“Fantastic. Great to meet you, Tatiana. I’m Grace.” I threw her my warmest smile, my Midwestern manners rusty but still putting hers to shame.
“Have you consigned with us before?” she asked, her eyes sharp, as if willing me to try to fool her.
“Um, no,” I said, then more confidently, “definitely not. Not that I didn’t want to.” I added hastily, “I would have. Because there’s no shame in it. At all. And this is a great shop. Really. I love the topiaries.” I bit into my lower lip to help my mouth remain in a closed position.
She paused a moment, then continued. “We take only items that are on trend and in perfect condition. No stains, no rips, no tears, no fraying. We offer you a lump sum today, based on fifty percent of the profit we hope to achieve with your items. Is this clear?”
I nodded, taking it all in. I began adding up the value of the bulging bags I placed on the counter, watching as Tatiana began to remove the items and lay them before her, eyes sharp, hands moving quickly over buttons, seams, zippers. My internal calculator was buoying my spirits even as she worked. Three, maybe even four months’ rent was represented, I thought. Three months was surely enough time for me to steady my shaky feet, follow up on the emails and résumés I had sent out from my couch, and reroot myself in a new job, maybe even find a roommate.
I felt a catch in my breathing when Tatiana pulled out my Manolo pumps. She noticed and looked up, eyebrows arched in question.
I put my hand out to touch the shoes. “I love these shoes,” I said, my fingers on the perfect stitching along the arch. “They were my very first grown-up purchase after finishing school. I bought them for myself as a graduation present.” Those shoes were more of a statement to me than any diploma. My first Manolo pumps. The perfect, tangible symbol that I was running headlong into The Dream and making good time and real progress.
The woman sniffed and pushed the shoes toward me. “You aren’t ready to give them up. Better take them home or they will make you a bitter shell of a woman.”
I pushed them back. “No,” I said with more certainty than I felt. “I’m ready. It’s time.”
She shook her head but took the shoes. “I’ve seen many bitter shells in my line of work. You should keep the shoes.”
I didn’t say what I was thinking, which was that bitter shell or not, a girl had to eat. I decided to turn away and pretend shop for the rest of the viewing. Better to not actually witness the pillage. When I saw Tatiana wave discreetly to me from above a display of hats, I moved quickly to the counter. Three, maybe four months. That was all I needed.
“You have beautiful things,” the woman said, her monotone belying the compliment in her words. “We will take everything.”
Yessss. I felt flush, knowing that Second to None had a reputation for being very particular. I smiled warmly, waiting for the reveal.
She began folding the clothes into neat stacks. “I can offer you five twenty-five.” She continued folding until she looked up to see me waiting for the next sentence. “Do we have a deal?”
I shook my head to clear it of the noise that was beginning to descend. “You mean for the shoes? Five twenty-five for the Manolos, right?”
At this I glimpsed the first smile from the Ice Queen. “No, no, no. I would lose my shirt if I did business that way.” She chuckled at her not-funny fashion joke. “Five twenty-five for everything.”
My thoughts became loud, bossy. Five twenty-five? Less than half of one month’s rent, much less three.
The woman noticed my reticence. “We sell items at estate sale prices, so you’ll be hard-pressed to get a better offer. You could try selling the items individually on eBay, if you have the patience. And a willingness to ship.”
I shook my head, trying to gather my thoughts and a viable plan. “I don’t have a lot of time . . .” My words trailed off as I felt my phone vibrate in my purse. Distractedly, I rummaged until I found it tucked into the folds of another cursed credit card bill. I glanced at the screen and saw Gigi’s text.
Goldie says there are sales on flights to Des Moines. Three hundred dollars for a rind-trip trucker!
Tatiana waited, the silence growing between us. I stared at the words on my phone and swallowed hard. With one long, last look at my worldly possessions, I typed a quick response to Gigi:
On my way.
four
I leaned into my small window on the left side of the plane and felt the cold of the plexiglass on my forehead. We were descending into Des Moines on the only daily direct flight from LaGuardia, and I could feel my blood pressure going up even as the plane made its way down. A patchwork of brown fields, too chilled to show the riotous spring green of new corn and soybeans, gave way abruptly to residential neighborhoods, long roofs of shopping centers, and the geometric outline of a modest downtown skyline.
I sighed and closed my eyes against the harsh light reflecting off the clouds. I hadn’t slept well the night before. All my efforts at creative makeup and my best tricks with lip gloss and eyeliner would do nothing to fool Gigi. She would assume it was bruising city life that caused the circles under my eyes to deepen. I wouldn’t tell her that I’d wrestled with sleep and ultimately lost because my body was waging war against Iowa.
The pilot made a bumpy landing onto the tarmac, and a cheery flight attendant welcomed us to Des Moines, the capital of Iowa, home of around four hundred thousand souls, and host to the world-famous Iowa State Fair, where a person could eat both a pork chop and a deep-fried Snickers bar on a stick. The other passengers chuckled appreciatively, which offered a convenient mask to my groan.
It was one thing to come home for Christmas or a long weekend. This time I was coming home on a one-way ticket. The shame of that burned my cheeks as I waited to file off the plane. The woman ahead of me was corralling a passel of young children, each of them tugging his or her own roller bag. I looked around me as I waited, noting again the enduring legacy of yoga pants in my home state. I would have wagered that not one of the women wearing the style had actually ever practiced the sport, but the pants persisted, along with all manner of Iowa Hawkeyes and Cyclones gear, Levi’s that were in no way hipster ironic, and a startling number of running shoes.
By the time I’d reached the top of the short escalator leading me down to arrivals and baggage claim, I had to work on composing my face to meet Gigi. She’d been so excited to hear I was coming for a visit, but I just couldn’t bring myself to disclose the full story of what was bringing me home. I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold out long under Gigi’s scrutiny, but I was savoring every minute before I had to come clean.
She saw me before I saw her, and her smile was luminous, even from across the large room. I smiled back, filled instantly with the familiar and deep love I had for Gigi. She stood as close to the bottom of the escalator as possible without hindering progress for other passengers. When I reached the bottom, she pulled me into a hug, and we stood to the side of the traffic, my shoulders slumped and my face turned into her neck. Five minutes on Iowa soil and I was already regressing to the girl I’d been when I’d left.
When Gigi pulled back, her eyes were narrowed. “You look exhausted.”
I shrugged. “City life.”
She shook her head, taking me in from head to toe. “Your clothes are lovely but something’s off.” Again with narrowed gaze and then, “Where is your carry-on?”
I cleared my throat and glanced at a businessman passing, his shoes making a sharp percussion on the polished floor. I tried for nonchalance. “Oh, I checked a bag this time. Thought I’d stay for a bit longer.”
She froze, gauging the look on my face, which I was fighting to keep neutral. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like,” she said, her face resolved and earnest. Taking my face in her hands, she added, “You know that, right, honey? That an invitation like that never runs dry or changes or goes out of style?”
I felt hot tears slide down my cheeks. And I hadn’t even made it to baggage claim.
I held the white bakery box of treats in my lap. I could feel the warmth of a scone just out of the oven seeping through the bottom of the box, the smell of butter and sugar filling Gigi’s minivan. I pushed around the pastries, struggling to show my gratitude for Gigi’s gesture. She’d come to Des Moines early in the day and scoped out a new bakery, navigating through unfamiliar streets and morning traffic. I knew what the effort had cost her, but the thought of eating something rich and delicious under the circumstances turned my empty stomach sour.
“So Goldie showed you how to use Google Maps?”
“Shh.” Gigi frowned at me before inching out onto Fleur Drive and obeying the reminder from her phone to take Interstate 235 east out of town. “I have to hear Nigel if we’re going to get anywhere.”
I raised an eyebrow in her direction. “Nigel?”
Gigi nodded, carefully merging onto the interstate at a speed that would have made her a breakfast snack on the streets of New York. “Nigel is the man who helps me navigate. Goldie showed me how to do that too. She said it’s so much easier taking directions from a British man. And I do believe she’s right.”
I stared at my grandmother’s profile. Who was this woman?
“You are, in fact, the same person who still owns eight-track tapes and a slide projector, correct?”
Gigi snorted. “Of course I do. And my slides from our Mount Rushmore trip of 1979 are available for you to see at any time during your visit.”
I marveled at that—not Gigi’s newfound respect for GPS, but that she could so casually mention the past, a time when my mom, her daughter, was full of life and laughter and probably making teenage, sarcastic comments about South Dakota and the letdown of traveling all that way to look at rocks. I turned to look out my window, watching the city fall away and the empty brown fields blanket the outskirts of Des Moines.
We made our way toward Silver Creek, letting the first few miles unspool like ribbon behind us. I did my best to maintain the flow of conversation, but Gigi kept clearing her throat and taking quick glances at me while she drove. No more than ten minutes into the drive, Gigi signaled and slowed to a sloth’s pace. She put on her flashers and pumped her brakes, looking all the while in her rearview mirror.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, my voice tight. “Do we have a flat? Is something wrong with the car?”
Gigi pulled over to the middle shoulder, cars whizzing by and making the hair on my neck stand at attention. I gripped the car handle hard enough for my fingers to tingle.
“Gigi, what is it? Are you feeling sick? I can drive. I mean, it’s been a while, but—”
She put the car in park, flashers making a rhythmic click as they blinked on and off. She turned to me. “Nothing is wrong with the car,” she said in a relaxed tone more appropriate when not sitting on the edge of a freeway with a seventy-miles-an-hour speed limit.
“What, then?” I was getting snippy, but my body was sitting about twelve inches from a semi that roared past.
“I need some honesty before we keep on toward home. Baby girl, you need to come clean. What’s the story?” She ticked off the items on her list for evidence. “You look rough, all pale and sallow, which probably means no sleep but could mean a grave illness. You have two gigantic suitcases but not one teeny explanation why. And most disturbingly, you have not eaten one bite of the goodies that would normally usher in all sorts of exclamations and detailed descriptions of what’s going on with your taste buds.” She took my hand in both of hers and searched my face. “Gracie, honey, what happened?”
I sighed, keeping my hand in hers. “All right, I’ll spill, but can we please merge back onto the racetrack? I’m too nervous to think, much less tell the truth.”
“Deal,” Gigi said, and did a slow merge back onto the thoroughfare.
When we made it to the north of town, where traffic lightened up and my grip on the door handle relaxed, I came clean. “Gigi, I blew it.” I spoke quickly to get the words out before any rogue tears could catch up. “I outspent my salary, I didn’t save any money, and then I got fired.”
She sneaked a glimpse at my face before returning her eyes to the road. She was quiet for a long time before responding. “First of all, I’m glad you are not gravely ill. I can handle spotty makeup application much better than grave illness.”
I made an attempt at a smile.
She continued. “I suppose I can imagine the money mismanagement. It happens to the best of us, and you always did have a weakness for shopping.” Her tone was wry but gentle. “But there’s some sort of mistake with the firing. Grace Kleren does not get fired.” I saw her frown deepen. “You’re the hardest working girl I know, honey. Is that city run by idiots?” She put out her hand to stop me. “Don’t answer that.”
The smile worked this time. “Not idiots, exactly. They just didn’t like my work. And then, um, I kind of wigged out.” I launched into my sordid tale, letting my misery vent in full to another person for the first time. I didn’t hold back when tears rolled down my cheeks, and I let anger spill out of my voice when I told Gigi how worthless I felt, how betrayed by the company I’d served for so many years. Gigi listened quietly as I spoke about Nancy Strang, the shame of my meltdown, my weeks of cloistered seclusion in my apartment, and my defeat at Second to None. It felt like a release to tell the entire story start to finish, though my heart felt heavier in the telling, not lighter.
In time we exited the highway and turned toward the few remaining miles to Silver Creek. I ran out of words just as we passed the McCullough farm on the west side of town. The century-old oak tree in their front yard still arched over the wooden swing where I’d broken my arm in second grade. Fully deflated, I felt my spine melt farther into the front seat, especially as the houses started to sit more closely together. Gigi said nothing, just covered my hand with hers as we entered town. The Williamses’ split-level, where I saw Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video for the first time, against my parents’ wishes, and launched the start of nightmares for a month. The Grays’, where Jenna Gray and I spilled a bottle of purple nail polish after Mrs. Gray had told us not to paint our nails on the porch, and we’d had to repaint the entire floor as punishment. The Achenbachs’ sprawling ranch, where I’d played spin the bottle for the first and last time and ended up under a fake sprig of mistletoe fending off an overly eager Alex Nichols.
Gigi said nothing as we turned slowly onto the town square. When Nigel barked his disapproval she started punching the phone with such impatience, I took it from her and ended our route.
“Hmph,” she said, a frown on her face. “I do not need some man from England telling me how to get around the middle of my town.”
The courthouse stood as a proud sentry over the square. The long arms of the clock in the high tower pushed steadily into the next hour, and I heard myself sigh out loud. Gigi mistook my sigh for appreciation instead of the restlessness it really was.
“Town council had to raise all sorts of funds, but they finished the restoration of the clock tower last year. Cleaned the exterior too and replaced all the windows. Looks good, doesn’t it?”
I nodded, trying to muster admiration I didn’t feel. You could put a bow on a pig, and you could clean the limestone on the courthouse, but Silver Creek was still the same sleepy, tired, uninspired town it had always been. One restaurant, two bars, four stop signs, a library, and a handful of stores that limped along, year after year. My longing for Manhattan was palpable.
“A real nice family moved in last year, after the Hartsocks moved away.” Gigi’s voice had become a little thick, and I realized she had slowed the car as we moved two blocks off the square. We were passing 14 Azalea Street, the house where I’d grown up. There was a tricycle on the front walk. Big pots of purple hyacinth, still tiny in the new warmth of spring, flanked the front door instead of the hanging baskets of ferns my mother had favored for that spot. The rest, though, looked the same. Achingly, horribly the same. Buttercream-yellow clapboa
rd still looked crisp and clean against bright white trim, the house numbers, a special-order gift for my dad for Father’s Day one year, still gleamed in burnished silver above the front door, and the window above that door still opened to the dormered ceiling of what used to be my bedroom.
As I stared at the house, I saw my dad walking home every day for lunch from his accounting office downtown, his confident gait, taking the porch steps two at a time as he called out that he was home. I saw my mom, standing with hands on hips as she surveyed the row of unruly peony bushes along the property line before setting in to give them all a good haircut. I saw friends, boyfriends, homecoming dates as they ran, walked, inched nervously with corsages in their hands, up the front sidewalk, heard again the call of my mom and dad, telling me that so-and-so was here.
I closed my eyes and tried my pushing-away technique, so effective in the busyness of New York and so absolutely worthless in Silver Creek. I kept my eyes shut until I felt the car come to a stop less than a minute later, and I knew we’d reached Gigi’s house.
“Home,” she said, pulling the key from the ignition and turning to me. “Let’s get you settled.”
Not likely, I thought as I pulled on my door handle and stood. I stretched my legs and the stiffness in my neck while I took in the house before me. Another house with a host of memories. This house had been a harbor from the worst storm I’d endured, and I felt a surge of gratitude for it and for the woman who inhabited it.
I walked to the back of the van, where Gigi was already manhandling my second bulging suitcase from the trunk. I nudged her aside and took over, but I realized I, not she, was panting from the exertion. She chuckled to see me struggling and said, “Well, that is good for an old lady’s ego.”
I dropped the bag. “Gigi—you’re too good to me, even when I haven’t visited as often as I should. How long has it been? Two years already?”
She raised one eyebrow. “Three.”
I winced.
“If you’re counting,” she said. “But I’m not. Love doesn’t count, as I’m sure you remember from all those mornings in Sunday school.” I could hear the teasing in her voice, but I winced for a second time as we each hefted a bag and made for the back door.
Heart Land Page 4