“Oh, sure. Makes sense,” he says. “I’m really sorry to be the one to tell you about the building. If I were you, I’d call the management company asap to find out how much time you have before you need to move out. Maybe they’ll let you stay longer.”
I nod my head and show him to the door. My enthusiasm over Tim being home, the cooler weather arriving, my sweaters being unearthed, and the start of pumpkin muffin season, has disappeared into a soulless abyss.
I’m thirty years old, a dog has recently jumped over me, and if that isn’t enough, I now believe the old kook from Harlem that my life is about to change in the most unexpected ways. It already has.
Chapter 2
My mom fills two wine glasses with a hearty Beaujolais. “You can move back home with us. Think about how much money you’ll save if you stay here for a couple of years.”
I look around my parents’ loft, my childhood home, and observe that nothing has changed. While the vast majority of SoHo has been renovated in the last couple of decades, updated with marble and granite, expensive cabinetry, and gleaming fixtures, my parents’ place is an homage to the nineties. Not a slab of stone or gleaming fixture in sight, despite my best efforts and considerable discount at Silver Spoons. My dad’s art supplies fill the entire living area, with huge canvases resting against walls and furniture. Books and assorted clutter fill every surface. The kitchen? Good grief, the kitchen, it looks like something straight out of a flea market, but not in a chic, designer kind of way—more like a garage sale meets your grandmother’s castoffs.
Lambertos Blake, my dad—or Bertie as he’s known to his friends and family—is an artist of some repute. He’s had fits and bursts of success during his thirty-five-year long career that has cemented his name as one of the longest standing artists of his time. He’s currently experiencing a drought though, declaring that the oppressiveness of the world’s political climate is interfering with his creative mojo. Historically, these periods have always been followed by explosions of genius that lead to a record-breaking commission. He makes himself and everyone around him miserable while he waits.
“Where would you like me to sleep? Perhaps on the window ledge?” I ask while pointing to one of the best features in the apartment. Giant ten-foot tall windows fill the majority of the east facing wall, making this an ideal artist’s lair.
“No one likes a smart ass, dear,” my mom says while cutting up a plate of figs.
Regina Cohen, my mom, is a professor of women’s studies at NYU. My friends used to wonder why she didn’t take my dad’s name when they got married, until I informed them that my parents never got married. Regina felt strongly, and still does, that she is queen of her own destiny and that marriage is nothing more than letting our patriarchal forefathers enslave her. Even though she wanted no part of it, she and my dad have been a devoted couple for thirty-five years.
Her fierce belief that women have been screwed over since Eve radiates from her like a furnace. Her mass of curly brown hair, that I inherited, often bounces in righteous indignation that can easily be perceived as hostile to those who don’t know her. Though enormously passionate about her beliefs, she’s remarkably kind to the majority of people, you just have to hang out with her long enough to get past her intimidating exterior. It’s not a challenge everyone is up to.
I answer, “Have you seen the state of my room lately?” My dad has been using it as a storage room for half-finished paintings and supplies. “It smells like turpentine. I’d probably develop a brain tumor if I slept in there.”
“Psh,” she says. “Bertie would be so happy to have you home that he’d clear it out for you.”
“Mom, I love you guys with my whole heart. But two days back here would have me jumping out the nearest window.” With a Vanna White-like flourish, I showcase the alarming selection of exits at my disposal.
She rolls her amber wolf eyes at me and declares, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I’m not a beggar, yet,” I inform her. “I’m going to start looking around for something else. Maybe I can find a widow on Fifth Avenue to rent out her maid’s quarters to me for a song.”
“I’d rather you move into a youth hostel. Those snooty Park Avenue types wouldn’t treat you well at all.”
“Why do say that?” I ask, fully aware that I’m poking the bear.
“Because they didn’t earn their money, they inherited it. They have no idea what it takes to hold down a job and raise a family with the sweat from their own brow. They’re nothing but entitled …”
I interrupt, “Lords and ladies of the manor pulling the strings of the puppet peasantry.”
My mom squints her eyes like she’s trying to decipher whose side I’m on. She ultimately decides that no offense was meant and continues, “I do not like entitled people.”
“I was teasing you, Mom.” I thought that was obvious, but apparently she didn’t pick up on my tone. Then I add, “Not that I wouldn’t rent the maid quarters in one of those penthouses. I would, but I don’t realistically expect those folks are looking for tenants.”
“You disappoint me, Lexi,” she says.
“Why, because I don’t have a chip on my shoulder? Because I don’t hate rich people on principle?”
She shakes her head. “Don’t make light of the struggles that came before you, Alexis. Women who refused to be cast in the shadows of history are the reason we have the degree of equality we have today. Those who hunt out the wealthiest mate they can, to bring forth new generations of privilege, do not have my respect.”
I’ve heard this lecture many times before. “The sisterhood was tough, so I could be soft, huh?” I ask with a hint of attitude before shifting gears. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate what’s been done, Mom, I have a lot of other things on my plate right now. You know, like impending homelessness.”
Regina changes the subject as she knows this could explode into something. “Where do you want to order dinner from?” She pulls out a bunch of menus from the kitchen drawer.
“I want kung pao something. Chicken, shrimp, goat, I don’t care.” My current mood calls for something spicy to help burn through the cloud of frustration that’s filling my head.
“Excellent, I’ll have the Sichuan beef, and Bertie will have the cashew chicken. We can share.”
Apparently, I like to fight with my mom, and because I’m feeling a myriad of aggressive emotions, I say, “I’m not sharing.”
She comes around the counter and stands right in front of me. Putting her hands on my shoulders, she says, “Lexi, you’re going to be fine. You’ve moved before, you’ll probably move again. You have to trust in your strength, keep your chin up, and plow through. I promise you’ll be better off than you are now.”
I don’t want to believe her, but that’s the super annoying thing about my mom, she’s usually right. Not that I’ll ever say that to her face. “I’ve been thinking about finally taking my accrued vacation time at work. If I don’t use it by the end of December, I’ll lose it.”
“How much time do you have?” she asks.
“Five weeks. Maybe I need to get out of Dodge for a while to help clear my head.”
“You mean, leave New York City? Why don’t you stay and do all the things you want to do but never have time for?”
“Like what?” I ask. “I grew up here. I’ve pretty much done it all.”
She releases a bark of laughter. “You haven’t even begun. This city is huge and there are a million things you haven’t done.” She asks, “Have you taken the trapeze class on the East River? Have you gone to the poetry readings in Bryant Park? Have you taken that Brazilian martial arts class in the village or learned how to blow glass from Frank who lives downstairs?” Not getting a response from me, she asks, “Where do you want to go?”
“I want to visit Emmie in Missouri. I miss her and the baby so much, I think spending time with them will be good for me.”
My mom nods her head, but she looks concerned. �
��Missouri, huh? I’ve never been there. I can’t imagine there’s much to see.” My parents have been all over the world for art shows and lectures, but they know very little about small town America. As a result, I don’t either, but it’s time for me to find out.
Chapter 3
Jameson Diamante, my boss, calls me into his office as soon as I get to work. He’s good looking in the same way a friend’s dad was good looking when you were in high school. You know, elegantly graying hair with crinkly laugh lines that hint at unknown adventures. You could appreciate his handsomeness without ever feeling anything remotely like attraction.
Unfortunately, Jameson is oblivious that his appeal doesn’t transcend generations, and he spends a copious amount of time flirting with his staff, of which a solid ninety percent are women who are much younger and not at all interested in his overtures.
He stands when I walk through the door and gestures gallantly for me to take a seat next to him on the loveseat situated in a small seating area adjacent to his deck. “Alexis, how are you this fine day?”
“I’m doing well, Jameson. I’m glad you wanted to see me. As you know, I made an appointment to speak with you, as well.”
“Me first!” he declares excitedly while clapping his hands together. “I have the happy news of telling you that you’re being promoted to the position of East Coast relocation scout.” The clueless look on my face prompts him to explain, “You’ll be in charge of relocating our existing stores to different addresses, should it be beneficial to do so.”
Huh. That doesn’t sound like much of a promotion. I point out, “I’m currently in charge of finding new locations nationwide. How is regional relocation scout more prestigious than that?”
Jameson stands up and walks to the door, which I left open when I came in. He closes it. Then he sits next to me and very inappropriately places his hand on my knee. He leans in and says, “Confidentially, we’ve decided to stop branching out so aggressively.”
“Why?” I ask, even though there’s only one reason a company ever cuts back on expansion—financial difficulties.
“We feel that it’s in the best interest of the brand to slow things down and make sure the existing stores are performing optimally before we continue with our growth plan.”
“Is there a raise involved?” I ask. I mean, he did say it was a promotion.
My boss clears his throat and refuses to meet my gaze while he adjusts a pile of magazines sitting on the side table next to him. “Not as such. But the good news is, it’s only a slight decrease in salary.”
“Decrease?” I demand. “Jameson, my apartment building is going condo. If I’m going to buy in, I need more money, not less.” Not that it’s even within the realm of possibility that they’ll give me the amount I need to stay in my current digs.
“Ah, yes, but the promotion isn’t the only good news I have for you.” What? Are they going to buy my apartment for me as a signing bonus or something? It’s all I can do not to let the sarcasm shoot out of me like a bottle rocket.
“The position is based out of our Atlanta store. Your cost of living will be much lower down there, so even with the decrease in pay, you’ll be able to live a lot better than you do here in Manhattan. Isn’t that exciting?”
As exciting as a root canal. “You want me to move to Atlanta? When?”
“We realize you’ll have a bit of work to do here, so we’ll give you to the end of October to wrap things up. This way you can give notice on your apartment and fly down to Georgia to set up your new living situation. We’d like you to begin in Atlanta on November first.”
“Jameson, my parents live in New York. I’ve lived here my whole life. You expect me to pick up and move to the South?”
“People move for work all the time, Alexis.” He raises an eyebrow at me like I’m supposed to shrink beneath his superiority. Clearly, he’s never met the woman who raised me. Cowering to “the man” is not within my DNA.
“We need to discuss why I made an appointment to talk to you,” I tell him. He nods his head imperiously as though I should keep talking, so, I do. “I haven’t taken a vacation in the last two years and I currently have five weeks of paid time that I’ll lose at the first of the year.”
“Ah, yes,” he says as though he gives a crap about my vacation. “But you’ll accrue vacation in your new position.”
“I would expect so, but meanwhile I’d like to take the time I’ve already banked in my old position.”
Confusion furrows his brow as if I’m not speaking plain English. He finally asks, “What would you think if I could get the company to buy out your vacation time at half-pay?”
“I’d think that I’m already getting a fully paid vacation, so I’d most certainly have to pass on your offer to reduce that.”
“Lexi.” Jamison never uses my nickname. “The company is in financial difficulty at the moment. I could pay you at half rate for your vacation now and then write in a more substantial package for you in your next contract. How does that sound?”
With the company in trouble, I’d have to be an idiot to agree to move to Atlanta with a decreased salary before taking the vacation I’ve already earned. I tell him, “I think I’ll stay with my current contract. I’ll tie up my workload and then I’ll take my time at the beginning of November.” If the company is still alive and kicking, then I’ll consider if I’ll accept a new position with them in Atlanta.
Jameson is clearly displeased that I’m not going to dance to his tune, but I’m letting him know loud and clear that I’m no pushover. My mother didn’t raise a stupid child. I’m prepared to unleash the full Regina if he doesn’t go for it, but he eventually stands and puts out his hand to shake mine.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Alexis. I’ll write up a new offer detailing our agreement and let you know when it’s ready to be signed.”
If I sign it. As I walk back to my desk, I can’t help but wonder if Silver Spoons is a house of cards in a windstorm or if they’re simply being fiscally responsible by not overextending themselves. There’s no way to know. I’ll just have to sit back and keep my eyes open. Meanwhile, I need to give some serious consideration to my housing situation. I can’t keep my current place if I move to Atlanta, and I sure can’t keep it as an unemployed New Yorker, which is what I’ll be if I don’t take the job in Georgia.
I decide to forgo actual work and walk down the street to the new bakery that recently opened. Even if a pumpkin muffin doesn’t help me think more clearly, it will surely offer a degree of comfort, which is one thing I could use in spades right now.
I stir one packet of raw sugar into my latte before turning around to try to find a place to sit. With nowhere available, I walk outside and cross the street to Central Park. I find an empty bench almost immediately. As I sit down, I realize my life is turning into something of a shit show. I’ve more or less lost my apartment, my job, and the man I’d been crushing on, all within three days. I watch as people buzz around me. Time on my little corner of the bench has totally stopped while the rest of the world has hit fast forward.
I take two bites of my muffin before realizing I can’t even taste it. Eventually I pick up my phone and punch in Emmie’s number. She answers on the third ring, mid-laugh, “Hey, Lexi, what’s up?” So, I tell her. Halfway through Tim’s engagement story, I uncharacteristically burst into tears. By the time I relay that my apartment is going condo I’m so stuffed up I’m not sure if she has any idea what I’m saying. I can’t even make it through my job debacle. I don’t even know who I am in this moment.
Before snot runs uncontrollably down my face, she interrupts me. “Come to Creek Water and see us. Faye and I miss you to the moon and back.”
I tell her I’ve already decided to do that and give her my dates, asking if they work.
“A whole month!” she squeals in my ear. “You’re never going to want to leave after you’ve been here for that amount of time.”
I want to remind her that she l
ives in Missouri, and Missouri is pretty much a nothing location from a New Yorker’s perspective. But I don’t want to hurt her feelings. Also, I’m starting to wonder if my life in New York is all it’s been cracked up to be. Don’t tell Regina I said that or she’s liable to have a cow.
Chapter 4
I spend all of September and October dismantling my life, only coping by putting myself on autopilot. I deftly remove Silver Spoons from all expansion negotiations. I give notice on my apartment and sell all the furniture I can live without, essentially everything but my bed and a darling little Victorian end table I picked up at the Hell’s Kitchen swap meet. My parents let me store what’s left of my life at their place until I can decide what I’m going to do. This way I’ll be able to bank my rent payment for the next couple of months.
My dad is nearly apoplectic at the thought of me living anywhere but the borough of Manhattan. I once toyed with the idea of moving to Roosevelt Island, and he threatened a stroke if I did any such thing. When I told him about the Georgia promotion, he lost his voice for two whole hours, choosing instead to communicate through eye-rolls, foot stomping, and dish banging.
“People do move, Dad.”
“The only intelligent reason to move is to get closer to New York City. No one with an above average IQ ever leaves,” he protests.
My mom has other thoughts. “I don’t suppose a year or two outside the city will kill you. It might even be beneficial, you know, give you charming little anecdotes about what life is like outside utopia. As long as you don’t start blessing people’s hearts and drinking sweet tea, you should be fine.”
“I’m not visiting her there,” my dad interjects petulantly, talking as if I’m not present.
“Of course not, Bertie,” Mom declares like such lunacy never entered her mind. “Lexi will be so desperate to come home, I’m sure we will see her more than we do now.”
“As you know, before I move to Atlanta, I’m going to use my vacation and see Emmie. Tomorrow. You could come see me there.” I would never say such a thing if I thought there was a snowflake’s chance in Haiti that they’d do it.
The Move (The Creek Water Series Book 2) Page 2
