by Abbi Waxman
I was surprised, and started to ask him what he meant, but Cassidy launched into her speech.
“Good morning, tourists!” (She’d probably come up with that in the shower and was clearly pleased with it.) “Here are today’s seating groups.”
Oh, fantastic.
JESSICA
Looking across the table at Alice, I realized a lack of eye contact was a constant for teenagers. It’s not that they won’t look at you, it’s that they have many other things to look at and, to be honest, they’ve seen you before.
When Cassidy put us together, there was a highly awkward exchange where we all pointed out we knew each other and therefore the avowed intent—getting to know new people—wasn’t going to work.
“But I pulled names at random,” said Cassidy.
“Right,” said Emily, “but we all know each other already. Can’t you pick again?”
Cassidy wasn’t having it. “But you’re friends.”
Infinitesimal pause while we all internally debated refining her definition, then realized we should have been rushing to confirm it.
“Of course,” I said, smiling at Dani.
“Good friends,” she replied.
“Well then,” said Cassidy, turning to deal with a nut allergy at table four.
“So, Alice,” I said, “are you enjoying the trip?”
She shrugged and flicked a glance up at me. “Sure. It’s better than school.”
I looked at Dani, and for the first time ever our eyes met in perfect mutual comprehension.
We both tried to engage the kids in conversation, but they weren’t having it, and as soon as possible they bounced away to talk to other kids, leaving Dani and me alone.
“More coffee?” she asked as she got up to refill her own cup.
“Thanks.” I watched her walk away, realizing I’d never seen her in sneakers before. She was still very tall, but somehow more human without the towering stilettos.
She sat back down. “My feet are killing me,” she said. “All that walking.”
I nodded, taking the coffee from her and smiling. “LA really makes you soft.”
“Who walks?” She laughed ruefully, “Turns out I’m only in shape from the ankles up. My feet are a mess.”
We sipped in silence.
Dani sighed. “Do you think your daughter likes you?”
I was surprised by the vulnerability implied by the question. “I’m not sure, I’ll be honest. Some days she’s lovely. Other days she treats me with utter disdain.”
Dani pursed her lips. “Yup. Me, too. If I’m giving her what she wants, Alice is totally lovely. But if I thwart her plans in any way—which is not hard to do these days—she’s so amazingly mean.”
I looked at her lovely face sympathetically. “Emily has thrown some truly amazing insults my way, I promise you. It was maybe even slightly worse a couple of years ago. Twelve to fourteen was pretty hideous.”
“At least you get to go to work.” Dani was gazing glumly into her coffee cup. “I could have kept modeling, but I wanted to give my girls the best start possible.” She flicked a glance at me, and tried to backtrack half a step. “Not that working full-time is a bad idea, of course.”
“Well,” I replied drily, “it’s a better idea than starving to death.”
She laughed uncertainly. “Mind you, I keep myself busy. I’m on three different committees at school, as you know, and I do a lot of philanthropy, of course.”
“Of course,” I replied, trying to remain neutral. In the past, Dani—and other moms like her, moms I thought of as professional mothers, who tackled parenting like a full-time career—had made me feel guilty for going to work. When emails went out calling for library volunteers, or chaperones for field trips, the same subset of parents would leap forward. Of course, they would say. I’m available. Happy to! Those of us who worked outside the house would be bummed out, briefly, but—and I’m being honest here—accompanying twenty-two fifth graders to the Natural History Museum isn’t my idea of a good time.
Now Dani looked at me. “You know, I thought I was doing the right thing, staying home with Alice and her sister. I thought it would be fun, and it was fun, for ages. When they’re little, when they’re cute and let you dress them up. But now it’s just a pain in the ass. Despite everything I do for them, they treat me like a combination chauffeur/ATM/punching bag, and it’s getting on my nerves.”
“Why did you come on this trip?”
Dani shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. I thought maybe Alice and I would hang out, like we used to.” She laughed at herself. “I thought maybe if she was away from her friends, she’d have to talk to me.” She examined her acrylic nails, checking for chips. There weren’t any.
I nodded. “Same here. But it isn’t working out quite how I wanted it to. Not yet, anyway.”
Dani leaned across the table. “I’ve spent the last sixteen years doing everything for her, and she treats me like crap.” She eyed me. “Maybe if I’d been less available, she’d treat me with more respect.”
I shrugged. “I wonder if I’d been around more, Emily would be nicer to me.”
“Maybe if I’d been more disciplined,” said Dani.
“Maybe if I’d been less disciplined,” I replied.
Emily appeared suddenly at my elbow.
“I’m going up to pack up and get ready,” she said. “Are you coming?”
I nodded, but she turned and walked out without me. Dani and I watched her go, and then I turned to her and grinned.
“See? Pure charm.”
Dani laughed.
14
EMILY
We were on the bus to UPenn. My mom was on her phone, as usual, probably texting Valentina something important. After breakfast we’d gone up to the room and had the following stellar conversation:
Mom said, “I never thought I’d say this, but Dani isn’t as bad as I thought.”
“Really?” I replied.
She nodded.
“Well,” I said, “Alice is still a total bitch.”
But now, on the bus, Mom was ignoring me again. I thought about David Millar, the night before. Normally, and I don’t mean to sound weird, most people I meet with my mom are more interested in me. They’re being polite, usually, but they ask about school, or these days about college, or about social media or whatever. The guy last night looked right through me and was only interested in my mom. I looked at her now, staring at her phone, and tried to imagine what she was like in college. Apparently she was sexy and unpredictable, two words I would never have applied to her.
“Mom,” I said.
“Yes?” She turned away from her phone and smiled at me.
“Do you miss being . . . single?”
She frowned. “I am single . . .”
“I meant, without a kid.”
She shrugged. “No. I love being a mom, even if you don’t like having a mom.”
I turned back to the window. “I like having a mom. What kind of thing to say is that? I love you.”
“I know. I love you, too.” She paused. “Are you still thinking about last night?”
I nodded but didn’t say anything. My throat had gone tight again, for no good reason I could see.
She put her hand on my leg and squeezed. “Don’t worry about it. I promise not to desert you and run off to the Peace Corps.”
I felt the tension ease a bit. “Are you sure? You’re not secretly harboring a desire to build latrines in the developing world?”
“Well, obviously that would be fun, but no, I’m quite happy with things as they are.”
I nodded. “Me, too.”
We rode the rest of the way to UPenn in silence. But it was nice.
* * *
• • •
There is no way I’m ev
er getting into Penn, not even sure why they include Ivies on the tour; it’s depressing. However, we went to the Philadelphia Museum of Art for lunch, and it might be my new favorite place. There was half an hour before lunch, so I wandered off to look at this one thing I’d seen on the website. They have an entire room from a nineteenth-century town house, and I wanted to see it. The room was beautifully furnished and ornate, filled with vases and sculptures, richly colored furniture and rugs. I read the card on the wall: Apparently the room had belonged to a woman who survived the sinking of the Titanic. She’d probably been full of beans, but her drawing room was kind of cold.
“The tapestry at the back tells the story of Cupid and Psyche, you know.”
I turned and there was Will, standing behind me with his arms folded. He continued, “The way I heard it, Venus was jealous of Psyche’s good looks so she sent her son, Cupid, the god of love, to make her fall in love with the biggest loser he could find. However, Cupid fell for her himself, hid her away so he could seduce her, and eventually, after much drama, was able to make her immortal and date her, you know, on the regular.”
I laughed. “That’s how you heard it?”
He nodded. “That’s the story.”
“I thought Cupid was a fat little cherub with an arrow.”
“Yeah, but before he was that, he was a totally fit guy who hooked up with Psyche.”
“Huh.”
We were silent for a moment, then Will said, “Is this what your bedroom’s like at home?”
I turned and grinned at him, nodding. “Yeah, exactly.”
“Mine, too, except mine’s more red and gold, you know.”
“More regal?”
“That’s what the decorator was going for.”
We turned and started walking slowly along the galleries. “Are you enjoying the trip?” I asked, suddenly aware of his arm swinging next to mine. He was deeply cute, and we did seem to keep ending up talking all the time. I guess Alice’s plan wasn’t working out the way she’d hoped. Sorry . . . not sorry.
“Yeah, it’s interesting.” Will smiled at me. “It’s like visiting a series of really big high schools, where the kids are taller and the subjects are harder.”
I laughed. “I really hope college is more different than that. My mom always makes it sound like an incredible adventure of new people and casual sex.”
Will looked puzzled. “She’s excited for you to have casual sex?”
“Well, not explicitly. But she says things like college is a great time to get to know lots and lots of different people, and then she’ll look at me meaningfully, which is, like, the most embarrassing thing ever.”
“Wow, that’s super awkward.”
“Yup. She means well, I guess . . .”
“My dad gave me a giant box of condoms and said, ‘Pants off, jacket on, end of story.’”
I raised my eyebrows. “Wow, also awkward.”
“Very.”
“At least it was a big box. Awkward, but optimistic.”
Will smiled at me, my god the dimple. “He bought them at Costco, he lives for bulk savings.”
“Interesting. My mother is more of the ‘get a good one that will last a long time’ shopper.” I made a face. “Not really applicable to condoms.”
We’d reached a gallery where many Mary Cassatt paintings were hanging, and paused before a sketch of a mother and child.
“It’s hard to imagine my mother being young like that,” I said, nodding my head at the picture. “I mean, I can only remember because I see the photos, right?” I wondered whether to tell him about my mom’s ex-boyfriend the night before, but decided it was too weird. But looking at the picture, I realized the guy still saw my mom like that—not a drawing, obviously, but a young woman. He couldn’t see her any other way, any more than I could see her as anything other than my mom.
My phone buzzed. “Speak of the devil, my mom’s bugging me to come eat.”
“Gotta eat. It’s not like you’ve got a lot of reserve, you’re like a bird.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you making an uninvited comment on my physical appearance?”
Will shrugged, unconcerned. “Yeah, if comparing you to a hollow-boned but beautiful creature is unwelcome.”
I stuffed my phone back in my pocket. “I’ll have to think about it.”
He grinned and looped his arm through mine. “Well, let’s eat while you think.”
JESSICA
Emily disappeared off into the museum, muttering about something she wanted to see, and I trailed to the Museum Café with the other parents. Valentina had needed help while I was on the bus, but there were no more texts from her. It was time to check email again.
I scrolled past the usual school communications, invitations to donate to worthy causes, and reminders of meetings I’m not physically available to attend, and came to rest on one from Arthur Ostergren. Jesus, I’m not even on his account. I just happened to be handy.
“Dear Ms. Burnstein,” it read, which was a reasonable start. “Please contact me privately at your earliest convenience.”
I sighed. He’s not an idiot; he must understand that asking for privacy over corporate email is dumb. I started to write back, then looked at the time and decided to call. Hopefully he’d be at lunch; then I could leave a message and ignore his call back, and we could go back and forth like that until I returned to Los Angeles and could actually focus on work. Look at me, devious corporate superstar.
He picked up immediately. Damn him.
“Ah, Ms. Burnstein, how good of you to call.”
I realized it’s not so much Bond villain as it is Mr. Burns from The Simpsons.
“No problem, Mr. Ostergren. How can I help you?”
Around me the other parents and kids were getting lunch, and now I was hungry. There were a few mothers with young kids, too, and I found myself watching them enviously. The days when a trip to a museum would fill the space before a nap or dinner, when simply being in such a big place would keep Emily amused for ages, those days were dreamy and, now, long gone.
Mr. Ostergren cleared his throat. “Well, it’s rather a delicate matter.”
Oh crap, he was being sued for sexual harassment.
“Well, perhaps one of your own lawyers would be . . .”
He interrupted me. “No, that’s the point. I wanted to ask if you would be at all interested in leaving Lexington to take a position as our corporate counsel.”
I watched a toddler throwing a tantrum on the other side of the café. His mother was simply sitting there, watching him sympathetically, giving him space. I would have traded places with her in a heartbeat.
“Uh, well, that’s a surprising question, Mr. Ostergren. You know very little about me.” I thought of something else. “Are you unhappy with our services? I’m sure John would be happy to . . .”
“No, I’m not unhappy, per se, but I’m trying to acquire a competitor, and for the amount I pay in fees, I could have someone in house.” He huffed. “It turns out the competitor has an in-house counsel, and she’s been making my life pretty difficult during the acquisition process.”
“Well, if you make the acquisition, presumably she’ll become your in-house counsel. Problem solved.”
He said firmly, “No, I want one of my own.”
I’m sure he didn’t realize how childish he sounded. I chewed my lip. This was a problem. I didn’t want to offend him and potentially lose a client, but of course I might be leaving the firm, in which case I could use the job, but then on the third hand, stealing a client isn’t a good way to start a new firm, although on the fourth hand, if I were just his in-house counsel then it was less . . . I stopped thinking; it was all a bit too much.
He had continued. “After we met, I googled you. You have a very impressive résumé.”
“I do?”
“Yes. Graduated near the top of your class at Columbia Law, a year or two in Washington as an associate at a very good firm, then out to Los Angeles, youngest partner at Lexington, several landmark cases and state precedents. For a single woman, it’s all very impressive.”
I took a breath. Why was there always that qualification? What if every time I commented on a man’s success I said, for someone whose genitalia is dangerously housed outside of their bodies, it’s a reasonable effort. I chose to deflect.
“It probably would have been harder if I’d had someone else’s career to consider.”
“Possibly.”
“I do have a child, Mr. Ostergren. Leaving Los Angeles isn’t possible for me right now, I’m sorry.”
There was a pause while he considered this. The toddler on the other side of the café had calmed down and was happily playing with a plastic dinosaur, and for a moment I met the eyes of the other mother. I smiled at her, and she smiled back. Congratulations, my expression said, and, Thanks, said hers. Complete conversation, three seconds.
“Well, that’s acceptable. You don’t have to move to Baltimore right away. You could work remotely, there’s not really any need to relocate.” He had clearly realized he would save on relocation costs and was warming to this idea.
“Uh, I don’t know, Mr. Ostergren. Your firm specializes in international shipping, it’s not an area of law I’m very familiar with.”
“You’ll learn.” He paused. “I’m a good judge of people, Ms. Burnstein. I know you can do it. I assure you the salary would be attractive, the benefits comprehensive.” Then he mentioned a sum of money far in excess of what I was currently making, which, I won’t deny, changed the tenor of the conversation somewhat.
“Mr. Ostergren, I’m very flattered you even thought to ask me. I need to think about it for a while. I’ll get back to you next week, once I’m in LA again. Will that work?”
“Certainly, Ms. Burnstein.”
I hung up, then texted Emily that she needed to come eat something.
Good lord.