“My hair is wet because it’s snowing like mad. Now I finally believe Christmas is around the corner.” He removed his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt. “And I’m home early because today was my last day at the hospital. My fellowship is over.”
Camellia gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth in a too-late attempt to muffle the sound. Henry used the moment to release her from the towel, which was met with a howl. “This is not the right time!”
“This is exactly the right time,” he corrected, pushing her wet, naked body down onto the bed. “It’s going to be fine. We’re going to be fine. Right now is just about us.” And he began kissing her from her neck to her breasts, moving lower and lower.
Camellia was surprised how excited she was; how good his mouth felt on her. She writhed against the sheets, pushing his head down until he was right where she wanted him. And then she held him there, basking in the delight of his tongue.
“I think things are going to turn around soon for us,” Henry said with confidence, lying naked under the covers with Camellia snuggled tightly against his chest.
“For you, maybe,” Camellia replied, running a hand up and down Henry’s muscular arm.
“There have been a number of openings recently for radiologists around the country. It may not be New York, but–“
“Are you suggesting we leave New York?” Camellia’s head popped up to look at her husband, her body tense all over again.
“We may not have a choice. I haven’t had any promising leads around here. Neither have you.”
“Thanks a lot.” She sat up and wrapped the sheet around her, inching herself away from Henry.
“I didn’t mean that as a snub,” he said, feeling for her leg and getting a shot of uncharacteristic stubble. “I’m just being realistic. We’re at the point where we have to go where the jobs are.”
“And just where are the jobs?”
“I have an interview with a group in Michigan.”
“Michigan!” she cried out. “We don’t know anybody in Michigan. What’s in Michigan?” She got up and sat at the bench at the end of the bed, mindlessly picking at a hangnail, her heart racing.
“Don’t get excited, it’s just an interview. But it is reassuring to know I have some possibilities.” Henry sat up, the remaining sheet falling away to reveal his toned upper body that was already losing its tan from their summer holiday on the French Riviera.
“Well don’t scare me like that,” she scolded. “Me without a job in New York is bad enough. But no job in Michigan? Sitting in an apartment all day not knowing a soul while you’re busy at work? Might as well shoot me now and get it over with.”
Henry chuckled. “Nice to see you’ve still got a fire in your belly.” He crawled across the bed and scooped her up, pulling her on top of him. “Now come back over here and show me just how hot you are.”
A week later, Henry stood at the front door with a garment bag and overnight duffle in hand, waiting for his wife to kiss him goodbye. “Just remember, the sooner I go, the sooner I can come back,” Henry called out.
Camellia appeared from around the corner, her mouth in a pout. “How will I get through the next two days without you? I fear I’ve become completely dependent on you.”
“And you know I secretly love it.” He set his bags down and took her in his arms. “It’s just an interview and it’s only two days.” He kissed her forehead and each cheek. “Don’t forget, we spent way more time apart when you were jetting off to fashion weeks around the world.”
“Emphasis on were,” Camellia said, pushing Henry away then pulling him back again to wrap her arms tightly around his neck. “Besides, I had plenty to do. There wasn’t time to properly miss you.”
“Well, see that, you can enjoy properly missing me for the next two days. Seriously, Camellia, why don’t you call your mother?”
Camellia released Henry from her tight grip and sunk into the tufted chair set in the corner by the door. “My mother? Are you kidding me?”
“Do you have any idea how many times she’s called the house since Flair folded? I don’t, because I lost count.”
“Har, har,” she replied unconcerned, running a hand through what was now root-apparent hair.
“You haven’t spoken with her once, Camellia. I, on the other hand, have experienced numerous conversations with Gina. Because I’m the only one who will talk to her. It’s been three months, honey. And it’s almost Christmas. If you asked her to, she would be here by dinnertime.”
“Is that a threat, or a fact?”
“She’s not a bad person, Camellia. You chose to run away from her lifestyle. You don’t have to abandon her, too. He opened the door and picked up his bags. “I’ll call you tonight.”
Camellia closed the door softly behind him, wondering how she would pass the next two days alone. Calling Gina was out of the question. If her mother were to pick up on her depression, she really would be on a train and knocking down the door before Camellia could gather the strength to change out of her pajamas. Then, inspiration struck: a letter. A good, old-fashioned, thinking-about-you letter on good cardstock would satisfy Gina’s need for information without a conversation. And it was significantly more thoughtful than a quick and easy email. She hurried to the office and pulled out her stack of stationery from the bureau. She had just enough time to write a few lines and still make the day’s mail pickup.
The note card she selected had a red cover with her monogram stamped elegantly in white. With pen in hand, she stood over the desk, searching her mind for something appropriate to say that would be satisfying without saying too much. The mail carrier would be downstairs in minutes. The pressure made it all the more harder to focus. Finally, she started to write in her elegant, slanted script:
Mother,
Been terribly busy. As you can imagine, many offers have been presented to me, and trying to choose the one that is best for both Henry and me has been a challenge, to say the least. Sorry we’ll be absent for Christmas. We hope by this time next year we are fully settled in our new roles and can enjoy the holidays in a leisurely manner. Give my love to Dad.
Yours,
Camellia
Scribbling the address on the envelope and licking it closed, Camellia threw on a long coat from the front closet, buttoning it to the top so her pajamas wouldn’t show, and ran out the door to the elevator. By the time she made it to the ground floor, the mail carrier had already arrived and was chatting pleasantly with the concierge, whom Camellia had learned – after so many interactions sneaking in and out of the building – was named Mihail.
She scurried across the lobby, practically breathless by the time she reached the men. “I have mail,” she announced, waving the envelope.
“I can take that,” the mail carrier said, his thick mustache wiggling as he spoke.
“Thank you so much,” Camellia replied softly, realizing this was the first conversation she had had with anyone outside her husband since Thanksgiving.
“Is there, um, anything else you need, Mrs. Rhodes?” Mihail said, looking at Camellia strangely.
Camellia followed his eyes down to her feet, which were bare. She blushed crimson. “Oh, no, no, I’m fine, Mihail, thank you. Just, uh, had an important letter to get out. Very important. All set now. Thanks again, gentlemen. Have a lovely afternoon.”
She walked as quickly as she could back to the elevator, restraining the urge to break into a full run. Luckily the doors were still open and she clamored inside, holding her breath until the doors closed.
Once she was safely back in the apartment – she was shocked she hadn’t managed to lock herself out in her rush – she threw the coat onto the tufted chair and went into her bedroom, pulling the covers off the bed and dragging them into the living room. She was tired of hiding out in her room. Now that Alain and Yara were gone, she could be a mess right out in the open.
After she threw the sheet and comforter over the sofa, she grabbed the remote and tossed that
on top of the pile. Then she went into the kitchen, opening cabinets and scanning the shelves. Finding a silver tray, she placed on it an open bottle of Cabernet, a box of Carr’s crackers, a thick chunk of Gruyére cheese, a container of chocolate ice cream, and a large spoon. She carried the teetering tray out to the living room, placing it on the square coffee table, then dragged the table so it was right beside the sofa. With everything in place, Camellia slipped under the covers, grabbed the remote, and powered on the flat-panel television. She reached for the bottle of wine and drank from it directly. It was dry and full, just how she liked it. Flipping mindlessly through the channels, she landed on MTV and smirked, barely recognizing the channel that in her youth had been fashion inspiration. Now it was filled with teenage dribble dressed in wife beaters and tattoos. She took another swig from the bottle and flipped the channel. Swig and flip. Swig and flip. Still on the tray, the ice cream sweated and melted and leaked.
When Henry arrived home two days later, Camellia was still on the couch. The covers haphazard over her body were covered in crumbs and food wrappers. And the silver tray now looked like a Jenga game, with containers and plastic wear stacked in a teetering heap. Henry’s bright smile turned to an expression of concern. “Camellia, are you sick?”
Camellia pulled herself to a seated position and looked quizzically at her husband. “Uh, no, just camping out I guess,” she replied groggily. She eyed Henry, who looked like he had just returned from a spa trip rather than a job interview. “Why do you look so fresh and wide-eyed?”
Pushing a pizza box onto the floor, Henry fit his body into the limited seating left on the sofa. He picked up his wife’s legs and laid them across his knees, grimacing as he made contact with more pronounced leg hair, which didn’t seem to phase Camellia. “First let me go on record that we’re getting you into the shower today and cleaning your campsite.”
“Whatever, funny man. Let’s hear about your trip instead.”
“It was terrific. The doctors in the group are as nice as can be and the offices are modern. They partner with two area hospitals and also do work for the outpatient-imaging center. There is an immediate need for a radiologist, too. Honey, we can be back in the black and living really well in no time.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Camellia said, ripping away the covers, the crumbs flying into the air then falling like rain. “Immediate need? Henry, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying they offered me a job, Camellia. We’re moving to Michigan.”
TEN
“I said, what do you mean we’re moving to Michigan?” Camellia was close on Henry’s heels as he carried his bags to their expansive walk-in closet. “You can’t just go off and accept a job in another state without discussing it with me first.”
“What would you have said? ‘Oh Henry, what an amazing opportunity for us?’”
“No, because it isn’t an amazing opportunity for us. It’s an amazing opportunity for you.”
“Is that so awful?” he roared. “For something great to happen to me? Wonderful things have been happening for you for years. And I’ve been your biggest cheerleader. No matter your moods or your single-minded decisions. Don’t I get a turn?”
Camellia was speechless. Henry had never raised his voice to her in all their years together. And, much to her dismay, what he was saying held an awful lot of truth. Although that didn’t make any of what was happening okay. If she were to leave New York, it would be like waving the white flag. She would be over in every conceivable way. Maybe if it were Los Angeles or Chicago, cosmopolitan cities with on-the-map Fashion Weeks and big publishing companies and flagship stores, the move could be seen as a strategic decision. But everyone in the fashion world would know there was nothing strategic about relocating to Michigan. They would know she had no other choice.
She began to weep, sinking onto the closet floor. “Henry, I don’t think I can do this.”
Henry stopped unpacking and stared at her. “What can’t you do? Support your husband?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Then what? You can’t leave New York? They way I see it, neither of us have any options here at the moment.”
“At the moment. It will get better. We’ll find jobs.”
“I found a job. With great pay and benefits.”
“So maybe you can go and then once we get offers here, you can come back.”
“You’re suggesting we separate?” His voice was filled with vile.
“Not us. Not our marriage. Just for work. For a little while.” She was sobbing. “Henry, please.”
“None of those fashion people care one bit for you. They’ve made that perfectly clear. The only person supporting you is me. How dare you throw me away for them?” He threw the duffle bag to the floor and stomped out.
“Henry!” Camellia shrieked. She scrambled to her feet and chased after him, but it was too late. The front door slammed shut. He was gone.
Camellia paced the apartment, a sick swirl of anxiety, nausea, and exhaustion following her. Making tough decisions had always been one of her strongest assets. Now she felt paralyzed – unable to take a positive step in any direction. She stopped trying to find work a month ago, fully believing no one was going to consider her for a position, neither in fashion nor publishing in general. Even queries to smaller fitness and business magazines had come back empty. What was she going to do, fold sweaters at JCrew? So, instead she did nothing, watching the last of their savings drain away, while Henry punched away at the calculator, agonizing over the bills, and wondering how they would pay their costly apartment lease next month.
She found herself in the doorway of the office, and couldn’t help but notice that her laptop was starting to collect dust. She wandered in and slumped into the desk chair, opening the lid of the computer. Safari was already running, its Google search box waiting for direction. She typed in “Michigan” and hit enter. A number of sites for the University of Michigan popped up, along with a Wikipedia listing. While she would have thwarted one of her editors for sourcing the sometimes-unreliable site, she clinked on the link, figuring she would get a simple-to-read picture of the state holding Henry’s promise.
The entry noted that Michigan was the eighth most populated state in the country known for its lakes. While it wouldn’t be the Amalfi Coast, living on the water could hold some promise. She read about the auto industry, which reminded her that she hadn’t driven a car in nearly two decades. The fact that she couldn’t find one word about mass transportation concerned her, however with Henry’s salary, they could again afford car service. The state had a decent amount of tourism, although she couldn’t be sure what vacationers were heading there to do. There were beautiful photos on the page, showing Tahquamenon Falls and Sleeping Bear Dunes and a charming spot called Mackinac Island. That gave her a glimmer of hope, until she read that the major industries included cars, cereal, and pizza. Still, she hadn’t yet found what she was really searching for, so she Googled “Michigan shopping”.
She reeled back as an all-Christmas-all-the-time shopping destination called Bronner’s popped up on the search results, the overload of sparkly décor giving her an instant headache. Scrolling quickly down through the list, she landed on a site showcasing Michigan’s best shops and malls, and there, amidst the scores of fudge shops and outdoor stores, she found real promise in the names of Neiman Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, and Salvatore Ferragamo. There were also listings for St. John and Stuart Weitzman and Ralph Lauren and Henri Bendel, too. Halleluiah. Michigan had shopping.
Getting up from the desk, she went back into the living room to look out at Central Park, the oasis adding to her growing sense of calm. She imagined a life in a sprawling Cape-Cod cottage with a dormered roof and a second-floor balcony overlooking the water. She pictured a quieter, yet cultured life, filled with gallery exhibits, foreign films, shopping excursions, and alfresco dining. While Camellia wasn’t yet sure what she could do for work, she imagined
she could set a course for greatness as a freelance writer, starting with some of the up-and-coming fashion websites, and slowly moving back into magazines, until once again she was being sent to cover fashion weeks and boutique openings all over the world. Yes, this was a life she could find enthusiasm for. A life she could share with Henry.
When Henry finally returned home later that evening, he found a different wife waiting for him. Camellia was showered and dressed in wide-legged trousers and a silk-print blouse, her hair sleek, and her makeup back in place. And most remarkable: she was smiling.
“Camellia?” he questioned, looking unsure of his wife’s sudden change.
“Henry, let’s do this,” she said brightly. “Let’s move to Michigan.”
“What changed?” Henry asked, tearing into his steak. They had decided to go out for a celebratory dinner at a little restaurant around the corner from their apartment, followed by a small shopping trip to select Christmas gifts for each other.
It was the first time Camellia had been out in ages, and she couldn’t deny how good it felt to be amongst people again, especially with no more threat of paparazzi following her. “I did some research,” she explained, delicately stabbing at her Salade Niçoise. “I didn’t realize how lovely Michigan is.”
“It really is,” Henry agreed. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier, but one of the group’s receptionists, Mary Wysocki, has a friend who recently got transferred to Atlanta, and is looking to rent out his house until the real estate market improves. It’s empty, and she says very picturesque, and it’s ours to call home for awhile.”
Camellia set her fork down. Her forehead was creased, but she was too concerned with this new information to remember about wrinkles. “You agreed to a house without me seeing it first?”
The Makeover Page 6