by Juli Valenti
Grateful when one of the cabbies jumped out to help me with my overload of luggage, I allowed him to put my things in the trunk before climbing in the backseat. The first thing I did inside was look for his license, verifying the picture was the same man helping me – my father raised me cautious, not stupid – and then reading the name associated to the face. I loved little details like that.
“Where too, Miss?” Ahmed, the cab driver, asked me kindly. His accent was slight and I couldn’t help but beam at him, earning a slight grin in response.
“West Sixty-Seventh Street, please, Ahmed,” I told him, being sure to use his first name. He wasn’t just a driver, he was a person, dang it.
“Ah, right outside Central Park. Great view, too. Is this your first time in the city?”
“Nope – my best friend and I went to college here. It’s good to be back.” I was bouncing in my seat, literally. Giddy and excited, just like a little kid on the verge of Christmas morning.
“Allow me to speak for the great city, herself, when I say ‘welcome back.’”
“Thank you!” I smiled once more at him before busying myself with taking in the landscape. The city didn’t seem different than I remembered, but it did, all at the same time. That probably didn’t make sense, but it is what it is. The biggest change, of course, was the now built Freedom Tower, taking place of the ruins at Ground Zero from the twin towers. It was beautiful, a perfect tribute to those who lost their lives on that awful day. I mentally made a note to put it on my to-visit list, determined to make my way there at some point this trip.
Manhattan was beautiful, full of bumper-to-bumper cars and traffic. Normally I’d be grumpy and yelling at people to get out of the way, but I wasn’t in a hurry today. I took in the people still filling the sidewalks, all walking to where they needed to be, but all different. There were men in business suits and suitcases, next to girls in sandals and jeans. There was a hotdog cart on the corner, still selling his Nathan’s franks – I swear I could smell the grease, the mustard and the onions, even through the closed windows. My mouth was watering and made me remember how little I’d eaten during the day. MMM, yummy.
Chapter Seven
I was so consumed with taking in the sights of my old city friend, I didn’t notice that the cab had come to a complete stop. Glancing up toward Ahmed, I was gifted a bright smile, his eyes twinkling at my distraction. I returned the gesture with one of my own. Yep, Cloud Nine I was on.
“We’re here, Miss,” he said, his tone seeming to share in my excitement.
Looking around, I noticed we were, indeed, outside of the elegant brownstone I called home for four years with Elle. It looked just as I remembered and I craned my head upward to look for her unit among the windows.
“Would you like help with your bags?” the cabdriver asked politely, not rushing me out of the vehicle. I also noticed he’d turned the meter off, not charging me while I gawked.
“Thank you for the offer, but no. I think I can manage,” I answered, grateful for his kindness. New York, in my experience, wasn’t generally known for southern hospitality, so I’d enjoy it while I had it.
Completely ignoring me, Ahmed climbed out of the car, moving around to the trunk. I scrambled out of the backseat and to his side, my hand landing on my luggage just as his did. He jerked abruptly, pulling the bag from my fingers and out of the trunk, placing it gently on the sidewalk beside the car. Confused, I pulled my arm out of the way and scooted toward the sidewalk as he repeated the gesture with my remaining bags.
“One piece of advice while you’re in New York?” the man said as he shut the trunk and turned to me. I raised my eyebrows, equally intrigued and irritated. After a long pause, he finally continued. “When someone offers to help you, follow your instincts. My first instinct was to scold you and tell you to accept a helping hand, but…” he trailed off, waving a hand toward me and shaking his head.
“But what?” I asked, not moving from my real estate on the sidewalk. Why did I want to know? Curiosity killed the cat and all that. Not knowing would drive me crazy.
“But, Miss, you’re a pretty young thing in the big city. Better for you to be cautious. Here,” he explained, extending his hand and giving me his card. “Take my card. If you need a ride while here, give me a call. I’ll make sure you get there safe … You remind me of my daughter.” The last he’d offered almost as an afterthought.
My irritation quickly vanished, hearing a hint of my father in his words, making my heart smile, despite looking nothing like him. My father had been tall and lean, skin a flawless tan he’d managed to maintain due to years of work in the summer. Ahmed, however, was short, slightly round in the middle with skin the color of toffee. I almost could’ve hugged him, if for no other reason than passing on some fatherly advice, to protect me. I didn’t, of course, because that would have been creepy, and against my instincts. I did thank him profusely though, along with shaking his hand and paying him the fare for my ride.
As the yellow cab pulled away, I carefully stacked my luggage and maneuvered my way inside the building, my feet leading me to the elevator by memory alone. I pressed the button and smiled to myself as the door opened immediately, revealing an empty car. It took no time to reach the correct floor, and I easily found the door, the ‘#2E3E’ much like a giant ‘X’ marking the spot. Seeing it made me super happy; we’d spent many nights creating clever rhyming names with the unit number – most of them including Elle being drunk with a number before or after it. ‘One drunk, two drunk, three drunk Elle!’ Never mind, don’t ask – definitely an inside joke.
I slipped the key in the lock, releasing a breath of relief I hadn’t known I’d been holding when it disengaged and the door opened. The smell of cinnamon and roses, just like Elle’s house in Georgia, grew and I smiled, recognizing the scent and turning on the lights. As I stepped inside, my eyes widened and my heart sped, just like it always used to. My condo in Atlanta was pretty, but if this place was used for the scale? I lived in an old refrigerator box, in the middle of the ghetto. Not even kidding. Maybe it was because I hadn’t been to Central in forever, but good grief, it was amazing.
Rich, authentic hardwood floors met me, shining a beautiful maple, perfectly accenting the eggshell color of the walls. On the side of the spacious living room was a set of stairs that I knew led to the bedrooms. The other side was home to a large, open-space kitchen, complete with white marble countertops, an industrial silver fridge, and matching appliances. A black wood dining table sat in the corner, a fireplace strategically behind it, acting as a perfect focal point. The couch and other living room furniture was plush, but simple, the red of the accent pillows going well with the tan suede.
High ceilings, and by ‘high’ I mean ridiculously so, elegant bright lighting, and wall art completed the room. Almost. The real Pièce de résistance were the windows. Framed with drapery the same scarlet red as the throw pillows, they were amazing: floor to ceiling, almost a full wall, and the view cinched the deal, perfectly overlooking Central Park.
I let my bags drop where they would, they’d gotten heavy while I’d taken it all in, and shut the door behind me. The security latch followed the deadbolt and I couldn’t help but chuckle at myself. It’d been forever since I’d used mine at my place. Old habits in familiar places died hard, I guess.
Starting for the kitchen, my foot scuffed on something, bringing my attention downward. Under my feet were envelopes, a lot of them actually, each different colored with my name written elegantly on the front. They’d obviously been dropped off through the small, old-fashioned mail flap Elle had demanded be installed on the door when we’d moved in.
Intrigued, I took them to the coffee table and sat on the floor in front of it. Delicately pulling the flap of the gold envelope, a slip of card stock dropped into my hand, the paper rich and the writing pristine:
Miss Ryen F. Macek,
You are cordially invited to the twelfth annual ‘Beauty in Art’ gala, to be hel
d on Thursday, the thirteenth day of March at eight in the evening.
All proceeds will be donated to the ‘No Child Left Behind’ foundation.
White carpet event, Black tie required.
The address to the event was printed at the bottom, along with a name and number to contact with any questions. No return address was listed on the invitation, but I at least knew how I’d gotten it. Elle. I also had the sneaking suspicion that the rest of the pile would be pretty much the same; all invites to different events, all personalized with my name, all dropped off for me personally. Geez, I needed to remember to thank her.
Speaking of events and galas and different-colored carpets, I checked my watch, surprised so much time had passed. Taking two of my pieces of luggage - I wasn’t superhuman strong; I couldn’t carry three suitcases, plus two extra bags up the stairs in one trip – I rushed to the rooms on the top floor. Instincts kicked in, and, without a moment’s thought, I entered what I’ll always consider my bedroom. If I’d had more time, I would have jumped on the bed, just for good measure and good memories. Most of my furniture still remained; it had been too much of a hassle to get them to Georgia, and I was happy to see them. Sure, the tickets I used to prop on the vanity were gone, along with kiss marks on the mirror, but I’d expected it to look different. Seeing the same room I remembered warmed me.
Putting my cases in the closet, I was surprised, once again, to see a black garment bag hanging conspicuously from the closet rod. I flipped on the light, wanting a better look. My jaw hit the floor when I saw the Lanvin logo adorning the bag. Oh, shit. Unzipping the zipper, I found a note plainly labeled Ryen, in Elle’s precise handwriting. Oh no ... what did she do! I pulled my hands back like the damn thing bit me. Breathing deeply, I reached for the note, grasping it and dropping to the floor, sitting cross legged. I was equally excited to read the note and investigate the bag, as well as terrified over what my friend did and dreading the contents. Biting the bullet, I pulled the small card from its envelope.
“Ryen, you just flew to New York with your clothes *folded* and intend to wear one of the items tonight. I thought you could use something *prettily* wrinkled for tonight, instead of stressing to find the steaming iron. Love, E. - P.S. Look on the shelf.”
Okay, I was planning to wear one of the dresses in my suitcase. And, if I’m being honest, I was probably going to be running around like a chicken with my head cut off in about ten minutes to find the stupid steamer iron. But, that didn’t ease the anxiety I felt looking at that bag. Something that cost at least four digits was in that bag, something that my best friend purchased for me because she wanted better for me and because she knew me better than I knew myself. I really wanted to look on the shelf, but I schooled myself, instead focusing back on the bag just waiting for me.
Forcing myself to my feet, I stood and moved back toward the gift. Gritting my teeth – what do you want from me, I’m not good with gifts – I zipped the entire thing down, much like you would rip a Band-Aid off. Just get it over with, I chanted in my head. Words could barely describe what I found resting inside. A gown, the prettiest color of light and dark pink, greeted me.
No, pretty doesn’t do the garment justice. It was gorgeous. Inspired by Greek style, rouching covered the top and accentuated a jewel-cut top that I knew would accentuate my shoulders. One side had a darker pink ruffle to add a splash of color, the same as the belt that adorned the waist of the dress. Below the belt the chiffon fell to the floor in an elegant trumpet style. It was everything I would have chosen for myself, had I picked it out. The only flaw to the precious dress was the fact that the price tag was still attached. Four thousand, five hundred, and fifty-five dollars. Was that woman crazy?! But it was so soft, and flowy, and silky, and girly. Alright, so every part of girl in me did a little dancing jig, pretending the closet was Saturday Night Fever.
I stilled my feet, remembering her post script instructing me to look at the shelf. Doing so, I found a white box, complete with a black ribbon. Oh man, I was going to have a heart attack. I knew the brand, had drooled over plenty of them in Elle’s closet while she demanded I buy my own. Yves Saint Laurent. The greatness that awaited me in that box was going to make me squeal like a little girl. Maybe I should wait? NO, shouted the voice in my head, so hypothetically loud that I flinched. I better not be becoming a schizophrenic, the last thing I needed was more noise inside of my head. The minute one of the voices answered one of my questions, I was going to be pissed!
Standing on tip-toe to reach it, I inched the box off the shelf, cradling it to my body when I almost dropped it. I practically pet the box and crooned sweet nothings to it as I set it on the floor and pulled the ribbon to unwrap it. Realistically, I knew I had the money to buy these things myself, but the prices always made me cringe. I was completely content with my clothes from Macy’s or even Target; I shopped in the normal mall with normal people. This was like Christmas or something for me.
“Shut. Up. No she didn’t!!” I exclaimed loudly, clapping my hands like a loon. Nestled inside was a pair of silver shoes, sparkling like Dorothy’s, except not red. A three-inch heel and peep toe, they were a complete work of art. Unable to help myself, I crawled to my purse and pulled out my cell phone. The minute she picked up, I started talking, fast and excitedly.
“Shhh, Nick, I’m assuming she found the shoes,” Elle said, obviously to her husband, while laughing at me.
“You … I …. Can’t … What … Oh, God…” I stammered, completely unable to finish any clear thought.
“I did, you can, you will, He’s in Heaven,” she addressed my words and I shut my mouth, once again admiring the shoes in my hands.
“But –”
“No buts. Something fabulous is going to happen to you tonight, and those, both the dress and the shoes, will contribute. I can feel it and I wanted to be a part of it,” she cut me off, but I could hear her smile. “Ryen?”
“Yes?” I croaked, slightly hoarse.
“Don’t be cynical tonight, okay? Be cynical tomorrow.”
“Ugh. You and that word! I’m not cynical. I’m just … cautious,” I said, finding my tongue and self. I knew what she meant though; she was actually telling me not to be a jerk like I’d been in the airport bar earlier today. I sighed and spoke again, “Okay. I’ll try to not be … cynical.”
“Good. Now stop petting your shoes and rubbing your face on the dress before you get them dirty, and go get ready. You’re going to be late,” she scolded, sounding like the mommy she was. Granted, I wasn’t the age she was used to dealing with, but seeing how I was petting my shoes and how I may have been rubbing my cheek along the bottom of the gown, she had a point.
“I love your freaking face,” I told her, smiling as she hung up while chuckling. I didn’t know what I did to deserve that girl, but I was so glad I had her in my life.
I took, quite possibly, the fastest shower I’ve ever taken in my entire life. Staying under the water for literally the amount of time it took to wash my body, I bypassed washing my hair. There just wasn’t enough time. The process of washing my hair and drying it was a long, long, long one, especially since it is so long and thick. Elle always bitched about having thin and fine hair, but me? I’d give some very important parts of me to trade her. I’d tried the salon thinning treatments they have, but they only lasted until I washed it again. Que sera, sera.
Pinning a final strand of hair up in an elegant chignon, I pulled a couple tendrils down to frame my face, curling them. Pleased, I finished my eye makeup and washed my hands thoroughly, terrified to dirty the work of art now hanging on the bathroom door. I stepped into the gown and strained to zip the side, moving the zipper as delicately as possible so as not to snag the fabric. Once secure, I swished – yes, I swished – delighting in the feel of the material against my skin. Because of the cut of the dress, I was going sans brassiere and only wearing a pair of lacy VS panties. I felt exposed, yet covered and beautiful. I’d worn some pretty nice things in m
y years, most of them admittedly belonging to Elle, but this topped the charts. Plus, it was mine all mine.
I applied the finishing touch, a matching soft pink lip color that was guaranteed to last the night – thank god for that since I wasn’t the kind to run and touch up my makeup. I’d saved it for last so I didn’t accidentally get some on my dress. Was I being paranoid? Absolutely. I was wearing what was akin to gold in my world, and I didn’t want to ruin it.
Dropping the gloss in my silver clutch I’d brought from home – no designer, but no one would be looking at it –I was ready for my new babies. I’d already put some sheepskin in the bag too, just in case a blister tried to develop on my heel; I was going to wear them regardless of the cost to my feet.
The buzzer system rang, and I rushed over to press the button, informing the driver I would be down in just a moment. God, being in New York was great – a car service that calls up and waits on you, fantastic. Slipping my feet into my beautiful shoes, I admired myself for only a moment in the mirror, feeling like an absolute princess. I’d worn no jewelry except for my Harry Winston watch that had been a gift from my father for my sixteenth birthday, and I was the picture of elegance. Keys in hand, I hesitated for just a moment before snatching a condom out of my travel bag and putting it in the clutch – I wasn’t planning anything, but Elle had a ‘feeling.’ I didn’t want to be caught unaware.
Finally ready, I made my way back down the building. I was nervous, excited, and completely out of my element. Only a small inkling of doubt entered my thoughts, that maybe I was crazy for coming here by myself, and planning to attend these events alone. I quashed them quickly. This trip was for me, and if I felt like I did every night the way I did this very moment? It was worth every penny I’d spend and every stag entry.