Past the neighborhood food co-op there’s a block that gets exceptionally good for signs, for letters. A creamy script on the maroon awning of an Italian restaurant. Across the way, cream again, but this one for a laundromat, bold and plain against a dark green backdrop trimmed in yellow, the letters stacked vertically, efficiently, exactly how you’d want your laundry to be folded. A favorite: the jumbled cacophony of the multiple signs for a local, longstanding bike shop—some Gothic printing on the sign for the building, a decorative serif for the bright red sign hanging over the street. That one, it looks hand-painted, as does the window lettering—white, trimmed in blue—over the front door. We’ve been here a long time, these signs say. It doesn’t matter if we match.
I keep walking, head up, and I feel as if I’m counting, noticing signs I’ve never looked at before, and that’s saying something. It soothes me in the same way it did back then, when I learned the city by walking it, by paying attention. I learned neighborhoods letter by letter, sign by sign. It’s how I got inspired; it’s how I fell in love with the city but also how I learned to make it here. It’s how I taught myself that I could be someone other than the sheltered, suburban girl from the perfect-on-the-surface family. It’s what I sketched late at night on the subway, stinking of food and dead tired, distracting myself from thoughts of my parents and also my chances of getting mugged—signs and letters I’d seen, new ideas that rattled loudly in my head like the tracks beneath my feet. It’s what convinced me to take the first commission I ever got offered, twenty-five birthday party invitations for my catering manager’s son’s eighth birthday party.
It’s what convinced me to go out on my own, to start the business that turned Meg Mackworth into The Planner of Park Slope.
There are signs, I’m thinking, to the invisible Reid who won’t get out of my head. You just don’t know how to read them.
I’m a few blocks from the shop when the idea hits me. I can’t seem to do anything about Sibby, about the path she’s going down that’ll take her even further away from me, but I can do something about myself, about the way I’ve been feeling lonely and blocked, restless with the need to say too much in the jobs I’m doing, reluctant to even attempt a start on the job that could change everything for me.
Maybe I can remember that every single letter I draw is a sign. No reckless, inappropriate codes necessary.
I need to get out here again, walk the streets, see the signs, remember what really brought me to lettering in the first place. Inspiration for this new job, some bonus content for my social media. A series of walks, inspired by the city’s best hand-lettered signs. A bit of research and planning, the warmer months coming—it’s something, something to help me get unblocked.
Some of the weight from this morning has lifted as I approach the shop’s front door, as I unlock the two heavy bolts for the old storefront gate, a relic from back when this place was a jewelry repair shop. Inside I leave the lights off for now, the shop’s interior lit enough by the nearly midday sun. Before it’s time to open, I figure I can straighten all the stock, double-check the register, make sure the back room is tidy for meetings the freelance calligraphers and letterers will have here today. Lachelle at noon, Yoshiko at two, David at three thirty. Tomorrow Cecelia will be back, and the distraction of these temporary shifts will be at an end.
But I’ve got a plan now. I wish fleetingly that I had someone else here I felt close enough to call up, to say, Hey, want to go with me on these inspiration walks? But one of the worst outcomes of the distance between Sibby and me is how quickly it revealed the shallowness of so many of my connections here—colleagues and clients, people I like and respect and enjoy, but people who know me only as cheerful, frolicsome Meg, drawing and working with ease, quick with a smile, good for a laugh and some light conversation.
Calling any of them now—when I’m so blocked, when my reckless, ridiculous habit seems determined to make a reappearance—seems, somehow, impossible.
Still, going it alone will maybe be a good reminder. This city is mine, too, whether Sibby’s my roommate or not, whether Sibby’s my friend or not. This city is home.
A flash of white on the worn oak floor catches the edge of my vision as I approach the counter, a scrap of paper someone must’ve dropped, and I reach down to pick it up. I should’ve swept last night, one of the items on the evening closeout list, but I’d been distracted by Reid waiting for our Incredibly Uncomfortable Espresso-Herbal Tea Summit, standing by the door like a statue in my periphery.
Once it’s between my fingers, though, I get that same ripple of feeling I had when he’d stood right across from me, the counter and my secret between us. It’s not a piece of scrap paper at all. It’s a perfect, pristine rectangle. It’s cardstock, extra thick, rounded corners you pay extra for. Black ink, raised, so you can run the pad of your thumb over it and feel each letter. A lovely, Glyphic serif—what a surprise.
It’s simple. A name, a title, a place, an e-mail address.
A sign.
For the first time in months, my mind sparks with an idea. An outrageous idea, maybe, but still—an idea.
To write to Reid Sutherland, and to ask him if he wants to be part of my plan.
Chapter 4
For the next six days, I am haunted not by a word, not by a letter; not even, really, by a name.
Instead I am haunted by a single sound: that brief, airy swoosh that came from my phone when I pressed send on my impulsive e-mail to Reid.
I hear it all through my last fill-in shift at Cecelia’s, when the sound is fresh, when I’m still in the headspace where it seems completely rational to navigate to my Sent folder so I can read my short, hastily drafted message every—oh, say twelve to fifteen minutes. I hear it all that night and the next day, when I try desperately to focus on work, when I resort to tasks like designing new color-coding systems for my pens (my old system was fine, really), when I do a six-part Instagram story on how to draw a black letter R. I tell myself it stands for Regret rather than a certain person who has not yet returned my e-mail. I do get a direct message that tells me my black letter R is “lol, boring,” which is only comforting in that I can’t imagine Reid had any such reaction to my e-mail.
I hear it Wednesday evening when I’m sitting on my couch, my browser open with approximately ten thousand Google Maps tabs open, research for the city walks I may very well be doing alone. That one is so real-seeming, even in spite of the headphones I have in my ears, that I look up, only to find Sibby opening the door to our apartment, her eyes down on her own phone, her eventual smile of greeting bland and noncommittal. I hear it again Thursday morning when she leaves for work, while I stay still and quiet in my bed, still groggy from a restless sleep.
On Friday I think I may get a respite from this twenty-first century Tell-Tale Heart sideshow, because Reid finally, finally e-mails me back, his message time-stamped at 5:01 p.m., because of course it is. It’s brief, efficient (more shock and awe, obviously), barely more than a recitation of my own offer to meet again. I’ll find you at the Promenade, he’d written. Sunday, four o’clock. I stare at that e-mail for a long time. Maybe he’s hidden a code, I think, though there aren’t enough f’s for “fuck off,” which, you know. Would be fair enough, I guess.
But I hear it again now, a tiny echo of it.
Because it’s Sunday, one week since he showed me that program. Because it’s three p.m., and if I’m going to make it to the Promenade by four, I need to leave the shop soon and catch the R train (“lol, boring”) to Court Street. Because in one hour (you know he’ll be right on time!), I need to make a pitch to a man who has very real reasons to dislike me. Because if he takes me up on this, I might be seeing him semiregularly for the foreseeable future.
“You seem antsy,” says Lachelle, which I appreciate, because at least it stops the phantom swooshing in my brain. Across from me, she pulls her nib away from her sharpening stone and picks up the small magnifying glass she’s wearing around her ne
ck to check the sloping edge. She makes a noise of frustration and drops the glass again, adding a few more drops of water to the stone.
“Oh, not at all,” I say casually, my voice customer service cheerful in spite of the fact that we’re in the rear of the shop. Lachelle’s in to try out a new brand of walnut ink Cecelia’s ordered, some museum benefit job they’re collaborating on. I’m in to pretend I need to test out Cecelia’s metallic pen inventory, but really I’m here because Sibby and Elijah are at our place watching a show about people making terrible baking errors, and my nerves are too jangled to act normal around them or around the baking errors. And since I couldn’t really decide what would be worse—Sibby noticing my nerves and asking me about it, Sibby noticing and not asking me about it, or Sibby not noticing at all—I figured visiting the shop made sense.
A return to the scene of the swoosh, if you will.
“What I mean is,” Lachelle clarifies, “your leg shaking is making this table move.”
I feel my face flush as I still my unruly right leg. “Oh! I’m so sorry.”
Lachelle looks up at me and smiles. “Do you have a date or something?”
Swooooooooosh, my brain says, loudly. I use the silver Tombow I’ve been testing to represent this noise on the page. It looks disappointingly similar to the famous logo, which is strike one million against my creativity lately.
“Uh. No.”
I don’t think she buys it, her lips pursing skeptically, and for the barest, most deranged of seconds, I think of telling her. There’s this guy, I’d say. He’s a former client who picked up on a bad habit I’ve got. We don’t know each other all that well, Lachelle and me, but we’ve got a friendly rapport whenever we’re at the shop together. She’s fun and kind and as talented as anyone I know, and maybe—
“Good, you’re still here,” Cecelia says to me, breezing into the room and breaking the spell, her arms full of a stack of look-books, various paper and writing samples she’s constantly assembling and reassembling for clients who come in needing ideas. “I got a call about you yesterday.”
There’s a thud of nerves in my stomach. What if he changed his mind? What if he decided Cecelia—she is, after all, the owner of the shop those programs came out of—needed to know what I’d done? What if his agreement to meet me was his way of putting me off the scent of this, his eventual truth-telling to my former boss?
“Oh?” I manage to make that single syllable into three.
Cecelia gives me a curious look but keeps moving, setting the books onto one of the white shelves lining the walls back here, all of them tidily organized and gorgeously color-schemed, two of Cecelia’s many strengths. “Yes, a new client. She’s desperate to hire you.”
My body sags in relief. It wasn’t him. Thank God, it wasn’t him.
Cecelia turns to me, the long curtain of her straight black hair—not even a whisper of gray in there, no matter that she’s nearing fifty—slipping over one shoulder, her hands going to her hips. “Desperate,” she repeats, her smile proud.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why people don’t use the web form I have set up on my site.” Even as I say it, I know this isn’t really what I’m apologizing for, since Cecelia’s never acted annoyed by the calls she sometimes still gets about me and my work. I’m apologizing for that thud of nerves. For the cause of that thud, and the trouble it could have caused her.
Cecelia lifts a hand from her waist, waves it dismissively. “It’s no problem. She said she’s cautious about e-mail.” She pauses, peeks out toward the front of the shop to make sure it’s still only the three of us here. “I think it’s someone famous.”
“Don’t do it,” says Lachelle immediately, raising the glass to her eye again and squinting. “Three months ago, I did party invitations for one of the Real Housewives and it was a nightmare. Three redos from the time I started the job and I didn’t even see anyone get a drink thrown in their face. What a waste.”
“It’s not a Real Housewife,” says Cecelia, moving to peek over Lachelle’s shoulder. She hums approval at the practice Lachelle has already done. “I could tell.”
“She didn’t give you a name?” I don’t know why I’m even asking. New clients are not part of the plan, not until I make my deadline.
She looks over at me, shakes her head. “She left the name and number of her assistant. Said to call anytime.”
“Oooh, an assistant,” says Lachelle. “Yeah, definitely call her.”
“She seemed nice,” Cecelia says. “I don’t think she’d throw a drink in anyone’s face. She’d probably pay a lot. If she’s some huge star, it could be a big deal for you.”
“Yeah, I’m—” I pause, make a show of gathering my things while I gather myself. I haven’t told Cecelia yet about what I’ve been working on, especially since—given my gummed-up creativity—it may not come to anything. “I’m probably too swamped right now,” I finish, and it’s about as convincing as my denial about not having a date. Lachelle gives me that same mouth-purse.
“You’re sure?”
I cross my bag over my body, smooth down the front of my dress. No patterns, in case they make the situation with Reid worse, who’ll probably be back to the debate team thing today. A short-sleeved T-shirt dress, an emerald green that Sibby always says looks nice with my light brown hair, a denim jacket over top. Probably I should’ve considered whether the various enamel pins and buttons I have decorating the front pockets will be a distraction. One of them says Keep NYC Weird, which I’m guessing Reid won’t find hugely endearing given that New York’s weirdness has to be numbers one through one hundred on the “Reasons Why He Hates It” list.
When I look up again, Cecelia and Lachelle are both watching me, their expressions twinned in confusion, probably at my uncharacteristic quiet. They’re good friends, the two of them—about five or so years ago Lachelle took one of Cecelia’s calligraphy classes, and Lachelle was such a quick study that now they collaborate often. But they also hang out—they’re both married, both have kids, though Lachelle’s are younger than Cecelia’s teenagers. Together they have what I think of as the general magic of calligraphers—a smooth confidence, a steadiness, the same quality that allows them to set an ink-dipped nib to a page and create something beautiful. No stopping the stroke, no pauses to erase and try again.
I feel another gripping pain of loneliness, of longing. I came here this afternoon for company, for respite from the swoosh. But even small talk seems risky—I can’t really talk about Reid without explaining how I know him, which would be disastrous. I’m not confident enough at the moment to talk about my deadline, and I’m embarrassed to tell them about my block.
“I’m totally sure,” I say lightly.
Cecelia shrugs, pulls out the chair that’s next to Lachelle. “I’ll hang on to it anyway. Just in case.”
“She’ll change her mind,” Lachelle says, looking up at me and smiling, giving me a teasing wink. “She’s distracted by this date she’s got.”
Cecelia pauses, mid-sit, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, a date? That’s nice!”
“That’s nice” is what married people always say when they find out you have a date. As though a good eighty-six percent of dates in this city don’t end with you considering a blood pact with yourself to give up men in general.
“It is not a date.” This is the most conviction I have put into any sentence since I’ve arrived here. Cecelia, sitting now, nudges Lachelle with her elbow, and they both smile at me. I roll my eyes genially, check my phone. I’ll still make it on time, but I don’t feel any less nervous than when I showed up here. “I’ll take the Tombow,” I tell Cecelia, dropping it in my bag. “Put it on my account?”
“Sure,” says Cecelia, but she’s distracted now, reaching for a fresh sheet of the paper Lachelle’s been using.
“I’ll see you guys,” I say, moving around the table.
“Meg.” Lachelle’s voice stops me as I’m about to cross into the front part of the shop. “Someo
ne knows where you’re going, right?”
I still in place, wishing I could toss back a light reply immediately. But that small expression of care—that code of friendship that insists on these kinds of safety hatches—I feel a brief press of tears behind my eyes. It takes me a second to swallow them back before I look over my shoulder, smiling brightly.
“Oh, sure,” I lie. But I’m so grateful that I add, “The Promenade. Public place, and all that.”
“Have fun!” she calls back, but she and Cecelia already have their heads bent together, looking over the ink, a picture of the kind of comfortable friendship I don’t know if I’ll ever have again.
When I’m pushing out the door, Cecelia’s bright laugh rings out behind me, and I feel as alone as I have in months.
Swoosh, I hear as the door closes behind me.
In the end I make it a whole six minutes early.
It’s a busy walk down Montague—the sun’s out, the weather’s warm, and everyone’s got that slightly dazed “oh my God, it finally stopped raining” look about them. Instead of focusing on signs—almost as though I don’t want to jinx it before I talk to Reid—I focus on people. I pass the Häagen-Dazs and see a man staring down at his chocolate shake like he’s a groom at the end of the aisle and he’s just seen his bride walk through the doors. I see a kid joyfully swinging her mother’s hand while she licks at a cone, what’s probably thirty percent of the original serving spread across both her cheeks and down the front of her shirt. I see an older couple standing outside a café, both of them squinting at the menu that’s tacked up in the window, and the shorter man says, “They’ve got a club sandwich; you love a club sandwich!” as though a club sandwich is a really great surprise to come across and not a menu item you could find within five blocks of any place you’re standing.
Love Lettering Page 5
