“That’s fair,” Nora said, holding her expectations and any hint of fulfillment at bay.
“Again, you have to give me a couple of weeks. There are a few moving parts here, including one of the partners possibly leaving—but that’s not public information yet. Please, keep that part under—”
“My hat?” Nora gave her a firm nod, but resisted the urge to follow it with a mocking wink. “I can definitely do that.”
“I appreciate it.”
“And I appreciate you taking me and my request seriously.”
“I don’t think I had much of a choice there,” the doctor said. Her already watered-down smile was fading as she closed the file folder on her desk.
Nora shook her head. “No, not really.”
* * *
The atelier was full but quiet. Nora walked in, keeping her eyes straight and dark sunglasses on. Oli was on a call; her expression looked attentive, but pleasant. She spotted Nora and nodded in her direction, and Nora dipped her head in reply. While normally she would check in with everyone, go around the space handing out shoulder squeezes, kind pats high on backs, and funny callbacks to inside jokes, this late morning, she did none of it. Nora went directly to her office and closed the door behind her.
With Fisher due home that night, Nora was experiencing a steady mix of anticipation and angst. He had been away less than a week, but it felt more like a month, and she was still rattled by the coffee shop encounter. Dawn’s smirking face would jump out at Nora at the least opportune moments: while blow-drying her hair or making coffee in the French press or right now, as she stared down at the large envelope from the wedding planner’s office. A soft knock on her door brought Nora back.
“Hey.” Oli squeezed into the slim opening and held the door against her. “You okay?”
“Hey, yeah. I’m good. Come on in.”
Oli slid in through the door and perched on one of Nora’s custom, white bergère chairs. “You okay—for real?”
Fix your face. “Yeah, of course. Totally.” Nora made sure her smile didn’t look too labored. “The other day with Jenna calling in sick for me . . . that was just something I ate.”
“Something you ate? Next thing you’ll tell me is that you were suffering from exhaustion.” Oli clucked her tongue. “Nor, it’s me. You can say it. What’s really going on? Is it wedding stuff? Oh, by the way, I finally asked Michaela to come with me, and she said yes,” Oli beamed.
“That’s great, Oli. I’m so happy for you.”
“Sorry, I highjacked the moment. I just haven’t had a second to catch you up on everything.”
“It’s fine. You didn’t highjack anything.”
“So you’re good?”
“Oli. Please, I’m fine. It’s nothing but a bunch of little things that, when all pooled together, don’t amount to much. Anyway, back to Michaela. I’m really excited she’s coming to the wedding with you. She’s beautiful, and so sweet.”
“Yeah, she makes me kind of nervous and sometimes she’ll bust me, like, gawking at her. Those sharp-as-hell cheekbones . . . I’m just—wow. And I keep telling her that I don’t need anything else in my tea with her around. She really is super sweet.”
“Shit! Tea.” Nora cupped her head in her hands. “I forgot.”
“Did you . . . want some?” Oli said, her sculpted brows coming together on her forehead.
“No, it’s—I forgot to RSVP for this tea party bullshit that Fisher’s mother is hosting in my honor or whatever.”
“Wow. A classic Lady E jam, huh? Should be inneresting,” she chuckled. “Do you want me to—”
“Go with me? Yes!”
“Oh, no-no-no. I was about to say, do you want me to call it in for you—the RSVP. That’s all. I don’t play well at those kinds of parties. I’m not super into being asked where my family is really from or giving anthropology lessons on how someone can be both Chinese and Jamaican. Then there are the forty questions about my interesting tattoos and the horrified expressions on their faces when they spot my sternum piercing. Hard pass. I honestly can’t with these rich white ladies.” Oli openly cringed. “You know what I mean. You’re cool . . . and not old.”
A weird silence billowed up between them. Oli started fluffing her bangs: her telltale sign of discomfort. Nora cleared her throat and flipped through the imaginary cue cards in her mind, searching for a joke, an anecdote, any towline to bring them back to a smoother course. But there was nothing. Instead she turned the whole boat around and steered right toward safer shores: business.
“Hey, is Mateo in?”
Oli nodded, her brows inching closer together.
“Great. Let me call him in to join us.” Nora typed a quick message on the internal messenger app. “He’ll be right in,” she said to Oli with a sniff.
Mateo was at the door before Nora could sit back all the way in her chair. He had his usual yellow notepad and thin Sharpie in hand. “Ready to take dictation, bawse,” he said in an exaggerated New Yorker accent, and pretending to aggressively chew gum.
Nora shook her head, smiling. “Just get in here, nutcase.”
He sidled up to the chair next to Oli and winked at her as he sat down, but her stern expression remained. Mateo moved his eyes between Oli and Nora. “Are we planning a funeral now? Because I threw down, like, a blanket rule at the top of the year that I’m not attending any funerals. Not a one.”
“Oh, good Christ, Mateo,” Nora said, waving her hands in his direction. “I think you need to reconsider what blanket rules are. No, there’s no funeral. I wanted to pull you in on this powwow about Jay Schuyler. You brought him in, yes?” Through the corner of her eye, Nora saw Oli’s face tighten. “And I hear that he’s a lot of work, so . . . let’s get on it and Eliza Doolittle this bitch.”
Mateo laughed and rubbed his hands together. “Oh, you know I’m always here for Nora Mackenzie taking off the gloves and molding muthafuckas like Play-Doh.” He turned to look at Oli again, mid-chuckle. His grin dimmed and he leaned over toward her. “Yo, what’s with you? This is, like, your shit. You love this part.”
Oli smiled the tightest of smiles. “Nothing’s wrong. I just . . . I’m just listening.”
Nora ignored Oli’s obvious sulk. “Cool. Let’s get our plan together,” she said, and stood up behind her desk, triggering Mateo and Oli (dragging) to do the same. “Matts, why don’t you set a time for your boy Schuyler to come in here for a prelim meet.”
“On it,” he said, and turned to leave. He motioned with a tilt of his head for Oli to follow. She shot him an iced glare and sat back down instead. Off her look, Mateo shook his head and left.
“And do you need me to start sketching out a plan for—”
“Actually,” Nora interrupted, “if you could handle that tea party RSVP for me and add a large arrangement from Bloom with a nice note”—Nora made air quotes—“from me to smooth over my super-late reply, that would be great. Also, give me everything you have on the Schuyler kid.” Nora reached for one of her bright blue Sharpie pens from the gold cup on her desk and bent over jotting an illegible, short string of words on the closest notepad. She could feel Oli’s big eyes on her, growing Keane-like with each mention of the client. Nora knew exactly what she was doing, and did it anyway. The flipping through her notebook, no longer meeting Oli’s gaze, acting as though everything was an afterthought—it was all theater; a way to remind those who were under her that they were under her.
Oli stuttered a few details from Jay’s profile. She was clearly taken aback and put off by the territorial dance Nora had introduced. But Nora pressed on, acting as if Oli’s bent facial expression and furrowed brow had gone unnoticed. She had seen firsthand how well this passive-aggressive tactic worked. Elise Bourdain had taught the master class on it, and Nora turned out to be her A-plus student.
“This sounds good,” Nora said, and closed her notebook with a flourish. “I think you and Mateo have a good start here. Just email everything, plus whatever notes, and
I’ll get started.”
Oli nodded once and shot up from her seat. “Okay, then.” Her voice was as tight as her lips. “Thanks for your help. I’ll get on that RSVP for you.”
“Great. Thanks, lady.” She watched Oli’s back as it slunk out of her office. “Oh, and, Oli”—Oli turned back to look at Nora with a slim thread of hope in her eyes—“mind closing the door behind you?” Nora said through a firm grin. At the sound of the click, Nora dropped to her chair and spun it around to grab her phone from her bag that was resting on the credenza behind her. She wanted to call Jenna and confess what had just happened. She was the one person Nora could count on not to pass judgment when her inner asshole took the wheel and drove right up to the edge of a cliff. Jenna—well-known for being a demanding, sometimes jerk at work—was also good with offering up suggestions on how to apologize after stomping on toes. (“Everyone appreciates a nice bottle of Pinot Noir and handpicked macarons,” Jenna said.)
Nora spotted a notification on the phone. Facebook. She brought the phone closer to her scrunched-up face. Facebook? Odd, she thought. She hadn’t messed around with this thing, much less received a notification in over two years. Did Mateo fiddle with her settings? She stared down at the red icon as if it alone could soothe her befuddlement. She shook her head and clicked through, mainly to get rid of the now-annoying red mark. It was a Friend Request.
Click.
The profile photo was a perfect, shiny golden egg set on a blue pillow.
Nwad Bea Roo-Kayes
1 mutual friend
Maybe a new, international client? But whom would they have in common? Nora made a point not to mix business with social and kept a very small, vetted group of contacts on the app. Nwad Bea Roos-Kayes had a fairly locked-up profile, too: no photos, nothing accessible in the About Me section, just this one mutual friend. It’s probably Oli. No, Mateo, she thought. Nwad sounded like a man’s name, from Dubai or somewhere similar; Mateo’s reach was broad.
Click.
The mutual friend’s profile popped up. Nora lurched forward and choked on her breath. It was her, Nora, barely smiling in an old photo from the Immaculate Heart yearbook and under it, her former name. Nora Bourdain.
She dropped the phone hard on the desk and pushed her chair away with such force it almost toppled over with her in it. Nora swallowed hard, stood up, and stepped toward the desk, slow and cautious, leaning over the phone (still intact, no cracks) like an ill-timed jack-in-the-box. She touched the screen to navigate back to the original friend request. Nwad.
“Jesus Christ.” It was Dawn spelled backward. And the surname was actually a jumble-puzzle version of Brooks.
Fuck.
Nora moved back from the desk again and rushed over to the window. How did she find me? Her breathing was ragged now. She pressed her forehead on the window, hoping the cold of it would do its work, but nothing changed, she was still agitated and could hear the drum of her heartbeat echoing deep in her ears. Nora dipped her chin into her chest, put her hands to her head—pressing down on her scalp—and started counting breaths between whispers and quiet.
It wasn’t working. She wanted to call out to Oli, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. The tension from their last exchange was still palpable, floating around in Nora’s office. She tried focusing in on one person walking the streets way down below. If she could make out one person—a guy with a bright jacket, a woman with an overbearing hat, even a bike messenger snaking through the toppled dominoes of cabs, then she would be on her way to some sense of calm. This brand of people-watching from on high had worked a few times before. Looking down from eleven stories above and seeing everyone just moving through their lives restored Nora’s sense of balance.
She hadn’t pinpointed anyone on the street, but could feel an even rhythm returning to her chest anyway.
Dawn can’t do this. Not again. The last time left enough of a mark.
Nora looked back at the phone on the desk, then did a sweep of the whole room with her eyes. She had built all of this on her own, without the Bourdain name, without trepidation, and certainly without the threat of some pest slinking up from the sewer trying to take it away from her. She didn’t spend the last ten years walking around on her tiptoes looking over her shoulder and had no plans to start now. Nora went back to the desk, snatched up the phone, and deleted Facebook from it and cleared the cache, too, for good measure. She slipped the pen back into the gold cup, straightened the vase and folders, and lined up her chair perfectly to the desk. She nodded. A stiff drink (or three) was in order. Nora pulled out a lip gloss from the top drawer and smoothed it over her lips, then punched out a quick text:
not weds but you up for Snack Time today?
bitch, please. do not need to ask 2x.
soosh and sake??
Oh my god yes!!! Morimoto in 30
there/square
btw good timing . . . was fixin to sext w/sports bro
barf. Say nothing more Callaway! I want to keep my appetite kthxbye!
CHAPTER 10
“Make sure the doorman helps her in, okay, Mr. Wally?” Jenna said as she eased Nora into the back of the car. “Nora, darlin’, I’m not sure when you became such a cheap date, but Jesus, woman, you’re tighter’n bark on a log.”
“I’m fine. I’m happy and excited, that’s all. Fisher’s coming home to me!” Nora fell back into the seat and dissolved into a throaty chuckle. “To me,” she said again, but louder and clapping her free hand against her chest. “And nothing can change that. Nothing. I won’t let it.”
“Damn straight,” Jenna said, grunting as she hoisted Nora’s legs into the car. “I don’t know who told you that shots would be a good move, but they lied to you, sweetie. Now”—she reached for Nora’s bag that was lying partly crushed on her elbow—“let me make sure your phone is on and close by because—”
Nora jolted upright and recoiled, shielding her handbag from Jenna.
“Whoa, whoa,” Jenna said, both hands held up by her ears. “I’m not going to steal your shit. I’m trying to help here. Look, I’m even loaning you Mr. Wally and my car.”
Nora glanced up at the driver in his rearview. He held her in his gaze long enough to make her stop snickering. Mr. Noel used to look back at her in his rearview, too, but it was different; it was friendly, warm. There was something else at the base of this driver’s eyes as he glared at Nora. And it wasn’t just about being lumped together with the car, an inanimate thing that can be borrowed. The sentiment behind his look was vague, but Nora definitely felt it now the same way she had the first time that she tagged along with Jenna in the back of his immaculate sedan.
This man, he was no Mr. Noel.
Geoff Noel had been the Bourdain family driver for as long as Nora could remember. Longer. Nora’s mother liked to tell her that “Geo” was one of the first names she was able to say clearly as a child. It was a sweet story that Nora knew was embellished; she was six after all, and speaking clearly, using her vast and impressive vocabulary. But she played along especially because of the way he would smile whenever he heard it told. It made the myth worth it. Nora would help Mr. Noel with his English, gently correcting his heavy Creole tongue from the backseat when he drove Nora and her mother to church on Sundays. (Nora’s mother insisted on sitting up front with him.) And he would try—unsuccessfully each time—to introduce Nora to sounds of home. Zouk music from his Haitian brother living in Martinique often played on low in the car whenever Mr. Noel ran Nora here and there on errands for her sick, then dying mother. He was a good man who cared for Nora. She believed it, trusted it, and wished Geo were here now, with the fast guitar and steel drum ping-pang rhythms of his music growing louder as his smile widened.
Mr. Wally cleared his throat loudly, finally breaking the staredown happening in the rearview. “Awright. Good enough. But let me see if I hearin’ yuh right,” he said. His Bajan accent was dense and prickled Nora’s ears. “You want me to come back for you after she get home?”
He was clumsily turned around in the driver’s seat facing Nora, but with his eyes slanted toward Jenna.
“No, thank you, Mr. Wally. It’s probably easier for me to grab a cab.”
“I could call in to one of de men in dispatch to come out for you. It ain’t a problem attall,” he said, still talking over Nora’s head.
“Aw, you take such good care of me. But no, I’ll hop in a cab the minute you guys pull off. I promise,” Jenna said.
Mr. Wally fixed his body straight again and put his hand back on the gearshift at his leg. He had quit gawking at Nora through the mirror and kept his eyes on the bustling intersection in front of him.
Jenna leaned into the car farther and pulled the seat belt around Nora.
“I can do it,” Nora snapped, and swiped the buckle head from her friend’s hand. “I’m not a toddler.”
“You sure? ’Cause this feels like a tantrum in the making and it’s not the cutest.”
“Sorry, I just think all of this”—Nora fanned her hand around the car’s interior and the back of Mr. Wally’s head—“it’s to’ly, t-t-to—totally unnecessary.”
“Yet you’re slurring your words. All right, it’s a wrap on Nora Mackenzie, people,” Jenna shouted to the buildings behind her.
“Ssh. Keep your voice down,” Nora said, her finger wagging near her own lips.
“Okay, it’s curtains.” Jenna grabbed the buckle back from Nora and snapped the belt in place before slamming the door. She poked her head through the open window, reached in, and stroked Nora’s hair. “You’ll sleep this off, sweet pea, and by the time Fish gets home you’ll be a lot less hot mess and just hot. Ready for him and—”
“Yeah, yeah, and his big dick. Yes, we know, Jenna.” Nora flopped back onto the supple seat. “Fisher’s got a huge penis. Not news.”
Jenna’s eyes turned into saucers and she unleashed her belly-cackle, with her head tossed back. “Nora Mackenzie.” She craned her neck to the driver. “Oh, Mr. Wally, I’m so sorry about my friend. Excuse her. This girl’s drunker’n Cooter Brown.”
Have You Met Nora? Page 13