maybe it could be you.”

  Carina quickly mulled this over. This could be a job. If she could get Ava to pay her. “Well, I’m sort of busy with stuff for my dad right now,” Carina said. “But if I were going to be paid for it, then that would be a different story.” She held her breath and waited.

  Ava didn’t blink. “How much?”

  “Food, DJ, decor, basically overseeing the entire thing…” Carina gazed into the middle distance, pretending to think. “A thousand dollars.”

  Ava’s left eyebrow shot up. “A thousand dollars?” she asked.

  Carina swallowed. “Uh-huh.”

  Ava’s pearly white front teeth chewed her bottom lip. “Well, the charity people said they had a little money in the budget. And if we hired you for a party planner, it would totally be worth it. With your connections and everything.” She paused. “Okay. I think we could do that.”

  “Then what about the retainer fee?” Carina asked before she could chicken out.

  “What’s that?” Ava asked, suspicious now.

  “That’s how it works. You give the party planner a chunk of the money up-front to secure their services. I think the going rate is twenty percent of the total charge. In this case, two hundred dollars.” She had no idea whether any of this was true, but it was worth a shot. She needed some quick cash for that lift ticket.

  Ava shrugged. “Fine, I’ll have it for you on Monday.”

  “Okay, gr
eat,” Carina said, trying not to look shocked.

  “Cool,” Ava said breezily, pushing past her toward the counter. “I think together you and I could make this party totally Times-worthy. See you Monday.”

  Ava stepped onto the coffee line, and Carina did a discreet victory jig as she walked out the door. She’d done it! She’d gotten a job! And not only was this going to be the easiest money she’d ever made in her life—well, the first money she’d ever made in her life—she’d get to go on the Carter trip after all! Of course, she didn’t have any experience, but she’d learn. All she needed to do was sit down with a professional and get some pointers. And she already knew the perfect person to call: Roberta Baron was her dad’s go-to woman for all his events, and the most sought-after party planner in New York. Roberta had done so many of the Jurg’s parties that she was practically family. She’d be only too happy to answer her questions. And from what she’d seen of Roberta in action, party planning seemed pretty simple: telling the flower people where to put the arrangements, screaming at the caterers, making sure the band didn’t play any Earth, Wind & Fire. How hard could that be?

  She took out her cell phone and tried to ignore the crawling panda as she dialed information. She would have just Googled her, but the Jurg wanted her to live in the Stone Age. “Roberta Baron, please,” she said. “Of Roberta’s Rare Events.” As she walked back onto the street she didn’t even notice the cold wind that blew through her hair and burned her cheeks.

  I’m back, she thought as she headed toward the subway. I am so very, very back.

  chapter 9

  She bounded up the red-carpeted steps, past the gray-suited doorman, and breezed through the shiny brass revolving doors of the Plaza. Her plan was going even better than she’d expected. After leaving Roberta a semi-rambling message saying that she had business to discuss, Roberta had texted her minutes later and given her a meeting on the spot: Palm Court, Plaza Hotel, four o’clock. That was the power of the Jurgensen name, she’d thought, tucking her phone back into her Botkier bag and turning west on Fifty-seventh Street. People always got back to you, even on a Saturday.

  She hurried through the hushed, marble-floored lobby, and the memories floated back to her. This was where they’d come, she and her mom, the day they’d left her dad. They’d taken a one-bedroom suite with a king-size feather bed and a majestic view of Central Park. For five days her mom cried in the bathroom and her dad made threatening phone calls and her mom’s therapist, Dr. Carla, made a few emergency visits. It was weird to be in the middle of such high drama, but she’d loved being here. They ordered room service from a white-gloved butler named Godfrey, took long freezing walks in Central Park, crunching over frozen snow, and one night even slipped into a party taking place in one of the private event rooms. Best of all, her mom called her in sick to school every morning, just so Carina could stay in the hotel and keep her company.

  When the Jurg finally showed up, he was with a police officer and a lawyer, both of whom threatened to arrest his wife if she didn’t allow Carina to come home. Carina wasn’t surprised, and neither was her mom. They’d said good-bye to each other in the hotel room. Now as she made her way through the lobby, past the softly lit boutiques and the slow-moving tourists, she remembered the smell of peppermint shampoo in her mom’s blond hair, and the touch of her freckled hands, and felt that same tightness in her chest from the night before. She’d gone home with her dad that day four years ago, thinking that she hadn’t had a choice. Now she wondered whether she’d actually had one. At least if she’d gone with her mom, she would have had one parent who cared about her. Right now she didn’t have any.

  Carina rounded the corner and walked out into the entrance to the Palm Court, a large open dining area lined with potted palms and crammed with pink linen-covered tables.

  “Excuse me, can I help you?” asked the skeletal hostess behind the podium.

  “I’m meeting someone here,” Carina said, craning her head. “Roberta Baron.”

  “Oh, right this way,” said the hostess, beckoning Carina to follow her. They made their way past ladies in dresses and pearls sipping tea from china cups and nibbling on tiny crustless sandwiches. Carina felt her spirits instantly lift. This place was stuffy, but a little luxury was just what she needed right now.

  Roberta was at a table in the corner, bent over her BlackBerry as she sipped a glass of ice water. Her flame-colored bob looked like it had just been blown out that morning, and her bony wrists were draped with jewel-encrusted gold bangles. A fat yellow diamond glinted on her finger. If there was anyone who could teach her how to pull off being a successful party planner, Carina thought, it was Roberta.

  “Carina, my darling,” she said, standing up and giving Carina a hug. She smelled faintly of lemons and her beige cashmere twinset felt supersoft and superexpensive. “What a nice surprise. How are you, my dear?”

  “Great, great,” she said. “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “Please, sit down,” Roberta said, and then turned to the hostess. “Could you please tell our waiter, wherever he is, that we’ll have the English tea service with no clotted cream? And absolutely no watercress or milk—just lemon. And a plate of those little candied gingers. And no dawdling, please.”

  The hostess just nodded, mildly frazzled, and walked away.

  “So, my dear, I was just thinking about you, and I’m so glad you called,” Roberta said, focusing her ice-blue eyes on Carina. She had to be almost sixty, but her pale face was eerily smooth. “If you’re planning a sweet sixteen, you really should start thinking about venues now. The best places are always taken a year in advance. What about the University Club?”

  “Actually, I wanted to ask you some questions,” Carina said, circling the bottom of her water glass with her finger. “About your job.”

  Roberta’s face went completely slack, as if she were trying hard not to make any unnecessary expressions.

  “I’ve just been asked to plan the Silver Snowflake Ball this year,” she said, leaning forward on her elbows. “It’s this fancy private-school dance—”

  “I know what it is,” Roberta said abruptly.

  “And um… since this is my first party-planning job, I thought I’d ask you, the party-planning queen of New York, to give me a few pointers.”

  “Pointers?” Roberta repeated, as if she’d suddenly forgotten how to understand English. Tiny frown lines appeared between her eyebrows.

  “I mean, I get the basic idea,” Carina continued, “you kind of oversee everything, and tell people where to put stuff, and yell at people when things go wrong, but I’m sure there’s more to it. Tricks of the trade, that kind of thing.”

  “So this isn’t about an actual event that you’d like me to do?” Roberta asked. Her eyebrows edged closer and closer to her hairline.

  “Oh no,” Carina said. “Just advice.”

  Roberta pursed her lips so hard that they turned into a narrow pink dash. “I rescheduled a meeting for this, Carina,” she said icily. “I thought you wanted to discuss an event.”

  “Oh,” Carina said. “I thought I said I had some business to discuss—”

  “Which I thought meant something for you and your father, not a school dance.”

  There was a sound of rolling wheels and trembling silverware, and Carina looked up to see a white-jacketed waiter roll their tea service up to their table. On his cart were the largest silver teapot she’d ever seen, gold-edged china cups and saucers, several plates of scones, and a three-tiered tray that held various tiny sandwiches.

  “Wow, that looks delicious,” Carina said, as the waiter began to serve the tea.

  But Roberta didn’t even look at the food. Instead she pushed her chair back. “Do you mind if we do this another time? I have more important things to do with my day.” She slung her cream-colored Chanel satchel impatiently over her shoulder.

  “Um… okay,” Carina stammered. “But don’t you want to eat?”

  Roberta waved h
er hand dismissively at the cart. “Just tell your father we need to discuss what he wants to do about his holiday party this year. Everyone else already has their invitations printed. Good-bye, Carina.”

  With that she wrapped her cashmere cape around herself, wheeled around on her spike-heeled Jimmy Choo boots, and set off toward the exit.

  Carina watched her totter away in shock. What had just happened? Why was Roberta so angry with her? Or at least, why had she blown her off like that?

  “Is everything okay?”

  She looked up to see the skeletal hostess hovering over the table, fake smile blazing.

  “Oh, yes,” Carina said. “My friend had to leave.”

  “So you’re done?” the hostess asked brightly.

  “I guess.”

  “Then I’ll have the waiter bring you the check,” the hostess said, before walking away.

  The check. Carina eyed the untouched stacks of sandwiches and scones, the huge teapot, the pots of butter and jam. Then she remembered that Roberta had left. Which meant that she would have to pay for it.

  Her heart started to thump inside her chest like she was about to jump out of a plane. She had no idea how she was going to pay for this. Especially because this was probably the most expensive tea service on the face of the planet.

  The waiter glided by the table and dropped the bill off.

  “Everything all right, miss?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said, barely able to look him in the eye.

  Carina waited for him to leave, and then, holding her breath, she opened up the little leather book that held the bill.

  1 English tea service…………. $75.00

  She gulped and slammed the leather book closed. She had no idea what to do. She knew kids who’d “dined and dashed” before, but they’d done it at some broken-down diner on First Avenue under the Roosevelt Island tram, just for the fun of it. This was high tea at the Plaza Hotel. They probably arrested people for running out on the bill. But right now, it was the only option. If she could get away with it.