The Whole Package

by Cynthia Ellingsen

“You bet,” Gabe said, removing his hand and running it through his hair. “Thanks for listening to me. That’s not something I tell people.”

  “Me neither.” They sat for a moment, silent. All around them, people were bustling in and out of stores, chattering happily, carrying heavy bags and sipping on coffees. “Look at this place,” Gabe said, considering. “Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier every year, doesn’t it?”

  Doris nodded. “We’re hoping it’ll be good for The Whole Package. It’s right down the block.”

  Wickedly, Gabe pointed out a particularly uptight woman, her bleached blond hair pulled back in a tight bun. She was wearing a navy St. John’s suit and cufflike gold jewelry. Had they been sitting closer, they probably would have caught a heavy whiff of her perfume. “There’s your first customer,” Gabe teased. Doris’s mouth tugged at the corners. Gabe hopped up and extended his hand. “You good now? Ready to shop?”

  “Ready.” Doris grabbed his hand, bouncing to her feet. Every woman in the vicinity noticed, sneaking sidelong glances at Gabe. Guiltily, they then linked arms with their husbands. “People aren’t staring at me, Gabe,” Doris said, proud to have this man next to her. “They’re staring at you!”

  Gabe grinned. “Gosh, I don’t know. So . . . If you hate skirts I’ll make you buy a whole bunch of sexy sweaters and we’ll partner them with slacks,” he said. “You’re gonna look great. You already do,” he promised.

  They ducked into the nearest store and went straight to the women’s department. In moments, an entire dressing room was filled from top to bottom with sleek cashmere sweaters and slacks. Gabe perched on a chair in the waiting room and it was Doris’s job to come out and model for him. Every time she spun out of the dressing room, she was floored that such a handsome man was paying attention to her.

  “You look just like a movie star,” she told him, shyly. “I keep thinking that.”

  “Look at you,” he exclaimed. “You look amazing!”

  Doris looked in the mirror, blushing. Gabe and the saleswoman had dressed her in a tight sweater with delicately puffed sleeves and a thin, seventies-style string belt around the waist. It highlighted her curves, but was cut just right. For the first time in months, Doris didn’t think she looked fat.

  “Gorgeous,” Gabe told the saleswoman. “We’ll take white, black, and gray. You need classic colors,” he explained to Doris. “Then we can partner everything.”

  “Have you worked in a clothing store before?” Doris asked in awe, watching him assemble an entire wardrobe with all the pieces they’d picked out.

  “No,” Gabe said, shaking his head. “But Carolyn loves to shop.”

  Doris was dying to cry out, “Who is this Carolyn?!” but instead, she primly adjusted her sweater. When they got to the checkout counter and the lady was ringing up her purchases, Gabe said, “Now, will you please explain to me why you didn’t want to go to Macy’s?”

  Doris fumbled with the gourmet candy display in front of the register, adding two chocolates to their purchase. After a moment, she finally mumbled, “My husband had an affair with a lady that works there.” She looked at the blond employee at the register. She was young, about twenty and most likely not friends with Katherine Rigney, but there was no telling.

  “Your husband’s an idiot,” Gabe scoffed. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

  When the saleswoman gave her the total, Doris blanched.

  “It’s okay,” Gabe said. “You deserve it. Your husband deserves to pay.”

  Doris laughed as she laid down Doug’s card. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”

  “Now,” Gabe suggested, grabbing all her bags before she could. “We can go into Macy’s if you want. Give her a show?”

  “Nah,” Doris said. When they were walking away from the counter, she added in a whisper, “I already vandalized her house.”

  Gabe squealed with laughter. “Stop it! We’ll peep in a side door,” he insisted, “and you must, must show me which one she is.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  WHEN GABE CARRIED DORIS’S BAGS INTO HER HOUSE, MANDY—who was back from school and mixing up a gooey batch of Rice Krispie treats—almost dropped a sticky spoonful on the floor. She watched in dumb silence as Gabe left the bags in the foyer and hugged Doris good-bye. He flashed Mandy a quick smile before leaving.

  “Who was that?” Mandy asked. She ran to the window to watch him drive away.

  Doris beamed. “My friend,” she said proudly.

  “The gay date?” Crunching down on her spoon, Mandy viewed Doris with something bordering on respect. She scrunched up her pretty face and rubbed her eyes. “Mom . . . what on earth happened to you?” she asked.

  Doris’s hands fluttered to her face. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “You look . . .” Mandy moved forward, appraising her. “Beautiful.”

  Doris moved toward the sofa and sat down, hard. She was so touched—and shocked—at her daughter’s compliment. Grabbing a stack of mail from the end table, she flipped through, embarrassed. It felt funny to be able to read the tiny print without constantly pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She felt naked without them. But she also felt thinner, somehow, in the black pants and black sweater.

  Mandy came over and perched on the sofa. After a minute, she leaned against her mother and Doris held her breath, so unexpected was this sudden affection. “How is everything, honey?” Doris said carefully, setting down a stack of bills. It was so rare her daughter was kind to her, she wanted to make it last as long as possible. “How is school?”

  “Good.” Mandy nodded. She smelled like apricot hair product and Dial soap. She must have showered right before Doris got home. “We won all the debates last week. I got a lot of points. Mom, I . . .” Mandy was biting her nails nervously. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Anything,” Doris said, heart full.

  In a burst of excitement, Mandy announced, “I think I’m in love.”

  Doris’s heart emptied. Mandy was not allowed to be in love. She wasn’t even allowed to date. This was something she and Doug had decided on a long time ago.

  “I really want you to meet Will,” her daughter was rambling on. “I’ve been going out with him for . . .”

  “Mandy,” Doris said. “You are not allowed to date! You’re too young.”

  Her daughter looked as though she’d been slapped. “Can’t I just tell you about . . .”

  “No, you may not,” Doris said. “This is not okay.”

  Mandy leaped up from the couch. Doris got up, too.

  “What is wrong with you?” Mandy demanded.

  Doris had been Mandy’s age when she and Doug had started dating. Look where it had gotten her. She tried to picture the young girl standing in front of her giving up all of her hopes and dreams just to make out with some boy named Will.

  “Mandy, you know you are not allowed to see anyone until you’re sixteen,” Doris said desperately. “That can’t change just because your father is not here.”

  “But I love him,” Mandy screamed. “Don’t you even care?”

  “You’re too young,” Doris insisted. “I don’t want this to continue, do you hear me?”

  Mandy’s hands were planted on her hips. Her eyes were slits, filled with hate. It was a look Doris had faced so many times before. “Daddy would let me,” she said.

  “Your father would not let you,” Doris said, suddenly hating Doug for leaving her in this position. “He and I made up that rule together.”

  “Then you should have stayed together,” Mandy shouted. “You can’t tell me what to do. I hate you and so does he!”

  This last part she screamed at the top of her lungs. Thundering up the stairs, she slammed the door to her room three times for emphasis. Doris jumped with each one, certain the door would break off its hinges. With her daughter’s hate ringing in her ears, Doris curled up on the sofa sobbing, feeling her new contacts harden under the salt of her tears
. Eyes aching, Doris wondered where she’d put her glasses. She wondered why she’d dared trust the world would give her a good day.

  HAD JACKIE KNOWN she was walking into a war zone, she might have stayed out a bit longer. That morning, she’d stopped into a sleazy pawnshop and sold off her sapphire necklace and that pearl bracelet from Hawaii. They weren’t pieces she cared about, so she didn’t feel much disappointment when the foreign woman refused to give her more than six hundred dollars. Jackie just ran to the spa as quickly as she could, eager to treat herself for the first time in weeks.

  Once she was out of her appointments, dazed with relaxation and smelling like lavender and white lilies, she tried to call Doris—just in case. She didn’t really think Gabe would be pawing her in the back of the car somewhere but Doris was vulnerable and Gabe was a handsome stripper. Anything could happen.

  When Doris’s cell rang and rang, Jackie raced home. A transformed Doris stood in the living room, crying into a cell phone. Makeup was running down her cheeks, leaving tracks as black as motorcycle oil.

  “Oh no. What happened?” Jackie whispered, rushing forward.

  “I can’t do that, Doug,” Doris said, “I won’t do that.”

  “Give me that,” Jackie snapped, grabbing for the phone. “Doug? Hello, darling. This is Jackie.”

  “Jackie, let me talk to my wife.” Doug was in a bar, the jukebox blasting country music. She could practically see the cowgirls in their tight Rocky Mountain jeans, stomping peanut shells and trying to master the two-step.

  “Well, at least you’re in the South,” Jackie applauded. “Maybe someone will write a song about you. I left my family, left my home because I wanted to get on a bike and roam,” she sang this part loud and off-key.

  “Are you behind all this?” Doug’s voice was angry. “My wife went shopping with a stripper? She will not be opening a strip club. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “Now, why on earth would you think she was doing that?” Jackie asked, fumbling for time.

  Doris watched the exchange tearfully, hand over her mouth.

  “My daughter told me,” Doug railed. “So help me God, if you humiliate our family name . . .”

  “Oh, please,” Jackie hissed, reaching out and grabbing Doris’s plump hand. The skin was sweaty, but cold. “You had an affair with Katherine Rigney, of all people. I really don’t think you’re worried about your family’s reputation. We are opening a restaurant, Doug, not a strip club. It is divine. You will be very proud of your wife, who looks beautiful right now, by the way.”

  Doris sniffled, mouthing, “Thank you.”

  Jackie lowered her voice, “Doug, when are you coming home?”

  “Put my wife on the phone,” he ordered.

  “You really need to rethink your priorities,” Jackie spat. Practically throwing the phone at Doris, Jackie swore a blue streak in French and then headed straight for Mandy’s room. The scent of patchouli greeted her before she even got there. Was Mandy smoking pot? Jackie wouldn’t be surprised. The teen was sitting on the bed, pretending to read a magazine.

  “Did you tell your father about The Whole Package?” Jackie demanded, hands on hips.

  “Is that against the law?” Mandy asked, blinking.

  “Mandy,” Jackie mirrored the attitude the teen was throwing at her, “Why would you do that?”

  “She wouldn’t listen.” The teen’s face was mutinous. It was moments like these when Jackie realized Mandy really was just a kid. “I tried to talk to her. I tried to tell her about Will and she went crazy.”

  “Do you understand that The Whole Package is important to me and Cheryl, not just your mother?” Jackie demanded. “I know you wanted to hurt your mother, but if your father interferes with this, it’s going to affect me, too. And as unbelievable as this may sound, I don’t have anything else to do with my life. This restaurant is my last chance to do something great.”

  Mandy turned pale. “Jackie, I . . .”

  “Non, non, non!” Jackie put her foot down, impatiently wiping away a tear that was not meant to be part of her performance. “This time, we are not having a conversation like mature adults. You need to go out there and let your mother know you support her and that you support us. If you don’t, I’m really going to have a hard time understanding why I ever supported you.”

  At that, Jackie swept down the hallway. Slamming her bedroom door, she picked up the princess phone and dialed George. When he picked up, she didn’t even give him a chance to say hello.

  “Hello, darling,” she said. Jackie was so wired, she hadn’t realized her hands were shaking. “I’m calling from crazy town. Please come get me out of here.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  AFTER AN ECSTATIC MORNING EXPLORING EVERY INCH OF EACH other’s bodies, Andy and Cheryl finally ventured out to the kitchen for some food. Andy opened her refrigerator and drew back in surprise.

  “If something moves, just kill it,” Cheryl said, padding up behind him. She liked to tell people the refrigerator was where she kept her pets, Mold and Moldier. Cheryl stocked up on containers of prepared entrees from Whole Foods every two weeks. Since the lag time was so high, most of them went bad before she had a chance to eat them.

  “You don’t throw anything away.” Andy was baffled, sifting through the putrid cartons. “I’m calling the Health Department. No wonder you’re so thin.”

  “There’s vodka in the freezer.” She giggled, pulling out an icy bottle of Ketel One and waggling it at him. She tossed it back in and shut the door, wrapped her arms around his muscular body, and peered into the lit white space of her refrigerator. It had been a while since she’d been shopping but there were some survivors— a promising chunk of Parmesan, some German chocolates, a carton of eggs, and a half bag of spinach.

  “You are the ultimate bachelor,” Andy chuckled. He turned around, kissed her lightly, then put his hand on her bottom and gently pushed her toward a chair. Rolling up his sleeves, he threw away the rotting cartons, and then pulled out the Parmesan and the carton of eggs.

  “Warning,” Cheryl laughed, making an alarm sound. “Watch the eggs.”

  Andy got into a wide stance, as though getting ready for a fight. “Checking for an expiration date . . .” He peered at the stamp on the carton. “Clear!”

  Cheryl gave an exaggerated wipe to her forehead. “Whew. How close?”

  “We just made it. Now, talk to me about spices,” Andy said, swiftly cracking eggs into a frying pan. Cheryl watched with interest. His strong hands were gentle but firm with the fragile shells.

  “Truffle oil. In the cupboard.”

  “Not a spice,” he lectured, “but promising nonetheless.”

  Andy reached up and rummaged through her shelves. Cheryl was enjoying the sure way he grabbed for things—the bottle of truffle oil, a can of shitake mushrooms, that box of instant biscuit mix. It was impressive what he was finding. Andy might be a nice person to have around during a war.

  Humming and whistling, he made his way over to her dish cupboards. With a little effort, he found a large mixing bowl. Of course, it was covered with a thin layer of dust. “My sisters would freak,” he said, up in arms. “Are you sure you’re not a man?”

  “Sexist remark,” Cheryl sang, pulling out a chair from the kitchen table and drawing one knee up to her chest, a spectator. “Please note you’re the one cooking right now.”

  Andy smiled, deftly rinsing out the large silver bowl, then adding cinnamon, sugar, water, and a tiny dash of olive oil to the biscuit mix.

  “I can’t believe you have three sisters,” Cheryl said, picking at a hangnail. “I have three brothers. They all left me to move to California.”

  “Mine are in New York.” Andy nodded, stirring. After a moment, he lifted up the spoon. It was covered in something that actually resembled batter. “Voila!”

  “Nice.” Cheryl applauded. “I am truly amazed.” She was. Andy was sexy and handy in the kitchen. She didn’t realize such a br
eed existed.

  “So,” Cheryl said. “A couple weeks ago you said you went to a family thing. Reunion?” She didn’t want to be nosy, but she was curious. She wanted to know everything about him.

  Methodically, Andy spooned batter into the pan, forehead wrinkled in concentration. “My grandfather died,” he admitted. “He was ninety-seven. I’m bummed but I guess it was time. My grandma died ten years ago, so he was kinda lost without her.”

  “I lost both sets in my twenties,” Cheryl said. Losing her grandparents had happened in a year when it had seemed to be happening to everyone. Sean’s grandma died first, then Doris’s, then Cheryl’s grandpa and finally, someone at TurnKey lost a set in a head-on collision. That odd period had brought Sean and Cheryl closer. They had lain in bed, staring at the stars out the window and talking about it.

  “It’s a lost generation,” Cheryl said. “My grandma used to make five-course meals, breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” She thought back to the times she and her brothers would crowd across the table, marveling that the tiny bent lady they called Grandma had made such a feast.

  “Your grandmother was a good cook,” Sean said, pressing his cold feet against hers, “and a sweet lady. I always thought mine was too mean to die.”

  Cheryl laughed, picturing Sean’s cantankerous Italian grandmother. Natalie had sported a heavy black purse and a hard cane. She frequently used both as weapons. Her Eldorado was a threat to the neighborhood, trolling down the middle of the road like some teenage gang car looking for trouble, her hunched-over figure peering out from behind the wheel.

  “Isn’t it strange,” Andy said now, sliding a pan into the oven, “to be at the age where losing our parents is more common than losing our grandparents?”

  Cheryl nodded. “My friend Doris just lost her mom.”

  “Rough,” Andy agreed. “I’ve got both of my parents, thankfully. They’re in Boston. It’s not easy being so far away but it is what it is.”

  “Why didn’t you get a job there or in New York?” Really, Cheryl was asking in Girl Speak if he was ever going to leave her for New York. Good to know these things in the beginning of . . . whatever this was.