Vanity Fare

by Megan Caldwell

  My mom was so desperate for me to get noticed by anyone she’d sell out her own grandchild. But what could I do? It wasn’t as though I could get Aidan to give it back, not without causing him a whole lot of grief, and for what? For somebody who didn’t like me but inexplicably wanted to hire me?

  Whatever. I couldn’t think about it now, not with Natalie and my mother both staring at me, and Aidan already pulling my arm in the direction of the gift shop.

  Molly placed a business card in my hand as I was led away. “Give me a call soon, Molly, okay? I have work that’d be perfect for you, and I could use a hand.” She leaned in and said in a confidential tone that set my spine on edge, “One of my clients is testing a new line of breakfast treats aimed at busy moms. Plus I’d really like to hear what you’ve done with Simon’s shop.” Thankfully, she didn’t mention whatever I might—or didn’t—do with Simon.

  “Sure,” I replied, knowing that calling her was one thing I was definitely not going to do—ever—in a million years.

  But at least Aidan got himself a stuffed lizard I didn’t have to pay for. So maybe the day wasn’t a complete loss.

  Seeing Nick that Tuesday wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as I’d anticipated. Given that I’d anticipated his turning into Mr. Ice World again, that didn’t mean much. But still. His blue eyes lit up when he saw me, and he led me into the bakery, that omnipresent arm once again holding mine to guide me through the doorway.

  The bakery still had the under-construction newspapers on the windows, but the floors were freshly varnished, there was a lovely cream-colored paint on the wall, and the tables and chairs had been set up.

  “Would you like to see the kitchen?” Nick asked, gesturing toward a huge plate-glass window.

  “I’d love to,” I answered, stepping forward.

  Wow. No wonder Simon felt so special if he got to cook with this kind of equipment—those huge stainless steel fixtures that TV show chefs had positively gleamed. Pots and bowls were artistically placed on silver shelves lining the spotless white walls, and an overhead rack held measuring spoons, measuring cups, and other cooking devices I couldn’t identify.

  It was gorgeous. I wanted to go in and cook there, and I never had that impulse.

  I looked around and gave an approving nod. I had to stop myself from giving that same nod of approval when I looked at Nick. I cleared my throat instead.

  “This is all so lovely. It really looks like a thing, you know?” Did I just utter something so moronic? Oh, yeah, I did. I cleared my throat. “So John mentioned doing a presentation to the Cooking Channel. Were you trying to keep it from me, or did you just not know?”

  He twisted his lips in what looked like disgust. “It’s Simon’s idea. He wants to get as much advance PR as he can, so he’s flying a bunch in and giving them the full dog and pony show. I told him we weren’t ready yet, but John said we were.”

  “Why would John say that?”

  He darted a quick glance at me. “I assumed you’d told him we were ready.”

  “Me? No, why would I?” I gave a rueful laugh. “You’ve met me, Nick, do you think I’d actually be that bold?”

  “If there were something you wanted badly enough, yes, I think you would.”

  His reply brought a sharp recall of the last time I had wanted something badly enough. Not in a million years . . .

  He walked over to one of the low tables, pulling a chair out and gesturing for me to sit. He met my eyes. “Anyway, there’s no avoiding it.”

  I felt like a chastened schoolgirl as I walked over to the chair and sat down. I pulled out my notebook, and felt myself draw a deep breath. “Well, then, let’s get started.” I opened my binder and pulled out the pages where I’d been making notes.

  He bent his head over the pages, and I caught his scent: leathery, musky, masculine.

  “I’ve added several since last week,” I said, hearing the strain in my voice. “I’m not sure they’ll all work. Lady Windermere’s Flan, for example, since I wasn’t sure the store would offer flan.”

  “Mansfield Pork,” he read with a chuckle.

  “Obviously that won’t work, I was just brainstorming,” I said nervously.

  He looked at me, a warm smile lighting his features. “You are way too clever for this. I wouldn’t have expected to have so much fun working on this project. Normally it’s number crunching and dealing with marketing executives. They’re not exactly a barrel of laughs.”

  “Thanks. I’m having fun, too.”

  He kept looking at me for a few seconds longer. “Anyway,” he said, returning his gaze to the notebook, “send me the blurbs, I can input them into a PowerPoint presentation. Simon really goes for the bells and whistles.” He had a weary tone in his voice.

  “How many of these types of presentations have you done?”

  “More than I can count. Even before I went to college, I . . . well, anyway, a lot.”

  I wondered what he had been about to say. And why he was so mysterious about his life.

  “So you can tell me what to expect.”

  He shrugged. “Nothing exciting, really. You’ll get up, explain the general theme, throw in some high-concept works like amortize and scalable, and they’ll ask questions, which Simon and I will answer.”

  “Put that way, it sounds much less frightening than what I had imagined.”

  “It’s not like they’re even close to being as smart as you, Molly. Certainly not as sharp. And definitely not as intriguing.” He clamped his mouth shut, as if to stop himself from saying anything else. I wanted to pry his mouth open so he could say even more. I grinned.

  “Thanks, Nick. I doubt the network execs are as intriguing as you, either.”

  He gave a half-smile. “I shouldn’t have said that, it was”—He paused for a moment. Complimentary? Charming? Seductive?—”inappropriate.”

  “I won’t argue the point.” But if I have to stare at you any longer, I’m going to turn into a blithering idiot. I forced myself to look down at my papers again. Definitely not nearly as attractive.

  “How’s Aidan?”

  I smiled. “He’s great. He’s bugging me about when you’ll be coming to take him back to that place again. I told him you had a lot of work to do, and he had to be patient. Patience is not really part of a six-year-old’s repertoire.”

  “I could come out this weekend, actually.”

  I paused a moment before replying. “Aidan’s with his dad. And my mom’s spending the weekend with her friend in New Jersey. I’ll have the whole apartment to myself.” Oh, shoot, that sounded like a proposition.

  Judging by the color his ears turned, he thought it was, too. “Well, the next weekend, then,” he said stiffly.

  “Great. Aidan will be thrilled.” Me, I’ll be hoping I won’t accidentally stuff my foot into my mouth again.

  “So what are you going to do this weekend?” Keisha asked. I was lying on my bed, the ubiquitous cup of coffee on my bedside table. Aidan was asleep, Mom was reading, and I hadn’t had to pawn my engagement ring yet. It was a good day.

  “I hadn’t really thought of it until Nick offered to come over. I guess I’ll do some cleaning, maybe take a pile of old toys to the Salvation Army.”

  “Ooh, girl, you are going to be one crazy party animal.”

  “Well, what would you suggest, Ms. Smarty-pants?”

  “Let’s see. What wouldn’t you do in a million years? Maybe go ice-skating in Prospect Park?”

  “Yeah, and freeze my ass off. No thanks.”

  “How about take yourself to the movies?”

  “Can’t afford it. Next?”

  “Drink yourself into a stupor and do some drunk-dialing?”

  “It’d be a good idea if I actually wanted to talk to anyone.”

  “Bonk Simon silly?”

  “That’s over. At least, according to me.”

  “Darn. I wanted you to spill all the juicy details.”

  “Speaking of which, how’s the Gre
at White Hope?”

  “The first time you made that joke, it was mildly funny. Now? Not so much. But he’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine together.”

  “Okay, so you’re making me a little nauseated with all the fine stuff.” I paused.

  “I love him, Molly.”

  I swallowed. “That is so great to hear. I am really happy for you.”

  “Thanks. Me, too.”

  “And now,” I said, glancing at the clock, “I’ve gotta go before I turn into a pumpkin. Or an incredibly grumpy mom.”

  “Bye, hon.”

  “Bye.”

  As I hung up I realized I still had a goofy smile pinned to my face. Keisha’s happiness did that to me.

  Lightning—and love—really did strike in the oddest places. Who would’ve thought Keisha would find the love of her life in Cottonwood, California? Where, according to Keisha, the most exciting things happened one hundred years ago when it was an Old West frontier town?

  I was still smiling when I went to sleep that night.

  You Pecan’t Go Home Again

  Setting off for far-off places, places as exotic and far-flung as your dreams. But your reality can—or pecan—be as good, too. Taste this delicious pecan burrata, filled with dough and nuts and warmth.

  Bet if they served this at home you wouldn’t have left in the first place.

  19

  THE NEXT MORNING, REALITY HIT. HARD.

  I heard the phone as I was starting the first of the breakfast dishes. Thank goodness Aidan liked oatmeal, I couldn’t afford those gold-bricked kids’ cereals anymore.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Mol.”

  “Hugh.”

  “So how are you?”

  Was this a social call? “Fine,” I answered slowly.

  “Good, good. Look, there’s something I need to ask you.”

  I carried the cordless into my bedroom and sat down on the bed, which was still unmade. “Okay. Ask.” I balled the top sheet up and threw it into the hamper. Don’t tell me I can’t multitask.

  “I need to get my grandmother’s ring back.”

  I fell back onto the bed and stared at the light fixture. “Ring back,” I repeated dully.

  “Yes. Look, I know this is hard, but it was my grandmother’s ring, and since—”

  —since you left me and we’re going to get a divorce, I’m not family anymore. “Of course.” I swallowed everything I wanted to scream at him. It’d be different if he’d actually bought it for me, but since it was his family’s heritage—I shut up.

  He seemed almost too relieved at my easy capitulation. Why did I always have to make it so damn easy for him: sure, Hugh, I’ll work so you can get your JD; of course, Hugh, I’d love to wait to get pregnant; oh, now?; okay, Hugh, I’ll quit my job. It is best for Aidan.

  “I know it’s none of my business, but does this mean you and Sylvia—?”

  He cleared his throat. “I just want the ring back, Molly.”

  Oh, so Mr. Indiscreet was finally trying to change his oversharing ways. His discretion didn’t make the lump in my throat any smaller.

  His voice cut through my memories of when he had given me the ring: Christmastime, about a block away from the Rockefeller Center tree. We hadn’t been able to get any closer, and it was freezing, and all I could think about was getting something hot to drink when he pulled it out of his pocket and stood there, grinning sheepishly at me.

  I hadn’t been cold the rest of the night. I was making up for it now.

  “You can just pack it with Aidan’s stuff next time he comes for the weekend.”

  “And have him throw it out by accident because it’s not one of his toys? No, Hugh, you’d better get it from me in person. I don’t want you thinking I hocked it—” to pay the rent or something frivolous like that.

  “Oh, good point,” he said. “When should I come get it? Or are you going to be in the city anytime soon?”

  “You can come get it later this week while Aidan’s in school, if you want. You’re not working, right, so you have the time?”

  I heard him take in a breath. Zing! Molly scores a hit!

  “Sure. Morning okay? I’ve got some work to do later in the day.”

  Like fun you do. “After 11:30 is fine with me. Just call first, okay?”

  “Sure. See you tomorrow.”

  After I hung up, I just stood for a moment. It was really over. I mean, I knew it was over, but this meant it was really over over. I strode to the bureau where I kept my jewelry and found the small black velvet box I’d tucked the ring in right after Hugh left.

  It was a beautiful ring. The diamond was square cut and rested on a plain gold band with a small diamond on either side. Hugh was lucky—if it hadn’t been a family heirloom, I’d have sold it long before this.

  I put it back in the box and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. The dishes were still waiting, there was no time for me to indulge myself in a good cry. And actually, I didn’t even want to cry.

  I wanted to rip Hugh’s throat out, I wanted to stomp so hard my downstairs neighbors thought I’d taken up clogging, I wanted to do a tequila shot, but I did not want to cry.

  “Is this Molly?”

  I wiped my hands on the dish towel so I could hold the phone better. I didn’t recall ever getting two phone calls so close together. If the first call hadn’t been Hugh, I might have almost said I was popular. “Yes?”

  “Molly, this is Caroline. Jimmy’s mom? We met at the birthday party last week.”

  “Oh, of course.” The fabulous blonde.

  “Well, I know it’s last-minute and everything, but a group of moms are getting together on Saturday for a little get-together, and I was wondering if you’d like to come.”

  Hey, someone was asking me out! “Uh, sure . . . I’m free, actually, ’cause Aidan will be with his dad anyway.”

  “Oh, good. It’s just something we do every month—we call it Scrapbook Saturday, and we just hang out and work on our scrapbooks.”

  Oh. God. The only thing I knew about scrapbooking was that I had no interest in doing it. Was it too late to plead illness? Death? Morbid fear of cute captions?

  “Great. What time?”

  “One o’clock. It’s at my house this month, I’m on Third Street, the closest house to the park. Last name’s Kostov. Come hungry, I’m making lunch, too.”

  At least I’d be fed. “Thanks. See you Saturday.”

  And now I had something else besides the ring return and the investor presentation to dread: a group of Park Slope moms sitting around cutting out scraps of paper to pin into their own precious moments scrapbook.

  Wednesday morning, I woke up with a familiar ache in my lower abdomen. Cramps. Ugh. And me about to head into the city to work with John on my presentation.

  I popped twice the suggested number of menstrual pain tablets and made a big pot of tea. I could feel the bloat in my stomach. The cramps were exacerbating my back pain—my lower back ached like a really pissed-off mule had kicked it. I got Aidan off to school, just barely, then came home and ran a bath. The hot water eased my discomfort, but the pain returned as soon as I toweled off.

  Damn. Cramps, John, and the presentation.

  As usual, my wardrobe matched my mood: black. I pulled out my loosest pair of black pants and a long black suit jacket. I grabbed a gray sweater to wear underneath so at least I wasn’t completely funereal. In my current state, I knew I could use the extra warmth. I wore my most comfortable nice shoes, not sneakers, but flat and wide to fit my puffy feet.

  I made a face at Henry James as I grabbed another romance from my towering stack of luridity. I was not going to suffer for my brain today.

  The subway ride wasn’t long enough. I felt in a little less pain, but now I felt a little loopy. I walked up to John’s office, noticing the trees on the sidewalk were daring to get a few buds on them. I could not wait for spring.

  “There’s no need to be intimidated, Molly,” John pronounced as
he led me into the conference room, the place where I’d originally pitched the concept to Nick and Simon. Perched to the left of where I sat was a wicker basket filled with what I presumed were Simon’s bakery samples. I grabbed one of the croissants and stuffed it in my mouth.

  And remembered, again, what made him a genius. That croissant was absolutely light, and flaky, and even smelled like butter. It was the most fabulous thing I had eaten since the first time I’d eaten his food, and it was almost worth it, though the starch was heading straight for my thighs.

  He opened my notebook and leafed through the pages until he found my outline. He paused, thrust his lower lip out, and nodded. I waited at least five minutes before I spoke.

  “I’m sorry, does that lip thing mean you approve or disapprove?”

  He looked up, a confused look in his eye. “Lip thing? No, this is fine, Molly, I’m just wondering how the network people will react. I mean, you’re pretty . . . esoteric here.”

  “My mother will be so proud,” I said drily.

  “Not that it’s bad, but the blurbs—I mean, I assume they refer to books?”

  Yes, Mr. Communications Major. “Well, we could tone those down a bit.” I allowed a tone of superiority to creep into my voice. “They’re for the concept; we might not end up with these as the actual blurbs. If we have to dumb them down or something. Anyway,” I continued, “didn’t you once tell me you could sell ice to Eskimos?”

  He preened a little. It was an obvious ruse, but it worked. “Of course I can. No problem. Let’s get Matt in here to take notes.”

  John’s assistant trotted in, bearing two Starbucks coffee containers. He set one down in front of me, saying, “Milk and sugar, right?” then placed the other in front of John, who took a sip right away, then scowled. “It’s black. I wanted sugar.” Matt leaped to his feet and returned a few seconds later with a sugar packet. He watched as John dumped the packet into his coffee. John took a sip and nodded, and Matt eased into the chair closest to the door.

  “Matt, Molly and I have a presentation next Monday—I told you the date, right, Molly?—and we need to have you take notes then input into a PowerPoint file.”