Diane’s on the couch, fast asleep, with the TV playing softly on one of those classic movie channels. The screen shows a beat-up boxer getting a you-gotta-get-back-in-there speech from his baseball-capped, gum-chewing manager. One look at our prizefighter reminds me it might be time to brave the bathroom mirror.
I pad toward the kitchen for something to drink. I ignore the three bottles of Gatorade Will brought, opting for a diet soda instead. Gently fizzing bubbles might feel nice. Plus, I can use a straw without feeling like I’m a fourth grader home sick from school.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the microwave window. Wow. I might want to take a few deep breaths—or prayers or maybe another painkiller—before I try anything as accurate as a mirror.
Inhale. Pop the can top. Exhale. Insert straw. Inhale, head toward the bathroom, exhale. Inhale, go into the bathroom, exhale. Inhale, reach for the light switch…
Howl. Yep, that’s the word for it. I’m howling.
I look hideous. Absolutely hideous. The prizefighter on TV—blood and all—could beat me in a beauty contest. My cheeks are so puffy I look like I should be gathering acorns for winter. And I haven’t even dared to lift the bandages yet. The disturbing colors around those bandage edges are enough to set the room spinning. “Oh…ooo…I’m awwwfuuulll….”
Diane comes stumbling into the room, panicked right out of dead sleep, gasping, “What? Mags! Are you…oh.”
“I’m hid-e-ous!” I should have thought more before giving into a good cry. Those tears sting. I half fall, half slump against Diane, who is just awake enough to catch me.
“You’re injured, not hideous,” she says, yawning.
“I’m purple. I’m lumpy and puffy. You can’t even tell where my eyebrows are!” My S’s are still slurred by the sheer size of my upper lip. My face is a Technicolor collage of bumps and gauze.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Are you kidding? Have you looked at me? Even the circus wouldn’t hire me.”
Diane shoots me a look. “It’s not that bad, Mags. In three days you’ll just look like you took a nasty hit.”
I scowl as best I can. “I did take a nasty hit. A really nasty hit. And I was an innocent bystander!”
“Will feels terrible about what happened. The guy called three times and is stopping by tomorrow. I wouldn’t be surprised if this apartment has more flowers than a funeral parlor by noon.” She looks at me in that conniving way of hers. “Hey, how many guys on a rugby team, anyway?”
“Stop capitalizing on my…my…” I risk another glance in the mirror looking for the right noun. “Awww…” I touch the only part of my face that doesn’t look purple—a spot down near my right ear—and cry harder.
Diane grabs my hand and swats the light switch off. “It’s clear we should avoid mirrors for at least twenty-four hours. You’re due for more ice and medication. And I want you to eat something.” Oh, no. She’s got her nurse voice on now. All arguing will be pointless—this woman’s a professional.
“Okay. I don’t know how I’m going to chew, though.”
Diane deposits me at my kitchen table and heads toward the fridge. “Already thought of that. I stopped at the market on my way over. Applesauce, yogurt or ice cream?”
I attempt to raise one eyebrow. “What do you think?”
“I figured. Coffee ice cream it is. I’ll let you off the nutritional hook for six more hours. Come morning, you’re back on real food.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
While she scoops, I attempt to take stock of my present situation. “Let’s see. I’m down at least three days of work, since I doubt I’ll resemble a member of the human race until Wednesday. I’m down a couple of hundred dollars of medical expenses….”
“Nope.”
“What?”
“Will told me he gave the hospital his credit card and told the pharmacy to send all bills to him at the bank.”
This bothers me. I’m an adult, with my own credit card and my own health insurance—paltry as it is. I don’t need British foreign aid. “I’m injured, not destitute.”
“Suit yourself. You’re up an A, though.”
“Huh?”
“You got an A on your paper and I’m pretty sure Will never even read it.”
Diane puts a bowl of coffee ice cream down in front of me with one hand and my class paper with the other. There’s a giant red A on the top.
Next to a smear of mud and several drops of blood.
I’d laugh if I didn’t think it would hurt so much.
Chapter Seven
What rhymes with caffeine?
Lots of things look better in the dawn of a new day.
I am not one of them.
We’re putting that aside, thank you, and attempting some form of deportment for my cascade of visitors today. Starting with who else but my parents. Thank goodness for Diane, she held them off for almost a full day. I’m sure that took major negotiations. But they’ll be here today to check in on their little darling.
Followed, you can be certain, by a gaggle of brothers and sisters and maybe even a few nephews dying to see if Auntie Mags is as gross-looking as everybody says.
I tried viewing my face as a piece of artwork this morning. I walked calmly into my bathroom, which I’ve filled with colorful mosaic pieces so that you hardly notice the boring white porcelain tile and fixtures. See yourself as just another wildly colored mosaic, I told myself. Enjoy the riot of color for the energy it brings. Use your artistic side to appreciate the shades of purple and amber, get creative with the application of gauze, explore your interesting profile.
Well, I didn’t really think it would work, either, but it was worth a shot. Color usually cheers me up, but it’s hard to find the right lipstick shade to go with contusion. Is it realistic to consider using under-eye concealer on two-thirds of your face? Do drop earrings or studs go better with stitches? When I asked Diane, she threatened to hide my painkillers and make me go cold turkey onto Tylenol. I’m dressed, though, so that ought to count for something. I’m glad it’s only August, because it may take months for me to be able to manage a turtleneck sweater over this mess.
I’ve arranged myself on the couch, attempting a graceful posture, when Diane lets in the parental brigade.
Mom drops her purse on my kitchen counter and makes no attempt to soften her look of utter horror when she sees her precious baby girl. “Margaret Mary Black! Sweet mercy, but you look just awful!”
My dad shoots me a look of serious concern as he settles into his favorite chair at my place, a big, overstuffed wingback I found at a secondhand store on Broadway. The old chair groans under his weight and I get the feeling he’d groan too, if Mom weren’t moaning enough already.
“Thanks for reminding me how bad I look, Mom.” Guess what? I’m going to spend the whole day watching people’s mouths drop open. My own by-invitation-only pity party. Ooo, big fun. “I actually feel better than I look,” I offer, not really sure that it’s true.
“I should hope so,” Mom nearly gasps. She scuttles over to the couch and grabs my hands. “Why didn’t you call me right away?”
Because I knew you’d get like this. Because you’d probably be calling around for plastic surgeons when all I really need is painkillers and ice bags. Because I’m twenty-eight, not four. Take your pick. “Diane’s a nurse, Mom.”
“And I’m your mother.” Mom would argue mother outranks everyone. The president of the United States could be waiting to award me the Nobel Peace Prize and Mom would still demand to go first. She’s inspecting me now, lips pursed, making that infernal tsk-tsk noise mothers make. My dad stares at my purple-fringed curtains. He’s probably thinking how nicely I match the decor today. “My poor baby,” Mom coos, “my poor wounded baby.”
I’m trying to crawl toward normalcy here. “Poor baby” is not what I need. I need a cover stick the size of Puget Sound, because I probably am as purple as my curtains. I need an adorable hat with a brim that extends clear d
own to my elbow, and a pair of dark glasses large enough for King Kong. And I could really use a triple-raspberry white-chocolate latte.
Starting with the latte.
I know most coffee junkies are purists, but me, I love all the flavors and toppings we Americans have added into the coffee business. Makes it more like dessert, but with the added bonus of a jolt to your bloodstream. Speaking of jolts, you can mix codeine and caffeine, can’t you? I mean, they rhyme and all.
You can imagine my gratitude when, after two hours of family histrionics, Will Grey arrives with precisely that beverage. How’d he know? Who cares. You don’t think he noticed that I actually grabbed at the drink with both hands, do you? It only took me three sips to notice that there was a large bouquet of flowers in his other hand. “From Sumners,” Will quickly explains, as if it might be unsuitable to even suggest they came from him. “I stood over him myself while he paid for them. I’d have had him come up here, but somehow I wasn’t sure you’d welcome the company.”
“After my family,” I reply, “the Marine Corps would be a respite.” I push aside the pile of throw pillows on my brocade couch so there’s room for him to sit down. “They’re lovely, thanks. Tell Sumners I’ll forgive him if he works on his aim.”
“That’s just the thing,” Will says, rubbing his chin. “Art’s the best shot on the team.”
“I don’t think I’ll back you up on that one.” I feel the hot coffee work its blissful charm on my bloodstream. After so much ice, the heat feels cleansing. The blend of smooth milk, sharp coffee, silky foam and luxurious flavors—not to mention the vital caffeine factor—revives me. I close my eyes and sigh.
Will picks up a milk-glass vase I had sitting on my coffee table and sets the flowers in it. “I’ll give you one thing, Maggie Black, you’re in the right business.”
“Stopping flying objects with my face?” Hey, I can raise one eyebrow (useful sarcasm tool, you know). I couldn’t manage that yesterday.
“No, coffee. I’ve never seen anyone enjoy it quite so much.” You know, Will’s a much nicer guy than I gave him credit for. There’s a natural calm about him. A solidness that I don’t think I can put down simply to British understatement. Today, here, he’s different. Something in between the suit-clad banker and the mud-spattered rugby player. Reserved, but with a hint of fun peeking through. He sits back down on the couch and I notice how the blue of his eyes changes in different lights. They’re more blue than gray this morning. “So,” he says gently, “how are you feeling?”
“Swollen. Sore. Like I might want to stay far away from any rugby friends of yours.”
Will laughs. “Oh, you should see Art. He’s nearly folded over with guilt. It was a laugh, watching such a big lad try to explain it all to the tiny lady at the flower shop. He could barely bring himself to say what he’d done. Enormously funny, until…”
“Until…”
“Until I had him write Margaret Black on the card, at which our tiny shop lady turned into a dragon. It seems…”
“You went to GreenThings on Thirty-Sixth, didn’t you?” How could I have missed that on the card? No wonder I liked the arrangement so much. “Will, that’s where I work.”
“Yes, well, I know that. Now. Your Mrs….”
“Chang, Nancy Chang. And I’ll just bet she let your buddy Art have it.” Oh, I would have given anything to see tiny Nancy Chang telling off enormous Art Sumners—in high-velocity Chinese, no doubt. When that woman gets her dander up, you don’t even need a translator to know you’re in deep, deep trouble.
Will pinches the bridge of his nose again, laughing softly, obviously reliving the scene. “Yes, well I doubt he will recover from his tongue-lashing anytime soon. He was positively beet-red by the time I dragged him out of the store. I was already planning to bring you some coffee, but she nearly marched us around the corner herself. She made Art memorize and recite your favorite drink before she’d let him leave the store.
Now I’m laughing, even though it hurts. “I was wondering how you’d managed to show up with my favorite drink. I don’t recall there being a blank for that on those hundreds of bank forms you made me fill out. Thanks for the coffee, by the way,” I say, suddenly remembering my manners, “and thanks for the A, too. I was only kidding about that, you know.”
“No, you weren’t.” He counters, his eyes sparkling for a moment before adopting a more professional tone. “And I’ll advise you that such a stunt will only work once with me. You’ll earn every other A you get in my class. And you’ll turn in every assignment on time,” his voice suddenly softens again, “although I will grant a limited number of injury-related extensions.”
I nod, only because I can’t figure this guy out. One minute he’s my hero, fawning all over me. The next he’s a taskmaster, cracking his tutorial whip.
“So,” he continues, producing a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolding it on the coffee table for me to read, “I’ve adapted this week’s homework assignment to suit your…limited capabilities.”
I attempt to sit up. “My capacities are not limited, they’re just under heavy medication right now.”
“Three words,” Will declares, pointing to the heading on the top of the page. “Your assignment is to identify the three words your ideal customer uses if asked to describe you in ten seconds or less.”
There’s a tidy little homework sheet, with bullet points and examples and all, complete with three blanks at the bottom of the page for me to fill in my three words.
Three words. I had to fill out twelve forms and now I’m learning about business by coming up with three words?
“That seems a bit simplistic, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Will looks like he was expecting that. “Often, the simplest concepts are the hardest to grasp. This exercise gets to the very heart of your brand and the loyalty you want to build in your customers. ‘Nail this,’ as you would say, and it drives everything else that comes after it.”
“Three words. Well, with the surprising bonus of free time I have this weekend, I ought to be able to drum up three words by Wednesday.”
Will smiles. He does have a very nice smile. Dignified, but still genuine. Top drawer all the way. “I thought it would suit the circumstances. We’ll see you Wednesday, then?” He plants his hands on his knees as if to get up.
“Going so soon?” I blurt out before I can even think. Now where did that come from? Granted, he’s far nicer company than a gaggle of hovering siblings, but it’s not as though I’m itching to spend time with the guy. I don’t even know if he goes to church. I don’t know if he takes cream or sugar. I don’t know a lot of things about this guy.
So there’s no reason for me to be craving conversation with my friendly neighborhood banker. I’ve gotten more apology than I’ll ever need from both him and his gigantic orb-lobbing friend. I need my rest, right?
After a pause that could mean a host of things—from “I’ve got better things to do on a Saturday than chat with wounded clients” to “actually, I’d really rather not go,”—Will says, “Well, I should be going.”
I’m not going to discuss what that pause does to my imagination. I’m not going to discuss anything in my present medicated state. I mean, really, I harbor warm feelings toward anyone who brings me coffee.
Chapter Eight
This is America
“Delicious. Satisfying. Friendly. Quality. Intriguing. Addictive. Energizing. Regal. Attentive. Crud!”
I’m pacing around my living room, a cup of my best dark roast displayed smack in the center of my coffee table, cataloguing my three words.
Or trying to.
The exercise isn’t working. I stop, I sip, I inhale the potent aroma that is a Maggie-brewed cup of java and I picture my ideal customers’ response. I see them, hands cradled around the mug, lifting the brew expectantly to their lips in that spectacular moment that is any coffee-lover’s first sip of the day. That’s the moment I live for. That’s the moment my thr
ee words should describe. I totally get the purpose of this task.
It’s the customer in my imagination that keeps messing things up. Every time I picture that customer relishing that sip, within minutes that customer becomes Will Grey. How annoying is it that he keeps invading my retail daydreams? I shake myself like an athlete, take another long sip and try again.
“Dynamic. Must-have. Blissful. Surprising. Crisp. Multilayered. Guarded…”
Guarded? Who’d ever drink guarded coffee? Nobody wants crisp, multilayered, guarded coffee. It sounds like you’re drinking a well-behaved salad, for crying out loud. Will knew how hard this would be. I bet everyone else did this exercise in twelve minutes, but he knew I couldn’t just crank something like this out. It’s torture, I tell you.
You know, he may even think he’s given me a light load. After all, I guess this is a simple exercise for business-types. But for an artistic personality, this is asking the world. Now, if I’d had fifteen words to pick, I’d be fine. But narrowing my life’s passion down to three words is excruciating. I’ve been at this for three days and that sheet is still blank. I start back at work tomorrow and if I keep this up I’ll be spouting adjectives while I hand customers their floral arrangements. Can you imagine what Nancy will do if I suddenly blurt out addictive while handing someone their Boston fern?
By Wednesday at five-forty-five I still hadn’t filled in those blanks. I had to be at class in fifteen minutes, I was all dressed, and had almost talked myself into believing the entire world was not staring at my wounded face. Still, I couldn’t haul myself out the door.
I tried to convince myself that perhaps it was some sort of post-rugby stress disorder, that I wasn’t as recovered from my injuries as I thought. Yeah, I didn’t really believe that, either. You and I both know I’m just plain chicken. Why, Lord? I gulped out in a desperate prayer. Why is this so hard? Why am I making such a big deal out of three little words?
God, in His infinite wisdom, decided that now would be a good moment for an appalling self-revelation. Don’t you just hate it when He picks moments like this to dump a bucket-load of unwelcome truth on your head?
The Perfect Blend Page 4