I stuff a whole handful of peanuts in my mouth, mumbling, “The medical’s terrific,” around them.
“Ain’t gonna do you any good if the job kills you—”
We’re interrupted when the guy who’d raised a toast to me earlier tries to pick me up. Or at least, pick up my breasts, since he seems to address most of his remarks to them. A shame, too, since he’s relatively good-looking, well dressed and doesn’t seem too sloshed. A little WASP-y for my tastes, although that’s not a real big issue for me. However…
“Thanks, really. But I have to get home to my five-year-old daughter.”
Man takes off like he saw a flea in my hair.
Mari is giving me one of her are-you-sure-you’re-for-real? expressions. One she used to give me with unnerving regularity when we were in school together.
“What?”
“Why the hell did you tell the guy you had a kid?”
“Because I do?”
“Girl, you have a lot to learn.”
Although I don’t take offense, I’m beginning to understand why Mari and I lost touch. She’s great, and I love her, but when you get right down to it, we simply don’t operate by the same set of rules. Not that I knew I was operating from more than anything but sheer dumb luck, but there you have it.
“Hey. If a guy can’t deal with my kid…” I grandly wave my hand. “Fuck ’im.”
Hoo, boy, that spritzer packs a punch. God, I need food. Something that once mooed would be good.
Mari lets loose with a laugh that, had we been anyplace other than Manhattan, would have turned every head in the place.
“I always did like your style.”
“S’got nothing to do with style. S’gotta do with being true to myself. Or something.”
Mari studies me for a second, then says, “Like you’re being true to yourself about your crappy job.”
“S’not crappy. Like I said, the medical’s great.”
“Like Nicole Katz is the only house in town that gives decent medical.”
I wish I had a cigarette. Which is bizarre since I don’t smoke. But the moment just screams for the heroine taking a dramatic pull on her ciggy, quirking one brow, then hissing out the smoke around the word, “Meaning?”
The effect isn’t quite the same with a pretzel.
Mari does more of that pensive-looking thing for a minute, then leans forward and says, “Meaning…can you fax your résumé to me tomorrow?”
Every other morning of my child’s life, I can give her a bowl of Lucky Charms and a cup of orange juice, and she’s good for an least an hour in front of the TV. Except for this morning, when my fate hangs in the balance and for some inexplicable reason my mascara refuses to fatten my eyelashes. I’m standing at the bathroom sink, glaring at my reflection, when Starr clomps in, wearing these adorable red cowboy boots Tina gave her for her birthday and clutching the bowl of cereal I gave her not five minutes ago.
“These are yucky.”
I look at her in the mirror, nearly putting my eye out with the damn mascara wand. “What’re you talking about? That’s been your favorite cereal for two years.”
“What can I tell you? Things change.”
I skip past the And I have three boxes of this crap in my cupboard why? thought and say, because I have exactly fourteen minutes in which to talk to Leo before I have to leave for work and I have the eyelashes of a gnat, “Fine. So whaddya want instead?”
“Dunno.”
I give up on the mascara and toss it in my makeup bag, then vroom out of the bathroom, Starr clomping right behind me as I trot down the stairs. “Another kind of cereal?”
“Like what?”
“Corn flakes? Raisin Bran? Wheaties?”
“Yuck.”
I am operating on roughly three hours sleep. Not because I got home all that late, but because, once the two-and-a-half molecules of alcohol in my system burned off, the full ramification of Mari’s offer sank in. And with it, a rampant case of panic-induced insomnia.
You know the adage, Be careful what you wish for?
Now in the kitchen, I whip open the freezer. “How about some Eggos?” I try. “A toaster pastry? Eggs?”
“Uh-uh.”
“French toast sticks?”
“No.”
“Pop-Tart?”
“No way.”
I look down at her, standing there in her Clifford jammies (yes, with the boots), her frizzy hair stuffed behind her little bat ears, her eyes so damn serious behind her glasses, and my exasperation stumbles. “C’mon, kid, help me out here.”
Her mouth wiggles from side to side. “Sorry. Guess my tummy doesn’t know what it wants this morning.”
Okay. That’s it.
“Then how about…” I slam shut the freezer and swoop down on her, her giggles turning into squeals as I haul her into my arms. “Some yummy frog tongues? Lizard toes? No? Then how about spider bellies in a lightly seasoned cream-of-grub sauce?”
By now she’s laughing so hard she can hardly get out, “Mama! That’s disgusting!”
Leo wanders into the kitchen, showered and dressed and in his Reeboks. My grandfather has this thing about never wearing slippers during the day, that putting on shoes tells your feet to be ready to roll at a moment’s notice.
“I heard,” he says. “So I’ll give her something later. No big deal.”
I hitch Starr higher on my hip—the damn boots must weigh twenty pounds—and say, “But breakfast is supposed to be my job.” He waves away my protest; I smack a kiss on the top of my daughter’s head and whisper in her ear, “Why don’t you go on out into the living room and watch TV?”
“Don’t wanna.”
“Just for a few minutes, okay?”
“Why?”
Leo is frowning at me. Could it be he hears the subtle I’m gonna-freak note in my voice? I can’t talk to him with her here. And the minute I say, “I need to talk to Leo,” I’m dead. She’ll never leave.
I set her down on the floor again, saying, “You’re missing Sesame Street.”
“That’s not on yet, remember?”
My grandfather cups Starr’s head and says, “Go watch TV, and I’ll make you pancakes later.”
With a brilliant smile, off she goes.
“You do know that’s the only thing I left off the menu,” I say.
“That’s because you don’t make pancakes.”
This is true. And what’s also true is that I now have eleven minutes left to talk to him.
“So how was your night out?” Leo says, pouring me a cup of coffee, then spooning in three sugars and a good-size dollop of half-and-half. “You got in after I was asleep, you must’ve had a good time.”
“Yeah, it was fine.” I sit at the table, taking the coffee from him and downing half the cup in one gulp. When I come up for air, I say, “But something came out of it I didn’t expect.”
“Oh?” Armed with his own cup of joe, Leo sits catty-corner from me. “Like what?”
“Like…a possible new job.”
His eyes never leave my face. “A better job than the one you have?”
O-kay, hold on to your hat. “Much better. As in, not even in the same galaxy better. See, Mari’s taking another position in the company—” I’ve already told him who she works for “—which leaves hers vacant and she thinks I’d be perfect for it so she wants me to fax her my résumé today before the ad goes into the paper on Sunday.”
My heart is pounding so hard it hurts.
“But this is wonderful!” Leo frowns. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes! I mean, it could be…”
“But…?”
“It involves some traveling. Okay, a lot of traveling. Visiting department stores around the country to make sure the house’s boutiques are up-to-date and in good shape, or establishing them in new stores.”
“I see.” He gets up, plops two pieces of rye bread in the toaster. “The pay is good?”
“Did you hear what I said? I’d have
to be away—”
“I heard what you said. Well?”
“The pay is fantastic. And the benefits…” I bite my lip.
“So what’s the problem?”
“What do you mean, what’s the problem? It’s about this child I have? The one you already think I’m shortchanging because I have to occasionally work on the weekends?”
“Oh.”
That’s it? I’m proposing something that would radically alter all our lives and all he says is “Oh”?
We sit in silence for several seconds until the toaster pops up, making me jump. Leo plunks the toast on a plastic plate, then carts it over to the table with the margarine tub he’s already gotten out of the fridge. Only after he’s carefully smothered both pieces of toast does he say, “So maybe I should look at things from a different perspective.”
I frown. “You’re confusing me.”
A half smile tilts his mouth. “The prerogative of an old man.” He takes a bite. “So what are you asking me? You want my permission? My blessing? What?”
“I don’t know.”
“So let me ask you something…how badly do you want this?”
I try lifting my mug to my lips, but my hand’s shaking too much. “As badly as Starr wants a dog. And if this had been five years ago—”
“What?”
“I would’ve killed for this opportunity.”
“And now?”
“And now…I’m not exactly a free agent, am I?”
“Meaning you don’t think I can handle Starr while you’re away.”
“It’s not a matter of whether or not you can handle her. But I don’t think it’s fair to ask you to, not more than you already are.”
“Why not?”
I glance behind me, then lean forward, “She doesn’t drive you batty?”
That gets a chuckle. “Only once or twice a day. Nothing compared with what you used to do.”
I snort.
“Look, trust me—if it got to be too much, taking care of her, I’d tell you.”
I don’t believe this for a minute, but I say, “You swear?”
“On your parents’ graves,” he says quietly. “As for looking after her while you’re away—” he shrugs “—she’s in bed by eight, anyway, and you’re rarely home before seven. I think I can manage the extra hour.”
“Which means I’d be giving up the little time we have together now.” I blow out a sigh. “Not exactly putting her first.”
“There’s more than one way to put your child first.”
“Yeah, well, being there is kinda right up at the top of the list.”
“So is doing something that makes you happy, that gives her an example to follow when she grows up.”
Oh. Hmm. Still…
On a groan, I plunk my elbows on the table and ram my hands through my hair. Lucky for me the shaggy look is hot right now. Leo reaches over and lays a hand on my head, just like he’d done with Starr a few minutes ago.
“You’ll have an interview, right?”
I nod.
“Then maybe you should find out more about what the job entails before you give yourself an ulcer over it. Who knows? Maybe on some of these trips, Starr and I could come with you. Maybe we can hire someone to help, if you’re afraid I’ll fall apart from watching one quiet five-year-old. Maybe you should trust a little more, that this opportunity has come to you for a reason.” He grins. “Maybe you’ll meet a nice man on one of these trips.”
I should’ve known.
I glance at the clock and let out a gasp. Calling out to Starr that I’m leaving, I grab my bag and coat off the back door coat tree, shrugging into it as my daughter comes barreling into the kitchen for our morning goodbyes. A dozen hugs and kisses later, I’m hotfooting it to the subway, sweating under my coat even though the temperature’s barely above freezing. Instead of feeling settled about things after the conversation with my grandfather, I’m feeling more conflicted than ever. Which is dumb. Come on, guys—there are only two choices here: either I go for this job, or I don’t. So why isn’t it obvious, which choice I should make?
Then I start shivering hard enough to generate power for Buffalo. Not because I’m cold, though, but because I realize just how much I want this.
This could be it, my ticket out of Queens, out of the stultifying existence I’d let myself believe was my only option. With that salary, Starr and I could eventually move to Manhattan. Maybe in the summer, after Heather’s wedding. I’d always thought the Village, but maybe the Upper West Side would be good, too. And it’s true, she and Leo could go with me sometimes, and she could stay with him in Richmond Hill when they couldn’t.
This really could work out, you know?
I mean, if I even get the job. That’s not exactly a given.
Still, I’m grinning like an idiot as I trudge up the stairs to the elevated platform, realizing I haven’t felt so happy, so this-is-right, since the midwife laid Starr in my arms for the first time.
Me, working for one of the most important fashion houses in the world.
Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmi-freakin’-god.
chapter 9
Making sure nobody sees me, I fax Mari my résumé the minute I get to work. Five minutes later, the phone rings.
“This needs work,” she says. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll fax you back in, hmm, twenty minutes?”
Shit. This means I have to find some reason to hang around so nobody else sees the fax. My heart can’t take this. And what does she mean by “needs work”?
“Uh, sure, okay.”
For the next twenty minutes, I’m a nervous wreck. Nikky’s not in yet, thank God—she never comes in before ten, so I’m safe there—but her darling husband is circling the place like a vulture.
“Ellie!” Harold booms. “Run down to the coffee shop and get me…”
A loud roaring sound floods my ears. Since when does he send me to get his morning coffee? Whatever happened to calling down and having the little guy bring the coffee up? Do bogeymen have some sort of sixth sense about things, that he knows what I’m up to? I look at the clock. Sixteen minutes before Mari’s going to fax me back. Of course, then it occurs to me, duh—I can call her and have her hold off until the coast is clear. Which I do, the minute I get out on the street.
“Okay,” she says, “but don’t make me wait too long. Apparently somebody else here recommended his boyfriend, so we have to move fast.”
Ten minutes later, I deposit Harold’s decaf, Danish and change on his desk, then scamper back to Nikky’s office and the fax machine. I call Mari.
“Okay, now.”
A minute later, the fax comes through.
It’s twice as long as the one I sent her. And what’s amazing is that, somehow, nothing on this new and improved version of my working life is actually a lie. It’s just…
Freaking fantastic, is what this is.
I call her back. “Honey,” I say, “if I liked girls, you would get so lucky tonight.”
She laughs. “It’s all in the spin you put on things. Anyway, so you’re cool with me taking this to my boss?”
My heart starts that hammering thing again.
“Absolutely.”
Five minutes later, she calls back.
“Eight o’clock, Monday morning, chica. You’re first on the list.”
Ladies and gentlemen, we have liftoff.
Sunday afternoon, I’m down in the basement stitching together the muslin mock-up of Heather’s bridal gown bodice. To keep from totally obsessing over the upcoming interview—as opposed to only mildly obsessing, which is a given—I’ve spent the weekend either schmoozing with my kid or ditzing with this pattern. At some point—like, yesterday—I’m going to have to start thinking about what to do with these fricking bridesmaids, too. Good thing I thrive on stress, is all I’ve got to say.
Over the whirr of my Pfaff, I hear the door at the top of the stairs squeak open, followed by footsteps thunking down the cement steps. Figu
ring it’s Jason, I don’t even bother looking up. So Luke’s softly spoken, “Hey, El,” three feet in front of me—I was intently focused on a particularly bitchy curved seam—scares the crap out of me.
It takes me a second to realize I’ve stitched the side of my finger to the mock-up.
“Shit!” Luke says as he notices the blood ooching from my finger and all over the creamy muslin. “Are you okay?”
Calmly—it’s not as if I’ve never done this before—I manually crank the wheel to raise the needle and dislodge it from my mangled digit. It’s just a nick, really, but now I have to wear a Band-Aid for the next few days. Damn.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” I grab a scrap of muslin from the wastebasket beside the machine and wrap it around my finger. “No, it’s okay, I’ve got it—”
“Shut up and let me see. Christ, I didn’t mean to scare you—”
“You didn’t, I swear, really, it’s no big deal….”
But he’s got my hand in his, folding back the muslin to look at my finger. It hurts more than I want to let on. And I’m not just talking about the finger.
I remove my hand from his grasp, muttering, “Thanks.”
The problem with celibacy is that it doesn’t take much to remind you what a sucky deal it is. You can go for months—or, in my case, months and months and months—convincing yourself you don’t miss a man’s touch. And then ka-bam! Fooled ya!
Luke drops my hand and backs away slightly, his own stuffed in his leather jacket’s pockets. “You need to keep pressure on it until the bleeding stops.”
Oh, yeah. I know all about keeping a wound tightly under wraps so it doesn’t start bleeding again.
“After all the times I mopped up after you when we were kids,” I say, wondering why he’s here, afraid to find out why he’s here, “you’re giving me instruction on how to stop bleeding?”
He grins. Sorta. “You know, you were the only girl I ever knew who didn’t turn green at the sight of blood.”
“Probably because I saw enough of my own.”
I swear, I think I was fourteen before I didn’t have scabs on my knees. Between being a klutz and my determination that anything the Scardinares could do, so could I, I was always banged up and bruised. My father used to joke that half his pay went toward keeping us supplied in bandages and Bactine. My mother used to despair of me, wondering aloud how one of her daughters could be such a priss (that would be my sister Jennifer, who’d have a conniption if she got a mosquito bite) while the other one was constantly walking along the tops of fences or climbing trees or sliding into our sandlot third base face-first.
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