Leaving Serenity

by Alle Wells

  “Oh, Nikky, he-llo!” She waved.

  I turned and smiled. “Hi, Mrs. Wilkerson. How have you been?”

  She eyed my number one outfit and shopping bags. “Oh, I’m just fine. Nikky, you look so nice! And I see that you’ve been to Gigi’s! That’s a very expensive shop for a—uh, young girl like you.”

  “I have a new job.”

  “Oh?” She cooed with an o-shaped mouth.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m working for Harris Realty now.”

  “Oh, my! Tom Harris is one of the richest men in South Nashville.” She paused and patted my shoulder. “Good for you, my dear. I always knew that there was something special about you!”

  I was amazed by the change in her attitude after seeing me in the new dress. “Thank you. I have a lot to learn.”

  Mrs. Wilkerson moved her hand across my shoulder, admiring the fabric of the dress. “Oh, you’ll do just fine, I’m certain of that. Am I correct in assuming that you’ll be moving on soon?”

  I looked at her, startled. “Oh, no ma’am! Not unless you want me to.”

  “Goodness, no! Why, you are like my own daughter! Please stay as long as you’d like.”

  I didn’t feel the strong bond that Mrs. Wilkerson spoke of. Until that day, she had barely noticed me. But I did see a change in her as time moved on. Sometimes, I’d come home to find a mason jar of homemade soup or fresh baked cookies at my front door. The more successful I became, the more Mrs. Wilkerson liked me. Over time, I learned that her reaction was typical of most people.

  ***

  My career at Harris Realty began in the front office. In addition to compiling data for the database, I answered the incoming calls for the office and the Multiple Listing Service. I memorized the map Tom gave me and followed his lead to a tee. The housing market became my whole life. I fell asleep at night surrounded by real estate circulars. Sometimes I was so focused on doing a good job that I missed lunch. Ironically, a missed lunch triggered my career.

  ***

  The area realtors turned in their submissions for the MLS circular at the beginning of each month. I was typesetting the entries to beat a two o’clock deadline with the printer when Tom and the agents walked by my desk.

  “Hey, Nikky. The boys and I are having lunch at Primmosa. Do you want to come?”

  I gave him a brief glance. “No, thanks. I have to get the monthly circular out.”

  He gave me a thumbs-up as they walked out the door. I was relieved to have an excuse to skip lunch at Primmosa. Sue’s eyes told me that she resented waiting on me. I knew that meant there was a good chance of my food being tainted. Preferring a lunch of cheese crackers and a Dr. Pepper, I was happy to stay behind. The office line rang as I came back to my desk with my vendor machine lunch.

  “Harris Realty. This is Nikky. How may I help you?”

  “Yes, ma’am, my name is Harold Taylor, and I’m from Georgia. We’re visiting my wife’s sister over here in the Melrose section. We’re looking to buy a house nearby.”

  I quickly shuffled through the new listings. “Oh? I just saw a new listing for a house on Sunset Boulevard. Let’s see, it’s a three bedroom ranch, only two years old, listed at $57,000.”

  Mr. Taylor chuckled. “Well, that’s right around the corner from my sister-in-law! My wife will be tickled about that. We have to get back home. Can we take a look it now?”

  “Well, the listing agent is at lunch now. When are you leaving?”

  “We have to be on the road in thirty minutes. Can you show us the house now?”

  I thought for a moment. I had no way of getting in touch with John, the listing agent, before the couple had to leave town. The managers at Primmosa didn’t answer telephone calls during lunch. I could post the out of office sign on the front door and swing over to Melrose before the guys return from lunch.

  “Okay, Mr. Taylor. I’ll meet you at 145 Sunset Boulevard in ten minutes.”

  I threw on my jacket, checked my hair, and grabbed the key from the pegboard behind my desk. Ten minutes later, I was shaking hands with Mr. and Mrs. Taylor in front of the picturesque ranch-style home. I studied the cut sheet and pointed out bulleted points as we walked through the house.

  Mrs. Taylor commented on the cabinetry in the den. “Those nice oak book shelves give the place a comfortable look, don’t you think?”

  I agreed. “That corner is a perfect place to curl up with a good book.”

  “Oh, do you like to read?”

  “Oh, yes ma’am. I love mysteries!” I said, remembering one of the two novels I had read in my lifetime.

  Mrs. Taylor’s hand reached for my arm. “Oh, my dear, I love a good mystery, too! You are such a dear to come out and show us this place.”

  She turned toward her husband who was examining the fireplace. “Harold, let’s buy it.”

  Mr. Taylor stood slowly. “She’s the boss, little lady. You’ve just sold yourself a house. You get everything ready for us, and we’ll come back on Wednesday with the cash. You said $57,000, right?”

  I cleared the lump in my throat and nodded. “Yes, sir, fifty-seven thousand.”

  I gave Mr. Taylor the cut sheet, one of Tom’s business cards, and I wished them a safe trip back to Georgia. Mrs. Taylor blew a kiss as she waved goodbye.

  What have I done? I asked myself, as I drove back to the office. That was John’s listing! He will be furious with me! I don’t have a license to sell! Will Tom fire me?

  I loved my job so much. I couldn’t imagine losing it. No one in real estate would touch me after this. I was fighting back tears when I pulled into the parking lot behind the boys. Tom met me behind our parked cars.

  “Hey, Nikky. Where have you been?”

  My eyes glistened and burned as I found a piece of my voice. “Tom…I sold a house.”

  He looked at me, half-smiling. “What?”

  “I didn’t mean to. It just happened…so fast. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that his wife would like me so much. I didn’t know that they would decide on the spot, or have cash. It happened so fast. It was so easy. I just slipped.”

  I felt like I would hyperventilate and took a deep breath. The five men stood in a semi-circle staring at me. I felt like a criminal. After all, what I had done was against the law. I wondered if I would have to leave Tennessee, the way Jack had to leave Florida.

  Tom pointed at me. “Nikky Harris, if I live to be a hundred, you’ll never hear me reprimand an employee for making a deal on a house. Where is the house?”

  I looked at him and realized that he wasn’t mad. “One forty-five Sunset Boulevard.”

  John snapped, “Hey! That’s my listing!”

  I nodded. “I know. You see, this nice old couple from Georgia called. They were visiting her sister and leaving town before you guys got back from lunch. So I was just going to show them the house. And then the lady and I started talking, and she told her husband to buy it. He’s bringing the cash on Wednesday.”

  Tom raised his eyebrows. “The cash?”

  I nodded. “Fifty-seven thousand.”

  Tom broke into a huge laugh. “That’s amazing!”

  John thumped his chest. “That was my listing!”

  Tom cut off his laugh as quickly as it began. “What’s your problem, John? You’ll get your listing fee.”

  “Well, who gets the seller’s fee? She doesn’t even have a license.”

  I could hear the anger rising in Tom’s voice. “I do.”

  “That’s not fair, Tom. On top of that, it’s unethical!”

  Tom squared himself up to the former football player. “That may or may not be true, John. But we’re in a recession and you haven’t sold a house in six months. These things happen.”

  John crossed his arms. “But Tom, where’s your loyalty?”

  “With the one who made the deal,” he said as he walked away.

  I settled back at my desk and sent the proof sheet to the printer. Tom stopped by and tossed a book on my desk. “Nikky, my girl, it�
��s time for you to get your license.”

  I looked up. “Can I still do the publication?”

  “Anybody who can sell a house the way you did today can do any damn thing they please. Yes, I’ll still pay you to do what you’re doing now. What you sell will be icing on the cake.”

  Chapter 12I passed the test and received my broker’s license the next month. Selling houses was fun and never felt like work. I lived on my two-hundred and fifty dollar a week salary and stashed away my sales commissions. One accomplishment led to another as I watched my client base and bank account grow.

  Cream of the Crop

  Just before closing time on Christmas Eve, 1980, Tom called me into his office. Since I had moved up in rank, my office was directly behind his. He poured two glasses of champagne from the bar. Tom and I met in his office often after hours, rehashing the deals of the day. I had become accustomed to the richness of it and to Tom’s company. We were friends and partners, just like he had described my first day on the job.

  “Merry Christmas, Nikky,” he said as I walked in.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  “Do you have any plans?” he asked.

  “Nope. How about you?”

  Tom laughed softly. “Nikky. Nikky. You and I are a lot alike. Where we live isn’t home. This is where we feel at home.”

  I sipped the champagne and agreed. “You’re right. This place is my life.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Are you happy?”

  I nodded. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

  Tom reached into a desk drawer. I knew that drawer. It was where he kept money, the money for my clothes, and cash for all occasions.

  “I have a present for you,” he said as he handed me the check.

  The check was written to me for one hundred thousand dollars. I felt my face swell as my eyes filled with tears. I counted the zeros again and again.

  “Oh God! I don’t know…oh, God. What can I say?”

  Tom sat on the corner of his desk like he had done so many times before. “There’s no need to say anything. You earned it. Nikky, you’re the cream of the crop. And the cream always rises to the top.”

  I sniffled, stared at the check, and sipped the champagne.

  Tom reached for the check. “Here, I’ll put it back in the drawer for now. You can’t spend it tonight, anyway. Will you join me for dinner at Primmosa? They go all out on Christmas Eve.”

  I wiped the tears from my eyes. “I’d be honored. Just let me change.”

  My office and Tom’s had private, full-sized baths. I kept several changes of clothes there for emergencies. I pulled a black sequined dinner dress, evening heels, and a black faux fur jacket from the bathroom closet. After I’d touched up my hair, I met Tom in his Mercedes. The Christmas bonus I’d just received was more than I could absorb, so I just let it lie, and enjoyed the ride.

  “So, what are you going to do with the money? Buy a house?”

  “I don’t know. I think Mrs. Wilkerson needs someone close by.”

  “I’d like for you to buy a new car. Of course, you probably have enough already to do that.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, I guess it’s time to replace old Goldie. I’ve had that car since I was sixteen. I’m quite attached to her.”

  “Why don’t you keep it in my garage? I’ll have my man restore it for you. Goldie will be brand-new, like the day she was made.”

  “Oh, Tom, that’s a great idea! I’ll buy a car next week, as long as I can still have Goldie.”

  “That settles it. This is a nice car; it talks money.”

  I looked at the cream colored interior of the Mercedes. “Yeah, this is nice. I’ll buy one just like it.”

  Primmosa looked very different that night, lighted by thousands of tiny red bulbs. Tom had reserved his table with another bottle of champagne waiting on ice. He ordered his favorite, prime rib. I agreed to the same, not really caring what I ate. I knew that, at twenty-five years old, I had arrived. I suddenly wondered where my old friend, Wednesday, was that night. Then I thought about Jack. Why am I doing this? I wondered. This was my time, my moment to shine.

  “Hey, Nikky, do you see your old friend over there?”

  My eyes followed Tom’s finger to the attorney who had teased me the day I met Tom. I noticed the beautiful woman at the table with him. I wondered if she was as happy as I was.

  Tom leaned forward. “I’ll bet you my Mercedes that you’re richer than he is.”

  I smiled. “Because of you.”

  He smiled back. “Because of you.”

  Tom leaned back comfortably. “At the risk of sounding like a parrot, what are you going to do with the money? By the way, how much did you make this year?”

  “With the Christmas bonus, I made three-hundred and fifty.”

  Tom and I burst out laughing, both enjoying the glorious taste of hard, cold cash.

  “Come on, Nikky. What do you do with it? You live in a garage apartment. I buy your clothes. You work sixteen hours a day and drive a ten year old car. I’m just curious.”

  I shrugged. “I put it in savings.”

  Tom pondered over my answer. “Let’s see. I love math, even when I’m a little tipsy. You made about two thousand on each sale. You’ve sold maybe a hundred houses in three years. Two hundred?” he demanded.

  Tom’s curiosity and the champagne made me giggle. “That’s about right.”

  He poised his finger to his nose, like he always did when he was thinking. “So, now you have three hundred thousand.”

  I nodded. “Correct.”

  “What are you going to do with it? You deserve something.”

  I looked across the room at the beautiful woman with the rude, immature lawyer. “Tom, I want to be beautiful.”

  “Okay, whatever that means.”

  “I mean that I want a beautiful face. When I look in the mirror, I see the dog that those guys were barking at. I want to have my face reconstructed, and maybe a little more leverage—up top.”

  “Aaah,” he said.

  I wondered if I had embarrassed him. I was suddenly angry at myself for bringing up the subject.

  “I’m sorry. That’s a poor excuse for dinner conversation.”

  “No, no. I, uh, I understand how a young woman would feel that way. Not that you’re unattractive, but you should feel good about yourself. I know a few people. I’ll check into your options and find a good surgeon.”

  ***

  In the spring of 1981, I checked into a hospitality house near Vanderbilt UMC. The rest of that year was dedicated to straightening out my face and my head. My surgeon believed that psychotherapy went hand in hand with cosmetic surgery. Healing my head turned out to be a much longer process than healing my facial flaws.

  I studied the pictures of Dr. Zandu’s work, and he helped me construct the face I had always dreamed of. The hook in my nose would be gone. My ears could be made smaller and tapered back. The hollowness in my cheeks could be filled in to give me a softer look. Finally, my tiny breasts would be enlarged to a normal size. Dr. Zandu assured me that what I wanted was quite feasible.

  The post-surgery swelling in my face made talking difficult. My therapist, Kari, gave me a spiral notebook and suggested I use the time in bed to record the events of my life. Drugged up on pain killers and feeling suffocated by the facial mask, I began to write. Reliving my feelings toward my mother and Adam, the suppressed trauma from the rape, and my emotionally abusive marriage was more painful than recovering from the surgeries.

  Later, Kari and I began to unravel my ingrained inferiority complex and study the reasons behind it. She suggested that I take up running to combat the claustrophobia. What surprised me most was the concealed anger I carried around with me each day. Until I faced my feelings, I didn’t even know that the anger existed.

  My face healed, and I was only partially satisfied with the results. My nose was smaller, but the swelling lingered. Dr. Zandu said that he would like to wait a year before correcting the p
roblem. The other facial adjustments and breast augmentation were successful. But the therapy that I began with Kari while at Vanderbilt would continue for many years. I found out that it is much easier to heal the body than it is to heal the mind.

  Chapter 13Walking quietly through the dead town, I dread what I face at the end of this journey. Most feelings can be overcome or brushed away. But grief has a mind of its own and lingers until it’s ready to go.

  Loss

  In 1984, the economy was on the upswing, and so was I. With my surgeries and the healing process behind me, I purchased a lovely condo on Radnor Lake and bought a puppy. Poppy, an adorable copper and white shih tzu, gave me a reason to go home at the end of the day. While snuggling in front of the TV with Poppy, I noticed the growing popularity of infomercials.

  A few days before Thanksgiving, I stopped by Tom’s office. He was reclined in his leather chair and staring through the skylight.

  “Good morning. Are you enjoying the sunshine?”

  Tom didn’t sit up or open his eyes. “Yes. I’ve heard that the sun has healing powers. I wonder if it’s true.”

  I laughed. “I guess you’re getting your daily dose of Vitamin D. We could all use some of that. I stopped by to invite you to my place for Thanksgiving. You know that I can’t cook, but I know a great caterer. And I want to run an idea by you.”

  I continued to jabber away as Tom lay back and listened quietly. “Infomercials seem to be the new trend in advertisement. I’d like to put this expensive face to work on television.”

  Tom opened his eyes slightly and squinted at me. “Sounds like a great idea. Go for it.”

  “What’s up with you? Why are you so quiet this morning?”

  He pulled the lever to straighten the chair and swung around to face me. “I have pancreatic cancer, Nikky. The doc said—maybe three months.”

  I stared at him in shock. I had noticed that he was slowing down, but I thought it was because I had taken the reins in the business. Fear ran through my veins when Tom told me he had cancer. Fear for him and for me. I felt compassion and selfishness at the same time. Tom and Harris Realty were my life, both rolled into one package. One didn’t exist without the other.