Best Staged Plans

by Claire Cook

  I shook it off. I was losing my groove. I was missing the big picture. It was all about focus and tenacity. And waiting them out. Once Greg knew I really meant it, he’d get his butt in gear, and we’d sell the house and ride off into a romantic sunset together. We’d talk to the kids often and see them on holidays.

  Trader Joe’s was getting crowded, so I picked up the pace. I hit the meat section for a package of grilled smoked boneless chicken breasts. They were even sliced into almost bite-size strips. I mean, how good does it get?

  Biscuit sections are a helluva lot bigger in the South than they are in New England, so finding that was easy. Here’s a trick for the next time you’re assembling a meal. Buy a refrigerated tube of breadsticks. Pop it open and separate into strands. Loop each strand into a knot, then flare out the ends until they match your bow tie pasta. Place on a Pam-sprayed cookie sheet and sprinkle liberally with the Parmesan cheese that’s probably been sitting in your fridge forever. Woilà! People will think you kneaded the dough yourself. Especially if you tell them that you did.

  All that was left was dessert. I grabbed some brownies and a package of Trader Joe’s Dark Chocolate Crisps, which, if you haven’t tried them, are like deep cocoa Pringles. They didn’t carry Cool Whip, so I settled for a guilt-free tub of Truwhip, which contains neither hydrogenated oils nor GMOs, whatever they are.

  “Ma’am?” the cashier said.

  I looked up from swiping my credit card. His silly Hawaiian shirt made me smile despite myself.

  He pointed to the basil behind my ear.

  “Oh, right,” I said. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  He held up one finger. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

  So much for my life of crime. At least I’d gotten away with the reading glasses.

  The cashier reappeared. He grinned and held out another sprig of basil. “For the other ear.”

  If I were in charge of the world, Trader Joe’s could be my assistant.

  I’d left work early, and it seemed that Chance had worked as late as he possibly could. The combination of the two meant that when he got home the table was set and I’d had more than enough time to bury all incriminating evidence in one of the trash barrels out in the garage.

  When my son-in-law walked into the kitchen, I was standing at the sink, wearing his wife’s apron. He stopped. I turned and smiled. If we were in black and white, I might have passed for the star of The Donna Reed Show.

  “Ha,” he said.

  “Can I get you a glass of sweet tea?” I said.

  “Ha,” he said again.

  “Sit a spell,” I said. “I’ll bet you had yourself a long, hard day at work.”

  At the risk of sounding immodest, once I finally convinced Chance to sit down, dinner was a big hit.

  “This is amazing, mo’am,” he said.

  I dabbed my mouth with a cloth napkin. “Thank you, son. It’s a secret family recipe we’ve passed down through generations. We call it chicken pesto bow ties with halved grape tomatoes and coordinating hand-kneaded Parmesan bread bows.”

  Chance took another bite and closed his eyes while he swallowed.

  “Mmm-mmm,” he said.

  I smiled. “Don’t forget to save some room for dessert.”

  If you ever want to assemble a dessert that’s sure to impress, get out your fanciest wineglasses. Spoon some Cool Whip, or Truwhip if you’re feeling virtuous, into the bottom of each one. Crumble some brownies on top of that. Add more Cool Whip/Truwhip. Crush some Trader Joe’s Dark Chocolate Crisps, or even a Heath bar, with a hammer and sprinkle it on. Continue layering until you reach the top, ending with a nice dollop of Cool Whip/Truwhip. Then grab a bottle of hazelnut liquor from your kids’ liquor cabinet and douse the damn thing within an inch of its life. This might possibly negate the Truwhip benefits, but trust me, it’s worth it.

  “Unbelievable,” Chance said. “Can you make this again for my friends when they come over?”

  He sounded about twelve.

  I patted him on the hand. “Of course I can, son.”

  I left Chance with the dishes and went in to call Denise. I’d been putting it off all day.

  The muffled notes of Bette Midler’s “Miss Otis Regrets” trilled from my shoulder bag.

  “ESP,” I said once I managed to unearth my cell. “I was just calling you.”

  “Guess what?”

  I went with my most optimistic guess. “You met another guy?”

  “Funny. No, don’t tell Josh, but I’m flying in to surprise him this weekend. Can you pick me up at the airport? I’m thinking a pep talk on the way over might not be a bad idea.”

  “Does he know?”

  “Of course he doesn’t know. I just said it was a surprise, didn’t I? I’ve been thinking it through, and the best way to do this is in person. Neither of us is really a phone person, but the minute we’re actually together, things always click right back into place.”

  “When was the last time he called you?”

  “I’m not even sure—I’ve been flat out all week.”

  Silence hung in the air like smog.

  “Why are you doing this?” Denise finally said. “Putting myself out there was your idea in the first place.”

  I took a deep breath. “I think Josh is seeing someone else. He said she’s an old college friend, but I’m not buying it.”

  “Oh, that’s just Melissa. He talks about her all the time.”

  If a guy you’re seeing talks about another woman all the time, it’s never okay. Even if it’s his mother.

  “Denise,” I said. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  CHAPTER 29

  I’D FOUND THE PERFECT statement piece for the lobby. It was a twelve-light contemporary chandelier with a clean geometric look. The crisp chrome finish was offset by square-cut crystals and silk shades, providing traditional pops on a modern frame. The shades were available in a deep chocolate color that would harmonize spectacularly with my staging plan.

  The chandelier was even designed by Candice Olson of HGTV fame. The line also had smaller coordinating four-light chandeliers that would be perfect for the guest rooms, as well as matching wall sconces with single-drop crystals that would look amazing on either side of each bathroom mirror. I ordered them all from a wholesale online lighting supplier.

  I hoped Candice Olson got a big percentage. Maybe she’d be so grateful that she’d invite me to appear on the show to help her transform a room. From there all it would take was a single brilliant appearance to land my own staging show. All the World’s a Stage with Sandra Sullivan? Sandy Sullivan Stages? I mean, if HGTV gave me my own show, they could call me whatever they wanted.

  A lot of HGTV show episodes seemed to be taped in Atlanta, so it wasn’t even that much of a pipe dream. I knew my stuff. I had a sparkly personality. I could look pretty damn good for my age when I focused. And I’d recently read that one in four Americans had appeared on TV, so I was due.

  I’d find a hip loft apartment, and when I wasn’t too busy working on my next episode, I’d meet Shannon for lunch. Or even a Zumba class. I’d have to log a lot more Zumba hours if I were going to be on camera.

  I had a small plastic container of chicken pesto bow ties with halved grape tomatoes beside me in the car, along with two Parmesan bow tie breadsticks wrapped in foil. If I saw the homeless woman today, I’d give them to her. Otherwise I’d eat them myself for lunch, the way I’d ended up eating the spinach calzone, and figure out another way to work off Denise’s penance. I mean, you can only do what you can do.

  I cruised down the block, half-looking for the homeless woman, half-looking for a parking space. Just past the hotel, I turned my head and saw a narrow alley I’d never noticed before.

  A sign-less signpost marked the opening. I clicked my blinker and took a quick left. The alley was closely flanked by a brick wall on the hotel side and by a building on the other side.

  I rolled the length of the alley a
nd stopped. The alley opened to a hidden parking lot—small, square, and nondescript. A few weeds sprouted up through the cracks in the asphalt, and a single silver Corvette was parked in one space of the faded white parking grid. A little bit of weeding and some fresh paint on the parking spots would work wonders. And then I’d put two big chocolate pots filled with annuals on either side of the back entrance. I wondered if it led directly to the kitchen, or if guests could use the back door to access the hotel.

  Three mismatched Dumpsters sat at the far end of the lot. They were a necessary evil, so there wasn’t anything to be done about them. I hoped the flowerpots would be enough to distract the hotel guests from registering their unsightliness.

  Just as my toe touched the accelerator again, I saw something move between the two Dumpsters closest to the hotel. I hit the brakes, bracing myself for a raccoon or even some southern varmint I’d yet to hear about. How big were possums?

  A woman hoisted herself up. She picked up a big piece of cardboard and folded it carefully into neat sections, as if she were folding a quilt. When she was finished, she slid it under one of the Dumpsters. Then she leaned over and picked up a garbage bag.

  The homeless woman.

  She walked stiffly to the far end of the parking lot and cut between two buildings. After she disappeared from view, I just sat there. I put the rental car into park. I put my hands over my eyes.

  It’s not like I didn’t know what homeless meant. I’d just never really taken the time to think about what it entailed.

  Instead of passing her by, the way I’d passed so many homeless people in Boston and Atlanta, and well, just about every city I’d ever been to, I’d bought a homeless woman a cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich. I felt better immediately. And she went back to sleeping between two Dumpsters.

  I was spoiled and entitled, and my problems were so ridiculously insignificant. Maybe I even made them up just to have something to occupy my time as I lived my spoiled, entitled, ridiculous little life.

  So my husband was dragging his feet about selling our big comfortable house. So my son wasn’t quite ready to leave the bat cave. So my daughter hadn’t stayed around to keep me company and had left me to cohabit with her perfectly nice husband in another comfortable house. So my best friend’s boyfriend might be screwing around on her. They both had houses.

  It’s not like I’d missed the memo that homelessness was an epidemic. There was nothing new here. But I was crying anyway, hot tears streaming down my cheeks and racking sobs coming from someplace deep within. Maybe it was my soul. If I still had one.

  Finally I pulled into a parking place.

  “What were we thinking?” I said to the GPS before I unplugged her.

  Then I went to find the homeless woman.

  I found her sitting on the sidewalk, right in front of my eyes, yet blending into the scenery, as if she were invisible.

  I handed her the chicken pesto and the bow ties. “How do you take your coffee?”

  “Any way I can get it,” she said.

  Made you look, we used to say as kids when we tried to trick each other into turning to find something—a bird, a plane, a cute boy—that wasn’t really there. Her comment took me by surprise and made me look at her for the first time—full on, instead of just over her head or off to the side of her face.

  Given that she’d just crawled out from between two Dumpsters, she wasn’t even that dirty. She looked about my age, with dry skin that could use a good moisturizer and gray springing from her once dark hair like the threads of a Brillo pad. Even without mascara, her eyes were her best feature: round and wide spaced, a lovely shade of green flecked with brown, undeniably clear and lucid.

  “Thanks,” she said when I handed her a latte.

  I noticed she held one hand in front of her mouth when she spoke, the way I sometimes did when I’d eaten onions or garlic for lunch. I wondered if dropping off some toothpaste and a toothbrush for her would be a nice thing to do, or if it would be insulting.

  I had to ask. “How do you manage to stay so clean?”

  “There’s an emergency shelter that lets me in to shower.” She spoke in a crackly voice that sounded like it hadn’t been used for a while. “I was sleeping there, but you can only stay for seven nights. So now I’m on a waiting list for a transitional shelter.”

  “Eat,” I said. “You haven’t even touched that.” I sipped my latte and watched the people walking by while she ate the chicken and pasta. I guess I thought she might gobble, but she ate slowly and thoroughly, savoring each bite. Then she wiped the inside of the plastic container with the last piece of the breadstick bow tie and popped it into her mouth.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Did you make it?”

  “I don’t really cook anymore. I assemble. But I’ll give you the recipe if you want.”

  Instead of answering, she put the top back on the plastic container and handed it to me.

  “Sorry,” I said. “That was stupid.”

  She shrugged.

  We sipped our lattes in silence. It felt odd to be standing there hovering over her, but sitting next to her on the sidewalk didn’t seem like quite the right thing to do either.

  “Can I get you anything else?” I finally asked, as if I were a waiter at a sidewalk café.

  She shook her head.

  I took another sip of my latte. “Okay, well, I guess I’d better get to work.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  I turned to walk away. “Have a nice day” slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  CHAPTER 30

  HAVE A NICE DAY? Have a nice day? I meet a homeless woman who has just crawled out from between two dumpsters, and I tell her to have a nice day?

  I flashed back to a long-forgotten day I’d spent with Denise and a bunch of other high school friends. We’d piled into somebody’s old station wagon to drive the half hour from our suburban town to the nearest MBTA stop and take the subway to Boston.

  The plan was to wander around Boston Common and then go shopping at Filene’s Basement. It was a beautiful spring day, and we were all wearing bell-bottom dungarees and halter tops, as if they were uniforms. Fringed square-cut embroidered bags looped over our shoulders and bounced against our hips as we walked.

  We flipped our hair and giggled whenever we passed boys who were even remotely cute.

  “Yeah, so,” one of us said.

  “Buttons on ice cream, they don’t stick,” another one said.

  Everybody else burst out laughing.

  “Huh?” I said.

  “So is really sew,” Denise whispered as we walked. “Buttons don’t stick to ice cream, so you have to sew them on. Get it?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  Denise rolled her eyes. “It’s just something you say so it looks like you’re talking, so guys don’t think you’re paying attention to them.”

  We followed the winding paths of the Common, dodging Frisbees as they sliced through the air. A couple of girls a few years older than us were blowing bubbles while a group of college guys made heroic leaps to pop them.

  “Bubbles,” Denise said. “Next time we have to remember to bring bubbles.”

  A man was sitting on the grass at the edge of the path. Street musicians were everywhere, but this was a different thing entirely. He had a cheap plastic guitar with two loose strings flapping in the breeze, and instead of an open guitar case for collecting money, he’d flipped over a ripped straw hat. His long hair was greasy and so were his jeans, and you could see the sole of one bare foot through a hole in his boot.

  He was belting out a tuneless “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” at the top of his lungs as he pounded the guitar. There was something so desperate about the sound of his voice that I stopped. I reached for my wallet, but I was afraid to move any closer to him, so I just stood there.

  Up ahead, Denise turned around. “Come on,” she yelled.

  We went to Bailey’s Ice Cream Parlor and sat in wire-ba
cked chairs at button-topped tables. We all ordered identical hot fudge sundaes made with chocolate ribbon ice cream, Bailey’s version of chocolate chip made with long thin slivers of dark chocolate.

  And the whole time we ate I couldn’t stop thinking about how I should have been brave enough to try to help that guy, even just a little.

  JOSH WAS NOWHERE to be found, so I wandered around the hotel, looking at the paint samples that covered the walls like big chocolate stains. Then I made some to-do lists and wandered around some more. Finally I headed out to hit the flea markets and antique stores.

  Bailey’s Ice Cream Parlor had been closed for decades, but it was as if they’d shipped all their tables and chairs from Boston to Atlanta just this week. Everywhere I stopped I found another round glass-topped metal table or a pair of cute little chairs with heart-shaped twisted-wire backs.

  I’d been thinking about something a bit more dramatic and Old World for the hotel patio. Bar-height tables and chairs that would be more comfortable to sit on and also more noticeable from the street. Elegantly curved steel legs. Maybe dark wood tabletops and distressed leather seats.

  But the thing about staging is that you have to stay open to surprises, because they often turned out to be better than the things you planned. And you have to listen to the connections some mysterious part of your brain makes when you’re not paying attention. Of course ice cream parlor tables and chairs made sense if we were going to name the hotel Hot Chocolate. How could I have missed it?

  When all was said and done, this would be the thing people remembered. Hot Chocolate, they’d say, you know that adorable boutique hotel in midtown with the patio that looks like an old ice cream parlor?

  I drove to Home Depot and rented a truck, then I retraced my route. By the time I got back to the hotel, I had eight slightly different glass-topped round tables and twenty-four mismatched chairs. I’d spray paint the table frames and chairs a rainbow of ice cream colors from mint green to orange sherbet.

  I’d look for round wire Victorian plant stands, at least three feet high with lots of curlicues. And I’d keep the whole thing from getting too cutesy by placing tall square modern planters on either side of the door. Ooh, maybe I’d even splurge on some illuminated planters and tuck them into the corners. If you haven’t seen them yet, they are amazing—tiny energy-efficient fluorescent bulbs make the whole pot glow from within, and the pots have reinforced fiberglass inner liners to handle the soil and water so nobody gets electrocuted.