Camellia hadn’t thought much of her husband’s career issues. She knew he was highly capable and would eventually get a job offer. She also knew she was making more than enough money as editor-in-chief of Flair to carry them both in lavish style. But now she had no income and his meager fellowship salary was coming to an end. And their savings was negligible, Camellia sinking the bulk of her earnings into the apartment lease and the furnishings and the staff, plus numerous vacations with first-class accommodations.
Feeling bile rise into her throat, Camellia made a beeline to her office instead of the bathroom, certain the only thing that could make her feel better at this moment was the assurance of some money – any money – coming their way. She lifted the lid of her laptop and typed “unemployment benefits” into the Google search box. It was time to face reality.
The following afternoon, Henry arrived home early to settle up with and then dismiss Alain and Yara, neither of them hiding their disappointment nor a few uncontrolled tears. Camellia stayed away in the bedroom, listening behind the locked door, her tears far more than a few. Once Henry showed the duo out of the apartment, Yara unexpectedly throwing her arms around Henry’s neck and squeezing him tightly, crying out, “Oh Mr. Rhodes, Mr. Rhodes!” before making her exit, he picked up his cell phone and speed dialed the car service to discharge them, too.
From her post, Camellia shivered suddenly, the deafening silence far beyond being an omen.
Over the next two months, Henry cut out all their remaining extraneous expenses, including the grocery service, flower delivery, and clothes shopping. Thankfully, Camellia’s fall wardrobe was already in good shape, with many designers gifting her pieces from their 2008 collections in hopes she would feature them in the magazine or be photographed wearing them. Now that there was no more Flair, there would be no more designer freebies, either.
Camellia was back to working every angle to find another position. Now reaching the point of total despair, she had resigned herself to lower editorial positions, including fashion director and creative director. No one was biting. Only one editor, Maggie from Vanity Fair, whom Camellia had worked with for a short time at W, took her call and astonishingly stayed on the phone with her for several minutes, graciously attempting to help.
“It’s rough out there, Camellia,” Maggie said matter-of-fact. “You know how quickly this magazine merry-go-round spins, sending staffers to new pubs every day. But since this recession started having larger implications, no one’s moving. In fact, I haven’t had a single request for a promotion or a raise. Everyone in this business is praying they aren’t the next to be laid off.”
“I know, I know,” Camellia acquiesced. “Do you have any advice? Any contacts who many be helpful to me?”
Maggie was silent for a moment. “Have you reached out to any of the designers? You’ve obviously helped their careers over the years. Perhaps they could use an experienced mind for their sales or PR teams?”
Camellia sighed heavily. “Yes. It’s been no good.”
“What about ad agencies or publicists?”
“I’ve reached out to them all. Most don’t respond, and the few that do all say the same thing: not hiring.”
“Well, I feel for you, I really do. Magazines shutter during good times, and now, it’s occurring more than ever. This could happen to any of us.”
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your sincerity,” Camellia noted. “It’s been rather hard to come by lately.”
“I’ll let you know if I hear of anything. Until then, don’t be a stranger, okay?”
It had become clear to Camellia that she wouldn’t be finding a job in her field anytime soon. Between the recession and her name getting smeared in the tabloids, no one would be handpicking her to start a new magazine or chair a gala or style a grand collection. The only thing she could do was to lay low, keep expenses at a minimum, and wait for Henry to find employment. His first paycheck alone would be enough to get them back on track. The combination of her unemployment checks with the last of his fellowship was barely getting them by.
She was sorry now that she had been so careless with her money. Outside of a decent 401k she had accumulated over the course of her career, which Henry was intent on not touching unless absolutely necessary, there wasn’t much to speak of in their savings account. She had fast-tracked to the top of her game with such ease; the idea of falling onto hard times had never crossed her mind. And now, as Camellia looked down at her bare nails with scorn, a professional mani/pedi currently out of the question, she couldn’t believe how stupid she had been.
Never one to have experienced depression, Camellia was unprepared for the mood disorder that was slowly but viciously taking hold of her.
EIGHT
At Henry’s urging, they took the train to his parent’s house upstate in White Creek for Thanksgiving. Camellia spent the ride staring out the window with little to say. Spending two days with Henry’s family normally would have been a pleasure. They were the perfect American family. Carl and Lena Rhodes had been married for forty-one years, both retired industrial design professors now living their retirement dream on five acres in peaceful surroundings. They were regularly visited by their three grown boys – Henry the oldest, and his twin brothers Alex and Joseph. Henry’s brothers had married pretty blonde girls while in their mid-twenties, and each had kids within two years.
Needless to say, it was a full house during the holidays at Carl and Lena’s.
The only downside to visiting Henry’s parents was Camellia’s struggle to maintain her slender frame. Lena was a fabulous cook, her stuffing so good Camellia would make an exception to her otherwise careful diet, putting back a hearty helping and secretly wanting more.
Carl and Lena met Camellia and Henry at the station, both of them embracing their daughter-in-law the second she was within their grasp, leaving Henry in the dust. They had obviously heard the news.
“Sweetie, we’re so glad to see you,” Lena said, holding tight to Camellia’s hands. Her graying hair was pulled back into a messy bun, showing off her clear, blue eyes.
“Yes, you’re home now,” Carl concurred, keeping a strong arm around Camellia’s shoulders, his bald head and wicked smile giving him a boyish charm. “Out here, you don’t have to worry about those bull-headed twerps in the city.”
Camellia wondered what her mother would think about Carl referring to White Creek as her home. While she had always found her hometown confining and her parents ranch unchanging, Carl and Lena’s tall white house, with a post-and-beam red barn set back on the property, had more of a retreat feel to it – a spot to wind down from her normally frenetic life where she was one of the family, and never judged.
Loaded into Carl’s Suburban, the group spent the drive catching up on day-to-day happenings, Lena chatting animatedly about a fat chicken that had found its way to their back door and was now the family pet. Camellia smiled at her mother-in-law’s funny stories, but she just couldn’t interact the way she normally would.
“Your silly father has decided to take up wild horse taming,” Lena announced, gasping as if hearing the news for the first time. “Can you imagine? So dangerous!”
“It’s not dangerous,” Carl reassured, turning his head severely to look at Camellia and Henry in the back seat. Well aware of her father-in-law’s daredevil ways, Camellia would normally have had a tight grip on Henry’s arm by now, wishing like mad Carl would spend more time driving with his eyes on the road. But today, she wasn’t phased. “We break them gently. Humanely,” Carl prattled on. “They’re amazing creatures, you know.”
“Enormous creatures is more like it,” Lena huffed. “One of them runs you down and only one person will be picking up the flattened pieces: me.”
“You sure are cute when you worry about me.” Carl stroked the side of Lena’s face affectionately, his eyes once again focused on something other than the winding street leading into the quaint village ahead.
Camellia tu
rned her attention to the view out the window, not able to focus on her in-laws’ boisterous conversation. White Creek was a charming, tiny town of less than four thousand people with a few original, yet well-preserved houses still standing from the colonial period. Looking at the town was like looking back in time with men in overalls and congenial children running along the sidewalk and women in flowered dresses shopping the farmer’s market in preparation for dinner. And behind the tight cluster of buildings and dotting of well-kept houses was a widespread landscape of farmland and towering trees.
Carl pulled a sharp right turn, just barely missing the long dirt road that led to Rhodes’ home on County Route 68. As they approached the house, they could see Alex and Joseph and their wives, Hillary and Amy, waiting for them on the front porch, their lot of kids chasing each other around the yard. Camellia took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and quietly, not wanting to draw attention to the anxiety that was suddenly crawling up her chest.
Camellia let herself out of the car and smoothed her Milly dress, fresh for fall in gray with black polka dots. Thankfully, she had remembered to wear wedge boots to navigate the gravel driveway. She shivered. With no tall New York City buildings for protection, the chilly November wind was especially cutting. Henry came around the car with her cashmere coat in hand, draping it over her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said softly, putting her arm through his. She was trying hard to remember to be kind to her husband, who had been taking such good care of her through all the turmoil.
Henry gave her a little squeeze. “It’s going to be fun.”
They were quickly surrounded by Henry’s nephews and nieces, the girls – ten-year-old Alyssa and nine-year-old Caitlin – were looking for the customary bauble Aunt Camellia always brought for them from her own closet. “Oh girls, I’m so sorry. I forgot.” She looked just as disappointed as they did.
Henry leaned in and playfully tapped them both on the nose. “I’ll tell you what. When we get back home, we’ll pick out something super special for each of you and send it to you in the mail. How does that sound?” Alyssa and Caitlin nodded and scampered off, the revised arrangement appearing to meet with their approval.
On the porch, Henry’s family surrounded them, bestowing hugs and kisses and grabbing luggage. Lena shooed the noisy group into the house so she could finish dinner preparations.
Camellia helped out in the kitchen, inadequately chopping at what was once a beautiful, plump heirloom tomato that now looked as if it had been put through a food processor. “Ugh,” she sighed, as Lena came over to inspect her work.
“Ah, it all ends up in the same place anyway,” Lena assured her, with a kind pat on Camellia’s back. Turning her attention back to her strawberry-banana trifle, Lena expertly sliced through the fruit, her knife seeming to barely move as the strawberries fell away into evenly sized pieces.
“Your dress is lovely,” Camellia said to Lena, trying to mask her dark mood from the family by admiring her mother-in-law’s peony shirtdress that was covered by an equally attractive floral apron.
“It really is,” agreed Hillary, as she walked into the kitchen, tying an old white apron at her waist.
“It’s vintage from the ‘50s,” Lena noted with a hint of pride, twirling in place with knife still in hand. “I find the most amazing things at our flea market. No one in this town seems to appreciate these things, so I snatch them all up for next to nothing.”
“You’ve got a good eye,” Camellia said.
“Well, I did learn from the best.”
Amy eyed her own outfit, light-wash jeans and a cream turtleneck, with disapproval. “I think Joe would like me to wear more dresses,” she confessed. “Lena, you know where I live if you ever get tired of your clothes. You, too, Camellia.”
Henry’s family had welcomed Camellia warmly from the day he had brought her to White Creek to announce their engagement, nearly nine years ago. While Lena, Hillary and Amy were familiar with Flair – Lena even having a subscription to the magazine – they never treated her differently, or used her for her contacts or perks. She was one of them; and for a precious couple of days, once or twice a year when she and Henry made the trip to his parents’ home, she didn’t have to be anything more than a Rhodes.
“So Camellia,” Hillary said, standing at the sink peeling potatoes, “now that you have a little time on your hands, are you and Henry talking babies again?”
“Hillary, that’s a private issue,” Lena scolded, though she didn’t look too cross.
“Whoa, so now we’re entitled to privacy in this family?” Amy asked. “That would have been nice when the bulk of you squeezed into the delivery room to watch me give birth.”
“Only for the first one,” Hillary laughed. “Believe me, we saw enough to last a lifetime.”
“So sorry I was traveling and had to miss that scene, Amy,” Camellia piped up, eager to keep the subject changed.
Six months after they married, Henry began pushing hard to start a family. They had lived together for more than four years prior to marriage, so he felt no need to experience the no-kids-allowed “newlywed period”. Henry loved children. And while Camellia wasn’t one-hundred-percent opposed to it, building her career came first. She figured kids would come after she had made it to the top.
Henry, with his undeniable charm and constant pleading, had nearly worn her down, Camellia feeling some sense of wifely duty to give to the man who was constantly giving to her. And then Flair came calling. Over the course of six years, though her place was firmly planted at the very tip of the top, she had never brought up children. Neither had Henry.
“So? Babies then?” Hillary asked again, not missing a beat.
Camellia nodded at the glass of Cabernet that Amy was thrusting at her. “You’re going to need this,” Amy said deadpan, her routine sarcasm not inducing the laugh from Camellia it usually did.
“It’s not the best time,” Camellia finally said, taking a sip of the full-bodied wine. “Neither of us have jobs at the moment, you know.”
“A temporary setback, I’m sure,” Lena said, crumbling angel food cake into the trifle bowl.
Ashton and Aaron burst into the crowded kitchen, quashing the baby talk for a second time. “We’re hungry,” Aaron whined, sticking close to his older brother’s side.
Lena marched to the refrigerator and pulled out two apples. “This will hold you until dinner.”
Ashton frowned. “Apples? Ice cream would be a much
better option.”
Amy laughed, taking the apples from Lena and putting them into her boys’ hands. “Nice try. Now get out of here before we put you
to work.”
Camellia made it through the rest of Thanksgiving without having to talk about babies or jobs or the future. If there was anything she had to be thankful for that day, it was that no one had brought up the magazine or asked for the details. While they were baby crazy, and could talk about kids – and when she was going to add to the brood – for hours on end, this was a family that understood professional discretion. And for as much as she loved them, she couldn’t say she had ever really let her guard down around them. That air of confidence, the restrained demeanor – these were the traits she had projected since her internship at The New Yorker. Even as she fell for Henry, she had rarely broken character. It was a calculated persona that over the years no longer had to be forced. By the time she had landed at W, she had truly become that person. And though her shell had most definitely been dented over the last few months, Henry was the only one she would allow to see it. That was bad enough. She certainly wasn’t going to go about oozing venom over Tray’s uncaring conduct or admitting how devastated she was being snubbed by both the fashion and publishing communities. She had fallen far enough. How would she make that perilous climb back to the top if her protective shell was in pieces at her feet?
Just after midnight, she was finally able to slip away from the family, who were still going strong over wine and old photos in
the living room, to the small guest room assigned to Henry and her. Mentally and physically exhausted, she fell into bed without removing her clothing or makeup, and dreamed of living in a tall white house with acres of land and four children holding fast to her apron.
The next day, Carl and Lena drove Camellia and Henry back to the station. “It’s a long weekend, are you sure you can’t stay another day?” Carl asked, obviously disappointed to see them go.
“Sorry Dad, other obligations,” Henry fibbed. Camellia nodded, wishing there really was something they needed to get back to in the city.
As the train approached, Lena handed her overloaded shoulder bag to Carl, and with two free arms gave Camellia an extra-long hug. “Everything happens for a reason,” she said in a low voice meant just for them. “Before you know it, you’ll find happiness again. You both will.”
Camellia closed her eyes and nodded in Lena’s embrace, praying she was right.
NINE
“We should have sex.”
Camellia had just stepped out of the shower, her hair dripping down her back as she wrapped a plush towel around her body. “Excuse me?” she responded, just as surprised at the question as she was to find Henry home in the early afternoon.
“Just because our lives are in upheaval doesn’t mean our relationship has to be.” He tugged playfully at the towel, which she held firmly at her breasts.
“Henry, I’m not exactly in the mood.”
“Sweetheart, I can’t remember the last time we got naked together,” he said, continuing to wrestle the towel away. “Don’t we deserve to feel good?”
“I don’t think I could muster up the energy to do more than just lie there,” she said wearily.
“I’ll take it.” Moving behind her, he began to nudge her in the direction of their bed.
She sighed, knowing she should relent. He did deserve that. “What are you doing home so early, anyway? And why is your hair wet?”
The Makeover Page 5