Riley caught her breath. “Are you . . . breaking up with me?”
“I guess that’s what it is. I wish we could have this conversation in person, but you keep canceling our plans. Or not showing up. Of course, if I was able to talk with you in person, we wouldn’t be having this conversation . . .”
“Neil . . .”
“Trust me, I’m not happy about it. But we’re not twenty years old. It’s not fair to you or me to string this along if it’s not going anywhere.”
“I didn’t think it wasn’t going anywhere.” In a moment, the various semi-plans Riley had daydreamed about dissipated. Future vacations. Idly looking at real estate listings together. This destruction of her envisioned future was so disorienting she felt more shocked than sad. “We’d talked about visiting your parents for Thanksgiving . . .”
“And you and I both know you’d get a request for a proposal from a European client that would be due on Friday, since they don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, and you’d cancel your plans to meet my family for that.” Riley didn’t answer. Was this a hypothetical? The truth is, she had done just that to her last boyfriend the Thanksgiving before. Did Neil know about that? Did Skip tell him? The idea that her best friend might be warning people about her history shot Riley down a rabbit hole of worry. Then, as with Elsa, she noticed Neil’s voice softening. “Enjoy your retreat, OK? Try to relax. I think you could use it.”
And then he was gone too. Riley bit her lip. She clenched her fists and tried to keep calm as Neil’s curt words—and Elsa’s as well—whirled around in her mind. How was this possible? Was there anyone important in her life that she wasn’t disappointing?
As if on cue, her phone rang again. Skip. Riley’s voice shook as she told her phone to answer. Since they’d met as freshmen at IU—a strange late-night encounter after Riley used the dorm fire extinguisher to douse a blaze caused by some idiot putting a cigarette in the recycling bin—they’d been close. Skip had always been the idealistic one. After a few miserable years in corporate communications, she had started a nonprofit serving middle school girls in a not-yet-gentrified corner of Brooklyn. Almost overnight, she was reawakened to life, even if the work itself was keep-you-up-all-night stressful. Riley wanted to be a good friend to Skip. She wanted to listen when Skip called in tears because one of her girls did some stupid teenage thing, and because the world gave these girls few breaks, a promising life would now be marked. But there was always something else to do. She would be on the phone making encouraging noises to Skip, and she’d be deleting emails as they came in.
As Riley heard Skip’s voice, she realized that yes, there was one more person to disappoint.
“Hi, Skip, I . . .”
“Listen, Riley, we’ve got to talk. I was trying you all yesterday.”
“I know, I know . . . I’m sorry I didn’t return your call. My team was working all day to get this proposal in and . . .”
“Riley, I’ve been trying to get you all week. I told you—I have a meeting with this potential funder early next week. I can’t say who, but it would be a huge corporate connection.”
“That’s great, Skip . . .”
“Yeah—I met her at that party a few months ago. That NYC parks benefit I convinced my old boss to give us tickets for? You left early to fly to Frankfurt—remember? That was that meeting you found out was canceled while you were taxiing on the runway . . .”
“Yes, Skip, I remember.” Even worse: It had been an internal meeting. That part of the MB lifestyle seldom made it into the recruiting pitches.
“She said she only wants to fund something innovative. I thought you were going to talk through ideas with me.”
“Yes, I planned to and . . .”
“And your assistant—not you, your assistant—called me to cancel lunch on Friday.” Her voice was even angrier than Elsa’s.
“Skip . . .” Now Riley could feel the tears she had managed not to start shedding with Neil. “I so wanted to meet you—Oh, Skip, you have great ideas anyway. You don’t need me . . .”
“Well, I have ideas, but I need help making the numbers look like someone with an MBA has thought through them.”
“Skip, I’m sorry, I can’t do anything right. Neil just called.”
“Oh . . .”
Riley was slightly ashamed of this transparent attempt to shift the conversation. Skip couldn’t stay furious if Riley was miserable, could she? She glanced in the rearview mirror at her red eyes and smearing makeup. “He broke up with me.”
“He did? By phone?”
“Because I forgot I had plans with him last night. Can you believe that?”
Silence. Riley imagined that Skip could hear her anguish, and wanted to console her about being dumped. But on the other hand, her own anger simmered, and was about to bubble over. “Well . . . I’m sorry if this sounds harsh, but yes, I can believe that.”
“Skip!”
“He’s a great guy. I know I’m your friend but . . . nobody has infinite patience.”
“Skip.” That hurt. “Well, to seal my fate, I hadn’t mentioned I was gone today with that retreat I told you about. You know, Juliet’s School of Possibilities? On the Jersey Shore?”
“Your retreat . . . So you’re not coming over to help me think about ideas now, are you?”
“I have the next fifteen minutes by phone. Wait, did I miss my turn?”
“Forget it, Riley. You’re busy.” Skip coughed. “I’ll figure something out. I’m just . . .” She paused. “I value our friendship. I’m also upset that I seem to be so low on the priority list for you.”
“You’re not low on the list, it’s just . . .” But there was no other way to explain it, and now nothing she could do except watch her GPS recalculate a route through the back roads toward the beach. She drove through swampland, cedars, and over a stone bridge next to a historic courthouse ringed by a fence covered in crimson vines. The leaves blazed even brighter here off the highway. In the distance, a white lighthouse shone against a small grove of poplars. This fall glory commanded Riley’s attention. She pulled over, grabbed her phone, and snapped a few photos of the lighthouse and the trees. For a moment she forgot everything weighing on her.
But only for a moment. She looked at her inbox—356 unread messages. The familiar knot in her stomach tightened. And then this thought: How could she be so in demand from people she didn’t care about when the people she actually liked had given up on her?
Chapter 3
Juliet’s School of Possibilities rose one level above the other Victorian houses of Maris—a reminder of the grand inn it used to be. Once, this little town on the Jersey Shore lured streams of vacationers on the train from New York. They would disembark at the station a mile and a half inland and take waiting carriages to the beach, passing homes with stately porches. As with all places inhabited for centuries, the town’s popularity rose and fell. Now, holiday seekers could fly direct to Miami. The old hotels had become condos, or had succumbed to weather. But Juliet’s school had been restored and lovingly cared for, its red and white siding, its stone trim and garrets beckoning the traveler in. As Riley showed the guard her ID and pulled into the parking area—mostly empty, due to her colleagues’ car service habits—she counted numerous porches offering their own possibilities for daydreaming. A giant wraparound porch on the main level sported tables and rocking chairs. A balcony on the second floor offered observers an unobstructed view of the waves. Then she spotted tiny balconies among the eaves on the third floor, perhaps off the rooms where visitors stayed while visiting Juliet.
Riley was more curious about the crafts and cooking maven than she was willing to admit. During the last ten minutes of the drive, she had her phone read her Juliet’s Wikipedia entry. Maybe it was to distract herself from her misery. Or maybe, she thought, the knowledge might help her get back in with Elsa. She and Riley could shellack leaf wrea
ths together, as her older male colleagues golfed with their clients.
Juliet’s domestic empire, the phone had intoned, was as concocted from scratch as her baked goods. Her only professional training had been a gig at an inn in western Pennsylvania years before. After she began working there, the hotel garnered glowing coverage in travel magazines, and even a nod from a notoriously cantankerous travel critic who wrote a newsletter under a pseudonym and traveled in disguise. Juliet transitioned from that job to making videos celebrating the domestic arts. She did a Christmas special first, because everyone loved to decorate and cook for the holidays, and Juliet’s marketing instinct seemed birthed on Madison Avenue, not at a small inn amid the Alleghenies. She created her recipes with Instagram in mind. People couldn’t help but share pictures of their concoctions. As they credited her, her influence grew. She had two school-age daughters, Betsy and Faye, who became major characters in her brand development. One year, twenty million people cast votes on which of several homemade costumes each girl should wear for Halloween. Juliet’s tutorial on creating a stunning but easy baby scrapbook had likewise been watched more times since its release than there had been babies born in the English-speaking world. She leveraged that recognition into books, her website, and of course this school, perched on the shore, offering a haven for those looking to escape their lives and indulge in all forms of the domestic arts.
There in the parking lot, Riley tried to compose herself as she studied her inbox—now 415 unread messages. She deleted obvious spam and outdated internal newsletters, but she saw few easy wins. Most messages were from real people. She took a swig of coffee from her travel mug. She needed the caffeine to be up late again, finishing all her emails, after trying to be engaged with her colleagues, trying to convince them that she was the sort of original thinker who deserved to make partner in two years, trying not to think about Neil’s anger or Skip’s disappointment. She stared at the school. Maybe Neil and Elsa were right, she thought; since she’d bothered to come, I should just try to learn something. If nothing else, maybe the food would be decent. And the wine. She might forget that her life was falling apart.
She yanked her leather duffel bag out of her trunk. She hit the locks, walked to the front door, and prepared to ring the bell.
The door opened while her hand was poised in midair.
“Welcome!” A woman’s rich voice rose above the ocean’s roar and the faraway sound of a train.
Riley stepped back, startled. It was Juliet herself. She recognized her immediately. Her wavy auburn hair framed her face and highlighted her gentle green eyes. She was dressed casually: jeans, black T-shirt, black cardigan for the October chill. She wasn’t thin, though she certainly wasn’t overweight either. It was more about being substantial. Regal. She took up enough space to be a presence. When she moved, the scent of vanilla extract floated into the air.
“I’m Juliet.” The woman offered her hand.
“Riley Jenkins,” Riley said, doing the same. As they shook hands she could feel a spark, an energy, emanating from her host. There was something extraordinary about the way Juliet studied her. In her eyes, Riley could see Juliet coming immediately to understandings that she herself had not. They simply stood there, holding on for a minute.
Then, finally, Juliet smiled at her. “Yes, Riley. Fabulous. The starfish room.” Riley marveled. Could this woman possibly know where all her guests were staying? Riley could barely remember her own hotel room numbers. Twice in the last month she’d wandered the halls of Hyatts, calling the front desk for clues. “Bob—he runs this property—will get your bag up there. It’s only your colleagues here this weekend so it will be fine.” A smiling man with dark hair, a goatee, and a Juliet’s School of Possibilities T-shirt swooped in to cart Riley’s duffel bag into the vast building. Riley followed Juliet through the door, noting the wreath of shellacked maple and oak leaves, which framed some script she couldn’t quite make out: You are always . . . She meant to take a photo to send to Elsa. Alas, the act of pulling out her phone forced a look at her inbox—back to 415 unread messages. She was no further than where she started.
A dozen of Riley’s MB colleagues perched on purple upholstered chairs in the parlor. A fire crackled in the fireplace, casting its flickering glow on shelves of books and paintings of fruit. Riley headed toward them, but Juliet stopped her. “Can I give you a quick tour? I’d love to chat with you before your first meeting.” Puzzled, Riley waved at her colleagues, then followed. She had expected one drop-in appearance, not that this woman would serve as the welcoming committee. As they walked down a hall lined with antique clocks and a framed piece of calligraphy—she squinted at the words: infinite?—Juliet gestured at someone in the other room. A man with curly red hair brought over a tray of mulled wine.
“Just a little something. I can see that you had a rough trip.” Juliet paused and handed Riley a glass. “I love this new style you tried with the lemon zests,” she told the man. He beamed.
Sure enough, each mug bore an improbably curly citrus ribbon. “Harold is our kitchen guru,” Juliet said. “Nothing goes on Instagram without him.”
Riley took a sip. Was her despair written so obviously on her face? The warm liquid was magically soothing. As she breathed it in, a young woman hurried past.
“Kylie,” Juliet called to her. “Before I forget, please do register for that blogging conference in May. We’ll sort out the coverage. I’m thrilled you want to take that on. I can definitely see you managing more of our content.”
“Awesome!” Kylie said. “Betsy was looking for you—she’s in the kitchen.”
“She’s got Rachel?” Kylie nodded. Juliet tapped the bracelet on her wrist absentmindedly. Riley saw letters stamped on the metal; she tried to make them out, but Juliet was soon repositioning a vase with a sprig of highbush blueberries. “My daughter watches Kylie’s daughter, Rachel, sometimes while she’s here. We use Rachel as our baby model. I did not hire Kylie as my assistant because she would produce an adorable baby, but that has been a much-appreciated bonus. Betsy!” Juliet walked into the kitchen. A few staff members bustled about chopping vegetables. “Oh, good. They’ve got the marinade going for the duck.”
“I thought we were cooking dinner?” Riley said. In selling this retreat, Nadia had sent daily emails promising that staff chefs would teach kitchen techniques: cutting, braising, making meringues. Riley rarely graced a kitchen now, but she and Skip had taught themselves how to cook during college out of economic necessity. “I was looking forward to improving my knife skills.”
Juliet turned to her, assessed if she was serious, then decided she was. “I will apprentice you to Kevin. You will leave here chopping onions that will make people weep by their uniform beauty alone.” Then she leaned in to whisper: “We always have our guests start dinner, but your colleagues will lose interest ten minutes in, especially if they’ve enjoyed the cocktail party. Which we want them to do! So . . . we try to make things as . . . straightforward as possible for our corporate customers.”
“Ah.” Riley supposed a meringue might flummox her colleagues. She could see Juliet continuing to study her. She glanced in a mirror on the wall, a mirror whose frame bore on every side the strange word “expectations.” She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but she did look as overwhelmed as she felt. She fluffed her hair and rubbed her eyes. It was only the miracle of being twenty-nine that kept her looking presentable. She turned away to take in the magnificent kitchen’s gorgeous stone backsplashes, granite counters, and white cupboards.
A ten-year-old girl sat writing something at a table in the corner. “How’s the essay coming, Faye?” Juliet called. The girl just shook her head as she labored over her homework. “Hmm . . . I wonder if there might be something in our trip to that farmer’s market in Brooklyn last week? You always spot the most illuminating details.” Juliet turned to Riley. “Artisanal food central. Pickles. Sourdough. Kimchi.
And a craft fair in this old warehouse too. The crazy part is everyone seems to want to know about it. I’ve had Betsy and Faye write short pieces for the website about a Brooklyn knitting club or a cheese-making cooperative and people eat it up.” She shrugged. In the corner, another girl, who looked about twelve, snapped photos of a fabulously fat baby dressed in non-seasonally-appropriate Easter clothes. Without even waiting for Riley’s question, Juliet said, “We’re doing an Easter-themed package across a lot of our properties in March, but that means the content gets done now. Betsy is a real pro at this. Her eye for color combinations! That pink sweater and yellow pants just work.”
Riley pondered this woman, and how she seemed to be contemplating the skills and development of every single person she encountered. She had untold projects going on, yet Riley had never seen anyone so calm. The contrast with her own still-clenched jaw—three weeks, and her colleagues in that parlor would eject her suddenly single and friendless self from their midst—just heightened her distress.
As Juliet showed her the craft classrooms, Riley caught sight of her bracelet again. She saw more letters: C-H-O-O-S-E. “You emailed your photos so we could print them for your scrapbook, right?” Juliet asked.
“I . . .” Riley knew that unless her assistant had sent in photos while canceling her lunch plans with Skip, she’d have nothing.
“Ten favorite ones from your phone. That will work. How about your last vacation?”
“I . . . can’t remember my last vacation.”
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