by Mary Simses
He’d nailed it. I gave a sheepish nod. “Yep.”
He smiled. “You should have seen my papier-mâché ornaments. They were awful. I remember one year we were supposed to make a snowman and mine ended up looking like something out of a horror movie. It had this misshapen nose, and the eyes were dark and evil-looking. My mom was afraid of it. She wouldn’t put it up.”
I stifled a laugh.
“I bet yours were great compared to that.”
“Oh, I don’t know…”
He was being so nice. It was making me feel a little nervous, a little fidgety, like I might jump off the cliff. That was the term my father gave to my habit of rambling when I was anxious. It was as if the reasonable part of my brain shut down and let the other part go wild.
“So you didn’t go back to Manhattan,” I said.
“I was going to, but I got a lead on some properties out here and decided to stay and take a look at them.”
Why did I feel a little surge of excitement when he said that? I picked up a box of note cards from one of the shelves and tried to shake off the feeling. “Do you think anyone still uses these?” I held up the box. “It seems like a lost art. Although I do. Use them, I mean. My mother taught us when we were little that we had to write thank-you cards. She was a real stickler about it. She said she’d give the gift back if we didn’t send a card within a week. She was like a drill sergeant that way. I remember one time when…” I glanced at David. He was staring at me. I was doing it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“I use them sometimes,” he said. “Note cards.”
“You do?” I wondered if he really did or if he was just being nice. Either way, I felt better.
“Yeah. My mom was tough about that too.”
I liked the idea that our mothers shared that trait. I put the box back. “What’s going on with the hand? I’ve been wondering.”
“Not much,” he said, sounding a little frustrated. “Ana and I haven’t been able to get a hold of each other. And I’m not taking it anywhere until I find out exactly what Alex wants to do.”
Ana. So much was riding on her. It bothered me that she hadn’t returned his call. “You mean you haven’t spoken to her?”
“She called me back last night, but it was really late, and I was asleep. I tried her again this morning, but the call went right to her voice mail. I can’t leave the story about what happened on her voice mail.” His brows angled inward and a little ridge appeared between them. “I know she’s been in meetings with Alex and his clients, and there’s that time difference, but I really need to talk to her.”
“Time difference?” I glanced at a woman trying on an ivory-colored shawl.
“She’s in Aspen.”
Oh, right. Aspen. I’d forgotten. “I was in Aspen once, when Mariel and I were young. Dad was meeting some people about a play. It was summer and we went on the gondola up Aspen Mountain. Eleven thousand feet. Wow, that thing is…” I began to feel dizzy just remembering it. “It goes up and up and up. And you keep thinking you’re near the top, but you’re not. I had kind of a problem with it, fainted about halfway up.”
David winced. “You fainted?”
“Oh, I wasn’t out for long. Mom had a spritzer of Poison in her handbag. Do you know it? The Dior perfume? I guess she thought it might work like smelling salts. She sprayed it all over the place. It did work. Brought me right around. I’ve carried my own little spritzer ever since. Have you been on the gondola?” God, I was rambling again. I had to stop.
“Yes, I have,” David said. “I know what you mean. It’s disorienting.”
I wondered again if he was saying this sort of thing for my benefit. If he was, it was working. “What are you looking for?” I asked. “Anything in particular?”
He shrugged. “Something to bring back for Ana. She’s hard to buy for, though.”
Did that mean she was hard to please or that she already had everything she needed? “Is she picky?”
“Yeah, she is kind of picky.”
Kind of picky. “Would she return a gift you gave her if she didn’t like it?” I never returned a gift unless it was a piece of clothing and the size was wrong. I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.
“She’s done it, yes. But that’s fine. She’s got very particular tastes.”
She was a gift returner, then. “Well, I guess as long as it doesn’t hurt your feelings…”
“I just want her to be happy.”
How sweet he was. I hoped Ana appreciated it.
I looked at the woman trying on the shawl. She’d switched to one in lavender, and when she turned, I thought for a moment she was Christy Costigan from my class at Hampstead High. Christy had sat across from me in three-dimensional art. I could still see those long tables and the cabinets filled with sculpting tools and paints and brushes. I could smell the paper and glue, the clay, the paint thinner. And I could see the teacher—petite, blond, pretty. She was a little bit of a free spirit. What was her name? Miss Bain, Miss Blair, something like that. No, wait a minute. It was Miss Baird. Jeanette Baird.
She taught sculpture. She was a sculptor. She showed us pictures of her work. Some of it was in galleries. An effervescent feeling enveloped me. Miss Baird could fix the hand. If she was still in the area, I’d find her and get her to do it. It was a brilliant idea. So brilliant I could have danced around the room. I’d figured out a way to resolve the hand dilemma. I turned to David, who was leafing through a coffee-table book. “I’ve got an idea about the hand. We can ask someone to help us.”
He closed the book and put it back on the shelf. “What? No. Definitely not. We tried that at the art store, remember? It turned out to be way too complicated.”
“I mean we could ask an artist. A real artist. I was thinking of Miss Baird, one of my high-school teachers. She was a wonderful sculptor. She could fix that thing in her sleep.”
“Your high-school art teacher?” One eyebrow went up so high, it looked as if it were about to take off. I could hear the skepticism in his voice. “Sara, thank you, but I can deal with this. When Ana calls me back, I’ll let her know what happened and take it from there.”
He was probably right. I needed to stay out of it, let him handle it. But it seemed crazy to give up now when there might be someone who could really help. I had a good feeling about this plan. And a good feeling is hard to ignore.
“I’ll be right back,” I said. I walked into the hall, took out my phone, and put Jeanette’s name into a couple of people-search websites. No luck. Maybe I could find her through Hampstead High. Except it was July. Would anyone be there to answer the phone? Then I remembered summer school would be going on. I looked up the phone number and tapped it into my phone; the girl who answered sounded like a student herself. When I explained that I was trying to track down my art teacher from twenty years ago, she told me there were no art teachers at the school who had been around that long. I asked if they had records for past teachers, and she assured me they did but that those really old records, the ones on paper, were stored off-site.
Really old. Paper. I felt like a dinosaur.
“And we can’t give out teachers’ personal information without their permission,” she said. I thanked her, hung up, and went back into the gift shop, where David was still browsing. “Well, so much for that idea.”
“What idea?” he asked. Then he realized, shook his head, and stared at the ceiling. “Oh no. Not the art teacher.”
“Well…” I grimaced.
“God, you’re stubborn.”
“People have told me that.”
“I can see why.”
“I just thought I’d give it a try, but I couldn’t find her.”
“Welcome to the real world, Sara. Things aren’t always as easy as you think.”
“I don’t always think things are easy. I just hate to give up.”
He picked up a handblown wineglass from a set on a shelf. “I understand that, but you have to admit, som
e of your ideas are a little out there. I’m going to talk to Ana and see what she and Alex want me to do. I just need some instructions so I can get back to Manhattan. I have a lot to take care of in the next couple of weeks before Ana and I fly to Paris.”
Paris. I’d been to Paris twice, both times for weddings I’d planned. I’d never been there on a personal trip, although Carter and I had talked about going. Carter. I used to think about us strolling across the Pont Neuf under a sunny sky or gliding down the Seine on a boat, Notre-Dame winking in the night as we passed. How romantic. The City of Light. The City of Love.
“Paris is such a romantic place,” I said. “Are you going on vacation or for business?”
“Definitely not business.”
Something in David’s demeanor had changed, and I got a strange feeling I knew what this trip was for. “Are you proposing?” The words leaped out before I could stop them.
“How did you know?” His cheeks turned pink as he put the glass on the shelf.
“Then this is a really special trip. Where are you staying?” I grabbed his arm, startling him. I was in full planning mode. “You have to stay at the Meurice or the George Cinq. That’s all there is to it.” I didn’t mention those were the only hotels where I’d ever stayed in Paris. “I personally prefer the George Cinq, but the Meurice is wonderful as well. I’d recommend either.”
“Uh, thanks for the tip. But I’ve booked a suite at the Plaza Athénée. I’ve stayed there before.”
Of course. He actually knew Paris. What a jerk I was. My face tingled with heat. “That’s a great choice too. Lovely rooms, wonderful service.” I’d only passed the place in taxis and seen photos on the internet, but it did look great and I was sure the service was wonderful. “She’ll love it.”
David took out his phone. “I hope so.” He began scrolling, then passed the phone to me. “Here’s a photo of Ana.”
She was beautiful—high cheekbones, short, blunt haircut, long neck. She looked graceful, like a ballet dancer. “She’s very pretty.” I tried to picture them together, but my mind went a little cloudy.
“Yeah, she is.” He put the phone away.
I picked up a sachet bag from the table and held it to my face, inhaling the scent of rose petals. “Have you figured out how you’re going to propose?” I wondered if he’d planned something unusual or if he was going to stick with a more traditional approach. I also wondered if I should offer my help with their wedding plans, but I really didn’t want to help Ana. She sounded too picky.
“I made a reservation for dinner at Le Jules Verne in the Eiffel Tower. I’ve already spoken to the manager and they’re going to decorate a dessert plate with the words Will You Marry Me, Ana? The ring will be in a box in the center, and I’m putting a photo of the two of us in the box. They’ll have a bottle of Krug Clos du Mesnil ready.”
“That’s lovely, David.” And it was. Just the right touch. I felt a little pang of jealousy. Ana was a lucky woman.
“She’s kind of traditional. I thought that would be a good approach.”
“I agree. I see so many outrageous, showy proposals, all for the sake of social media, I’m sure. That’s not what I’d want.”
“I know what you mean,” he said. “It’s as though there’s no limit to what people do these days.”
I told him about all the will-you-marry-me fireworks displays I’d set up—enough to make the idea trite. And about the man who’d had me commission a private air show that ended with his proposal written in the sky. “Oh, and speaking of Paris, I had a client who asked me to arrange a boat ride on the Seine, and at a prearranged place, two scuba divers popped up with a little treasure chest. The ring was inside.”
“Way over the top,” David said as he picked up a pale blue throw blanket and felt the fabric. It looked handwoven and very soft. He glanced at me. “So what would you want? For yourself, I mean.”
“For myself?” I’d never really thought about what I’d want. I’d never gotten that close to being engaged. “Well, not skywriters or scuba divers, that’s for sure. Definitely something more low-key. I guess I’d just want it to be romantic. Kind of like what you’re doing.”
David nodded. Then he put the throw blanket under his arm, and I knew he’d found his gift. We paid for our purchases and I followed him as he went outside to put the box in the van. Sunlight poured onto the lawn as we walked down the front steps, and puffy pink clouds drifted across the sky as though pulled by strings. I kept thinking about David and Ana’s wedding, wondering what it would be like, where they would get married, how many people they would invite. What would her dress look like? (And how many dresses would she try on before she found the right one?) Would she take his last name or keep hers? Or want a hyphenated version of the two?
At the foot of the steps I stopped. “I just thought of something. Maybe she’s using her married name.”
“Who’s using her married name? What are you talking about?”
“Miss Baird. My art teacher.”
“We’re back to her? Sara, listen to me—”
“No, wait. Hear me out. Please. She got married the year I was in her class—my senior year. But she never used her married name. Not at school, anyway. Maybe she’s using it now.” We crossed the grass toward the parking lot.
“But websites that give out people’s addresses have all that information,” David said. “They have maiden names. You would have found her if she was in Connecticut.”
He was probably right. Still, if I could remember her married name, it would be worth a try. I had a vague recollection of it being complicated. And I thought I’d seen it printed somewhere—her maiden name and married name together. But the memory was like a slippery fish I couldn’t grasp. Jeanette Baird, Jeanette Baird. I said it to myself as we headed toward the van. And then I recalled a photo with her name under it.
“I’ve got it. I know where I can find her name. My high-school yearbook. It’s in my room at the house. At least, I think it’s still there.”
“Sara, this is too far-fetched. Even if you could find her, how do you know she’s capable of fixing that sculpture? It’s a valuable piece of art. And even if she is capable, how do you know she’ll do it? I’m going to wait until I hear from Ana.”
“All I’m saying is it’s worth checking out. I told you she’s really talented. And I know we could get her to do it. Look, I understand what you’re saying. But until you do hear from Ana, why not explore this idea? Let me at least find the yearbook and get her name. See if I can track her down. There’s no harm in that, is there?”
“I guess trying to talk you out of this would be a waste of time.”
“I’ll stop at the house this afternoon. My sister will be out, so I won’t have to run into her. She’s going with Mom to some photo-shoot thing.” I could do my sleuthing at the same time. See if I could get into Mariel’s laptop or Mom’s. Look for papers. Find some information on the wedding.
“Photo-shoot thing?”
“My mother’s getting an award. Something to do with fund-raising for the Hampstead Country Playhouse. She does a lot of stuff with them. She has an acting class there.”
“Your mom takes an acting class?” David said. He unlocked the van and put the box inside.
I laughed. “No, she teaches one. Every couple of years. She’s an actor.”
“Really?” He closed the door.
“Yeah, plays, musicals, that kind of thing.”
“Where? Regional theater?”
“Regional, Broadway. She’s done it all.”
He gave a quick shake of his head, like he hadn’t heard right. “Broadway. What’s your mom’s name?”
“Camille. Camille Harrington.”
He mumbled the name as we started walking back toward the inn. “What plays was she in?”
I used to think it would be a good idea to carry a copy of Mom’s bio with me for situations like this. I could just hand it over. “Well, on Broadway she was in Dragonfly Ni
ghts, A Quiet Evening at Home, Who’s Pulling the Rickshaw? The original, back in the late nineties, not the revival that was on Broadway a few years ago.”
“I saw the revival of Rickshaw. It was great.”
“Mom had the part of Cora.”
“The lead. Wow,” David said as we passed a family emerging from an SUV.
“Let me think, what else…oh, Eggs and Bacon, Hold the Toast.”
“The play about the diner? I never got to see it, but I heard it was great.”
“Again, she was in the original, not the revival.”
“I’m impressed. What about your dad? Is he an actor too?”
I kicked away a little branch that had fallen onto the pavement. “My dad died several years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice quiet.
“Thanks. He was a great guy. Creative, too, but in a different way from Mom. He produced plays.”
“So they were both in the business.”
“Yeah. Except he always used to say he was the one with more experience, because he’d produced his first play when he was twelve. He did a streamlined version of Hair with a bunch of neighborhood kids. It lasted half an hour and ran for two nights in his family’s garage.”
We were at the edge of the parking lot where a shuttle bus was filling up with hotel guests. “That’s a great story. I guess you never got the bug, though? Never wanted to be onstage?”
“Me? An actor?” I giggled.
“What’s funny about that? You’d probably be good at it. You’ve proven you can talk people into things. I would think you could talk them into believing you’re someone else. And you’re charming and pretty. Why couldn’t you do it?”
I had no interest in being onstage in any capacity, but I liked what he’d said about me being charming and pretty. “Thanks, but it’s not my thing.”
“Did your parents meet through the theater?”
“Yes, when Dad was doing Dragonfly Nights. He always said it was his favorite show because that’s how he met my mother. My parents were kind of an odd couple because Mom is—well, she can be a little dramatic, and my father was more down-to-earth. Very creative, but he could figure things out and make decisions one, two, three. A great businessman.
