Second Star to the Right

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Semantics,” he replied, lifting his feet off the chair and motioning for her to sit down.

  “This mess...”

  “I’ll help you pick up if you’ll sit down and have one small drink. Whaddya say?” He swirled the thermos and the sound of liquid and ice rolling around inside was a symphony of temptation. “Gin and tonic. Ice-cold. The perfect summer drink.”

  “God, that’s tempting. Oh, all right. We are neighbors.”

  “Friends.”

  “Agreed. But just one. To get to know each other better.”

  “One will be more than enough to hear my whole life’s story.”

  “You’d need a pitcher to get through mine,” she said with a short laugh, slipping into the chair. “Ow, what’s that?” She turned her shoulder to find flakes of green paint and rust clinging to her white-cotton blouse and arms. Brushing the flakes away she said, “These chairs are beautiful. Heirlooms. It’s a shame they’re in such bad shape.”

  “Poor Wendy doesn’t get out much, and Mrs. Lloyd isn’t likely to take care of things.”

  “Funny how you call the old woman Wendy and her daughter Mrs. Lloyd. It speaks a lot about the women, don’t you think? Still, it’s a shame about this place. It’s so beautiful, but it’s so neglected. They just don’t build ’em like this anymore. I mean, the craftsmanship. The style.”

  “Now that you mention it, these chairs could use a coat of paint. The table too.”

  “I’d do it myself but between my work and my kids, I swear I don’t have a moment to catch my breath.”

  “I never asked. What line of work are you in?”

  “I’m an account exec for Leo Burnett. I’m here to snag a hot account.”

  “Ah, so they brought in a ringer. Which account?”

  “The Hampton Tea account. Ever heard of it?”

  “Yeah, sure. Who hasn’t? But frankly, I’m a coffee man myself.”

  “Really?” she replied, eyes narrowing. “That makes you my target market. I’ve got to find a way to sway you over to tea.”

  “You’ve got your work cut out for you.” He raised his glass to her.

  Faye groaned and clinked glasses. “Tell me about it,” she replied. She took a long swallow of her drink, enjoying the tart coolness on her tongue. “I’ve been wracking my brain going over the research and trying to figure out an angle.”

  “But...”

  “But it’s not easy. Let's face it. Americans are coffee lovers.”

  “And...”

  She smirked and shook her head. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “I sense something else.”

  Her smile slipped, and she stirred her ice with her finger. “I’m nervous,” she said, surprising herself that she’d admit something like that to someone who was a relative stranger.

  “What are you nervous about?”

  “That my idea won’t be good enough. That my boss won’t like it. I don’t want to let him down. I haven’t worked for him in years, and he has such faith in me.”

  "Seems to me you have to believe the faith is grounded. The one you have to worry most about letting down is yourself.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  “No, Faye, I mean it. Ideas are gifts from the gods. When we receive one we have to bow to them and offer thanks. Humbly. And believe in the idea. Passionately. If you don’t have faith in your idea, then how can you expect others to?”

  Faye sat up in her chair. His words rang true. “But...” she began, furrowing her brow, “how do you know if it is a good idea?”

  He shrugged. “You know."

  "How?" she pressed, sincerely curious to hear his thoughts. She'd done some research of her own on her new neighbor and had discovered that he was respected for brilliant concepts and new ideas.

  Jack considered a moment then said, "Trust your instincts.”

  Faye's enthusiasm wavered in her breast. “My instincts,” she said in a tone that implied she’d long ago lost faith in those.

  “I have this theory,” he said with a trace of a smile. “We all have instincts, but some of us have them more finely honed than others. We have to learn to listen to them. I believe that you have to spend time alone with your thoughts. To nurture your creativity. Oh I dunno, do things that bring you close to nature. Things that bring you pleasure. Take walks in the park, see, smell the change of seasons. Feel the wind on your face. Squish your toes in the mud. Or just pick up your feet and enjoy a gin and tonic on a balmy summer-night with a good friend.”

  “Sounds great,” she said softly. “But I have this problem. It’s that time thing.”

  He looked her in the eyes, and when he spoke his gaze underscored the serious tone of his voice. “Make time for yourself, Faye. Make time for play in your life.”

  She didn’t reply but kept her gaze steady while a lump formed in her throat.

  “You have an idea in that head of yours, don’t you?” he asked, turning crafty and tilting his head. “I can tell. See? There’s a smile. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  She nodded and released the reluctant smile.

  “I knew it!”

  “Oh stop being so smug,” she said with a laugh. “It’s just something I’ve been mulling over.”

  “Go with it, friend. Trust your instincts. My money’s on you.”

  She glowed inside, even as the afternoon’s light dimmed. A hush settled in the twilight. The birds sang their farewell songs, and the trees grew purple against a pink sky.

  “Look, Jack,” she said, pointing to the setting sun. It appeared in the sky as a large red ball balanced atop the crumbling brick garden wall. “It looks like it might roll right along the wall and topple into the trash can.”

  She relished the sound of Jack’s hearty laugh in the quiet night and laughed out loud along with him.

  Leaning back in her chair, she remembered back to when she was a young girl who loved to laugh, laugh without fear of being unladylike or overheard. Laughed for the pure joy of it. Something in Jack’s words kindled that youthful enthusiasm, that unerring belief that the world was her oyster. She was filled with a sweet gladness she hadn’t felt in years.

  “Thanks, Jack, for a wonderful evening,” she said, setting down her drink. “It’s getting late, and I’d best go in.” Then, looking up, she smiled at him, hoping her gratitude shone through. “And suddenly, I have this strange compulsion to work.”

  * * *

  That night Faye worked late on her idea. When she finally crawled into bed hours later, her thoughts drifted sleepily away from tea and marketing figures and wandered back to Jack and his insights and how he always made her feel good about herself.

  So unlike Rob, who’d never lost an opportunity to criticize her and to chip away at her self-esteem. Closing her eyes, she brought to mind the image of Jack’s deep-dimpled smile and the way his pupils quivered when he spoke with fervor about something he believed in strongly. He was a man of many convictions. Faye counted his qualities instead of sheep and when she finally fell asleep, it was with a smile curling her lips.

  The next morning she awoke full of energy and eager to stay on top of her idea. She worked straight through lunch and, at quitting time, called the baby sitter and informed her she’d be working late. She hated to do that, but she needed to plow through before she lost the idea’s spark.

  When she finally tossed down the pencil it was nine o’clock in the evening. She felt as though her brain had been drained of all gray matter. Rubbing her temples, she looked around her sterile ten-by-ten office high up on the twenty-third floor of the steel-and- glass building. Her metal desk and chair were the only pieces of furniture in the small, square office; the walls were barren of any pictures or plaques. Her windows didn’t even open. It was a cold, impersonal space, void of charm, crammed with boxes not yet opened, reams of paper waiting to be loaded into her printer, and stacks of reference books that needed to be shelved.

  She couldn’t be bothered with decorating or o
rganizing when there was a deadline on the horizon. She yawned, stood up, and stretched her arms and fingers far over her head, then walked to the window to gaze out at the park across the street. Lovers strolled hand in hand, a vendor sold flowers from his cart, an old man walked his little dog on a long leash.

  Her heart softened at the sight, and she leaned forward, resting her forehead against the glass. She loved these early-summer nights when the warm breezes smelled of honeysuckle and melted the bones to a heap of lassitude. On nights like these she felt her loneliness intensely, longed for a man to hold her hand and buy her posies and take her for a long walk in the park. What would it be like, she wondered, to squish her toes in the mud?

  She was just getting slaphappy, she thought, standing upright and rubbing her eyes. She had to concentrate on her work, finish up, and hurry home to her children. They were safe with the sitter, she knew. She called them on the phone several times to make sure that they’d finished their dinners and brushed their teeth. And to tell them that she loved them before they fell asleep. No child should go to sleep not knowing that they were loved.

  She returned to her desk and picked up her pencil, but her weary mind wandered. Leaning back in her chair, she opened a drawer and pulled out a blue-plastic thermos. What she needed now was a cup of coffee to get her going. Just one good solid jolt of caffeine. Unscrewing the top her nose twitched with the heady aroma of the steaming hot Java.

  “Mmm,” she sighed aloud, eyes closed, almost slumping forward with anticipation.

  “Caught you.”

  Faye jerked back and snapped open her eyes. Bernard was standing at the door, his dark eyes peering with judgment over his imperious nose. She quickly popped the top back onto the thermos and tried to stuff it back into the open drawer.

  “Not so fast,” Bernard said, stepping into the office. “What’s that I smell?” He raised his nose and sniffed the air like a great bloodhound. He looked ready to bellow out the howl after catching the scent. “That’s not tea, I’ll wager.”

  “Well, it’s late and...” Faye stammered.

  “No, no, no, definitely not tea. Only one thing I know of has that deep, dark, deliciously tempting aroma.”

  Faye raised her brow and pulled the thermos back out of the drawer. “Okay, I confess. Guilty as charged. It’s coffee.”

  Bernard crossed his arms and smirked.

  “Look, Bernard,” she began, feeling the hours of work coiling in her like a cobra. “I know more about tea at this very moment than I’d ever hoped to learn in a lifetime. Starting back from the legend of some ancient scholarly Chinese emperor with a thin mustache that reached his knees who accidentally discovered tea when a leaf from a nearby tree dropped into his boiled water, to Anna, seventh Duchess of Bedford, who one day idly declared that the best way to stave off her midday hunger pangs was with a brisk cup of tea, say about four o’clock each afternoon.” She picked up a pile of papers and let them sift through her fingers.

  “I’ve studied the history of tea, the drinking customs, the tea market, British and American tea-drinking habits, and the health advantages of tea.” She raised her hand and began counting off fingers. “I’ve had black tea, green tea, and herbal tea. Tea from India, Sri Lanka, Kenya, Malawi, Indonesia, and China. I’ve had it bright, brownish and burnt. I’ve tried it straight black, with cream, with skim milk, and teaspoons full of sugar, honey, and sometimes late at night, when I need a jolt, both.” Her voice began to rise. “Morning, noon, and night I’ve had tea, tea, tea. And no matter what blend or what variety of leaf or what I’ve put into the brew, I just can’t get used to that astringent, mouth-drying, puckering bitter taste in my mouth!” She reached over, grabbed the thermos, and opened it with a fierce twist. “I don’t know about you, but I’m desperate for a good cup of coffee!”

  Bernard sneaked a look over his shoulder and quickly closed the door behind him. He eyed her pouring out the black liquid with wide-eyed adoration. “God, that smells great. What kind do you have? French Roast? Kenya?”

  She looked up. “Colombian.”

  “Damn.” He rushed toward her desk. “Do you have enough for two?”

  Faye reached into the drawer to pull out another mug that had the Hampton Tea crest printed on the green glass and poured the traitorous coffee into it. They huddled over the desk like conspirators.

  Bernard practically groaned as he sipped. “Nectar of the gods,” he murmured.

  “Me mother’s milk to me,” she replied in a purr, drinking greedily.

  “Look at us, huddled in secrecy. We’re like a couple of addicts getting our fix.”

  “I’m a good girl. I work hard, keep my nose clean, don’t have many vices. I figure I should be forgiven this one addiction.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, sipping loudly. “Me too.” After pouring himself a second cup, he sat on the edge of her desk and poked around the papers that covered every inch of the surface. “So, O’Neill, how’s the campaign coming along? We still have to come up with something that sells the swill.”

  “It’s coming along,” she said cautiously. “In fact, I think I know how to get the job done.” She leaned back in her chair and sipped. Her eyes met his over the rim, and they shared a jolt of excitement, same as from the old days when she had a bang-up idea. He leaned forward slightly. She did the same.

  “Talk to me, Faye.”

  She took a breath and dived in. “The way I see it, Hampton Tea wants to enter the American market,” she began. “A land of diehard coffee drinkers. Folks who once dumped bales of British tea into Boston Harbor, an action I’m totally sympathetic with, by the way. Bottom line, we don’t want to switch to tea. We like our coffee. Take me. I’ve tried a gazillion different blends and varieties and I still don’t want to give up the Java. So what’s to get folks like you and me to switch to tea?”

  “Job pressure?”

  She chuckled. “Well, that works for me... But for the million other coffee drinkers from California to New York?”

  He shrugged, eyes flashing with anticipation.

  “Health.”

  “Health?” The light in his eyes dimmed a bit.

  “Yes,” she replied, sitting up and placing her mug on the table. Tapping the papers, she continued, “There is an increasing body of evidence that tells us that not only is tea not harmful to the body like some folks claim coffee is, but that tea is actually good for you. Especially green tea.”

  She wagged her brows and smiled like a carnival barker reeling one in. “And it helps fight heart disease.”

  Bernard brought his coffee to his mouth, looked at it, then thought differently and set the mug down on her desk.

  “Fights heart disease?”

  “And lowers cholesterol and blood pressure. Look at who is out there buying the coffee, Bernard. The Baby Boomers are aging. They want to take care of their bodies, their teeth, their hearts. I say the health advantages of tea drinking is what’s going to bring them over from the coffee camps to the tea camps. Health. Fitness. Long life. That’s where we should focus our campaign.”

  Bernard stood up and tucked his hands into his suit pockets as he paced her office floor, considering. She held her breath, praying. This wasn’t how she’d meant to tell him.

  She wanted the charts and the graphs, the punchy lines, the bells and whistles when she presented her first campaign idea for him in a decade. But the moment seemed right tonight. The sparkle was there. She went with her hunch.

  When he stopped in front of her desk and met her gaze, her breath slipped out in a wheeze. There was no sparkle in Bernard’s eyes.

  “So you really think that a factual-based campaign is the way to go?”

  She nodded, feeling the excitement in her veins freeze and the coiling in her stomach tighten. “Yes,” she replied, clearing her throat and appearing as businesslike as possible. “We’ll hit them with solid medical claims. The research studies are there, Bernard. The statistics are there. We’ll be clever, of course. The C
reatives can work out all the details. But I really believe that a well-thought-out, rational approach will appeal to a nation of health-conscious, aging adults. No one wants to believe in fairy tales anymore. We’re too educated. Too smart to be fooled by romantic images of high tea with white-lace doilies, high-fat buttery crumpets, and women sharing secrets. Women today don’t want secrets. They want the hard facts.”

  He stroked his jaw and narrowed his eyes, looking long and hard at her. Finally, he dropped his hand with decision.

  “Okay, O’Neill. I’ll go along with your idea.”

  Her heart skipped a beat and she half rose to thank him.

  “Hold on there,” he said, his palm out in an arresting pose. “I’ve got to be honest with you. It doesn’t send me. The juices aren’t flowing. I’m used to your zinger ideas. Slogans that zig and zag right to the heart. This is, I dunno. Sensible, practical, maybe even convincing. But kinda flat. Safe.”

  “But if you consider...”

  “You’ve got some good ideas, and I said I’d give you a shot. I’ll back you on this.” He shrugged. “I don’t know how the Creatives will react. That’s between you and them.” She nodded, feeling suddenly subdued. “They’re champing at the bit to go all out for some wacky out-there idea. They want a rallying call. Something along the line of Just Do It. Well, it's up to them to take this idea and do it.”

  “I know. I know," he said. "But it’s not them I’m worried about. The one you have to convince is Susan Perkins. She’s the account supervisor. If she says no, it’s no.”

  “But Bernard, you just said you’d support the idea.”

  “I will. But I won’t go to bat for it. It’s more that I won’t pitch against you. I’ll let it be known I’m on your team.”

  Faye slumped in her chair. Bernard was definitely dim on the idea. “If you think it’s not good...”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I’m not swept up by it. I have to admit, though, that heart disease stuff caught my attention. There's something good there. Look, Faye, it’s up to you. This is your campaign. You just have to be absolutely, drop-dead sure that this is the best way to present the campaign, that Hampton Tea will go for the idea, and that their product will sell like the proverbial hotcakes in the States.” He speared her with one of his piercing, cut-to-the-chase glances. “Are you sure?”