“Hey, John,” I said rather loudly into my receiver. The couple, possibly enjoying an enviable first date, looked over at me. I quieted down. “What’s up, big brother?”
“Anna Sophia!” he exclaimed loudly. “It’s about damn time. I’ve been calling you. Don’t you ever pick up your phone?”
“Yeah, well, you know….”
John instantly regaled me with his latest, exciting news of his upcoming trip to London (the reason for his determined calls). He worked at a prestigious law firm in San Francisco, managing accounts and clients in the international business sector, particularly clients who had stakes and dealings in both the U.S. and the U.K. His persistence and hard work were always inspiring and one of the many pieces of the inspiration puzzle that encouraged me to go after my entrepreneurial dreams.
Growing up, John hung on every last law-packed word of exciting court cases of our grandfather, a successful lawyer in our hometown of Santa Barbara. And since high school John had known that he wanted to study law for himself. Then his penchant for travel landed him in international business law.
Occasionally Jack’s firm would send him overseas to England to meet with a client for a couple of weeks at a time, now and then for a few short days. He loved the international flair to his career, not to mention the frequent flyer miles that he used on lavish weekend trips—always with his latest girlfriend, always short trips.
John was a busy man. And he wasn’t a player, shamelessly bouncing from girl to girl, despite his long list of exes. He had always been in and out of relationships for as long as I could remember. Some more serious than others, but none ever lasting longer than a year or so. I think Jack’s focus on his career and his frequent travels made it difficult for him to become involved in a deep and meaningful relationship that went beyond a brief weekend cruise or last-minute jet off to Paris or Milan.
Since John had recently hit thirty his relationships had grown shorter, and fewer. Whenever I asked him who the lucky girl was, he’d dismiss it as “just fun,” or “nothing serious,” or “probably going to break it off soon.”
Generally he was willing to talk with me about personal topics and open to serious conversations. But when it came to women, at least since the big 3-0, he was rather vague and distant. He reasoned that since nothing serious was going on in the relationship department for him, there was really no point in talking about it. There was always something better or more exciting to talk about, like what he had for breakfast that morning. He had told me recently that settling down wasn’t something he was looking for at the moment, and he wasn’t sure if it would ever be something he’d want. He wasn’t closed to the idea, but let’s just say none of his love interests should hold their breath.
Naturally, during this conversation I asked how Mira, his current girlfriend, was doing, and how she was handling the news of his big, upcoming trip. Jack’s next trip to London was for a complete case study and onsite support. The case would be taking him overseas for eight to ten months. Possibly a year. I highly doubted that Mira, a girl who seemed to be more infatuated with John than he with her, would handle it with ease and understanding.
“Yeah, we broke it off,” John sighed. “It was dead end anyhow, and I knew she wouldn’t like me leaving for so long.”
Classic John. Sometimes I wondered if he was scared of commitment. But I wasn’t sure about that. I just think John was dedicated to his career and had worked so long and so hard for it that he simply couldn’t imagine putting one hundred and ten percent effort into anything but his career. Especially at the expense of it.
After John excitedly shared the details of his new case in the land of “powdered wigs,” as he said with a chuckle, I spilled my latest events, keeping the details to a minimum. Now I was slowly closing in on acceptance and forgiveness, I could tell the news without sounding bitter. Without balling.
As expected, Jack’s answer to the blowouts with Lara and Robin was to “kiss and make up.” His words, and mine, precisely.
“Yeah, that’s easier said than done, you know?” I reminded him, taking a sip at my cooling latte.
“Best things in life aren’t easy, sis.” He had a point. A very good point. “Besides, you guys could never not be friends. You girls are all up each others’ butts.” Another good point. “You can’t stay angry at them forever, Sophie. You know that.” I did know that. Why had it taken me all these weeks, and all of this pain, to finally see that?
“So when you making up?” he asked, breaking my train of thought.
“Oh,” I said. “I don’t know. I’ve, uh, got a lot on my mind with Pamela…”
Jack’s condolences regarding Pamela were warming, and his wise words of advice for that particular piece of news that I had wasn’t nearly as matter-of-fact as that for Lara and Robin. But he was kind and apologetic.
“I’m making her favorite cupcakes for her garden party,” I said. “It’s going to be wonderful.”
Talking to John was therapeutic and another subtle reminder that important and endearing relationships are worth the fight. We can’t always control what happens between one another (God knows I’ve tried), but we can control how we react to the universe’s progression of events—the good and the bad.
I couldn’t control what happened between Robin and Brandon, but I could try to put back together my relationship with her. I couldn’t control the secret Lara chose to keep from me, but I could forgive her for hurting me, and respect and admire her loyalty to her best friend. And I couldn’t control Pamela’s passing. I couldn’t prevent it. I couldn’t aid it. I was helpless against the monster that was claiming her life. But I could love her and remember her and honor her. I could help make her last days on Earth beautiful. And I could look at the short lease on her life and be reminded of how dear and fleeting a life truly is. I could make the most out of mine—affecting positively those who touched me, like Pamela. Loving in return those who, even in the rashest of decisions and darkest of moments, loved me nonetheless, like Robin and Lara. Like Claire, and Jackie, too. And Emily, wherever that silly girl had wandered off to.
“I’m going to head back to work now.” I cradled my cell phone between my ear and shoulder, carrying my dishes to the front of the café. I mouthed a silent “thank you” to the barista and headed towards my car.
“Don’t run off to London without seeing me, either,” I told John.
“Oh, I won’t,” he said. “That’s not for another six months or so. We’ve got plenty of time to see each other before then.”
“Sounds like a plan, then,” I said. “I love you, John.”
“I love you, too, Sophie. I’ll drop a call in a week or so. See how you’re holding up. And, Sophie, try and pick up your damn phone now and then.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I sighed, pulling out of my parking space. “Later.”
I tossed my cell phone on the passenger seat and smiled to myself, turning the volume of the radio up a few notches. “My Girl” was ringing through the speakers, one of the very reasons I had tuned in to the oldies station. It was upbeat, happy, and made me smile. I hadn’t really been doing much of that lately, and as the sun peeked out behind the storm clouds that were interspersed across the grey and mixed blue sky, I actually felt…happy.
Chapter Eighteen
Early May was putting its best foot forward. The parks were a supernatural green, the gardens were a rainbow of colors, the sky was a vibrant blue with scant a cloud in sight. The waterfront had its usual seafaring scent about it, but with an extra shot of delightfully welcoming spring dew and morning freshness. The weather forecast predicted clear blue skies and warm sun throughout the day. The work forecast predicted a slew of orders requiring fresh produce, fish, and herbs from Pike Place Market, arguably one of my favorite locations in the city.
The fishmongers, shouting at their highest octaves, were in full force, tossing fish to eager (and brave) shoppers and from one monger to the next. The aromatic scent of freshly brewed espress
o lingered about and I couldn’t resist. A girl cannot start a day off without a freshly brewed cup of coffee, a latte, or a steaming shot of espresso.
As was often the case, Katie had me take a morning trip to the market to pick up an assortment of items our day’s menu called for. Sometimes she would make the market trips herself, which had to be done on an average of four times a week, and occasionally someone else from the kitchen would make the rounds, but whenever I was asked I was all-hands-on-deck. I loved walking the cobblestone streets, fresh food and local market vendors crowding every possible inch of space as they shared their delights with the world. I especially loved making the market runs early in the morning when usually only the locals were there, with a handful of early bird tourists on their way, too.
The vibe of the market was precisely why I wanted to work in the baking industry. Local artisans, bakers, baristas, chefs, aspiring cooks, and the top-notch marketers all converged near the Seattle Waterfront to relish in all-things-food. And seductively fresh and delicious food, at that. Passion for fine foods and fun dining experiences were in the air, in the scent, the sight, the tastes, the sounds. Secret recipes were baked, the freshest of fish were flying through the air, Seattle’s finest coffee blends were being brewed, the morning’s mushroom finds were on display, and the season’s nuts and berries were being snagged off the shelves. Pike Place Market had essence—an essence of everything great.
Once I had gotten myself a good morning pick-me-up cup of a smooth roast blend with a hint of cream, I got a call from Claire. I had hit the road early as the traffic of the morning commuters was not to be toyed with, especially if I wanted to get to the market right when it opened. Parking is a royal pain and damn near impossible around the market so I was left to the reliability of the nearest bus, and that meant heading to the market when the bus left and running out the door just as the sun was coming up. Suffice to say I left without ever seeing Claire or Conner that morning. Claire was calling to tell me what a dreadful morning I had missed out on at 1247 Parker Lane.
Conner and Claire had danced another rendition of “will you marry me or shall we move to Los Angeles?” and Claire was beside herself as she headed to work.
“Claire, you need to sit down with him and have a serious talk. No arguments or pointing fingers,” I said. “You need to sit down, like two grown adults, and talk this through.” I squeezed some apples on display at a quaint corner vendor.
“I tried to do that,” she retorted.
“Really? When?”
“This morning.”
“Claire.” I motioned for the vendor to hand me a paper sack so I could bag some of the ripe apples. “I highly doubt you actually sat down and had a well laid discussion this morning.”
“We talked.” She was taking the defensive route.
“What, while you were blow drying your hair? While he was toasting Pop Tarts and putting on his shoes? Claire.”
“Alright. So it wasn’t exactly a sit-down kind of thing. But it was another talk. And I was serious.”
Basically, Claire (or Conner, not really sure which) had initiated the dreaded discussion of marriage and moving. One defended, the other defended back. Claire said Conner went on the offensive at some point and told her that she needed to “ride that red wave already,” to which (and rightfully so) she responded by throwing her hairbrush at him. That’s when, as Claire put it, “He stormed out. Like a total jackass.”
“Claire,” I told her. “Brandon was a jackass. Conner didn’t want to be assaulted by beauty products. Not the same thing.” I pulled my cell phone away from my mouth and asked the vendor how much the apples cost, then paid and thanked him before moving on down the street.
“And get this,” she continued, voice harsh and sharp. “He texted me after he left for work, right after he stormed out of here without saying goodbye, asking if we could go out to dinner or something tonight. Like that’s going to make it all better. Push it all under the rug. Like we’ve been doing for months.”
I let Claire run on about how much she loathed Conner’s behavior, and how she had all the right to turn down his date. She ranted about how he now made her whole day an upsetting one. And how selfish he was to act like that.
“Claire,” I interrupted. “I think this is all getting out of hand. Like I said: you two need to sit down and have a serious face-to-face, no anger or screaming or arguments, kind of talk. Hey, if you need a mediator, count me in.”
I headed towards an appealing herbs and spices stand that caught my eye.
“I’m not going to stand by and watch you two go at it like wildcats over something so ridiculous,” I told her. “You’re angry with him because he doesn’t want to change a perfect relationship with someone he’s crazy about. He’s angry with you because you don’t want to move to a new city with him. This is smaller than both of you.”
She told me I had a point and that sitting down to talk things through was really the only next logical move. Ranting and raving about the same thing for months on end wasn’t going to do anyone any ounce of good.
“I think you should go out to dinner with him and…here’s this,” I said. “You guys have your serious talk right there in the restaurant. A nice quiet corner, but still public so you can’t get all loud and angry with each other. No more childish blow ups. How’s that sound?”
“I guess you’re right.” She sounded hesitant. “I don’t feel like going anywhere with him, but I guess that’s a good idea.”
“You’re going to figure this out. Put your rational cap on, Claire, and go out to dinner with the man you love. Talk things through. Make up. You know…work this out like you guys work everything out.”
After some more encouragement that eventually evolved into talking about my chat with John, and finally about a particular client that Claire was on her way to see that morning—“the cute old veteran who dabbled in watercolors”—I finished up my day’s shopping. And before I grabbed a cab back, my arms full of the shopping rewards, I picked up two artisan cinnamon rolls—one for myself and one for Claire. Sometimes broken hearts or troubled minds need girl talk, and something sweet to nibble on. I have always said that…and those combinations always seemed to do the trick.
***
When my cell phone vibrated with a new email that evening, I was ecstatic to see that it was from Emily. It felt like it had been forever since I sent my email three weeks ago.
Conner and Claire were out at their favorite Indian restaurant, leaving me with the pooch from hell; but contrary to my expectations, Schnickerdoodle was particularly calm and easy to handle. I wasn’t sure if he missed his mommy and daddy, or if his dinner hadn’t sat well with him; I was just counting my lucky stars that he wasn’t bouncing off the walls or dragging his leash around the house begging for yet another walk. He probably figured I’d be the last person in the world who would consent to giving him a stroll around the neighborhood.
I scrolled through the email excitedly as I munched on my dinner of fish tacos.
As was Emily’s trademark, her email was concise, but offered most of the basic information you’d want in an email: big news, highlights, a fun, random quip of a particular adventure she had, the “I miss you can’t wait to see you again” spiel, and advice of her own. And the best part—a photo. She attached to this particular email a picture of herself with some of the village children, an abundance of colorful clay pots and jugs in the foreground.
Apparently Emily was learning how to dye and weave clothing and blankets in her African community, and looking forward to learning how to balance water jugs on her head. She had already attempted to carry a small jug and only attracted stares and giggles from the village’s young children. Rest assured they found her attempt endearing, and encouraged her that eventually she could take on the heavy water jugs that their mamas carried. Emily said she was enthusiastic about the prospect. I loved Emily for so many reasons, her enthusiasm for anything new one of them.
Her em
ail’s last paragraph dealt with the situation at hand in my corner of the globe. She had kept it simple and straightforward, which was most welcome, given my recent epiphany and state of mind that forgiveness (and maybe forgetting, when it came to Brandon) was the answer to my plight.
Emily simply told me that she was in shock over the news and very sorry. She said Robin’s behavior was completely unbecoming. But then she said that sometimes things like this happen in life. And it wouldn’t be the only time. Things in life were tough sometimes and it wasn’t the moments in our life that defined our lives, but our reactions to them. She suggested that I take the time to grieve. Maybe even take a sabbatical to India for a week-long vow of silence, or take a life-altering hike through the Andes, both trips she took that “changed my life forever in unbelievable ways.” Then she suggested that I see how I feel after I give it some time. And she figured I’d realize on my own, probably, what kind of important friendship I had with Robin. That I wouldn’t want to turn my back on her forever.
As I finished the email I started to think about how I would approach Lara and Robin. Talking with Lara would be easier, no doubt, so imagining how I’d go about that particular hurdle was less difficult to think about. But I shuddered at the thought of having to go through the awkward phone calls to both of them, the sweaty palms I’d have as I stood at their front doors, the frog that I’d swallow as I said “I’m sorry” and “I forgive you.” I knew I had to do it alone, as much as I wished I could have the comforting hand of Claire’s to hold.
I had to muster enough courage to make the next step and try to set things right. I was sure it took a lot of strength for Robin and Lara to apologize to me and to try to reach out. The ball was in my court now, and as much as I cringed at the thought of hearing the coach call out “Sophie Wharton, your turn,” I knew it was the right thing to do. A weight would be released, and, hopefully, I would have two of my best friends back in my life.
When Girlfriends Break Hearts Page 15