by Sheri Langer
By two o’clock, Fordham realized that she had been reviewing the same submission for hours. And it wasn’t even one she could use. She got up for her version of a seventh-inning stretch and went to the lounge. It was empty. Right. Abe and Myra left early to go to the conference about social networking in the workplace. Like anyone could convince Abe to create a profile on Facebook. Not long ago, Abe had said, over a corned-beef sandwich, “Anyone I know, I choose to know. Anyone I don’t, there’s probably a good reason.”
Back in her office, she realized working was futile. All she could think about was Margo walking down the aisle in each dress and how pathetic she was for feeling envious. Fordham’s heart palpitated, and she hoped this wasn’t the time a higher power was judging her thoughts. She pulled out her compact to see what she needed to adjust—besides her attitude—before showing her face to the world again. There was nothing that couldn’t wait, save a few flecks of dried mascara pooling in the corners of her eyes. She put on her coat and left to run errands.
The crisp air was refreshing. Maybe it wasn’t really jealousy. Maybe she was concerned for Margo’s welfare. After all, Margo was a bit old to be changing her life and her body so dramatically. No. That wasn’t it. Jealousy was a closer match. But maybe it was even worse and she was afraid. What if she was destined to meet one loser after another until liver spots and saggy knees forced her to pick one? She didn’t want to be alone forever. And she would never want Whitty to feel as though she had to take care of her. Being dependent was something Dorie had to deal with because she’d trusted the wrong man. That mistake was a learning tool, not a legacy.
She opened her bag and consulted her phone. The rest of the day loomed large. She had to get Whitty at school, pick up her dry cleaning, reschedule her hair appointment, get an oil change, return books to the library, call Evie back, shovel down some dinner, and knock out a working outline before bed. Staring at the list was even more depressing than usual. Work and errands. The bacon drippings tossed in a gumbo at the Suburban Diner was having more fun than she was.
Fordham watched a few couples walking arm in arm down the street as she approached her parking garage, and she wondered if she should ask Evie to set her up on another date. She needed a better diversion than an evening of pairing orphan socks—preferably, a diversion that would honor the fact that she used a depilatory religiously.
It was probably a bad idea. There was no room in her schedule for the endless conversations she’d want to indulge in to describe just how disappointing a date could be. Her timing was off.
She handed the parking attendant a tip and got into her car. After an easy ride home, with a bout of local traffic on Route 59, she stopped off at a drive-through for a self-soothing latte and a doughnut. With more cars in the line than expected, she was running late by the time she was on the road again. Rushing. Always rushing. She despised days like this, when all she wanted to do was stuff her face and cry. She had to get in a better mood, if for no other reason than to not bring Whitty down with her.
Fordham got to the school earlier than she expected and parked in the first spot of what experience taught her would be a long line of cars waiting to pick up kids. She considered taking a picture of the parked car to show Whitty she was a good mom, but she decided to instead use the time to check herself out in the visor mirror and was surprisingly pleased. She had done a good job of touching up her foundation. And even though she’d gotten no sleep, her cheeks still had a peachy glow. She was pushing the mirror back in place when she noticed that she was wearing the same earrings she’d worn to the wedding. They were too pretty to return. She giggled, thinking back on her encounter with David Prince.
With time to spare, she checked her phone. No new messages, just more submissions. She read one about a woman from Norwalk who was stationed in Iraq and had met her Norwegian husband in an online class run through the University of Connecticut.
The story was so engrossing that she jumped at the tapping on her window. David, oozing sexiness in a black silk T-shirt under a pewter sports jacket, was mouthing an apology.
“Don’t be silly,” Fordham said, opening her window. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I’m working on a project, and I guess I... um... how late am I?”
Fordham could swear her heart was racing, and not because she feared she was late. She wondered if any of the other mothers found Dr. Prince uncomfortably distracting.
“Not to worry. You’re actually a little early. We had a fire drill that screwed up our schedule. Whitty had to get her books, so I told her I’d wait for you. She’s a great kid. Funny too. We’ve been analyzing nursery rhymes.”
“That sounds like fun. Personally, I’ve always wondered why the old woman lived in a shoe, when clearly she would have had more room in the box.”
“Oh, so Whitty gets her charming wit from you.”
“Don’t tell her that. She thinks I have no sense of humor.”
“Kids.” David chuckled. “They know everything except what they don’t know.”
“I like that,” she said just as her daughter showed up. David helped Whitty get in the car.
“Thanks, Dr. Prince.” Whitty was glowing. It was obvious she couldn’t be happier to see Fordham and her principal together.
“You are quite welcome, Whitty.” He closed the passenger door. “By the way, Fordham, I like those earrings.”
“EVIE, I’M ALMOST POSITIVE he was flirting with me. He has a girlfriend, and he’s flirting with me.” Fordham’s phone was propped against her ear as she straightened up her room before tackling more submissions. Sure, she was flattered, but if he was taken, this was a tease she could do without.
“Maybe she’s not his girlfriend.” Evie sounded frustrated.
“No, she is. They were together. At a bar mitzvah.”
“So? You were at a wedding with Paul. What’s the difference?”
“Between the flowers and the band, about twenty thousand dollars.”
“Seriously, Fordham. Are you and Paul a couple?”
“No. Not even in an alternate universe.”
“Then I rest my case,” Evie said.
“Fine. I’ll take your assertions under advisement.”
Chapter Eleven: Mothering Heights
Fordham was reading her prized submission when Dorie burst into her room, angst ridden about not being able to find brown sugar. “Fordham, if this is a senior moment, I swear, shoot me, because I know I just used it to make the baked apples.”
Fordham could understand her mother’s panic. Gloria was going to be in town the next day for a funeral and planned to come for brunch when it was over. She’d asked for Dorie’s famous cinnamon rolls. It was an easy request—Dorie could make them in her sleep. But Fordham’s mother always wanted everything to be just so when Gloria came to visit.
Of course she did. While Gloria was leading a charmed life—traveling, designing her home to optimize the feng shui, and planning dinner parties with Ina Garten and her Hampton friends—Dorie was running to get Whitty from school, finding throw pillows to make her room cozier, and scanning flyers for the best deals on brisket. Except for their stories about the very old days, their lives had gone in opposite directions, and Dorie acted as though there would be consequences if she were the one to disrupt her friend’s glorious karma, no matter how small the infraction. If she had known Margo forever, Fordham would have been in the same boat as Dorie. Luckily, they didn’t have the inconvenient bond of childhood to dissuade her from still wanting to wring Margo’s neck.
Fordham followed Dorie into the kitchen. “I forgot, Whitty and I used the last of the sugar for the oatmeal cookies. You’re not having a senior moment this time. Guess I’ll have to find another reason to shoot you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Mom, it’s sugar. I wasn’t thinking FEMA had to be notified to intervene. If having Gloria over is making you so anxious, why are you bothering?” Suddenly craving oatmeal, Fordham took ou
t a saucepan.
“Just because I like to know what’s in the pantry doesn’t mean I’m anxious. But the truth is, she hasn’t visited me here since your father passed away, and I guess I don’t want her to think that I forgot how to entertain.”
“She’s just a person, Mom—dripping in Gucci and the Harry Winston collection but still just a person.”
Fordham poked around the fridge and was tempted to use whole milk for her cereal, but a disapproving internal voice had her choose the twenty-five-calorie cashew milk instead. “You’re right. And Gloria’s wealth doesn’t impress me. Her luck, on the other hand—that impresses me. Speaking of which, you should talk to her about using her story for your book.”
It certainly was a decent idea, and Fordham was a little annoyed she hadn’t thought of it herself. Gloria’s dating success wasn’t typical. Single women over forty usually had a tacit obligation to go out with a myriad of losers whose excuses could range from, “My mom told me my ex wasn’t good enough for me” to “It’s just herpes—it’s not like I’m balding or anything.” A woman would know this going in and make the proper adjustments. If she had no clue what he looked like, she might decide to set up two consecutive dates with two different men. If she questioned the age of a man’s most recent photo, she might come to the date armed with a story about a surprise visit from her aunt or a simple, “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay very long.”
Whatever the case, most older single women were prepared to suffer the indignity and humiliation of trying to find an emotionally available man who was ready to commit and whose looks didn’t induce vomiting. But not so for Gloria.
Fordham stood at the stove, stirring the cereal. Like a lot of men she’d met, quick rolled oats promised instant gratification but delivered only when they were good and ready. After getting divorced, remarried, and widowed, all within a short period of time, Gloria had insisted three years back that she was not interested in marrying again. She’d get invitations, but she was too youthful to be trapped in a house in Miami tending to some guy’s overactive prostate or red-hot gallbladder. But her daughter had other ideas and secretly posted Gloria’s picture and profile on different dating sites. Fordham had to laugh. If she ever did that to Dorie, she’d have to join the witness-protection program.
Enter Bill Finkelbaum, once a poor kid from Brooklyn who cut school to hustle in pool halls, now an entrepreneur who’d made his way from behind the eight ball to craft and manufacture pool tables and accessories. Bill had millions, and when he found Gloria on JewWannaWed.com, he was immediately smitten.
Gloria’s daughter arranged the meeting, and Bill did his part to make the encounter seem like a happy coincidence. After one night of jazz, martinis, dancing, and osso buco, the two were an item. He presented the ring on the sixth date, and by the time he and Gloria said their vows, she’d ordered new window treatments for all twenty rooms of their cozy love nest. To top it all off, she was genuinely crazy about the guy.
Although Dorie insisted she wasn’t ready to date, she loved telling Fordham every detail about Gloria’s fairy-tale romance. Fordham wondered if her mother secretly yearned for someone to care about again. If she hadn’t been so busy worrying about her own life, Fordham might have picked up on a clue here and there about her mother’s state of mind. She certainly had to admire Gloria’s daughter’s ingenuity.
Fordham couldn’t imagine how Gloria managed to manufacture all that lucky energy. She wasn’t jealous—she was fascinated. If there really was an answer, she too needed to know how to attract a healthy relationship. Gloria’s missteps were no better or worse than hers or Dorie’s, yet she was able to unleash the magic of lessons learned to find meaning, happiness, and of course, a skilled commodities broker.
“Mom, relax. I promised Whitty I’d take her to the library to get a biography for her report. I suggested Hillary Clinton. She said Hilary Duff. We settled on Derek Jeter. Don’t ask. But I can pick up the sugar on our way back, okay?”
“Thank you, sweetheart. That would be a big help,” Dorie said, taking out a mop and a bucket.
AFTER HER USUAL TOSSING and turning for most of the night, Fordham was exhausted when she woke up. She got out of bed reluctantly. It was Saturday, and she toyed with the idea of staying in her sweats and watching movies instead of visiting with Gloria and going over the latest batch of submissions. As she lumbered into the bathroom, she caught a deep whiff of the fresh coffee with a hint of vanilla and the warm, sugary cinnamon rolls. That was all she needed to convince herself to stick to her original plan.
She dragged her tired body into the kitchen to get a jump start on the coffee and gasped. Dorie had designed a tablescape that even a pro couldn’t pull off. She’d spread a purple-and-sage tablecloth with matching napkins and gold runners and set out bone china dishes and Swarovski-crystal goblets that Fordham hadn’t seen since she and Gil had thrown their first and only formal dinner party. Platters and bowls were filled with exotic dips, salads, and spreads that had nothing in common with Fordham’s usual breakfast of V8 and an energy bar. Everything looked opulent and grand, as if Dorie were celebrating a holiday that no one had ever heard of.
Fordham’s initial impulse was to ask Dorie if she had lost her mind, but then she realized this was something her mother had to do. It was her Flowers from the Heart, with just as much ego at stake. Fordham gave her a kiss on the cheek and told her she’d done an amazing job and that Gloria was lucky to be her friend.
The doorbell rang shortly before one o’clock. Dorie went to answer it, beautiful as ever in a cream-colored three-piece outfit that clung in all the right places and showcased her hazel eyes. Fordham stood off to the side, waiting for the rest of the fashion show. The door opened, and there was Gloria, looking as though she stepped off the pages of Vogue. She wore a black double-breasted pantsuit with subtle metallic stitching that for most would have said inappropriate but for Gloria said cemetery chic. Her hat matched her suit, and her shoes were probably shocked that she had the audacity to subject them to any surface but marble.
Fordham was happy to see Gloria. Sometimes, she could be a bit much, but they always got along, and Fordham knew it would be nice for her mother to spend time with someone who also loved doo-wop music and actually knew what a New York egg cream tasted like.
After hugs and hellos, Dorie and Gloria strolled arm in arm into the kitchen, cackling like a pair of schoolgirls. Fordham was glad that the two of them were managing to maintain the status quo despite Dorie’s initial meltdown. Dorie’s initial concerns were wasted on Gloria, who ran straight to the fridge after dribbling buttery cinnamon down her jacket, snatched a bottle of seltzer, and cleaned it before anyone could get up and make her feel like a guest. It wasn’t typical of Dorie to relinquish that kind of control, but in this case, she seemed relieved.
Brunch was delicious, and Gloria marveled appropriately at Dorie’s skills as chef and hostess, saying she’d have to tell Ina about the cinnamon rolls and arrange a time for them all to meet. Fordham and Whitty were about to leave the table when Dorie got a call from her cousin that she had to take. She apologized for the interruption and asked Fordham and Whitty to stay a bit longer to keep Gloria company until she got off the phone.
“It seems Dorie and I were doing all the talking,” Gloria said, helping herself to another gooey roll. “What’s been going on with you girls?”
“Not so much.” Whitty had no problem being the first to chime in. “I’m still waiting to get my period.”
Fordham was taken aback. She’d had no clue that was even on Whitty’s mind.
“Don’t rush it,” Gloria said. “Tampax is making plenty of money without your help.”
Judging by the diamonds around her neck, Fordham figured Gloria knew that financial information firsthand.
“And you, Fordham?”
“She has a crush on my principal,” Whitty sang.
“What?” Fordham shouted, feeling her cheeks flush. “I do not!”
&
nbsp; Gloria nodded in each of their directions, an amused expression on her face. She remained silent as if waiting to see what would happen next.
“She does.” Whitty nodded directly at Gloria. “Whenever they’re together, Mom gets all hair tossy, and she giggles way more than she does in real life.”
Fordham was floored. Aside from having always thought of herself as an equal-opportunity giggler, she was unnerved that Whitty had called her out on what she’d hoped was a well-hidden secret. She wasn’t sure how to respond. If she protested too much, she’d be lying, but if she agreed, she’d be indulging Whitty’s fantasy—and her own.
“There are worse things in life than finding a man attractive,” Gloria offered, trying to bridge the sudden divide.
“Of course,” Fordham said, taking a deliberately slow sip of coffee. “And just because you think a guy is cute doesn’t mean you like him romantically.”
“Sure, but that’s not what happens in all the lame movies you watch.” Whitty wiped her hands on a napkin.
“I like those kind of movies,” Gloria said enthusiastically.
Whitty got up and kissed Fordham on the cheek. “Sorry for embarrassing you, Mom. I have homework to do.”
Fordham was about to respond, but Whitty left as Dorie came back, and the moment was lost. Dorie immediately got Gloria involved in a conversation about some mutual friend who’d become a nun and joined a convent. If she weren’t a confirmed Jew, Fordham might have happily considered that vocation.
BACK IN HER ROOM, FORDHAM tried working, but more often than not, her thoughts were diverted to Whitty’s claim about her crush on Dr. Prince. If Whitty was right, and she was sending those vibes out into the world, she could only imagine what he must think of her. She shuddered, but the sound of laughter from the kitchen caught her attention and drew her out of her worries.