by Angela Smith
“I’m not ‘on the nut’ as you say, Marisol. I’m doing OK, actually. I had some freelance jobs this week which will hold me over for quite a while.”
“That’s just lovely, chickadee, but don’t you want something a little more, I don’t know, permanent? Wouldn’t that make you feel more secure?” She said permanent and secure with such emphasis that I knew she was hinting at something. Just what that something was, is beyond me.
“I’m fine really. Don’t you worry about me!” I replied, a little too brightly. She probably knew I was lying but I pasted on my biggest smile possible just to make my point.
“OK, then. I’ll cut right to the chase, Autumn. I know you’re not one to beat around the bush, so I won’t either. I’m not worried about you. He is. I’ve been told that you’re finances aren’t exactly up to par right now and its put me behind the eight ball as a result,” she said. “You see your grandfather is one pushy man. He wants me to get on the ball with you and pronto so I’ve come up with a plan that I think is the bee’s knees…” Ok, was my grandfather seriously snooping through my financial records? Good God, that was creepy! I guess all those privacy notices don’t exactly apply to the dead (although they should because the dead seem more likely to snoop than the living!) Without waiting for an answer, Marisol ploughed on with her bright idea even though neither I nor the ever-silent Sophia had said anything in response yet. I was starting to worry she was a mute.
“You see, my darling Sophia here is a writer too. She is the editor of San Francisco Fashion & Flare, which I’m sure you’ve heard of. We’ve chatted and decided that you could take a vacant position there starting on Monday. The best part is that you’ll get to write about vintage clothes and trinkets! How fun is that?” she said, clapping her hands together in excitement.
Seriously? Marisol had to be delirious if she wanted me to work with her ice queen of a great-granddaughter. I’d rather poke my eyes out with a fork than have I’m-wearing-Chanel-so-I’m-better-than-you Sophia as my boss.
“While that’s very kind of you, Marisol, but as you can see, Sophia and I have very different style tastes. I’m not sure that I’d fit in at Fashion & Flare. Thank you for offering though.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said an extremely posh voice (that had to have come from Sophia, even though I never saw her lips move an inch. Freaking Botox. It made her impassive and unable to move her mouth!)
“We’d love to have you on our team. We need a new and fresh perspective and you seem cool enough, in a strange sort of way, to fill the gap. Of course, you’d be clearing all your ideas with me for the first few weeks, but after that you’d have full control over your articles. Plus, I trust my granny’s judgment. She says you know your stuff and I believe her.” What the hell? I thought. Did this woman just say that? Did she seriously just say that I was “cool” even though I’m sitting here with non-designer clothes and a head of hair that looked like I’d been zapped with a million volts of electricity? (I was prone to frizz these days). My life was getting more and more curious as the days went by.
After much deliberation and a stern talking to from Marisol (who was 99 but said age was only in one’s head) I agreed to start working for Sophie, as she insisted I call her, next Monday. I could only hope that my new beginning turned out to be what I needed it to be in my life right now.
The next morning, I woke up too early for my liking (what was it with morning people? They were so annoyingly perky!) and headed out for a walk with Clara. We headed towards the shore and I just prayed that this time it didn’t start down pouring out of the blue. I don’t know why but I’ve always felt a connection with the ocean. That and other innate objects seemed to calm me when I was stressed; make me smile when I was sad and clear my head when I was confused. I wasn’t any of these things today. I just felt like I needed to get out and get some fresh air. It seemed like a gorgeous day in Northern California even though it was almost winter and back home it would be absolutely freezing. That’s one thing I didn’t miss! I was a New Englander through and through but being here was so much better than being there when winter reared its ugly head. As Clara wobbled along (she was doing better and better) I got lost in my own thoughts once again which is probably why I didn’t see that there was a car coming down the street as I was crossing it.
“Oh my God!” I screamed, as the car screeched to a halt barely inches from me. Even though it didn’t hit me, I was knocked down by an over-excited puppy who thought that all the screaming indicated that something fun was happening. Dogs. You can’t help but love them but sometimes they really drive you mad!
“Are you OK? Did you break anything? Should I call 911?” a male voice screamed as I picked myself up and dusted myself off.
“I’m fine, really. You didn’t hit me,” I said as I brushed dirt – at least I thought it was dirt, I hope it wasn’t actually dog poop – off my favorite jeans.
That’s when I noticed him. Standing not three feet from me and offering me his hand was the most gorgeous man I had ever seen in my entire life. Seriously. The. Most. Gorgeous. Man. Ever. I blushed as I realized how silly I must look to this Adonis of a man, standing in the middle of the road when he didn’t even hit me. He had every right to after the show I’d put on (and for jaywalking but I wouldn’t bring that up if he didn’t!)
“Thank God you’re OK. I was so worried that I had hit you and would be charged with manslaughter and dog-slaughter or something,” he said, obviously very relieved that the mad woman with the dog crossing in front of him had no visible injuries and therefore wouldn’t be suing the pants off of him. Oh. Scratch that. I didn’t want to think about him without pants. But I already was. Shitballs. I was blushing again. I could only hope he didn’t notice.
“Are you sure you’re OK? You seem a little flushed…Here, let me get you a coffee and you can have a minute to regain your composure. I think that café over there allows dogs,” he said, as I died inside. He had noticed and was now thinking my red face was down to his poor driving. If he only knew the truth!
“Really, it’s no big deal. It was my fault and I’m sorry for ruining your day by scaring the pants off of you…” I trailed off, realizing I had brought up his pants again. What was wrong with me? Had I never been in the presence of a gorgeous man before? He smirked at my comment (maybe he thought I was flirting with him) and then insisted that I sit in the Sticky Bun café. As if I wasn’t thinking about his buns enough already, I was now going to sit in a place with the word “buns” in its name! I did as instructed (who could say no to a good looking man?) and sat in the café while he parked up the road. As he walked back to me, I felt my heart flutter a little. It seemed my heart was betraying me already and I hadn’t even had a proper conversation with Mr.-Almost-Hit-And-Killed-Me.
“Once again, I must apologize for not seeing you sooner. I must have been distracted,” he said as he sat down and started petting Clara, to her obvious delight. So, he was a dog person? That automatically gave him another checkmark in my book. I could never date a man who didn’t like dogs. Not that I was going to date this man but…well, you know what I mean.
“She’s a pit, right?” I nodded in response since my mouth seemed a lot like Sophie’s (minus the Botox) and was unable to form any words.
“They’re such good dogs. It’s sad that people think so badly of them. I had one when I was younger and my parents have one now. I can’t have dogs in my apartment, but if they were allowed I’d definitely go down to the shelter this minute and adopt the neediest pit. What happened to her leg?”
“Oh, well, I guess, she, uh, well, she was being abused. I, um, saw her getting kicked and I stopped them and took her to my, uh, my vet. Well, not my vet. I don’t go to the vet, obviously, I go to a very nice doctor in North Beach,” I stumbled, cringing as every word came out of my suddenly unstoppable mouth. He smiled. God, what a nice smile he had. Kind of goofy but sweet looking and sincere. You could always tell a lot by someone’s smile,
I thought.
“You saved her from being killed? That’s amazing! You’re a hero…I almost hit a hero. Wow, can you imagine if I had hit you? I think I would have gone straight to hell because you’re so angelic,” he said laughing. I laughed too because he was just so charming and easy-going. I suddenly found my voice, realizing it was silly to be so dumb-struck by a man who probably had a model wife or girlfriend and ten beautiful, blue eyed children at home. Well, maybe not ten but at least one.
“I doubt you’d go to hell for hitting me. I probably would’ve gone to hell for jaywalking before you’d go to hell for hitting me!” I said.
“True that,” he replied and we both laughed.
One sticky bun and a coffee later, I had found out that my snacking partner was named Bayani, which he said meant “Hero” (oddly enough) and that he was of Asian heritage – which explained his shiny, dark hair and gorgeous exotic features. He was just so perfect that I could have sat and stared at him all day if he let me. Though that would be kind of creepy right, seeing as we’d just met? It seemed like we were getting along well and Clara simply adored him already, which was a great sign. So far there had been no mention of a wife/girlfriend or child, another good sign. Since we were getting along so well, I was surprised, but not shocked, when Bayani asked me for my number and told me he had one of the best afternoons in a long time thanks to me (go me!) He also said he’d love to meet up again. I wasn’t sure if he meant as friends or for a date but I would take what I could get and go from there. I wasn’t too surprised either, to find that Marisol already knew about my fateful meeting with Bayani when I stopped by to deliver a dozen warm and sweet sticky buns that Bayani insisted on buying me as an apology.
“So, tell me about your new fella? What’s he like? I want details, woman!” she said as soon I walked in the door. Obviously, gramps had been snooping again. But I couldn’t be mad at him because at that moment , as I sat down on Marisol’s vintage chaise lounge chair, I felt that my life was finally turning a corner for the better and I couldn’t wait to see what was in store for me on Monday when I began my first day at San Francisco Fashion & Flare.
Chapter Three
The rest of the week flew by in a flurry of short Flapper lessons, shopping with Marisol and phone conversations with Bayani. Apparently, he worked in some big publishing house and his editor-in-chief was extremely demanding. I couldn’t associate, having never actually worked in a big office before, but I had a feeling I might be able to understand his gripe a bit more after my first day working for Sophie.
Marisol took me to some of the more expensive and eclectic boutiques around town in her chauffeured BMW. It was so obvious to me now that she was fairly well known around San Francisco and was somewhat of a legend. Even though she was small in stature she was big in personality and heart. She just radiated warmth and as a result people gravitated to her. Luckily, most of the people in the city didn’t know her background, which was just as well since she’d be mobbed if they did.
“Don’t you like this Chickadee?” she asked me as she held up a baby blue wrap dress that I knew would look divine with my chestnut colored hair and fair complexion. It would also help to bring out my hazel eyes if I ever got to go on a date with Bayani. If. That was the key word right now.
“Like it? I love it! It’s so perfect for me – a little retro and vintage but totally fashionable too,” I said, as I reached over to touch the expensive material just as Marisol pulled it out of my reach and put it in the “possible” pile. We were dividing the clothes up into piles of possibilities and definites to make things easier, though I wondered how much my bank account could take especially considering there wasn’t anything -- not even a scarf or pair of socks -- under $50 in this particular store. Marisol kept waving me off when I tried to check a price tag. Apparently rich people didn’t do that and I was ruining her image by worrying about how much each item cost. She said it was an investment in my future; I said it was the death of my credit card.
At the end of our trip, Marisol picked out my first-day-of-work outfit without me trying it on or having a say in whether I liked it. She picked out the baby blue Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress, a sweet little cream colored cardigan, a bunch of things I could mix and match for the office and three pairs of designer shoes. She also added some accessories and made sure that my love for vintage things showed with cute little embellishments on many of the pieces. It was basically a wardrobe from heaven but I knew it wouldn’t be priced as nicely.
“Don’t fret, dear, I’m getting this one. It’s the least I can do for you,” she said before adding “plus if you’re grandfather doesn’t see you in something classy soon he’s going to keel over for a second time!” Apparently, no one liked my tracksuit-and-shirt combos. I didn’t either, so for once I didn’t fight as Marisol pulled out her black AmEx card and signed for my brand new wardrobe.
Later on, over a very festive Champagne Dream cocktail (we were celebrating my new job, apparently) I learned some more about the era that has for so long been in my heart.
“Drink up, woman! This drink is one of my favorites, especially after all the bathtub gin I had to drink throughout the 20’s,” Marisol said, shuddering as she remembered the awful tasting cocktails that were made with tap water and other low-quality ingredients during the prohibition.
“You don’t know how lucky we are to be drinking such delicious drinks. During the prohibition, which went into effect on January 16, 1920, when I was just 10 years old, my family lost their business because they could no longer sell giggle juice – that’s what we called alcohol, my dear. It was just disastrous. Disastrous, I tell you! Can you imagine a world without alcohol? It’s such a staple now but back then, it was only available in speakeasys and other illegal gems. Some people started drinking tea. Tea! You’d think we were British, for God’s sake! But alas, it was a bad time and a good time. There was just so much going on that you had to take the good with the bad.”
Marisol then went on to talk about how the prices had changed so much over the years. With Thanksgiving less than two weeks away, she told me how she and her family used to go to The Harvard Tea Room in Glendale where an entire Thanksgiving dinner was only $1.50. Can you imagine that? Now, you’d be lucky if you could get your dinner for under $25.00. And leave without food poisoning.
“Oh yes, those were the days. I was just a wee thing at ten years old and I loved nothing more than Thanksgiving dinner at the Tea Room. We had oyster cocktails – just before the prohibition – pineapple salad, candied yams, creamed onions, hot buttered rolls and oh, the turkey! It was so moist and delicious! I could have eaten it three times over, but of course father couldn’t afford to feed me that much and I appreciated what he could give me. I was so thankful for my family then. Now they’ve all gone off for the Big Sleep, just like your grandfather and grandmother…but the memories remain, don’t they?” she said, looking quite wistful as she spoke of the Roaring Twenties like she was living in them now. I was transfixed by her stories. As I sat there drinking my cocktail (which I was very grateful for, by the way) and thinking about how my life had changed in the past few weeks, I realized that for the first time in a long time my heart wasn’t aching. I wasn’t thinking about going home and watching TV by myself or taking a nap during the afternoon because I had things to look forward to. I had things that made me happy and I didn’t even realize it until now. I was actually happy, an emotion that I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
Thank you, gramps. Thank you so much for bringing Marisol into my life and bringing me out of hibernation. I owe you everything, as you already know, I thought, as Marisol continued on with her reminiscing and I listened intently until darkness fell and cool air blew over the patio. Another night in San Francisco had passed without me thinking of everything in my past. I couldn’t be more grateful for the distraction.
The following day was Sunday and Marisol decided that would be the day that we had our first real-life interpretati
on of how my lessons were coming along. I had been learning all about the twenties through Marisol and more often than not she surprised me with her vivid memories of a time gone by. We had already made it through most of the slang words and important dates that related to the era. My dress sense was slowly changing as Marisol showed me different Flapper styles from her own closet. The dresses were very boxy looking, I thought, but they were true pieces of history so I fell in love with them regardless. Many were cut to the knee and done in muted colors; others had gorgeous fringe and were gold, silver or copper colored.
It became clear to me that even thought I loved the era, I couldn’t exactly get away with dressing like a Flapper every day. I’d look like a complete nutcase. Though one did tend to see some pretty odd things in San Francisco, so maybe I wouldn’t be so out of place after all if I decided to do a complete Flapper transformation.
“So, Chickadee, I have a wretched plan that you’re probably going to find dreadful but it’s necessary to see how you’re progressing. I don’t want you to be spending countless hours with me and getting nothing out of it,” Marisol said, as she sat in her living room chair twiddling her thumbs incessantly. I got the feeling she knew I wasn’t going to like her plan without even asking me.
“Actually, Marisol, I enjoy my time with you. I’ve always loved listening to people recount the past and you do it so well. I’m not really worried about all of the fine details of being a Flapper. I appreciate just being here with you,” I explained.
“Darling girl, if there is one thing you’ve got to learn it’s not to insult the hand that feeds you! I’m going to ignore the fact that you don’t want to know details and teach you anyway. The 1920s were the ‘Era of Nonsense’ and I think we could all use some nonsense in our lives – especially you!” she said, giving me a stern look that meant business. “Now, my plan includes you in full Flapper attire – that means hair, makeup, clothes, shoes – as you attend a dinner party here at my home. I’ll invite some molls and some dolls, we’ll have some giggle juice and oh, I can’t forget to buy you some handcuffs!” she said, quickly grabbing a notepad on the coffee table next to her and jotting down the word “handcuffs” with two lines underneath to signify its importance. She studied me before writing down “hair” with a question mark, as if she didn’t know what to do with my out of control frizz. I knew it wasn’t exactly the sleek cut that almost all Flappers had in the twenties but it’d have to do somehow because I really couldn’t afford to cut it at the moment.