Stephen Little is my attorney, although he is more friend than lawyer to me. He and I went to college together. Stephen and I reconnected when I first thought about incorporating my business. Now I rely on him for sound advice, especially when things threaten to become litigious.
“The claim about the Nelson child being traumatized is probably bogus,” Stephen advises in his warm baritone. “I’d pay the Nelson woman the two thousand dollars and get it over with. It will buy you goodwill, plus you don’t need the stress. Get her to sign a release, though. Who wants to go to small claims court over such a small sum of money?”
I agree with him. But now my expenses are building and my clients are dwindling. Two thousand dollars isn’t chump change to me. Plus, I still have Christmas shopping to do. I gave Lindsay a sizable amount of money before she left. I have Margot to buy for and I have gourmet baskets to send to my corporate clients, and yes, they’ll get there late. My mother will get an IOU for the cruise I’ve promised her.
I’m not feeling guilty, because my mom wants for nothing. She’s doing better than I am and she’s got a man in her life who’s supportive. I need to buy a hostess gift for Susan Watson, who’s hosting the dinner party on Christmas Day that Margot got us invited to. And I need to make some kind of dish.
All Susan’s guests are supposed to be single. We’re a collection of never marrieds, empty nesters and those freshly out of divorces. The only reason I’m going along as Margot’s “single” is because it will keep my mind off Lindsay and Max.
“Thanks for the advice and have a nice holiday,” I say to Stephen, and ring off.
My phone jingles as soon as I disconnect. I don’t recognize the number. “Wife for Hire.”
“Roxanne Ingram, please.”
“This is Roxi.”
“Keith Santiago. We met at the lock-and-key party last week.”
Knock me over with a feather. I wasn’t expecting Keith to call. We’d exchanged numbers but I’d figured that was that.
“Of course I remember you, Keith.”
We talk for several minutes and he invites me to have a drink in the city the next time I’m in. I hang up feeling better. Someone still finds me attractive.
My doorbell rings and I put my eye to the peephole. I am not expecting anyone.
“Who is it?”
“Florist, ma’am.”
“Hold up your ID please.”
A square plastic badge gets held up to the peephole. Still, I open the door with caution. The deliveryman is holding a white poinsettia of gigantic proportions. It looks more like a tree. He shoves it at me.
“Someone loves you, hon,” he says, as I stagger under the weight of the basket.
“Just a minute.” I close the door with the tip of my shoe, set the plant on the coffee table and grab my purse.
I tip him and wish him Merry Christmas. He leaves whistling.
This is by far the best thing that’s happened to me today. I remove the card nestled amongst the leaves and insert a nail under the flap. I’m trying not to get my hopes up. Maybe Dave has come to his senses. Maybe he realizes I am the best thing that has happened to him since pumpernickel, or maybe Max is repentant.
I hold the card and stare at it. My mouth flaps open then euphoria takes over. I soar. This is my dream come true.
Dear, Roxanne:
I hope I am not being too forward. This is to thank you for taking good care of Bacci. I hope you have a nice Christmas and a wonderful new year.
Best,
Carlo DeAngelo
I hold the card close to my heart and gulp air. I take long deep breaths, soothing breaths. Maybe I am reading too much into this. Carlo is only being polite.
I place the poinsettia on the floor in front of the unlit fireplace. It brightens my living room and puts me in a Christmassy mood. It inspires me to decorate; something I have not had time to do. I go off in search of the garlands and fake berries I have packed in boxes in the attic. Two hours later I am done. The place looks festive and I am on an adrenaline high. I hum carols to myself.
My phone begins to ring like crazy. I can barely keep up with the last-minute rush. People are panicked and feeling overwhelmed. This means money for me. I tell everyone who calls I can help them, though truthfully I am taking on more than I feel comfortable with. Somehow I will manage.
I call Margot and my standby crew; not the most reliable bunch at times, but I need bodies. Some are available, and I assign them chores such as picking up deliveries, grocery shopping and tracking orders already placed.
I still need to do my own Christmas shopping, and some of it I do online, paying premium prices for on-time delivery. I break down and order a gourmet basket for my mother and her love. Then I leave to do my own grocery shopping.
Christmas Day comes. It is cold and drab outside. I am hoping for snow, not a lot of it, just so the sidewalks are coated in powder and I can say we had a white Christmas. I am not feeling myself and I try hard to shake the low feeling.
I move my poinsettia to the bay-window seat then I start a fire. As I am pouring coffee, my landline rings.
“Merry Christmas, Mom,” Lindsay greets me. She sounds elated and her voice is as clear as a bell. It is as if she is right next door.
My heart leaps just hearing her voice, and my throat tightens up. But she sounds happy and I am happy because she is happy. Oh, to be young and carefree.
“Merry Christmas, hon,” I answer with renewed enthusiasm. “What’s good with you?”
She tells me about a modeling job she has landed and the dinner she is on her way to. Paris is six hours ahead of us and Christmas is already half over with while ours has just begun.
I tell her about my own dinner plans, making sure to sound enthusiastic. Events like this one can so easily turn out to be depressing and I need something uplifting and fun. I glance at my beautiful poinsettia with the white and silver ribbons and get an immediate pick-me-up. How can I be down when Carlo is thinking of me?
“I love it over here, Mom,” Lindsay enthuses, her voice holding wonder. “It’s so me. You should think about visiting.”
“I will,” I say, meaning it. Paris has always been a dream on my list and I need a vacation. “How are the children?” I ask carefully, meaning the children she is being paid to take care of.
“Wonderful. They are sweet and bright. They make me want to have kids of my own.”
My leaping heart stops. Lindsay is so young and so passionate. But kids? She is not ready. She reminds me of me a long time ago. Much as I love her don’t want her repeating the same mistake. She does not need to be thinking of kids at nineteen.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I say.
“I am. And French is coming easily, Mom. I’m going to be fluent. I just know it.”
I am glad she feels confident. All those years of French lessons will be worth it, then. We blow each other kisses and express our mutual love. After hanging up, I find the date bread I made last evening, nibble on it and sip coffee.
It’s not quite midmorning yet, but I’ve already devoured two slices of bread and am considering breaking opening a box of truffles. My phone rings again.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, without looking at caller ID.
“Merry Christmas, stranger. Do you know who this is?”
“Not a clue.”
The male voice is deep and seductive. It gives me shivers. I like the sound of the man’s voice so I wait.
He chuckles. Another shiver skitters up my spine.
“Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“It’s Delicious,” he supplies. “Thought I might touch base and see if Santa’s been good to you.”
He’s been good to me now. My new Internet friend is the last person I expect to hear from. It is a very delicious surprise.
“How did you get my number?” I ask, then I remember I sent it to him.
He chuckles again. His laughter is deep and throaty and goose bumps pop out.
“I’m on the Island,” I say carefully, “and you?”
“The City, though I’m heading for Mount Vernon to spend the day with my family.”
Mount Vernon is in Westchester County, New York. It’s where Denzel Washington grew up and it has a huge mostly black middle-to upper-middle-class population.
“Let’s get together next week,” Delicious suggests. “I’ll call to firm things up.”
We exchange real first names—his is Reed, and we chat as if we’ve known each other for ages before hanging up. Now I feel as if I’ve been given two very nice Christmas gifts and my mood picks up.
I go in search of Bacci. I feed her small pieces of the turkey I roasted last evening when I was in Suzy Homemaker mode. Because I’d felt energized and optimistic, I’d made an entire dinner and baked the date bread. If you’re used to feeding a family, old habits are hard to break.
Bacci chows down, enjoying every last bite. She purrs and rubs against my ankles. I take my third cup of coffee into the living room and she joins me as I sit cross-legged in front of the fire. I open the few gifts I have received.
Lindsay’s gift, the one she dropped off during her overnight stay, makes my eyes water. It’s a red cashmere shawl that I’ve had my eye on but was too cheap to buy. She’s given me a trendy, sparkly broach to go with it.
My employees, what’s left of them, bought me a pair of Coach gloves and a scarf that’s also Coach. I feel guilty because they’ve been extremely generous. Then why is it I still don’t entirely trust them?
My mother, who is leaving for wine country today, mailed her gift almost a week ago. It’s a certificate for dinner for two at B. Smith’s, the restaurant named after its elegant ex-flight-attendant owner. Mom’s also sent me a pair of warm slippers. I wonder what she’s trying to tell me.
The morning’s almost over and I still have to shower. I’ve accomplished very little but I feel so much better. I take a hot shower and start getting dressed. My cell phone rings as I am buttoning up a festive red satin blouse. I pick up the phone and depress the button. “Merry Christmas,” I sing.
“Hey, girl, Earl just called. Can you believe it?” Margot trills, sounding as if Santa has arrived with a sleigh filled with goodies. “He says he’ll come by later.”
“For what?” The question pops out before I can stop it. “I thought you guys had a no-contact order.”
“Yes, but…”
I listen to her go on. I can already write this script. She and Earl will end up sleeping together.
“Are you canceling on me?” I ask.
“Heck, no, we’re still going to dinner. I’m just not spending hours there.”
“That’s fine with me.”
I’m glad we’re still going. I need to keep busy. Sitting at home on Christmas Day is much too depressing, and I am in a good mood. After she tells me what time she’ll come by to pick me up, we hang up.
It’s turning out to be a good day after all.
Susan Watson’s home in Northport is a mac-mansion. She’s a real estate agent, selling million-dollar houses, and does well for herself. Cars are double-parked in the circular driveway and on both sides of the street when we arrive.
I juggle a bottle of champagne, a loaf of date bread and a handblown glass ornament for Susan’s Christmas tree. I hope she likes my gift.
“How much do you think this house goes for?” I ask Margot as we climb the front steps. The railings are draped in fresh greens and berries, and laughter comes from inside.
“Close to two million. It was being foreclosed on and Susan got a good buy.”
I’ve met Susan before but she might not remember me. She’s sophisticated and articulate and so successful that if you’re not confident she intimidates you. Susan is single and plans on staying that way.
Margot rings the doorbell. She is the epitome of chic today in her fur jacket, green ankle-length velvet skirt and high-heeled boots.
The front door is thrown open and Susan, a light-skinned African-American woman greets us. She appears bigger than life.
“Merry Christmas,” she gushes, holding out a cheek for us to air kiss. “You two look fabulous.”
As we make our way inside, a number of smells converge. There is that piney odor that shouts “holiday season,” the mouthwatering aroma of duck and the smell of cranberries and baked goods. And there is more laughter. Glasses are clinking and voices are raised. Suddenly I am glad that I have chosen to spend Christmas surrounded by people.
“Let me introduce you around,” Susan offers, after relieving us of the things we’ve brought. She sets them down on her already overburdened buffet table and takes Margot by the hand. I follow them into a spacious den overlooking Long Island Sound.
No one even notices our arrival because they’re busy laughing at the antics of a heavyset woman, dressed to the nines in a burgundy velvet jacket and crisp white shirt with ruffles at the sleeves. I can tell she is used to being upfront and center.
She has auburn hair cropped close to her scalp. Her makeup is flawless, and she gesticulates with nails that are a work of art. Despite her size she moves with confidence.
Champagne is being poured by a balding man of indeterminate age. Susan has taken holiday decorating to the nth level. Rose-colored tulle frames the window walls and clusters of holly and ivy are used as accents. Fluttering silver doves and string instruments float from her ceiling.
In the corner is a monstrous Christmas tree. It is pink and silver and the hugest fairy I’ve ever seen graces the top.
Susan claps her hands to get everyone’s attention.
“Hush for just one minute, y’all,” she shouts. “I want you to meet Roxi and Margot.”
Several pairs of eyes flicker over us. The women are checking out our makeup and outfits. The men are deciding whether we’re worth more than a look. I smile. I wave. I hope I appear warm.
“So where’s our champagne?” Margot asks.
A tall, classy-looking bald man hands us two flutes. Room is made for us on one of the comfortable couches. Another man comes by with a bottle and pours the champagne. He introduces himself.
“Hi, I’m Will.”
Will is short, rotund and jovial. He works the room, stopping to chat with just about everyone. He and Veronica, the heavy woman, who’s been holding court, exchange friendly jabs. Margot and I meet Stephen, a banker, who Margot begins to flirt outrageously with, Dr. Theo forgotten for the moment.
We meet Delores, who seems shy, and Tanisha who wears blond locks elegantly. There is Cora who is ultraglamorous and shouldn’t have trouble finding a man. Yet she is here.
Susan leads us over to two men holding an animated conversation. We meet Mohammed and Tim. Both are nondescript but seem nice enough. Outside on the dock sucking on cancer sticks are a small group of smokers.
The first glass of champagne goes down easily. I feel even happier and more elated. I sample the pâté and shrimp cocktail served. I nibble dim sum.
The smokers come back inside. They call noisily for champagne. Cora is now quizzing me. She wants to know what I do. She wants to know where Margot got her outfit. Stephen, the banker who’s been commandeered by Tanisha, excuses himself and returns to Margot’s side.
Margot resumes flirting and I decide to circulate. I chat with several of the women, but I am drawn to Veronica, who, like me, runs her own business. We talk about what it’s like managing a minority-owned business and trying to get our names out there.
Will interrupts us. I can tell he’s attracted to me, but although he seems nice, it’s not happening for me. Susan comes out of an inner room bringing a round little woman wearing a chef’s cap with her.
“Dinner will be served shortly,” she announces.
Will holds out his hands to us. Veronica and I escort him into the dining room.
It’s turning out to be a very nice Christmas
after all. I’m having a good time.
Now I can’t help wondering what the new year will bring.
CHAPTER 13
It is the week after Christmas and everything comes to a grinding halt. There is virtually no business. When the phone rings I almost break my ankle getting to it.
“Is this Wife for Hire?” a querulous female voice inquires.
“Yes, this is the owner, Roxanne Ingram, is there something I can help you with?”
I wait, hoping that she has a long list of tasks that need doing. Wife for Hire could definitely use the business.
I am used to things slowing down after Christmas, but this year they seem slower than usual. I am hoping that things will pick up in a day or so. With New Year’s Eve rapidly approaching maybe some people will plan last-minute dinner parties and need help.
I count on hectic lifestyles and general disorganization to keep me in business. I am counting on that now. My phones need to ring. I keep checking my e-mails for Internet business.
“Who is this?” I ask when the silence on the other end continues.
“Rona Saperstein.” The woman heaves out a sigh. She sounds overwhelmed.
“I’m desperate,” she admits. “And glad to find you open. My husband surprised the family with a ski trip to Vermont. I’ll need someone to take care of my son’s snake in our absence, and I’ll need help with the mail and newspaper, plus I have plants that need watering. Can you handle it all?”
A snake! Yikes. My brain goes into overdrive. I hate reptiles. “How long will you be gone?” I ask carefully. I’ve had a few snakes before, but Kazoo was always the one who cared for them. He shopped for the food and fed them their diet of live mice. My stomach lurches at just the thought. With him gone I can’t think of a soul to handle the feeding. But I’ll find someone or die trying.
“Well, can you do it or not?” Rona Saperstein persists. Her whining voice would drive anyone crazy. She must sense my hesitation because now she becomes very manipulative. “Those people at Service Not Incidental didn’t want to touch Eve. I offered them double the going rate and they still said no. They have that two-for-the-price-of-one special but they claim feeding a snake didn’t qualify.”
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