by Julia London
Carly thought about pointing out to her sister that their mother might not be answering because she was tired of being tracked like a common criminal, and who texted anyone at six o’clock in the goddamn morning, Mia. But this time, Carly was a little curious, too. Usually, her mother called her several times a week, but Carly realized she hadn’t heard from her mom at all in the last week. So she began her day driving by her mother’s house to check on her.
Her mother was safe and sound and doing yoga in the backyard. “Since when do you do yoga?” Carly asked as she pulled her jacket around her. The day had not yet warmed.
“Hello, my love!” her mother chirped.
Her mother had never, in all of Carly’s life, called her “my love” until a couple of months ago . . . come to think of it, around the same time she started her sexual revolution.
“I began my yoga practice two weeks ago. Penny told me it was the best thing for you, and she was absolutely right. You should try it! It would release all the stress you carry in your face,” she said, fluttering her fingers at Carly’s face.
“Gee, thanks, Mom.”
Her mother pinched her cheek. “You’re a beautiful woman, Carly, but you do seem stressed. I worry about you.”
Carly couldn’t argue. “I’m fine, Mom. Have you been practicing yoga all week and that’s why you won’t answer Mia’s texts? She’s worried.”
“Don’t listen to your sister. I called her back and she didn’t answer. And we both know that Mia would worry if she lost a sock in the dryer. It’s just her nature. Yours is to be very determined in all that you do, which I love about you, and hers is to worry. And my nature is to look for light. Oh, Carly, I’ve been having the time of my life!” She began to roll up her yoga mat.
“We all know, Mom.” Carly’s phone pinged. She pulled it out of her pocket and saw a text from June on her screen. Need you right away! Lord, what now? She texted back: What’s going on? And to her mother, she said, “I know you’re having this great time and all, but if you could just check in with Mia from time to time, you’d be doing me a huge favor. She blows up my phone when she can’t reach you. She’s counting on you to watch the kids this Friday so she can go to lunch with her friends.”
“And I can’t wait to see my little darlings. I’m taking them to Zilker Park to fly kites. When was the last time you flew a kite? It’s very freeing.” She breezed past Carly into her house.
“What? You know how to fly a kite?” Carly asked, looking up from her phone. She twirled about and followed her mother into the house.
Her mother was bent over, putting her yoga mat away. She stood up, turned around, and smiled very broadly at Carly. So broadly that she looked younger than her years. So broadly that Carly had a sick little feeling in the pit of her stomach that somewhere, a big fat shoe was about to drop, and probably right on her head.
“Carly? Something wonderful has happened.”
“What is it?” she asked warily.
Impossibly, her mother’s smile got bigger and brighter. “I met someone extraordinary.”
Okay, no need to panic just yet. Her mother had met several extraordinary people since her divorce. If Carly wasn’t mistaken, everyone she met was extraordinary. But she’d never smiled quite like this when talking of those extraordinary people. “Okay,” Carly said carefully. “Like . . . how extraordinary?”
“Very,” her mother said, and Carly’s stomach knotted a little tighter. “We’re . . . well, I wasn’t going to tell you just yet, but here you are, and I think you should know that we’re thinking of getting married.”
Carly’s phone pinged at the same moment she cried out with alarm. “You’re what?”
“Nothing big, of course. Probably a Vegas wedding. You know, pop in, do the deed, pop out.”
“Mom? What are you—”
“I mean, we’ve both been married before, so it wouldn’t make sense to have a big wedding. But I would like a dress. I don’t care how old one is, or how many times one has been married, which is only one for me, but Shelby Case was wearing a fancy dress on her third wedding. Her third! And it was white, can you imagine? Oh! I’ve got a great idea! We’ll make a mother-daughter day and the three of us shop for one!”
Carly’s panic burst into full bloom. “Mother! You can’t be serious!”
“I am very serious, Carly, and I would like your support. Oh dear, I feared you’d react this way. You’re very much like your father sometimes, you know. Very practical.” She turned around and went into the kitchen.
Carly was quick on her heels. “I’m reacting this way because it’s crazy, Mother. You’ve been—”
“I want you to be happy for me, sweetie!”
Happy for her? This was the first Carly was hearing of anything serious, and it was already at marriage? “It’s a little hard to be happy for you when you’re doing something so impetuous, Mom. You’ve been sleeping your way through half of Austin, and suddenly you’re planning a wedding? It doesn’t make sense.”
Her mother pointed a finger at her. “That was the release of pent-up anxiety after forty years of sleeping with your father. And that was before I realized my friend’s feelings are the same.” She grinned.
“Who is he? Who is this guy? Where did you meet him? How long have you actually known him?”
“Don’t be so nervous, honey. Really, it wouldn’t hurt you to live it up a little, too. It’s fun. It’s invigorating!”
How in the hell could Carly live it up a little when her world was cracking and bits and pieces were falling off? “I’m not nervous. This is so . . .” She had to pause and think of a word that could sum up her utter despair and alarm and disbelief.
“This is my decision,” her mother said with a flick of her wrist. “I may be your mother, but I am also a grown woman and I can do as I please.”
“How long have you known him?” Carly insisted.
“What does it matter?”
Her mother had a tendency to get defensive when she knew she was wrong. “How long, Mom?”
Her mother sighed as if Carly were being unreasonable. “A couple of weeks.”
“Oh my God!” Carly cried, and turned a complete circle, blindly searching for something that made sense, or at least something to kick.
“Now look. I know it was hard for you to accept that I divorced your father, and it was for him, too. But you have to look at it from my perspective. I gave my best years to that man, and this is . . . well, sometimes you just know. And I know.” She laughed, pleased with herself.
“No, Mom. No. You can’t do this. We have to at least meet him before you do anything.”
“That can certainly be arranged,” she said agreeably. “Just out of curiosity, do you question your father this way?”
Carly snorted. “Dad isn’t dating all over town and threatening to run off to Vegas to marry a girl he’s known two weeks.”
“Really? When was the last time you saw him?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
Her mother shrugged. “Maybe you should check in.”
“Stop it, Mom. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to imply something about him so I’ll stop asking you questions. Tell me the truth—do you really think it is okay to spring on one of your kids that you’re thinking of running off to Vegas without ever having mentioned you were seeing someone? Or letting us meet him? Is that what you would want me to do to you?”
“That’s different. You are young and at the beginning of your life, and of course I want to be at your wedding. But I am older and wiser and this isn’t my first rodeo. Trust me, you’ll feel better about it once you meet him.” She gave Carly’s cheek a little pat.
The blood was draining from Carly’s face. She could feel it leaking out of her, along with everything she ever thought she knew about her parents, about dating, about life. “I can’t beli
eve this,” she whispered.
“Believe it!” her mother sang happily. “I think you will really like him. Don’t look so down, sweetie—you’re worried over nothing. Oh! Will you look at the time? I’ve got to get dressed and go. Love you!” she said and disappeared down the hall toward the bedrooms.
Carly’s phone pinged again. She glanced down to see June’s message: 9-1-1.
* * *
On the way to the studio, Carly plugged into Big Girl Panties and hoped Megan had some advice for a mother who was off the rails. But today’s podcast was about self-affirmation. “If you don’t believe in you, who will?” she chirped sunnily.
At the studio, Carly discovered that Victor had gotten off the couch. In fact, he was a hive of activity, cutting and draping that awful aquamarine fabric on the table and onto a new dress form that was three sizes larger than the average dress form. Even worse, there was a bolt of shiny lime green fabric propped against the table.
Carly turned with alarm to June. June looked a little sick.
Okay, this was where years of hard work and training kicked in. Carly pasted a smile on her face and turned to Victor. “Hey!” she said breezily. “Whatcha got going here?”
“Can’t talk,” Victor said. “I’ve got too much to do.”
Carly turned back to June. She said, “He’s decided he’s not going to show the white pieces.” She pointed to a corner of the studio and a pile of white fabric. When Carly looked a little closer, she noticed that the pieces were cut up. The white pieces were no longer clothes, they were a pile of rags. Her gut twisted uncomfortably. She turned back to Victor.
He didn’t bother to look up or offer any sort of explanation. Carly didn’t know what made her more furious—that he’d tossed the white after all her work to get it into the fashion media? Or that she’d worn that shit for two solid weeks? “We’re doing a YouTube podcast this week, Victor, remember? The Fashion Divas are going to be discussing your pieces. Which means your white pieces because you pulled the red. I mean, you do realize that the New Designer Showcase is right around the corner, right? And that Ramona McNeil is waiting for us to send her something new?”
“I know. I’m starting over.”
“But why?” She asked this in a voice louder than was necessary, but she felt herself on the verge of a full-throated, primal scream. “After all that hard work? Why would you do that? Do you really have time to start over?”
Victor stopped what he was doing. He pointed his scissors at her. “I’m not showing that collection, Carly. Not now, not ever. I don’t feel good about it. Have you seen what people are saying about me?”
“What people?” Carly asked, looking wildly around the studio.
June stepped forward and handed Carly her phone.
It was his Instagram page again. Last night, while she’d been text-flirting with Max, Victor had posted one of the white pieces and the trolls had leapt on the opportunity to trash his design. And then Victor had responded to each and every piece of criticism. “Oh hell,” Carly breathed.
“He won’t stop,” June said. “Just can’t keep his fat mouth shut.”
“I’m not going to let them walk all over me, Mom!” Victor said.
“Victor, listen to me. You have to stop responding,” Carly said. “These posts should be strategically scheduled. That’s what I do. You make clothes. The reason you pay me is so that I can create a positive impression of you. I can’t do that if you are fighting with nameless trolls. And that’s all they are. You know that, right? They are nameless trolls and this is nothing but sport to them.”
“Yeah, well, it’s also my life. Look, I’m sorry. Mom, I’m sorry. But I can’t show anything I don’t feel one hundred percent.”
In the end, there was no reasoning with him—Victor was starting from scratch with the most garish colors he could possibly choose.
Carly called the podcast producer and asked if they could postpone. The answer was no. They were booked all the way through New York Fashion Week.
She left the studio feeling dejected. As if all her hard work was being destroyed. She felt terrible for Victor—she couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be to show the world something you had created and watch as people tossed out negative opinions with no compassion and no understanding of the amount of work it required.
Her day did not improve from there. She drove home to think how she could repair the damage Victor had done, to salvage something of the campaign before the New Designer Showcase, and to call Ramona McNeil for the last time.
She could not wait for Red Bud Isle. She couldn’t wait to sit on a park bench and stare into the cool gray eyes of Max Sheffington while Hazel and Baxter romped. The trips to the dog park had been the highlight of her life these last couple of weeks. They were the bright spot in a universe that was getting bleaker. And if she needed any reminder of just how bleak, Conrad was on hand to remind her.
He popped up next to the drive so suddenly that Carly first thought he’d been waiting in the bushes. There he was, stumbling and lurching up the incline to the drive when she came through the gate, waving his hand at her. She stopped and rolled down the window, and waited for Conrad to bring the clouds rolling in. “Hello, Conrad. You don’t have to try and catch me pulling in, you know. You can call me.”
“Oh, that’s okay. It’s good for me,” he said through a wheeze. He braced himself with his arms against the window frame of her car door. She watched a trickle of sweat trace a path down his temple. “How are you?” he asked.
“Good! You?”
“Doing great. We had a Nobel Prize winner of Physics over for dinner last night. Fascinating stuff!”
“I bet.” She resisted a roll of her eyes. Conrad was always entertaining the most interesting people on the planet. It seemed impossible that one person could know so many interesting people. The odds had to be stacked against it.
“So, hey, the lease? I need you to drop by and sign it sometime soon. Definitely by the end of the month.”
“Oh yeah, of course,” she said. “I’ve been so busy! I’m going to do that this week, but right now, I have to rush.” She glanced at her wrist. She was not wearing a watch.
“Sure, sure,” Conrad said. “No worries. Just come by this week. Oh, and, by the way, we’re going to need a pet deposit.” He winced sympathetically.
Carly froze. She looked at him again. “What?”
“You said Baxter was temporary, remember? But it’s been a few weeks now, so . . . I mean, unless you’re going to surrender him?”
Her throat clenched. She tried to clear it. “Ah,” she said, but it came out garbled.
Conrad waited.
“Not surrendering him,” she croaked. “How much is the deposit?”
“Five hundred per pet.”
Carly must have gasped, or who knows, maybe she fainted and quickly came to, because Conrad threw up both hands and stepped back like he thought she was about to projectile vomit. “Hey, it was Petra’s idea. I mean, don’t get us wrong, we love dogs,” he said, tapping his heart with his palm. “But Petra had a problem with an investment property in Santa Monica and said the cleaning bill when you move out could be horrendous.”
“Horrendous! Have you seen my house? I am very clean.”
“Sure, but the dog,” he said again.
“Baxter doesn’t do anything but sleep all day. In one corner of the house.”
“Well . . . we think he’s been in the herb garden. So, yeah . . . we’re going to need that pet deposit.”
It was a good thing Carly was in her car, because she might have launched at Conrad, White Walker style, and chewed his head off. But she said, “Okay. Will do!” She put her car in gear. Conrad stumbled a little in his Jesus sandals. She gave him a jaunty wave and drove on to her cottage. “Will not do,” she muttered as she got out and slammed the car door.
Carly dropped her bag. “I’m sorry.” She fell to her knees and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry, Baxter! I’m sorry I ever thought about rehoming you. I would never, and I need you to know that. I would never give you away, not unless we found a utopia where bassets live freely in a commune. A basset dog ranch with plenty of stuff to smell and organic dog food and couches. Lots of couches.” She buried her face in his fur.
When she finally sat up, and Baxter had managed to drool on her silk blouse, she thought at least one decision had been made. She was keeping this dog. Or Baxter was keeping her—she wasn’t quite sure which way that went. But it was clear that the feeling was entirely mutual.
That evening, while Baxter snored contentedly beside her on her bed, Carly worked on her bills again, trying to find the secret method of squeezing blood from a turnip. She could not find it.
Then she worked on the publicity schedule for the next three weeks, considering Victor had nothing to show. When she’d finished that, she emailed Ramona McNeil.
Dear Ramona,
Once again, thank you so much for the opportunity to put Victor Allen in front of you. I am so excited about his design aesthetic, and I think when you meet him, you will be, too. Unfortunately, sometimes artists reassess their creative vision. Victor has done just that. He is busy creating a completely new show, and it’s going to be amazing. But that means I have nothing to show you right now. I am so sorry about that. I know you are frightfully busy, and his spot will likely go to some other deserving designer. I would like to leave you with the suggestion to keep an eye out for Victor. He’s going to be a huge talent.
