by Sandra Cunha
As I make my way down the winding path, I realize I’ve never been here this late. It’s sort of spooky. Maybe because of the overwhelming feeling of being surrounded by so many hopes and dreams, fulfilled and unfulfilled, all at once. But then, I reason, it’s not any spookier than being anywhere else at this time, or being here in the daylight. The fear is only in my head.
When I find my mom’s grave, I touch it gently, and then I sit on the grass. I see the flowers I planted earlier in the summer because Betty wasn’t in the position to do so. I reassure myself it’s okay that I didn’t bring any. She’s taken care of.
This whole time, while I was reading my mom’s diary entries, I knew she was gone. I couldn’t deny it, not like in the past. I knew I wasn’t getting her back. But I did get her back: a part of her I never knew before. And I’ve come here tonight because I want to say goodbye to that part. I’m not sad. I’m so grateful to my mom for giving me that chance to learn more about her as a woman.
I sit a while longer until one of the Mount Pleasant Cemetery security guards drives up and brakes in front of me. His window is rolled down, and he calls out, “The cemetery closes in five minutes.”
I look closer and recognize it’s him: the same security guard who gave me a ride home all those years ago. I haven’t seen him since that day.
“Are you okay, miss?” he asks, probably because I can’t stop staring at him. He doesn’t recognize me. How could he? I’m a different person from that day.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Thank you, ” I say, getting up and wiping the dirt and grass from my legs.
He drives on.
I turn to Coco, who is beginning to nod off. “Wake up, girl. It’s time to go home.”
She gets up and wanders away from me. I catch up to her just as she’s about to pee on someone’s gravestone. I quickly grab her leash to pull her away from it, out of respect.
As she’s doing her business, I glance towards her intended target. The gravestone is very ornate with lots of flourishes and a script font that makes it difficult to read the person’s name, especially as it’s getting dark out. I take a closer look.
A small gasp escapes when I finally make it out.
Rose Le Duc.
I check the dates.
It’s her. It’s my grandmother.
All this time, her grave has been across from my mom’s, and I never noticed. Maybe because there’s a road that divides them (even in death), but at least they’re close together, facing each other, for all of eternity.
Could Betty have known this when she chose my mom’s plot? No, she would’ve mentioned it at some point.
It was definitely the universe playing its hand, making sure things were righted in the end.
I walk back to my mom’s grave and take a flower from her planted lot, then walk back to place it on my grandmother’s grave.
My mom would’ve wanted me to do that. And I also needed to do it for myself.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I’M AWAKEN BY the sound of my phone ringing.
Who’s calling me at this hour?
Through squinting eyes, I look at the screen. It’s a blocked number. Maybe I shouldn’t answer it. But what if . . . “Hel-lo,” I say groggily.
“Hey, Lady B.”
“Aaron? Aaron!” In zero-to-two seconds, I’m fully awake and sitting upright in bed.
“Sorry to wake you, but it was my only chance.”
“No, no, it’s okay.”
“Listen, I only have a minute. I borrowed a satellite phone from this film producer guy I met here. Long story. Everything okay over there?”
“Yeah, everything is good. No babies, yet.” It’s the overall truth. Anyway, I can’t explain my own “long story” in the length of a minute. But there’s something I was hoping to ask him, if by chance he called, and him saying “film producer” has triggered it. “Hey, Aaron? You still there? What was the name of that film you made me watch, the one about the financial crisis?”
“The what?” he asks. There’s some static on the line.
“The film about the financial crisis. The one with Ryan Gosling?” Okay, so I mostly remember the Ryan Gosling part and not the movie itself. But I have a vague memory of the plot, and I want to watch it again as research for my idea to get the vintage shop.
“The Big Short?”
“That’s the one!”
“Why are you asking me that?” His tone sounds suspicious of my motives.
Should I tell him about the vintage shop?
There’s not enough time to go through it all. I have to figure this out on my own. Well, with Betty’s help. I always have Betty. So I say, “I’ll tell you when you get back.”
“Do not buy any stocks until I get home!”
I chuckle. “You definitely don’t have to worry about that happening.” (Does he actually think I’d buy stocks on my own? Silly guy. I’m buying an entire retail store, instead!)
“Okay, good. I have to give back the guy his phone. But I wanted to tell you, I’m coming back on . . . static . . . day.”
“What day? There was static.”
“On . . . static . . . day.”
“Aaron?”
Static.
And only static until the line goes dead.
But he’s coming back. Aaron is coming back!
I knew he was coming back, eventually. I’m just glad that eventually is almost here.
There’s no way I’ll fall back asleep after our call. So I get up from bed and go into the sewing workroom, turning on the lights. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the brightness.
I search for the external hard-drive Aaron gave me, containing his downloaded “must watch” films. Once I’ve found it and have connected it to my laptop, I grab a pen and a pad of paper. I need to take notes as I watch.
Most of the films on Aaron’s “must watch” list are documentaries. When we first got together, we took turns picking films on movie night. My choices were always either light-hearted romantic comedies or action-adventure flicks. His choices, at least in the beginning, were always documentaries on animal cruelty. I thought he was trying to convert me to his vegan ways, but he said he just wanted me to know the truth, and then I could decide for myself.
Well, after like the third movie (I think it was Earthlings), I couldn’t not know the truth anymore, and I became a vegan. For a week. But then, I ate fish. I reasoned with Aaron that I’d be willing to kill a fish. In fact, I’m pretty sure I killed our goldfish when I was a kid. So now I’m what’s called a pescatarian. And whenever I get tempted to slip up and eat meat, I look at Coco and say, “I wouldn’t eat you, Coco!” She usually runs away from me whenever I say this. I don’t think she’s convinced.
Besides documentaries on animal cruelty on the external hard-drive, there are documentaries on the financial crisis and regular movies about the stock market. Aaron used to be an equity trader, so he has a fondness for the subject matter.
Scrolling through the list, my eyes fall on Trading Places. I’m almost tempted to watch it, instead. It was made in the 1980s and is hilarious. (Just thinking about the movie gives me a sudden craving for orange juice.) And I believe it’s related to my research, too, but I have to stick to my original plan. So I find The Big Short and click play with pen in hand.
After watching both movies and drinking a tall glass of orange juice, I get a couple more hours of sleep before starting my work day. Gloria isn’t coming into “the office” today. She normally works from home on Fridays. I quickly complete some pressing administrative work, then head over to Betty’s house. I’m finally ready to share my idea with her.
It takes me a while to get settled-in once I arrive at her place. I almost forgot to give my customary hello to the twins. I can’t believe that in a few more days, they’ll be outside of Betty’s belly. It’s actually kind of weird to think about.
“Are you ready now?” Betty asks impatiently.
“Um, one more minute,” I
say, getting up from sitting on her bed and walking to the foot of it. I should do this presentation-style. Although I wish there was a white board or a projection screen behind me, instead of a TV on top of a dresser. So, really, not presentation-style at all, just me talking at the foot of Betty’s bed. I grab the remote and turn on the TV.
“What are you doing?” Betty asks confused.
Yeah, that’s not going to work. Maybe if I’d thought to have The Big Short playing in the background, and then I could’ve pointed out crucial moments to support my strategy. I turn off the TV. It’ll just distract me.
“Okay, I’m ready,” I say. “Wait! I forgot to tell you something. Mom breastfed us!”
“How do you know?”
“I asked Gloria. She knew. You should definitely ask her stuff like that about mom, in case she knows anything.”
“Gloria! Of course.” She looks relieved. “I will ask her. Thanks, Erin.”
I’m so happy at her reaction that I sit down on the bed, just smiling in her direction.
“Erin, your idea?”
Right. I stand back up again. “So I plan to buy the vintage shop by . . . not buying it.”
“What? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Hear me out. I’m going to propose to the owner that I lease it, instead.”
“But doesn’t he want to sell the building?”
“He does. So I’ve come up with a solution to that, too.”
“And?”
“In five years, if the market price of the building goes down, I’ll pay him the difference between the current market price and whatever the future lower price is. Sort of like—but, not totally—a short sell. And in the meantime, he’ll get the cash flow from the rent I’ll be paying to lease the building. He can’t lose.”
“Yeah, but you can lose, a lot, depending on how much the price goes down. And what happens after the five years? You’ll be out of money and you won’t own the shop anymore.”
“I’ve also thought of that. Part of the deal will be that after the five years, I get first right of refusal to buy the building at today’s market price or the future market price, whichever is higher. So he still can’t lose.”
“Hold on a second, this is hurting my pregnant head.” Betty takes a moment to digest what I’ve said. “Okay, assuming you find the money to buy the place in five years, you may be overpaying for an undervalued asset. It’s too much of a risk to take.”
“I know. But I’m taking it. I’m the one who has to. There can’t be any risk for the owner. There’s no other way someone like me could get a shop in an area like that. And I believe in Lady Bettencourt. I believe this will all work out. I can feel it. So it doesn’t seem that risky to me at all.”
Betty is quiet for a while before saying, “I guess if the worst happens, you’ll find a way to pay the difference. Or you can buy the building and add some condos on top of it to increase its market value.”
I knew she’d come around.
“See, Betty? Everything is figureoutable,” I say, using the word I learned from watching Marie Forleo, a popular life coach (and my current girl crush), on YouTube.
“But, Erin, you still have to come up with the monthly rent on the shop.”
“I’ve got that covered, too. Both my ideas involve adding dresses that sell at a higher price point. The first way is to add a line of—”
“Wedding dresses,” Betty says, finishing my sentence.
“How did you know I was going to say that?”
“It’s obvious, now that I think about it, given where the shop is located and the ridiculous markup on wedding dresses. But I didn’t think you wanted to include wedding dresses in your line.”
“It’s not that I didn’t want to sell them—I like designing them—it’s that I don’t have the skills to sew anything more elaborate than what I made for your wedding. But I have Ming now, and she’s a pro. So I’ll assign her exclusively to wedding dresses. And if there’s a lot of demand, I’ll hire someone else.”
“What’s your other idea?”
“Made-to-order, custom dresses.”
Betty raises her eyebrows in question.
“I don’t know why I never thought of it before,” I continue, “but it makes so much sense for Lady Bettencourt. Instead of us having to source all our own secondhand materials, we’ll have clients bring in their own materials that have special meaning for them that they want turned into something they can wear. Either to remember a person they’ve lost, or, if it’s their own clothes, to remember important events they’ve attended throughout their life. Because we’ll be making them a custom dress, not one of our off-the-rack designs, we can charge a higher price. And if that custom dress is also a wedding dress, the price point will be even higher!”
The credit for sparking that idea goes to Carol. After I received the package of her daughter’s clothes, it began to form. I haven’t decided yet what I’m making for Carol, as she doesn’t want a dress, but I’m sure an idea will begin to form on that, too. It just needs to steep.
“Hmm, this could actually work,” Betty says. “I’ll run some preliminary numbers based on the average lease rates in Yorkville, along with projected sales on the wedding and custom dresses.”
“Thanks, Betty. You’re the best little sister a girl could have.” I go over to her side of the bed to give her a hug.
“Yeah, well, you’re not so bad, yourself. You definitely keep things interesting around here.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“I’M WATCHING YOU, Louie. No running off!” I say with a stern look on my face. He sort of nods, so I release him. “Okay, go play!” He turns and heads for the wading pool, along with the others.
I’m at the dog park. Louie is a terrier. I’m also here with his brothers: Huey, a pug, and Dewey, a chihuahua. And, of course, Coco is with us. It’s a play date. It feels so good to be outside, relaxing on this sunny Saturday afternoon. It seems like summer is almost gone, and I never got to fully appreciate it with everything that’s been going on.
Greta, the “mommy” of the DuckTales-named dogs—and Betty’s coworker at the accounting firm—asked if I could take them today because her regular dog walker was sick. It’s funny (and kind of awkward), but whenever I take the dogs on a play date without Greta joining us, she always tries to pay me for my time. I guess because once, only once, I actually was her paid dog walker.
I love watching them all play together. The more I hang out with dogs (something I never did in my former life), the more I see they have their own little personalities, like people.
For instance, I can tell Coco has a crush on Louie. I finally made her that pink bow, so she’s wearing it with pride as she splashes around, following Louie wherever he goes. But Louie doesn’t seem to notice. I think he’s a “player.” She was spayed when I got her, so I’m not concerned in that regard, I just don’t want her heart to get broken. Huey doesn’t seem to understand why Coco wouldn’t be in love with him. Everyone loves him. So there’s a bit of a love triangle thing happening, or maybe it’s more of a love line.
And then, there’s Dewey. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I used to be afraid of chihuahuas. The fear was real. I was bitten (okay, scratched) by one when I was a kid. Now he’s my favourite of the three boys. Don’t tell. I think it’s because he’s so self-conscious and nervous all the time. I’m trying to build up his confidence with positive remarks. He and Coco get along really well, too. When I see their tiny heads come together, it looks like they’re gossiping about the other dogs at the dog park. It looks like that, anyway.
My psychoanalyzing of canines is interrupted by my phone ringing.
“Hi, Liz-zie!” I answer in a sing-song tone when I see it’s her calling.
“Erin! You have to get to the shop, right away!”
“Why? What’s wrong?” I’ve never heard her sound so panicked.
“The owner is here, and he’s leaving soon. I heard him talking on the phone. He’s pu
tting the shop on the market on Monday!”
“Oh, no! Okay, I’ll get there as soon as I can!”
“I’ll stall him until you get here, but hurry!” She hangs up the phone.
This is all happening faster than I anticipated. Betty hasn’t even had a chance to finish running the numbers. I quickly grab my stuff and get up to go, then stop because I remember I’m not here on my own.
For a split second—not even a full one—I contemplate leaving them behind and coming back for them later. But I know I can’t do that. So I call out their names, and they all come to my side . . . all except Louie.
“Louie! Get over here!”
He doesn’t, of course.
He’s doing this to me again!
But I don’t have time for his games. Not now. Luckily, I’m wearing one of Lady Bettencourt’s summer sundresses, so I kick-off my flip flops and hike up my skirt, then go into the wading pool.
From somewhere behind me, I hear a man shout, “Hey, lady! Dogs only! No humans allowed!”
Why is that guy always here!
When I reach Louie, I realize there’s no way to avoid getting wet. I release my skirt and scoop him up, then make my way out of the pool.
Once all the dogs are on their leashes, we head out of the park, with me assessing the situation as we do.
Should I take the dogs back to Greta’s place before heading to the vintage shop? What if she’s not home? It’ll take way too long. I’ll have to bring them with me.
Another problem: the dogs are wet. I’m wet. No Uber or cab driver will take us. That leaves us with only one option: the subway.
When we near the edge of the park, I look down at my brood and say, “Okay, this is your last chance to do your business. I don’t want any ‘accidents’ on the subway. Go pee!”
And to my surprise, they do. All of them.
We make it out of the subway without any incidences to my great relief. And then, I start running the best I can while wearing flip flops and being trailed by four small dogs behind me.
