“Hey!” I call out to my son. “Don’t you have a hello for your old man?”
Grinning, Will runs over, “You’re not old, Dad,” hugging me and receiving a kiss on his head.
“Feel like one today,” I smirk, “Go ahead, go on.” As he starts to dash off, I ask, “You have lunch?”
“Yeah!”
He disappears, and I turn to Nax digging through my fridge. This is his second home now that his house in California is up for sale. Zia Tuck’s loft in Hudson Square — the next neighborhood over — is his first home now. Except whenever Joe’s not visiting as he splits time between his parents now. “Hey Josh, want a beer?” he asks.
Glancing to the clock I’m surprised. “Five thirty? Wow, time flew. Sure, grab me one.”
He pops the caps and walks mine over. We hit them together, a wordless cheers, and take a sip as he sits at my dining table and I stand with my back to the window, skyscrapers lit up behind me.
“It was beautiful at the park today. You should’ve come.”
I snort, “Yeah, I should’ve.”
“Were you bored?”
“No.”
He smiles in his easy going way. “Everyone was out. People playing baseball. Lounging on blankets. The boys climbed a few trees. Even Elliot. I don’t know what it is about that kid, but whenever he does normal boy stuff, it’s a surprise to me. We didn’t pass the zoo, but I bet it was insane.” Nax goes to take a swig, bottle hovering as he locks eyes with me. “Tempest didn’t show up. You would’ve been safe.”
“Oh, I’m very aware she didn’t go.”
The bottle lowers. “How d’ya mean?”
“I took a yoga class today.”
Nax stares at me, and bursts out laughing. “Are you telling me you took her class? How the Tuck did that happen?”
Cringing at their name-game, I take a long drag, the chilled amber liquid not able to cool me off. “It’s not funny.”
He blinks, starts laughing again. “Yeah it is. But I’m wracking my brain for how you learned which of the yoga studios she teaches at. How’d you pull that off? There’s so many of them!”
Dumbfounded, I explode, “I didn’t go to her class on purpose!”
His head cranes back like I hit him, but his blue eyes never lose their humor. “Oh right! You thought she was off today. That she would have come with us to Central Park!”
Pushing off the wall I growl, “I had no idea she taught at that studio! Nax, why would I go to her studio when there are hundreds, and you know I avoid her?!”
“Because you wanted to see her.” His free hand flies up in a stop-sign. “I can see I was mistaken.”
“Delusional is more like it.” Walking to the couch — my apartment an open floor plan design — I flop onto it, grab the remote, pissed off, and no longer interested in talking.
Nax walks over, blocking my TV screen. “I need to hear the story.”
“No story.”
Grinning, “Tell me the story!” he takes a swig.
“No.”
In a flash he lunges for me, grabs the remote, hits the off button, and hurls it toward the hallway leading toward my bedroom and office. The batteries fly out, but that doesn’t bother him. Few things do. A fact I’m used to from years of knowing the guy.
“Nice,” I lean back on the couch, “If you broke that, you’re paying for it,” bottle on my thigh, legs spread in the jeans I put on after a hot shower, white t-shirt wrinkled over my six pack. “You want details?”
“Yep.”
“Well you’re not getting them.”
He holds his hands out, “Allow me to paint the picture then,” bottle gripped in one as he describes my hell like a scene from one of his movies. “Fade in. Yoga studio. Lights dim. We hear New Age music playing as an incredibly hot yoga teacher shows how limber she is in pants painted on her body.”
“Stop.”
“The yoga teacher is Tempest Tuck, late-twenties, bohemian style, beautiful, earthy, with a voice that could calm a hurricane.”
“Just stop.”
“Before her, we see students hanging on her every word. Among them is Joshua Arosio, early thirties, gym rat, tanned former model turned philanthropist, and he’s watching her like he shouldn’t want to bang her…but secretly does.”
Nax ducks as my bottle flies at his head. It crashes against the TV screen, glass shattering, beer sprayed everywhere.
Will’s bedroom door opens to my left, Nax’s right, and he peeks out like a war just started. “Dad?”
“It’s okay, Will. I just hit a sore spot in your lonely old man.”
I glare at Nax, but my face softens as Will asks, “Is it about Mom again?”
Nax loses the humor.
Mine was long gone.
I stand up. “It’s all good, Will. I’ve got some pent up anger, that’s all. Gonna take some time.”
He nods, and it doesn’t take a psychic to know that he wishes that time was over. It’s been hard on my son not only losing his mother, but losing me to depression as well.
From inside the room, Joe thinks we can’t hear him whisper, “Did your dad hit my dad?”
Will looks back. “No. It was just his beer bottle.”
“Is he drunk?”
“Are you drunk, Dad?”
“Not even close, buddy.”
He hesitates, then disappears, door a quiet click.
I lock eyes with my friend, “Ya done?” and head for a broom, garbage pail, and some rags — two wet, one dry.
We clean in silence, carrying everything back to where it goes, together. Nax runs hot water over the broom bristles so they don’t dry stuck. “I see the class really worked then?”
A grin spreads despite myself. “Yeah, it did the trick alright.”
“Better than therapy.”
“I feel so Zen.”
Nax shakes the broom and carries it to my closet. “You going back?”
“Never in a million years.”
Shutting the closet door, he grins. “I was joking.”
“I wasn’t.”
Chapter 4
Grandma Lily greets me with her slow Georgian drawl, “Tempest, what an unexpected delight!” front door widened for me to enter as she adds, “I’m so glad I was home when you called.”
Nervous about why I’ve come, I force a smile, “It’s so good to see you,” hugging her and not wanting to let go. But I have to be strong.
We separate and walk inside as Grandma asks, “Are you excited about your sister’s condition?”
“Condition? Grandma, they don’t call it that anymore.”
“In my day it was considered obscene to say the word pregnant, and I suppose I still haven’t adjusted.”
In their living room I glance to framed photos of our family above the darkened hearth clean of ash, and on Grandpa’s piano that he bought after retirement and is still learning how to play. Lifting a photograph of my mom and her sisters when they were little, it strikes me that my sister is going to have photos like this soon of her growing family.
A pang of longing hits me, but I shove it down. “I’m very excited about becoming an aunty.”
“And me a great-grandmother. Where does the time go? Let me pour you some lemonade.”
“That would be nice, thank you.” I watch her disappear down the hall leading to a kitchen they haven’t remodeled since the sixties, and my heart races at what I’m here to do. There’s a shake in my voice as I call out, “Is Grandpa Peter home?”
“No, dear, but he should be back any moment now. He went to pick up the dry cleaning. He always stops to play a few rounds of chess in the park with some unlucky stranger on the way home, even though he doesn’t know I know this.”
Face-to-face feels better for what I’m about to ask her, so I will wait in my anxiety until she returns. Taking a seat in Grandpa’s favorite weathered armchair, my long skirt covers tapping sandals, gaze dropping to pick at my nails.
Grandma returns and s
ets down a tray of two pretty glasses of ice and lemonade, two saucers, a plate of cookies and scones with a ramekin of jelly which I know from experience is blackberry — her favorite. But what makes it truly loved is Grandma’s final touch…three pink roses in bright bloom. Smiling at my expression, she waves, “You know I enjoy playing hostess.”
“But it’s just me.”
“There’s no ‘just’ Tempest in my world. You get star treatment in our house.” She moves a throw pillow out of her way, long fingers patting it before she sits down, “Is this a casual visit…” clasping her hands, “or did you have something you wish to discuss?”
Choosing the scone, I spoon a bit of jelly on it, “Um…both?”
“You nervous, child?”
“No,” I lie, but at the knowing look in her eyes I admit, “A little.”
“What’s worrying you?”
I place the scone atop one of the saucers and lift the plate in both hands to my lap, staring at it. “I’ve been wondering what to do with my life, job wise.”
“That’s a big question.”
“Very big.”
“You have a luxury I didn’t.”
My nervous gaze lifts, eyebrows twisting. “I do?”
“When I was your age, people were expected to hold only one station. That was the norm. You’d stay in the same job for your entire adult life, achieve seniority, the greatest goal, and hopefully be promoted and granted multiple raises. Then you’d retire. That was how things were done, for the most part. There are exceptions to every rule.” Grandma pauses, and hands me a napkin. “But it was much harder for women, Tempest. When I came here to New York with your grandfather it was after the end of World War II. Most of the jobs women had went back to the men when they returned. In the fifties women were housewives. That was sold to us by way of propaganda, and while some want to be that, others do not. But we had few choices, unlike you do now. I’m not in your shoes, but I suspect freedom, while a blessing, can also be confusing.”
I set down the saucer. “I’m good at marketing, but being in an office doesn’t feel like me anymore, Grandma Lily. Did you know I became a yoga teacher?”
She nods, “I did hear that from your mother. We laughed because when she was your age it was just for hippies.”
I smile at the thought. “Really? That’s hilarious. It’s not that way anymore.”
“I’m aware.”
“Have you ever taken a class?”
“At my age? Heavens no.”
“It’s not just for young people. It helps everyone.”
She laughs, “I’m very stiff,” waving her hand.
“I could change that.”
Lifting her lemonade she demurs, “I’m not sure I’d like to embarrass myself in public.”
“I could do a private session.”
“Perhaps one day. Drink your lemonade.”
Taking a deep breath, I reach for the glass, but lay it on my lap, not able to stomach anything quite yet. “The thing is, I really enjoy teaching, Grandma. It feels right, inside of my heart. I was meant to do this, I can feel it. Each class has grown in numbers since I began. When you first start, people are trying to find out who you are, and if your vibe resonates with what they’re looking for, they come back. The owner of the studio says that my classes are the fastest growing ones.”
“That must be good to hear.”
“Very good, but the problem is I can only teach two classes a week. All of her other instructors have been there longer, and she doesn’t feel like it’s right to take away their time slots.” Setting down my glass, I pick at my scone instead to keep my shaking hands busy. “I could go to other studios, and I have visited some, but…”
Grandma waits patiently for me to finish. When I don’t, she eggs me on. “Take your time, child. I’m in no hurry.”
Tears push at a wall that’s about to crack. “Christina is starting a family, and she’s got this great charity she’s building.”
“I heard about what your sister is doing. Very noble cause.”
One tear breaks through. I hurry to wipe it, wishing she hadn’t seen. “It’s okay if you say no.”
Grandma’s voice comes gentler, drawl slower now. “Tempest honey, if it is in my power to help you, I will. Just tell me what you need. I am here for you.”
The front door opens, “I’m home!”
I sit up straight, start to rise from Grandpa’s chair as he walks in, returning home from his errand. “Don’t get up! I have to put these upstairs.” Pausing at the state of me, he asks, “Do you need me to stay up there awhile?”
I wipe away a fresh tear. “No, that’s okay.”
He glances to Grandma. “You sure?”
But I tell him, “No, it involves you, too.”
The dry cleaning lowers, plastic brushing hardwood floors. “Everyone okay?”
Grandma reassures him, “Everyone is healthy, Peter. Tempest is just wondering what to do with her life.”
Relief spreads in a smile as he sets his load onto the piano’s bench, “I can help with that,” crossing to take a seat with her on their sofa.
Grandma places her hand on his leg and brings him up to speed while my heart hammers an unsteady beat in my chest, finishing with, “It’s a modern problem, isn’t it, Peter?”
This gives me my entry point. “Uh…it’s even more modern than my trying to decide which job I want.” They face me with Grandpa’s hand covering hers as they wait. I set the scone back down because I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat it. “This is a big ask and, like I said, you can say no. I want to open my own studio.”
Grandma’s eyes widen. “Your own business!”
My explanation comes tumbling out of me, building with excitement as I share my hopeful plan. “I found the perfect space on Houston, a small studio that belonged to a painter. It couldn’t be in a more central location so there will be foot traffic. That’ll be a huge help in attracting new students. The best part is it’s very similar to the one I work at now. There’s a foyer for them to put their things, and a nice bathroom I don’t have to renovate. This space has only room for one class where the other has two. But the rent is incredibly lower than it should be because it’s owned by a woman in her eighties, Margot, who bought the building long ago and it’s now paid off. I spoke to her. She was like you, excited that women have more opportunities than they used to have! And even though there are a lot of yoga studios, with the rent this low, I can make it profitable. I want to sell products like mats, blankets, essential oils, candles. I’d have some on display but would ship most directly so I don’t have to store anything. They would be made-to-order so no extra inventory! I mean I might have a few branded items there for fun, if I find a distributor I can afford. Maybe split the profits with them at first.”
Grandpa Peter interrupts, “You’ve really thought this through. Are you here to ask us for a loan to start this business?”
I flatly answer him, “No,” causing them to exchange a confused glance, and I continue, voice stronger by the second, excited as I share with them what I haven’t shared with anyone. “I don’t just want to teach here in the city. The other instructors where I work conduct classes at the studio, and yes, that will be mostly what I’ll do. But I also want to host retreats in countries like Italy, Peru, Costa Rica, Bali, with students flying in from all over the world for a week of connecting with their true selves. And it won’t just be yoga and meditation. Between those, they’ll have access to things like hiking and snorkeling and canoeing and sightseeing!”
Grandma asks, “How do you attract people from all over the world, Tempest?”
“I’ll have an online blog, and run ads. People search for retreats, and I can use my marketing background! I know how to advertise, how to position my blog with S.E.O. — search engine optimization — that’ll make me show up on top of the first page of searches. Retreats are scheduled often months in advance. There’s plenty of time to attract enough students to pay for
it, pay my salary, and still have a profit to host more.”
“This is above my pay-grade,” smiles Grandpa Peter.
But she squeezes his leg. “With all of your stock market trading?”
“That’s different. I know little about the internet the way Tempest does.” He looks at me, eyes shining with encouragement. “You know a business takes time to get off the ground?”
“I know.”
“I’m not sure where we come in.”
Fighting butterflies, I take a deep breath. “I don’t expect it to take off right away, but I have what few people do — experience in marketing. I’ll use everything I know to attract people who need, who resonate with, what I’ll give them. From a practical standpoint, the merchandise can be made-to-order so there’s no upfront cost. The retreats need the business to be established, the blog set up and consistent, before I can schedule one. But I don’t think I’m being unrealistic. I can make this happen sooner than most. At the outset, my profit will be eaten by cost of rent, heating, water, stocking up blankets and yoga blocks. I have to buy shelves, and I don’t want them to look cheap. I have a little money saved to start out and get all of these things.” They wait for more, but my voice just left me.
Grandma rises, “Peter, let me get you some lemonade.”
As she disappears into their kitchen, he looks at me, “She knew you needed a moment,” reaches for a macaroon cookie, and lowers his voice. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Tempest. With as many daughters as I have, you’d think I’d be less surprised when I hear my granddaughter talking about her business plans with the knowledge and forethought you’ve brought with you today. I am very impressed.”
A smile tugs. “I hope women keep surprising you, Grandpa.”
“I hope so, too. I don’t know if I ever told you this, but your grandmother was one tough cookie.” He holds up his. “I think that’s where you girls get it from. Your grandmother was the rebel of her friends. She got them to do things they wouldn’t dare to do!” Smiling at the memory of their youth he whispers, “She was somethin’ else. Tough as nails. Wouldn’t let anybody in.”
Josh appears in my mind, and I can’t stop myself from asking, “How’d you get in then?”
Every Single Thing About You: A “Tuck Yes” Love Story - Book 3 Page 2