“You’re talking gibberish.”
“Join the club.” My coffee arrives in a mug that has “Drama Queen” written on it in curling script. I take a big sip, and in so doing, I scald most of the interior of my mouth. I can already feel fleshy stalagtites forming from the burn. So at least it’s not prop coffee; that much is real. “Humor me. Let’s backtrack. You know Miguel.”
“And you know Miguel.”
No, it’s me who’s talking to the Mad Hatter here, not vice versa. I’m the Alice, not him. “Let me try this again—you are friends with Miguel.”
“Obviously. We have lunch every week.”
“On the days he’s not serving you lunch.”
“He has Thursdays off.”
“Of course he does.” I drink some more boiling coffee, assuming I will need the caffeine to help every piston in my brain fire. I had no problem in college wrapping my mind around how Stokes’ theorem relates a surface integral with curls of vector fields and line integrals, but this? This is above my pay grade.
I ask, “How do you know Miguel?”
“I’ve known Miguel forever.”
“This is impossible.”
He swirls the coffee in his Bannockburn Fire Chief mug. “Only if you believe it is.”
Did Alice ever punch the Mad Hatter right in his enormous hat? I feel like I’d remember if she did; ergo, I will continue to question him calmly, but if he asks me why a raven is like a writing desk, it’s all over.
“Max, if you had to stick a pin in the specific date when ‘forever’ may have started, that would be . . . when?”
“Hmm. I’d say more than fifty-five years ago. Miguel was my first employee. He was a young, young kid back then who cleaned up the shop at night.”
“You’re just mentioning this now? You’ve known him my whole life and you’re only telling me now?”
He shrugs. “You never asked.”
Fair enough.
“Then what’s the connection to Centennial Hills?”
“I couldn’t pay him much back then. When he had the opportunity to work at the club with his cousin, I wished him well and gave him a couple of shares in the company because he was a good kid. We kept in touch—we were friends. Years later, when we moved to Glencoe, he kept his ear to the ground around the club. Told me who I needed to know and what I needed to know about them. That’s the thing about service professionals—people in power believe they’re invisible. They let their guard down around them. I was able to get in because of Miguel.”
“Seriously?” I exclaim. “Your whole country club membership is predicated on extortion? You blackmailed people into making you a member? You built our lives on a lie?”
He raises his eyebrows at me. “Really, Penelope, that’s what you think of your old man? That’s crazy! What I did was develop similar interests. Miguel told me who was important, told me who made the decisions. They all lived here in town, so I paid attention to their habits. I followed their patterns. If they bought a Town Car, I bought a Town Car. If they used Joe the barber, then I used Joe the barber. I wasn’t insidious. I was ubiquitous. I blended. I became part of the scenery. I was someone who was always there. I did this until my membership seemed a mere formality, because they assumed I was already one of them.”
I have never been more surprised by anything my father has told me. “You used math to become successful.”
He nods and sips his coffee. “I guess I did. Club membership was important to me because it was important to your mother. She knew it was the key to opening a new world for us, and she was right. She wanted to be able to give you everything you’d ever need to be successful, and I’d say that’s mission accomplished.”
I sit with this information for a moment. I guess I never looked at her social climbing from this perspective before. I’d always assumed her purposes were more self-serving, and that distinctly changes my narrative about her.
Wendy comes up behind us and refills both our cups. Max says, “Careful, this stuff is usually pretty hot,” bringing me back into the moment.
“Can you explain how Miguel has so many Maseratis?”
“Oh, he’s rich.”
“What? How many shares did you give him?”
“Not enough to get rich. Just enough to wet his beak. He took the money and began investing. Here’s the rub again—invisibility. He’s like that little wizard boy with the cloak from the movie. With the scar.”
“Harry Potter?”
“That’s him. All anyone wants to talk about at the club is their money. Bit of a bore sometimes, actually. Enough already! Everyone was always, ‘I bought Apple at twelve dollars. I bought Pfizer at fifteen dollars.’ Finally, Miguel goes, ‘I’m going to buy Apple at twelve dollars and Pfizer at fifteen dollars, too.’ Then he did. The rest is history.”
“When people think he’s standing there being solicitous, he’s actually eavesdropping and perpetrating the ultimate in insider trading and the whole thing is a scam?”
“No.”
“No?”
“He’s a great waiter and he loves what he does. He’s a people person. He could have retired years ago. He’s there by choice.”
“No wonder he’s always so happy.”
Max shrugs and taps his watch. “Works for him. Listen, I’ve got a tee time soon. Anything else?”
“Wait, yes! Everything else. You sold the place in Florida and didn’t tell me.”
“Didn’t concern you.”
I scoot over so I’m blocking his exit from the booth. “What’s going on? Do you even own the condo up here anymore? No one will give me a straight answer, and you guys are perpetually out running around. The doctor says you’re fine, but nothing is adding up.”
My father gives me an imploring look. “Think about it. You’re the smart one. You’ll figure it out.”
“I’ve done nothing but think about it!” I reply. “Wait, does that mean you think Foster isn’t smart?”
He shrugs. “Foster has a fine long drive. That’s important, too.”
“Really not here to talk about Foster’s golf prowess.”
“All those fancy certificates and accreditations and you still don’t see it.” He slumps against the back of the booth. He seems defeated in his posture, and I don’t understand why, as clearly he’s still winning this battle of wills. He gestures to Wendy for more coffee. She trots over and fills his cup with an eager grin.
“Sure you don’t want a scone or anything?” he asks. “Their cinnamon chip with maple icing? The best on the North Shore. Or they have lemon poppy seed. Maybe you’d like savory? I think they might have a few bacon cheddar chive left.”
“No! I don’t want a damn scone,” I bark. This man is in a master class when it comes to stalling techniques. “I want you to stop speaking in riddles and baked goods. It would be so nice if something would make sense for a change.”
He sighs. “The problem ain’t me, kiddo.”
“What?”
He begins to rub his knuckles. He hasn’t built anything himself in many years, but all of his early days wielding a hammer have taken their toll and some days his arthritis really acts up.
“Your mother. Your mother is beginning to have a few problems—just a few memory lapses here and there and some trouble with judgment. She . . . Well, she made a bad investment without discussing it with me first. We’re fine and have enough to live out our lives, but I had to sell the place in Florida to cover the loss. We still have the condo up here, and we legitimately did have water damage. However, we had water damage because your mother left the faucet running. She keeps forgetting that part.”
“Oh, no. She will hate every part of this,” I say. Poor Marjorie. She’d rather die—literally—than have any part of her be perceived as less than flawless.
“I’m aware. But she’s going thro
ugh a good phase right now. She’s bright and alert and not lapsing into the British that much.”
“Wait, that’s not a drinking or a Downton Abbey thing?”
“No. Right now we’re seeing as much of our friends as we can before a lot of them go away for the fall and winter. I can’t predict where her mind will be next year, so I want everyone to spend time with her now while she’s still fully herself. The place should be done next week, so we’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”
I realize something. “That’s why you were so compliant about seeing the gerontologist. You wanted her to see it was no big deal?”
“Perceptive. Like I said, you’re the smart one. At some point we’ll sell our current unit and move into a senior living place with progressive levels of care, which hopefully she’ll agree to, because it’ll be about both of us.”
“You’re so much craftier than I ever gave you credit for.”
“And what else did you learn from this conversation?” He wipes his hands on his napkin before placing it on the table. “I’m thinking about things that begin with the letter ‘M.’”
“She doesn’t know you’re friends with Miguel, does she? She’d hate everything about that relationship.”
“Every marriage needs a little bit of mystery,” he says. “And, of course, you will keep this conversation between us. You know how your mother needs to maintain the facade of everything being perfect.”
“I may have noticed that once or twice.”
An anxious look crosses his face. “Are you going to tell Foster what we discussed?”
“Yes, of course. I have to.”
He breathes a sigh of relief as he slides out of the booth. “Oh, thank God. I’m too old to have to do this twice, and you know I’d have to talk slowly for him. Pick up the check, won’t you? I have to go right now. You don’t keep Bunky Cushman waiting, after all.”
• • • •
Caroline has quickly rallied and is greatly enjoying what I call our “discipline walks” around the neighborhood. I’m teaching her basic commands, and she’s responding beautifully. This is a dog that wants to learn. However, our path today does not include the lakefront. As we found out yesterday, you cannot walk one hundred and thirty pounds of a web-footed creature genetically programmed to rescue drowning fishermen past a lake without incident. The boaters had a great sense of humor about the whole thing, but still, it was mortifying.
I imagine once we start with her new trainer, I’ll learn how to handle her around larger bodies of water, but until then, she has to content herself with the baby pool in the backyard.
As soon as we come in the back door, she collapses on her bed. My strategy has been to walk the naughty out of her, and in the past two days, she’s barely touched any of my delicious shoes, while her attempts to eat the ottoman were weak at best.
I feel Barnaby would be proud.
When I go upstairs, I notice Jessica’s door is partially open, but I knock anyway.
“Enter,” she says.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m going shopping. Do you feel like joining me? I have a date, and I thought you could work your magic.”
Jessica’s attitude has warmed toward me since Kelsey went home. Although we haven’t spoken about it directly, Jessica did say in passing, “I can’t believe you told her no.” Baby steps are still steps.
I wait for whatever snappy rejoinder she plans to hurl at me, but instead she says, “You’re in luck. I’m free. Let me save what I’m working on and then we can go.” She hurriedly taps at her iPad and then scans the screen, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “This is genius.” Jessica glances up at me. “You should see this.”
I’m taken aback that she wants me to participate in anything, but I reply, “Sure.”
I look down at a gorgeous fashion pictorial, featuring the Chicago lakefront in all its summer glory. I scroll past shots of her standing on the stone wall where Sloane Peterson comforted Cameron in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, past pictures of her poised on the swings in the sand, one shapely leg raised to catch the sun. There’s even a snap of her from behind, looking impossibly chic in a vintage Chanel suit, white gloves, and wide straw hat while yanking the leash of a large black dog who’s terribly interested in a pack of seagulls. “Maybe it’s not New York, but it’s not too shabby,” I say.
“No, it’s not,” Jessica agrees.
I look closer at the pictures and I realize that Jessica isn’t modeling the styles herself. The effortless blonde with the bloodred lips and the signature shades and the pricey bag is . . . Marjorie. Then I notice the site’s new URL—SeniorSartorial.
“Is it just me, or is this amazing?”
Jessica is full-on grinning now. “It’s not just you. The Huffington Post agrees. The phone’s been ringing nonstop with new advertisers.”
“Are you too important to shop with me?” I ask.
“Not today,” she replies. She looks me up and down. “But you will change out of yoga pants before we go, of course.”
“Of course.”
• • • •
“How are we doing in here?” Brenda, the Nordstrom sales associate, asks.
“Everything is fine, Brenda,” I reply.
“Everything is horrible, Brenda,” Jessica says. “I’m going to need you to find something not horrible. Hint: That means no midriff bows. She’s not a toddler. And what is she going to do with military-style buttons? She’s going on a date, not presenting a white paper. I need tits or ass, okay? I need to think ‘sex’ when I see her and not ‘systems analysis.’ If you can’t imagine whatever dress you bring her in a ball on the bedroom floor, then don’t bring it. Got it?”
Chastened, Brenda runs away.
“We’re never going to see Brenda again. You realize that, right?” I say.
Jessica flips her hair. “Mission accomplished.” She paws through the stack of dresses in the room. “Try this.”
“But it’s so skimpy,” I reply.
“Have you listened to a single thing I’ve said?”
I take the dress from her and pull it on over my head. I get caught in the complicated web of straps, and Jessica has to help me angle the dress into place. Nothing about this garment is my style, and yet it’s not so bad once I have all the cutouts lined up in a way that’s not pornographic.
“Not bad, but we can do better,” Jessica says. She snaps her fingers. “Off.”
She has to assist me in getting out of the garment, too.
Brenda gives a tentative knock on the door.
“You’re not here with pantsuits, right? God help you if you brought us a pantsuit,” Jessica says.
Brenda vanishes without a sound.
“I’m considering sticking around,” Jessica says, apropos of nothing.
“I would like that,” I say. “I’m sure your father and your grandparents would like that, too. Can’t really speak for Kelsey.”
I pull a linen Eileen Fisher piece off the rack, and before I can even remove it from the hanger, Jessica yanks it away from me, replacing it with a Tadashi Shoji embellished lace sheath dress.
“I had some trouble in New York,” she volunteers. “God, it’s so expensive there. Not easy to keep up. Remember how I used to complain about how hard it was to compete in Glencoe? Yeah, New York was a wake-up call. I had it easy in Chicago. Thing is, I . . . ended up cutting some corners professionally and that eventually came back to bite me in the ass, so I’m kind of starting over right now. I racked up some debt. Nothing I can’t get out from behind eventually, but I will have to live on the cheap for a while.”
I’m not sure what I should do here in terms of offering help, volunteering to write checks, or make calls, so I just listen.
Maybe all she ever wanted me to do was listen.
“I think if I rebuild now, I can do it on
a more solid foundation. I don’t really want to design—too cutthroat—and I’m sort of over the whole New York thing. I want to help regular people look their best. Doesn’t have to be celebrities. Actually, it’s easy to make famous people look fab. You can put them in anything and they’re amazing. Fixing someone like you is a lot harder.”
I zip into the sheath dress while I try to figure out the best way to say what I need to say. “Those sound like achievable goals, and I’m proud of you for coming to those conclusions. My only suggestion is that you maybe tone down the blunt honesty. Offer up a little sugar to counteract the salt.”
“Do people not like that? I hate when people try to bullshit me.”
“People appreciate the truth as long as it’s not delivered in a way that hurts their feelings,” I say.
“Huh.” This seems like brand-new information to her.
“You know what, Jessica? I blame myself for you not knowing some basic stuff like this,” I say, having a seat on the padded banquette of the dressing room. Jessica watches me via the threefold mirror. “Your only role model has been Marjorie, which is basically like learning from a lesser Disney villain. I wasn’t around enough during your critical, formative years. I thought I was doing right by you, but in retrospect, that was a mistake. I provided you things instead of time and attention. The worst of it is, I convinced myself that everything I did, I did for you, but that’s not true. I liked the person I was at work. I liked being in charge. I liked being competent. Ultimately, I did us both a disservice, and I’m sorry.”
Jessica is still holding my gaze in the mirror. “You’ve never said that before.”
“I’m saying it now.”
She nods. “I waited a long time to hear that. Thank you.” She narrows her eyes at me. “We’re not going to hug now, are we?”
“Not if that makes you uncomfortable.”
“Okay.” She helps me out of the lace sheath and sets it to the side. “This is the one. Did you see how it clung to all of your curves and showed off your arms and back but covered your knees?”
By the Numbers Page 25