Love-Lines

by Sheri Langer

  “It’s all going to work out,” Margo said. “Just let yourself be happy.”

  Pretty Zen. Maybe Margo had been in touch with the guru she slept with when she was working on Yoga Enthusiasts. They’d broken up on the way to a tantric-sex workshop in Cairo, New York. What a shame. He had late ’70s Dustin Hoffman hair and could make Margo laugh at herself.

  Fordham’s phone buzzed for an incoming call, and before she could answer it, Margo gave her a peck on each cheek and hurried toward the door. The guy calling was from tech support, letting her know they were still trying to retrieve her lost folders. As Fordham was talking to the whiny rep, she noticed a card fall from Margo’s purse onto the restaurant floor.

  After a few heated exchanges, she ended the call and went to retrieve the card. Margo was already gone. The colorful business card read, “Henna Hora Artistry. Mehndi design—appointment time 7:00 p.m.”

  Fordham couldn’t imagine why Margo would be interested in getting any kind of tattoo, especially one as intricate as a mehndi design. She didn’t even have the patience to sit through a Disney movie. There had to be some explanation. Chances were good that Margo was trying to curry favor with someone.

  Chapter Two: Runaway Pride

  Fordham scanned the library, relieved she wasn’t seeing any familiar faces. She hadn’t had a chance to shower before leaving the house, and her hair could have had her mistaken for the eponymous star of Lassie Come Home. It wasn’t her fault. Her mother had gotten a frantic call from her cousin in Staten Island, who had no clue how to host a dinner party for her son’s new Jamaican in-laws. Terrified of being the only jerk on the menu, she begged Dorie, a lauded culinary expert compared to anyone else in the family, to help her cook and entertain. Always the consummate savior, Dorie packed a bag and headed out at the crack of dawn, which was precisely when Whitty had pounced on Fordham with the news that she had to go to the local library’s art exhibit for a homework assignment.

  “Mom!” Whitty shouted. “Come here.”

  Fordham quickly ended her post. She could tweet about her new remedy for cat hair balls later. She walked past a few forgettable ink sketches toward Whitty, who was looking more mature every day. Fordham only wished her lovely ten-year-old daughter, with her long wavy hair and angelic face, didn’t have to deal with the congenital hip malformation that kept her from being like the other girls.

  Whitty jabbed her finger at a large painting in a wood frame. “Look at this!”

  “What am I looking at?” Fordham asked, peering at the image of a vase filled with flowers.

  Whitty sneered. “The flowers. Duh.”

  “Okay, they’re flowers. What’s the big deal?”

  “They look like vaginas,” Whitty said matter-of-factly.

  Though happy that her daughter was outspoken and opinionated, Fordham was grateful no one else was in earshot. “No, they don’t!”

  “Yes, they do.” Whitty was tracing the proof of her theory with her pointer finger inches away from the painting.

  “Okay, okay, I get it,” Fordham said, pushing her daughter’s hand down. “But for the record, they’re called calla lilies.

  “Well, they look like purple vaginas to me. A whole bunch of them.”

  The calla lilies did look like vaginas, and the artist was clearly making that statement by entitling the work Her Spring Climax. Whitty’s ability to process such sophisticated symbolism had to mean she was growing up, which meant that Fordham was getting closer to assisted living and dinner at five. “Art and life go hand in hand, so it’s entirely possible for you to see that.”

  “You don’t?” Whitty asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  Whitty shrugged. “Kind of.”

  “It shouldn’t. Art is personal. Everybody sees things their own way. That’s what makes it interesting.”

  “You think I’m weird.”

  “I think you’re ten going on forty.” Fordham patted Whitty’s head. “Speaking of age, I think Aunt Margo is going through another midlife crisis.”

  “She already has a Ferrari. Did she finally pierce her belly button?”

  “No, but you’re close.”

  “Oh, yuck, did she pierce her—”

  “No, and I won’t ask how you even know about that.”

  “YouTube,” Whitty said.

  Fordham rolled her eyes and gave Whitty the business card Margo had dropped. “Did she say anything to you about this when she watched you last week?”

  “Um, no. I just did her toenails while we watched My 600-lb Life.”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “What’s a mehndi, anyway?” Whitty asked, handing the card back to Fordham.

  “A henna tattoo. They’re popular in Indian culture.”

  “She doesn’t look Indian.”

  “Quite true. Maybe it’s research for a new book.” Fordham put the card back in her bag. “Anyway, are you hungry?”

  “I’m a kid. I’m always hungry.”

  “Good, because I could really use some coffee and a carb.”

  Whitty sighed deeply.

  “What’s wrong?” Fordham asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re a bad liar.” Fordham cupped her daughter’s chin in her hand and lifted her face. “I’m your mom. You can tell me anything.” She silently hoped Whitty hadn’t gotten her period yet.

  “Okay, but you’re not going to like it.”

  “I don’t like okra, but every once in a while, I manage to eat it. Try me.” Fordham’s phone played the theme from the movie 9 to 5, the ringtone for Abe. “Sorry, honey, it’s work. Give me a minute.”

  Whitty scowled and went to dissect another painting. Fordham summoned her casual weekend voice to answer the phone, but all she got was static. After struggling to extract a few snippets from the conversation, she ended the call and tried calling Abe back. The call went straight to voicemail, then her phone ran out of juice. Abe didn’t typically call on weekends unless he was stuck on a crossword puzzle or needed a movie recommendation. But he seemed preoccupied lately, and she sensed that this time, something was up. She’d try him again later.

  She spotted Whitty analyzing a Cray-Pas reproduction of a Warhol classic.

  “I don’t get it. Who cares that much about soup?” Whitty asked.

  “It was a pretty big deal back in its day.”

  “If you say so, but I’d rather draw a stack of crackers.” Whitty reached into Fordham’s bag and pulled out a stick of gum. “What did work want?”

  “I’m not really sure. We had a bad connection, and all I got out of it was that he needed me to come in early on Monday.”

  “Like that’s new.”

  “Hey, you know, I’ve been trying to be around more often, but work has gotten busier.” Fordham put her arm around Whitty’s shoulders. “Just so you know, I spoke with Margo, and she said she’s going to help with that.”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  “Do you have what you need so we can get out of here?” Fordham asked.

  Whitty nodded.

  “Good. Let’s go to Cindy’s and get some waffles.”

  THE HOSTESS, A SIX-foot-tall platinum blonde with red hoop earrings, led Fordham and Whitty to a booth near the front window of the small diner. Large pitchers of different syrups on each table suggested that the pancakes were a safe bet. The place wasn’t as crowded as usual, and Fordham figured they might have time to go to a matinee if they could agree on what to see.

  After they gave their drink order to the server, Fordham picked up a menu. “So, we got caught up in a bunch of other stuff, and you never told me what you were going to tell me.”

  “I was hoping you forgot.”

  The server, a young brunette, dropped off Fordham’s coffee and a mug of hot chocolate for Whitty then hurried to the next table without a word.

  Starting to feel uneasy, Fordham grabbed a couple of packets of real sugar and a container of half-and-half. She eyed her daughter as s
he stirred. “Just tell me.”

  Whitty slurped her hot chocolate. “I kind of found out something that I’m not sure I’m supposed to know.” She dipped her spoon into the whipped cream and licked it clean.

  “Are we going to play twenty questions, or are you going to tell me?”

  “Twenty questions sounds like fun.”

  “Whitty!”

  “Ari’s mom is seeing Dad,” Whitty blurted through clenched teeth.

  Fordham spewed coffee onto the table. Once her coughing fit was over, she snatched some napkins from the dispenser and sopped up the mess. “Kara Gittelman? We were on the same PTA committee for community cleanup. And your father and I used to bowl with them on a couples’ league.” She began making little balls from pieces of shredded napkin. “I think they got divorced right before we did.”

  Fordham wasn’t really surprised. Kara had always been a flirt. All those lingering high fives when Gil or Kara threw a strike suddenly made sense.

  “You guys were friends?” Whitty asked.

  “Not friends. We just knew each other and did some of the same things.”

  “I guess that’s better.”

  Fordham had to agree. No matter how done she was with Gil, the image of him being intimate with a close friend was still too uncomfortable to consider.

  “But how did you find out about it?” Fordham asked.

  “Ari got in trouble for spitting on Kendra’s new Nikes, so his mom had to come in. I was in the supply closet, putting stuff away. I heard Ari’s mom tell my art teacher she was seeing Dad. So I stayed in the closet until they left.”

  “Excellent PI skills. What kind of seeing?”

  “Um... I didn’t ask. Did you want me to?”

  “No. Of course not. I mean, because he’s away. Far away. On business.”

  “Kara said they went out a few times before he left. She said she was going to visit him there because he was that good.” Whitty stuck her face right up to her whipped cream and ate it without using a spoon. “Whatever that means. I don’t think he’s so good.”

  Fordham winced. As if she knew she was on a rescue mission, the server came to take their order. Whitty wanted the most decadent waffle dish on the menu. Fordham was no longer hungry.

  “I’m not even sure Ari knows,” Whitty continued after the server left. “But he’s in my class, and I didn’t want to say anything.”

  “I wouldn’t be too worried. Knowing your father, it could be over and done already.”

  Gil Presser couldn’t make a solid commitment to a menu item in a restaurant. Fordham couldn’t imagine that a needy single mom could be part of his order for long.

  “I don’t know,” Whitty said. “Maybe. But I’m not asking anyone.”

  “How do you feel about this?” Fordham took a sip of coffee. “I’m guessing it’s pretty awkward.”

  “Yeah. And Ari is really gross. He wipes his nose on his sleeves, and sometimes he forgets to zip up after he goes to the bathroom.”

  “That is gross. Are you sure he isn’t your father’s son?”

  “Not funny, Mom.”

  “I know,” Fordham said. “I’m sorry. But seriously, how do you feel about this?”

  “I feel like I hope Ari doesn’t end up being my brother.”

  Fordham found her compact mirror and smoothed out a few unruly eyebrow hairs. Then she applied a quick swipe of Forget Me Not lip gloss.

  Chapter Three: From Here to Maternity

  Monday morning, Fordham stared at her cluttered desk. Her office was her domain, and she’d tried her best to create an inspiring atmosphere. She painted the walls a soothing sage green, bought a pair of oak bookcases that she filled with everything from vintage dictionaries to her favorite Golden Books, and hung an antique mirror that Grandma Sadie had given her when she moved into her first dorm room. Framed pictures of family and friends stood on top of her bookcases, reminding her to smile during the rough spots and be thankful that shoulder pads were no longer a fashion necessity.

  But she still couldn’t shake Whitty’s news about Kara Gittelman and Gil. It was too close to home. People would talk, and that couldn’t be anything but humiliating. She didn’t like messes. For the first time in a long time, she wanted to be anywhere other than where she was.

  Despite that, she was grateful for her job. She’d searched for months and had come up with nothing in her area. The job market was slow, and no one in the suburbs was keen on hiring a single mother who’d been out of the work force longer than she’d been in it. Even though she was getting some support from Gil, it wasn’t enough, and it seemed unfair to make Whitty wait for her wallet to catch up with what all the other kids had.

  Abe was a godsend who’d been willing to take a chance on her. At first, Fordham had been hesitant to respond to the ad on LinkedIn. She was unsure of what the job of “project manager of growing boutique publishing company” entailed, and she wondered how her antiquated skills would make her a reasonable applicant. But ultimately, the offer of autonomy and flexibility was too attractive to pass up. She flirted with the fear of rejection then answered the ad. She was called to interview the next day.

  Abe was a somewhat tall, attractive man with warm, smiley eyes. Though pushing seventy—as he proudly let her know the moment she sat down—neither his face nor his body had gotten the memo. After a lot of the usual questions, he caught her off guard when he said, “I’d like to offer you the position.”

  “I’m a single mother,” she blurted.

  “Yes, I know.” Abe picked up her resume. “According to this, you’re also ‘a people person’ and ‘highly organized.’ You graduated magna cum laude from SUNY Binghamton with a double major in English and theater. But my favorite is ‘I can have a big mouth when asked to use it, but I can use discretion otherwise.’” He laughed. “That works for me.”

  She adjusted the bracelet Whitty had given her for Mother’s Day. “My daughter is still young, and I would prefer to work from home whenever possible.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Also, I’m not into public transportation. I want to drive into the city when I have to be here.”

  “I think you’re crazy, but as long as you make your meetings on time, I don’t care if you swim here.”

  Abe bit into a Danish, leaving some of the jam hovering over his top lip. It was a classic move of her father’s. She couldn’t help but think it made Abe look paternal.

  “I enjoy driving,” she said, wriggling in her seat. She wasn’t going to tell her almost new boss that she considered herself a sane person with reasonable control issues. He didn’t need to know that she was willing to pay for gas, tolls, and even parking just to have her car handy.

  “Fair enough,” Abe offered.

  “You’re very understanding.”

  “I know,” he said. “So why are you trying to get me not to hire you?”

  Fordham went into her bag for a few clean napkins she’d stashed away from her breakfast with Whitty. “Of course, I want you to hire me. I just...”

  “Need a break? I know what that’s like. Now you’ve got one. Take it easy. I’m a good judge of character. You’re going to do great.”

  Fordham handed Abe a napkin and showed him where to wipe his mouth.

  “Thank you,” Abe said, blushing.

  “Thank you, Mr. Goldmann. Thank you so much!”

  “Oh, by the way, I take the PATH, but I have a prepaid parking spot at a garage down the block. It’s convenient, and it’s yours.”

  “So you’re my Santa Claus?”

  “No, I’m your boss. And it’s Abe to you. Now get out of here and get yourself a good pair of sneakers. When you’re in the city, you’re going to need them.”

  He was right. She’d done more walking and driving in the three years since she’d taken the job than she had in her whole life before that. And Abe had become a good friend. He understood her quirks, forgave her idiosyncrasies, and still teased her about having
a neurotic relationship with her car. She argued that she simply liked the freedom of coming and going as she pleased. She wasn’t willing to be stuck at the mercy of a bus driver with a sinus headache or stranded because of a water-main break in the subway station. The clincher had come a few months before her interview, when Whitty got strep throat and a high fever on a day Fordham had taken the train into the city for a date. There was an accident on Fordham’s line, and her bus wasn’t running. Her mother took Whitty to the doctor and sat with her afterward. Fordham vowed she would never be in that situation again.

  A low, steady buzz that sounded like a swarm of bees in heat broke into her thoughts, but she couldn’t figure out what it was or where it was coming from. She went to the closet, and when her coat didn’t yield results, she followed the sound to her pocketbook, which was hanging behind her coat. She dug deep into her bag and pulled out the offender: a tube of lipstick. At least, it appeared to be a tube of lipstick. But lipstick didn’t buzz, and on closer inspection, she remembered it was the vibrator she’d gotten as a party favor at Margo’s last birthday bash. She breathed a sigh of relief, appreciative that Whitty wasn’t into makeup yet and that her mother, a solid autumn, would have never entertained the color. Why she’d kept a vibrator nestled in her cosmetic case was as baffling as how the thing had turned on by itself. If the ghost of her grandmother wasn’t fiddling with the on-off switch to express her disapproval of Fordham’s singledom, maybe the battery had been triggered by Fordham slamming the door and jarring the bag. Either way, it wasn’t worth pondering on an empty stomach. She’d come in early, as Abe had asked, but despite having called several times, she hadn’t been able to reach him. Maybe he’d overslept. That happened from time to time.

  She smacked her lips. She could use some water. And maybe there was something to nibble on in the lounge. As she strode down the corridor, past the private offices around the perimeter and the large cluster of cubicles in the center, she noticed how bland her surroundings were. Like most offices, the décor of Haskins was heavy on metal, light on wood, and scant on color. Maybe neutrality was a way to make the company seem more colorful.