Getting Warmer

by Carol Snow

“Over where?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “You look pretty,” Lars said.

  “You do,” Jill echoed.

  “Thanks.” I was wearing a new filmy black shirt and skirt.

  “Your hair has grown,” Lars said.

  “Yes.” I touched it without thinking. Portions fell below my chin, but it would take months to get rid of all the layers.

  “You have any hair gel?” Lars asked, reaching out to tuck a strand behind my ear. “Or some pomade?”

  “I don’t even know what pomade is.”

  He reached out to smooth the hair on the other side of my head, squinting intently. “It’s kind of like mousse, only thicker. Like a paste.”

  I looked at Jill. “Are you sure he’s straight?”

  She shrugged. “That’s what he tells me.”

  Jill reapplied my makeup and changed my jewelry (“Bold!” she said. “Go bold!”) and Lars pouffed up my hair using an assortment of salon products he kept in his car.

  “Do your roommates know you buy this crap?” Jill asked Lars, holding up a thirty-dollar jar of hair gunk. “That you drive around with it? Because they might stop buying you beer. They might start stocking the fridge with wine coolers and Zima.”

  Lars stepped back to survey his work. My hair was beginning to defy the laws of gravity. “I’m not worried,” he said. “Jeff gets manicures.”

  “Jeff?” Jill shrieked. “You mean Jeff the belcher? Jeff who never flushes? You’re kidding me.”

  “Where have all the cowboys gone?” I said.

  Jill raised her eyebrows. “Where, indeed?”

  Driving through the neighborhood, we admired the green Christmas lights wound around towering saguaros. White icicle lights hung above doors like shiny bangs, while giant red balls dangled from paloverde trees.

  Last Christmas, my father bought a fake, pre-lit tree for our living room; cut evergreens don’t last long in the desert. My mother and I found chili pepper lights at Target, and my father strung them around the windows. We hung an evergreen wreath on the front door. Within days, the dry needles fell to the ground at the slightest touch.

  Shelly and Frederick came for a few days. My mother, wearing her red reindeer sweater, cooked—well, heated—a Christmas ham and served side dishes from AJ’s: whole cranberry sauce, baked apples, duchess potatoes, green bean casserole. Frederick ate the corn bread stuffing with chorizo and jalapenos; the rest of us took one bite and left the rest on our plates. We ate on the patio; next to us, the spa’s waterfall gurgled into the pool. My father, in a green reindeer sweater, served margaritas and asked, “Can you believe we’re eating Christmas dinner outside?” at ten-minute intervals. It hadn’t felt like Christmas at all. It felt like a magical, once-in-a-lifetime party.

  This year, I hadn’t even bothered to hang a wreath on the front door. I wondered where the chili pepper lights had been stored. Could we hang them up in Rhode Island, or would that look completely ridiculous?

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving,” Jill said, twisting around from the front passenger seat to make eye contact.

  “I never intended to stay forever.” I sat in the backseat, my hands clasped in my lap, and gazed out the window.

  “Aren’t you going to miss it?”

  We were about to turn onto Scottsdale Road now, passing the pretty shopping center where I got my hair cut. I’d miss Angelo, my hairdresser, who was doing everything in his power to ease me through the awkward in-between stage as I grew out my layers.

  The traffic was so backed up that we missed the light. Lars’s Prius crept forward, waiting for the light to turn green again.

  “It’s too crowded,” I said. “It’s getting to be like L.A.”

  We made it through the intersection and drove down the wide expanse of Scottsdale Road. We passed new neighborhoods, constructed in the past six months, and older ones, which had been around since the nineties. Arizona possessed an overriding sense of newness, of promise, of reinvention. But were the six-month-old houses any different, any better, than the ten-year-old houses? And what of my own reinvention, my new beginning? After a year and a half in this place, I was just me—plain old Natalie.

  It’s funny: when you’re moving, the littlest details seem significant. There was The Great Indoors, where I’d helped my parents pick out a (really cool) faucet after the one in my bathroom sink gave out. There was Nordstrom Rack, where Jill talked me into buying the only sexy pair of shoes I’ve ever owned—stiletto heeled, strappy, studded with rhinestones. I had yet to wear them but loved them for their promise of adventure. A bit farther down the road, we passed the Jiffy Lube where I got my oil changed. I had at least three coupons that I’d never get to use. There was the Asian fusion place with the incomparable Chilean sea bass. There was the bar where Jonathan met Jill and Nicolette.

  Lars pulled up in front of the Hyatt. A valet opened the doors, and I stepped out. “Pretty swish,” I said. “Who’s paying?”

  “We are,” Jill said. Lars looked stricken.

  We walked through the high-ceilinged lobby and down some steps to the lounge. Nicolette sat in an overstuffed chair, her pink cocktail glimmering in the candlelight. Across from her sat a young businessman with a small, straight nose and neatly trimmed brown hair. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a well-cut suit. He’d look good in a tux.

  Jill leaned close to my ear. “I’m thinking Lenox for the china, Fiestaware for everyday.”

  “And a good set of knives,” I whispered back. “Wüsthoff or Henckels. Can you register a second time around, though? Or would that be gauche?”

  Jill raised her eyebrows. “I’m thinking a full registry, twenty bridesmaids and a ten-foot train on the dress. The word of the day, my dear, is annulment.” When we approached the table, Jill raised her voice. “Well, hello!” Just to be safe, she didn’t use Nicolette’s name.

  The young man stood up and brightened. “You must be Nicolette’s friends.”

  She’d used her real name. This was serious.

  Nicolette looked up and shifted in the overstuffed arm chair. “Hey,” she said. She forced a smile. She was looking practically demure tonight, in a black tank top that revealed only a discreet peek of cleavage, a cropped turquoise sweater, and a white miniskirt. Her mass of blond hair was pulled back in a clip. She blinked when she saw me and then smiled. “Your hair looks awesome, Mrs. Quackenbush.”

  “Call me—”

  “I mean Natalie.”

  I softened. “Thanks. You look nice, too.”

  “We should get out there,” Lars said, checking his watch.

  “Out where?”

  Lars and Jill exchanged a look. Jill cleared her throat and then announced, “To the gondolas. Natalie, for your going away present, we’re giving you a gondola ride.”

  “Awesome!” said the young businessman. “I’m Ryan, by the way.” Nicolette sipped her pink drink and gazed off in the distance. “I’m here on business from Sheboygan.”

  Lars scrunched his nose, trying to remember his geography. “Michigan?”

  “Wisconsin.”

  “Ah, yes.” Lars nodded. And then, lacking any other association: “Good cheese.”

  “The best,” Ryan said, a touch too loud. “You can forget about that California cheese. That’s not even really cheese.” He smiled at Lars and then looked back at Nicolette. Well, he looked at her breasts.

  “Nice to meet you,” Jill said. “Nic, you ready?”

  Nicolette sprang out of her chair and downed her cocktail in one motion. She put the glass on the table and nodded.

  “I’m a financial analyst,” Ryan said. “Well, in training.” His eyes sparkled in the candlelight. He put a proprietary hand on Nicolette’s shoulder. She flinched slightly.

  “I’m not sure there’s room for you in the boat, Ryan,” Lars said, edging closer.

  Ryan leaned into Nicolette. “So we can make room! Cozy up, if you know what I mean.”

  Jill shot Lars a look:
do something.

  I tilted my head at what I hoped was a coquettish angle. “So, Ryan, you’re . . . okay about Nic?” I looked at Nicolette. “You did tell him, didn’t you?”

  She looked from side to side. “Well, not exactly.” She checked my face, trying to see where this was going. “Well, not at all.”

  “Oh, Nic!” I shook my head. “I’m sure Ryan won’t mind.” I beamed at him.

  “Mind what?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth as if to speak and then closed it again. I gave Nicolette a quick once-over before turning back to Ryan. “Can’t you tell just by looking at her?”

  He took a step back and surveyed Nicolette. His mouth twitched. “I don’t have any problem with, uh, enhancements.” He stared openly at Nicolette’s breasts.

  Nicolette opened her mouth to protest—they were real, after all—when I said, “The implants are the least of it! You see, Ryan.” Here I paused for effect. “A few short months ago, our pretty little Nicolette was, well . . . our pretty little Nicholas.”

  Jill clapped her hand over her mouth. Lars picked up the routine immediately. “Natalie! That’s for Nicky to share!”

  Ryan was frozen in shock.

  “I just . . . I believe in honesty,” I said. “Okay, in a couple of months, when she’s had her—his—no, her . . .”—I lowered my voice—“equipment removed, there will be less of an issue. But for now . . .” I gave Nicolette The Look. “You should have told him.”

  Jill, Lars and Nicolette laughed as we walked down the grand steps and past the various pools. “Natalie, that was brilliant!” Lars said.

  “A triumph,” Jill said. She looked at me. I wasn’t smiling. “What’s wrong?”

  I shrugged. “I told myself I wasn’t going to do that anymore. Make up stuff.”

  “It was just for fun,” Lars said.

  “This time it was. But sometimes people get hurt. Besides, I’m going to be thirty in a few months. I’m getting too old for this kind of thing.”

  “Thirty is the new sixteen,” Lars quipped. “We can act like adolescents till we’re forty.”

  “And then what? What happens when we’re forty?”

  “That’s when we become young adults. We’ll quit our jobs and backpack through Europe.”

  “I’ve already quit my job,” I sighed.

  Nicolette looped her arm into mine. “Well, I think you did an awesome thing back there. I didn’t think I’d ever get rid of that guy.”

  “What was wrong with him?” Lars asked.

  I was trying to find a nice way to say that Ryan was a drunk yuppie looking for a one-night stand when Nicolette burst into tears. “I miss Rodney!” she sobbed.

  Jill took her in her arms. “It’s okay! You’re experiencing a sense of loss, and that’s completely normal. You made the right decision. Remember how you said you were enabling Rodney’s impulse control problems? And that you feared falling into a pattern of codependence?”

  Nicolette took a step back. “I never said that. You said that. I don’t even know what that means!”

  Lars retrieved a tissue from his pocket and handed it to Nicolette. “She means that Rodney would do things without thinking—get married, buy a truck he couldn’t afford—and you just got kind of sucked into it.”

  “And codependence basically means that you need him and he needs you,” I said.

  Nicolette rolled the tissue into a point and wiped carefully under her eyes. “I didn’t know that was a bad thing. I thought that was love.”

  I heard him before I saw him: “. . . excited about this opportunity,” and “. . . brought along the numbers of some of my customers who’d be happy to talk to you.” I kept walking forward, slowly now, staring as we got closer, certain that any minute I’d see that it wasn’t Jonathan but just some look-alike.

  He was talking to Lars. Once we’d passed the lighted swimming pools, Lars had hurried ahead, saying, “We don’t want to miss the boat—you guys can catch up with me.”

  They were standing next to a fire pit. Jonathan was wearing a black fleece pullover, jeans and black cowboy boots. He pulled some papers from a dark portfolio and handed them to Lars. The gondolier, in a straw hat and red-and-white striped shirt, stood on the dock nearby, obviously not in any hurry.

  “Jonathan?” It came out like a whisper.

  He turned to me and stopped talking immediately. He stared at me for a moment and then looked at Lars. “You don’t really work for the Hyatt, do you?”

  Lars grinned angelically.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Lars, you didn’t—Lars, what did you do?” Jill and Nicolette caught up with us. Jill was looking at the ground. Nicolette peered around frantically. “Is Rodney here, too?”

  “Who’s Rodney?” Jonathan asked.

  “Rodney’s not here, Nicolette,” Lars said. “Sorry.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. She sunk into an Adirondack chair and stared into the fire.

  “I don’t know what Lars told you . . .” I began.

  Jonathan crossed his arms. “He told me he was Hyatt’s food and beverage manager. He asked me to meet him here to discuss taking me on as a supplier. Which I thought was weird since I’d never heard of him and I don’t do a lot of business on gondolas. But this account would have doubled my business.”

  Lars ran a hand through his blond hair. “I wasn’t sure you’d come if I told you the real reason we wanted you here.” When Jonathan didn’t respond, he added, “I work with Natalie. Well, I used to. I got fired.” He grinned sheepishly.

  Jonathan narrowed his eyes. “Are you people completely incapable of telling the truth?”

  “They’re teachers,” Jill piped in. “As role models, they are constantly faced with unrealistic expectations. To retain any sense of emotional balance, they have to find ways to let off steam.”

  “You’re not a teacher,” Jonathan replied. “What’s your excuse?”

  Jill’s mouth twitched. “I just like to mess with people.”

  “I had nothing to do with this!” I said. “Jonathan, I’m sorry. So sorry. I realize now how hurtful making up stories can be.” Involuntarily, I glanced at Lars. Lars-who-was-not-gay. “I will never, ever lie again.”

  “She means it,” Nicolette said from her perch by the fire pit. “She was just saying that, like five minutes ago, after I met this loser guy in the lounge and—”

  “The important thing to remember here is—” Jill interrupted. She stalled out. She had nothing to add, I suddenly realized; she was just trying to save me from Nicolette.

  “Look, Jonathan,” I said. “I’m really sorry Lars tricked you. I understand you don’t want to see me anymore. I’m moving in a week, anyway, so you don’t have to worry about it.” I swallowed hard, mentally congratulating myself on keeping my voice steady.

  “So how about a gondola ride?” Lars said. “I’ve already paid for it, so you might as well go.”

  “Actually, I paid for it,” Jill murmured.

  “Me and Rodney had our first kiss on the gondola,” Nicolette whimpered, hugging herself by the fire.

  “I don’t think Jonathan wants to—” I began, just as Jonathan said, “Sure.”

  “Really?” I whispered.

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  “You changed your hair,” Jonathan said once we’d left the launch. He’d chosen to face me rather than sit next to me. The gondolier had handed us plaid blankets when we sat down. I spread mine across my lap, wishing Jonathan were under it with me. He left his folded on the bench next to him.

  I touched my hair. It felt gluey. “Lars and Jill styled it. Usually it’s flat like always, just longer. But I guess that’s an improvement.”

  He shrugged. “It always looked nice.”

  I swallowed. “Thanks.”

  “So—you’re moving?”

  I nodded. “In a week. My parents sold the house. I guess I told you that. I was going to find another place to live, but then I realized, I might as well just leave.�
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  “What about your job?”

  I took a deep breath. “I quit. I was a lousy teacher, anyway.”

  “That’s not what Robert says.”

  “You’ve talked to Robert?”

  “A couple of times. When I’ve been over at Suzette’s. Robert says you’re his favorite teacher.”

  I pictured Robert’s easy grin, his muffins, his basketball shorts. “That’s just because I go easy on him.”

  He shook his head. “He said that he would have dropped out of school if it weren’t for you. And that all the other kids like you, too.” He smiled a little. “I think what he said was, ‘She’s not as boring as most of the other teachers.’”

  I smiled. “I guess that’s a compliment. But—that’s just one kid’s opinion. Not everyone feels that way. Trust me.” We were gliding past blocky modern houses with enormous plate glass windows. Through one, I could see a man slouched on a sofa, hypnotized by the flicker of the television. “So, you’re over there a lot?” I asked. “At Suzette’s?”

  He shrugged. “Every now and then. To make deliveries.” The gondolier made little splashing noises with his pole. Above us, a cloud glided past the moon, dimming the shine.

  “So, are you and Suzette,” I began. “I mean, Krista said you used to be—together. A while ago. But every time I talked to Suzette, she made it sound like, well, like you and she . . .”

  “What?”

  I pictured Suzette: the perfect blond hair, the regal bearing. “Like you were a couple.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. I could hardly breathe. “You don’t know who Suzette is, do you?”

  I shook my head.

  He looked me in the eye. “Suzette is The Stalker.”

  “What?”

  “She’d finally stopped calling me. I thought she’d moved on, found somebody else. I figured it would be okay to ask her about the internship.” He shrugged. “I’m on the verge of changing my phone number.”

  “Then, why?” I asked. “Why did you call her about Robert?”

  “I wanted to help you out. Help your student. And I’m glad I did. Robert’s a good kid.”

  I smiled at him. I expected him to smile back. Instead, he gazed off into the distance. I pulled my plaid blanket up to my neck.