by Anita Hughes
“People in San Francisco don’t know how to do winter,” Cassie said, dipping her croissant into a white Limoges coffee cup. “They think California in January should be blue skies and seventy degrees.”
“We could go to Mexico till March. Stay at Betsy’s condo and sip sangria with pink plastic straws,” Alexis replied, picking a petit four from the silver tray on the table and biting into it tentatively. She blotted her lips on the white linen napkin and stirred cream into her demitasse.
“Some people have jobs,” Cassie replied, “or at least their husbands work. You don’t just jet off to Mexico because the Christmas ornaments are gone.”
“Carter would never miss me. He’s too busy trimming trees, or whatever he does from six a.m. till midnight. We haven’t eaten dinner together since Thanksgiving, and that was only because his mother insisted we join the family in Pacific Heights. You know old Betsy’s on her second husband since Carter and I got married. I don’t know how she keeps the place cards straight.” Alexis tapped her long French nails on the edge of the coffee cup.
“Your husband runs a hedge fund, he doesn’t trim trees,” Cassie said, and collapsed in a fit of giggles. She dusted croissant flakes from her pants and glanced around to see if the society matrons sitting at the adjoining tables were listening.
“Trees, hedges, it’s all the same to Carter. Money is the only kind of paper he knows. He does compensate well. I got some lovely baubles for Christmas,” Alexis said, rolling her eyes.
“You don’t have to pretend with me. We’ve known each other since kindergarten and even then you made rings out of Cheerios. Be happy Carter buys you jewelry.”
“He does have great taste, he gave me the most beautiful sapphire necklace, with tiny diamonds like snowflakes. I just sometimes feel like a courtesan instead of a wife. Fling a necklace or a bracelet at her and bring her out to impress the Midwestern clients who want to invest in pork futures,” Alexis replied, twisting her diamond wedding band around her finger.
“Carter loves you, it’s just his way of showing it. Most wives would be envious,” Cassie replied.
“I take it Aidan didn’t shower you with jewels?” Alexis raised her perfectly arched eyebrows.
“Fuzzy socks, a cashmere scarf, gardening gloves, and packets of exotic vegetable seeds: fennel, purple spinach, and okra.” Cassie counted the presents on her fingers.
Alexis picked up another petit four, eyed the layered chocolate, and put it back on the plate. “I’ve exceeded my caloric limit for the day. Lettuce and soy sauce for dinner tonight.”
“You’re the only person I know who loses weight over the holidays. I gained three pounds smelling the pumpkin pie.” Cassie pushed the plate of mini desserts toward Alexis.
“Only because I swam forty laps before every holiday party and spent thirty minutes in the steam room each night,” Alexis said, adjusting her skirt. She wore an emerald green miniskirt and a white angora wool sweater. Her blond hair was scooped into a high ponytail and tied with a green velvet ribbon.
“Oh, to have your own indoor swimming pool and sauna,” Cassie said, finishing her coffee and putting her napkin on the table.
“You could have all that. As I recall you did have all that. You’re the one who married the communist professor.”
“Aidan is not a communist. He’s a professor of ethics. Which means he doesn’t believe in excess. We live well, just not in a three-story mansion in Presidio Heights with an elevator.”
“If you’d gone to UCLA with me instead of Berkeley we would have found you a nice movie star to marry. I remember the day you packed your car and headed over the Bay Bridge. I thought, why is Cassandra Fenton, heiress to San Francisco’s oldest, most exclusive department store, going to school in Berserkeley? I was right, you know.” Alexis eyed her friend objectively. “Your Tod’s are as old as my shih tzu and your Michael Kors jacket is vintage. Except it’s only had one owner: you.”
“I’ve never had your flair. You could shop at Target and come out dressed for dinner at Chez Panisse. I’ve always been happier wearing gardening gloves than opera gloves. I am happy, Alexis, and so are you.” Cassie played with the cuff of her shirt, twisting off a few stray threads.
“What would we talk about if we didn’t complain about our husbands?” Alexis shrugged, sifting through her purse for a tube of lip gloss.
“The homeless on Market Street? The lack of fresh water in Africa?” Cassie suggested.
“We could always talk about shoes.” Alexis stood up and pulled her skirt down over her thighs. “Let’s stop downstairs and see if there are any Jimmy Choos left on the sale rack.”
Cassie followed Alexis to the escalator and surveyed the elegant floor displays as they descended to the third floor. The fourth level had always been her favorite; her mother used to treat her to high tea in the café on weekdays after school. Cassie had thought every third grader practiced their cursive on a linen tablecloth while sipping hot chocolate served by uniformed waitresses. Her mother would leave her in the café while she prowled the other departments, making sure cashmere sweaters were stacked in neat piles and salesgirls holding bottles of Chanel No. 5 were positioned in the aisles.
“Cassie, how nice to see you,” said a tall man wearing a navy suit as he took Cassie’s hand when the escalator deposited them on the third floor. “You just missed your mother, she had to rush off to a restaurant opening. Fois Gras on Post Street. The Chronicle says it’s going to be the next dining destination in the city.”
“My mother’s always rushing around.” Cassie smiled. “I saw her on the way up. Derek, do you remember my friend Alexis?”
The man put on rimless glasses and looked closely at the two women. “Of course. The last time I saw you, you were being trailed by half a dozen bridesmaids collecting cosmetics samples.”
“I’m an old married woman now,” Alexis said, grinning, “with spending power.”
“In that case, let me direct you to our newest jewelry line. I’m told all the thirty-somethings are wearing it.” The man extended his arm and navigated through the aisles full of shoppers to a large glass case toward the front of the store.
Cassie and Alexis gazed at the glass like small children admiring Halloween candy. Rows of pendants, bracelets, and rings were displayed on a bed of crushed orange velvet. Cassie ignored the bracelets—they would be covered with potting soil within a day—but the pendants caught her attention: brightly colored stones on short filigree chains. She put her hand to her neck, imagining she was wearing one.
“These are right up your alley.” Alexis tapped her nail on the glass. “That one would go so well with your eyes, Cassie. Try it on.”
“Okay, just for fun.” Cassie nodded. “Derek, could I see that one?”
Derek unlocked the case with an oversized gold key and placed the pendant in Cassie’s hand. “Your mother found these on a buying trip to Buenos Aires. They are the accessory on the polo fields this season.”
Alexis watched Cassie click the pendant around her neck. The stone was turquoise and amethyst colored and made Cassie’s eyes look like a powder blue sky.
“Take it home,” Alexis insisted. “Tell Aidan you did your own post-Christmas shopping so he wouldn’t feel guilty for getting you fuzzy socks.”
“He didn’t only get me fuzzy socks. But it is really pretty.” Cassie leaned closer to the mirror.
“He can’t complain about excess, it’s not a diamond or a ruby. And you’re supporting the South American economy. He’ll be pleased.” Alexis took a few bracelets out of the case and slipped them on her wrist.
“I don’t need it,” Cassie said uncertainly. She wasn’t very interested in clothes; she usually pulled whatever was clean and pressed out of her closet, but she loved colorful jewelry. When she was a teenager her mother brought home bags of necklaces, earrings, and brooches, and Cassie was allowed to pick what she wanted. She still kept them in heart-shaped jewelry boxes and snapped on a hair clip or put on dan
gly earrings when she drove into the city for lunch.
“Would you two girls mind watching the display for a moment? I just saw Mrs. Benson go up the escalator. She’s one of our best customers but she’s almost deaf and she tends to scare the salespeople.” Derek put the gold key on the glass.
“We’ll do anything if you call us girls,” Alexis said. She smiled, putting the bracelets back in the case and scooping up a selection of colored rings.
“I can’t believe you’re flirting with Derek. He’s almost a hundred. He used to hold my hand when my mother sent me to sit on Santa Claus’s lap. I thought Santa had spiders under his beard, and I’m terrified of spiders.” Cassie unsnapped the pendant and laid it on the crushed velvet.
“Excuse me, I need to make a return.” A girl approached the counter clutching a plain brown shopping bag. She had short blond hair cut in feathery layers around her face, and big brown eyes, like the dolls Cassie collected when she was a child. She wore a T-shirt emblazoned with Chinese letters and an army green bomber jacket.
“We don’t work here.” Alexis shook her head, stepping back from the counter.
“The store manager just went upstairs. I can try to find another salesperson for you; they’re all busy taking returns. Post-Christmas hazard.” Cassie smiled, seeing the girl’s face fall. She clutched her shopping bag tighter. Her nails were painted neon pink and she wore a macramé bracelet around her wrist.
“Crap. My roommate gave me a ride. She’s double-parked outside, probably going to get a ticket. The meter maids were circling like vultures around a Thanksgiving turkey. I don’t know when I’ll make it down here again. I never shop in Union Square, let alone Fenton’s.” The girl drawled the name of the department store as if it were a foreign language.
“We don’t work here, but Cassie owns the place. I bet she can process a return for you,” Alexis said, nodding at Cassie.
“My mother owns it.” Cassie blushed. She felt like people had been saying that since she was seven years old, when her mother would dress her up in a Chanel suit and black patent Mary Janes and guide her through the departments, introducing her to her best customers.
“Please, my roommate will kill me if she gets a ticket. It’s her mother’s car and she doesn’t even know we borrowed it.” The girl opened the bag and took out a red satin box imprinted with the trademark Fenton’s signature.
“Oooh, one of these lovely pendants.” Alexis picked up the box. “Why would you want to return it? These are going to be a must-have.”
“To be honest, I could use the money. It was a present and I figured anything in a Fenton’s box must be pricey. No offense.” The girl looked at Cassie and clapped her hand over her mouth. “It’s really nice, but I’m a student. I could use a bit of cash.”
“Do you have a receipt?” Cassie asked awkwardly. She pulled her long bangs over her ears the way she did when she was nervous. She had tried manning different counters in the afternoons during high school—cosmetics, handbags, Godiva chocolates—but she had never felt comfortable taking other people’s money. “You’re giving them a bit of their dreams,” her mother would coach her, but Cassie always felt the dreams came with a high price tag. She wondered how women could justify paying so much for elaborate gold boxes holding four pieces of chocolate.
“It was a present,” the girl repeated. “But maybe you have the credit card on file. The name was Blake, Aidan Blake.” The girl kept glancing around, as if one of the uniformed meter maids was going to appear and arrest her for double-parking.
“Excuse me,” Cassie said.
“Aidan Blake, Professor Aidan Blake, actually, but I doubt it says that on the credit card. I guess physicians put ‘doctor’ in front of their names, but it would seem a bit silly for a professor to, wouldn’t it?” The girl looked from Cassie to Alexis as if she was very interested in their opinion.
“Where did you get this?” Cassie held the box at arm’s length as if it were a stick of dynamite.
“I told you it was a present. Do you think I stole it or something?” The girl stepped back from the counter. “I may not look like a Fenton’s customer, but I’m not a thief. It was a Christmas present, from a friend,” she finished, her round cheeks turning a light shade of pink.
“How do you know this friend?” Alexis demanded, glancing at Cassie, whose face had turned white.
“We don’t give cash refunds, only store credit,” Cassie said automatically. She gripped the side of the display case, pressing her knuckles against the glass. Every nerve in her body tingled, as if someone had set off a fire alarm only she could hear.
“You two treat customers pretty funny,” the girl said, frowning. “I thought Fenton’s was all about customer service. I’ve seen the ads online: ‘Don’t just walk the red carpet; take it home with you. At Fenton’s every customer is a star.’ Hardly.” The girl pushed the box into the shopping bag. “Store credit isn’t going to do much; what am I going to buy? A two-hundred-dollar pair of seamless stockings? A Marc Jacobs hairbrush? I’ll probably never come to Union Square again, I’m obviously not welcome.”
“Wait.” Cassie exhaled, feeling like something heavy was sitting on her chest. “I’ll give you cash. Here, give me the box.”
“Okay.” The girl stopped, eyeing Cassie suspiciously. “I want a full refund, I bet it was expensive.”
Cassie opened the cash register and extracted three fifty-dollar bills. “Take these.” She slid them over the counter.
The girl’s eyes opened wide. She picked up the bills and crinkled the edges with her fingers. “I don’t think it was that much. I mean, shouldn’t you look up the credit card or look at the price tags on the other necklaces?”
“Take the money and leave.” Alexis walked to the front of the case. She was almost six feet tall in her four-inch Prada heels and her body was muscled and lean from hours in the pool and on her bicycle. She stood so close to the girl she could see the brown roots at the top of her head.
“I’m leaving,” the girl said, stuffing the money in her jeans pocket and moving away from Alexis. “You’re lucky I don’t go on Yelp or something. But thanks for the refund, I hope it doesn’t all go to the meter maid.”
Alexis walked back to Cassie and put her hand on her shoulder. “Breathe,” she said quietly.
“I can’t.” Cassie’s voice was like a robot. “I need some fresh air.”
“You’re not following her.” Alexis grabbed Cassie’s sleeve. “We need to sit down in private. Let’s go to your mother’s office.”
Cassie followed Alexis to the private elevator in the back of the store, clutching the red Fenton’s box that held the pendant. She felt any moment her knees would buckle and she’d crumple to the floor like an anorexic Victoria’s Secret model. She closed her eyes as the elevator doors shut, wishing everything would stay black and the elevator would just keep going up and up and up.
“Cassie.” Alexis poked her with one long fingernail. “Get a grip. It can’t be that bad. You’ve been married for almost ten years. There has to be an explanation.”
“Maybe Aidan gave each student jewelry, instead of grades. Maybe he gave his whole lecture class gifts: polo shirts for the boys and necklaces and earrings for the girls. That would be so like him, don’t you think? That sounds just like my husband, who believes material things have no relationship to one’s happiness, and makes me do his family’s birthday gift shopping. If it wasn’t for me, he’d still buy Isabel My Little Pony every year, even though she’s sixteen and lives with us half the time.” Cassie was almost shouting.
“Cassie, stop.” Alexis pushed the elevator button so the doors stayed open. “We need to think this through calmly, and we need a drink. I hope your mother still has that bottle of scotch under her desk.”
Cassie nodded, biting her lip and pulling her bangs down till they reached her chin. She looked at herself in the smoky elevator mirror. Her mother always said she had the face of an angel: almond-shaped blue eyes, long da
rk lashes, a small nose dusted with freckles, and God’s imprint, a dimple on the side of her mouth. The reflection staring back at her looked more like Snow White just after she realized she’d eaten the poisoned apple.
Cassie opened the door to her mother’s office, smelling a mix of lemon Pledge and Chanel No. 5. The walls were papered in beige linen, and the wood floor was covered with a thick oriental rug. Vases holding bunches of lilies graced the coffee table, the end tables, and the fireplace mantel. There was a cherry desk, a Louis XIV chair, and a cream-colored sofa with throw pillows shaped like seashells.
“Your mother has the best taste, even where no one can see it,” Alexis said as she admired the silk pillows.
“I’m not in the mood to discuss interior design.” Cassie lay facedown on the sofa.
“Maybe she’s Aidan’s TA and he bought her the pendant to thank her for grading papers.” Alexis opened the drawer under the desk and extracted a crystal decanter and two shot glasses.
“That would be such an ethical thing for a professor of ethics to do,” Cassie moaned into the cushions.
“Cassie, sit up.” Alexis dropped onto the sofa, holding a shot glass in each hand. She kicked off her heels and tucked her stocking feet under her legs. “Drink this, quickly,” she said as she put the glass under Cassie’s nose.
Cassie drank the scotch in one gulp. She felt the alcohol burn the back of her throat, and her eyes stung. She blinked and held her glass out for another shot, promising herself she would not cry.
“That’s the girl who wrote love notes to Father Chatham senior year, and signed Sister Agnes’s name.” Alexis nodded approvingly, refilling Cassie’s glass.
“Sister Agnes was in love with him”—Cassie threw back the second shot—“the whole school knew. Every song in chapel was a love song.”
“I think those were called hymns to God.” Alexis grinned. “Honestly, Cassie, I know Aidan looks like a lion, king of the jungle, and all those sophomoric undergrads hang on his every word, but has he ever given you a reason to doubt him?”