by Kaira Rouda
Bruce stared at her for a few seconds and then broke eye contact, heading for the door with Charlotte following like his puppy dog. The sight made me sick.
“That went well,” Patrick said.
“He knows where we stand, and that we’ll all be watching,” Beth said. “In that sense, it was a successful evening.” She sat back down with a sigh. “You really should try to get in touch with Kathryn, Kelly.”
“I’ll call again, first thing in the morning. I’ll call her assistant, too, and get the name of the ranch. I’ll track her down.”
The doorbell rang. We all looked at each other.
Patrick went to the door. It was Gavin.
“Come on in, son,” Patrick said and led him into the room where we were all still sitting.
“Is something wrong? It’s Mel isn’t it?” he said. “She hasn’t called me, not all day. She’s not online. I was so worried I decided to come by. What is it?”
“Have a seat,” said Beth, patting the couch next to her.
I wasn’t saying a thing. I promised Mel I wouldn’t tell, and I wouldn’t. Beth had heard Mel’s request as well, but as the professional, she was deciding to spill the beans. She told him the whole story, and as she did, he dropped his head in his hands and began to sob.
Patrick and I excused ourselves and went to the kitchen. Ryan followed us with the baby.
“I don’t know how Beth does it,” Ryan said. Both Patrick and Ryan were looking at the pile of yellow rose petals and the half-plucked bouquet. “She is so amazing with teens.”
“She’s amazing with people in general. Did you hear her stand up to Bruce?” I said.
“I’d like to punch Bruce in the face,” Patrick said. He was pouring himself a big scotch on the rocks. “Can I get you anything, Ryan?”
“No thanks, I’m fine. I need to get Beth and the baby home. I’m glad Beth has found her passion, but I just wish it wasn’t coinciding with Sarah’s arrival.”
“Sometimes you find out what you really want to do next when you have some time to think,” I said. “Being able to take maternity leave is probably the first time in her life that Beth hasn’t been working and in her same routine. Not that babies don’t take up your time, but you know what I mean.”
“Oh, I agree. Beth’s already started talking about office space. Anyway, it sounds like she’s going to be spending a lot of time at the hospital tomorrow, so she’s got to get some rest. At least it’s Saturday, and I can be home with Sarah.”
“Yep, you’re right. I’ll go get Beth. Come on, Patrick, we have a teenage boy to talk to, and that’s your territory,” I said, grabbing my husband’s hand and leading him back into the living room. “It’s man talk time,” I said, winking at him.
“Beth, you need to go home and get some rest,” I said in my best Kelly Johnson/Julie Andrews Sound of Music voice as I walked into the living room. “Melanie will need you to stand by her as she faces her father tomorrow. Ryan has taken Sarah out to the car. And Gavin, how about a Coke and a turkey sandwich? Stay where you are and I’ll be right back with a tray.”
I left Patrick with Gavin and trotted off toward the kitchen behind Beth. I was quite the social butterfly tonight, I thought. Moving people through the house, calming raw nerves, extracting myself when tears began to fall. Was I leaving too much for Beth to handle? I wondered.
“Hey, how are you?” I asked her, once we were in the kitchen.
“Good, thanks; nothing that some sleep can’t fix. Gavin’s going to stick by Melanie; he loves her, I’ll say that much for the young man. She’s lucky to have him in her life. All the rest of her friends have dropped by the wayside,” Beth said. “I might need your help tomorrow, depending on how things unfold. Don’t minimize your role here, Kelly. You are the glue tying us all together. It’s because of you we’ve all been able to rally around Mel. Remember that.”
I gave her a hug. “You know how to reach me for anything you need.” We walked outside where Ryan was waiting. “I love you, Beth.”
“Right back at you, Kelly,” she said.
As I watched them drive away, I thought about how lucky we’d been today, how fortunate it was I’d found Melanie in time.
I wondered what tomorrow would bring.
AFTER A FITFUL NIGHT’S SLEEP, I WOKE UP TO HALF OF AN empty bed. Patrick had left a note in the bathroom, letting me know he’d headed to the office for an important meeting, even though it was Saturday, and to call him if I needed anything. What I needed was for Kathryn to be in touch, I thought, getting into the shower after making sure my cell phone ringer was up as loud as it would go.
Showered, dressed, coffee made, and still no call from Kathryn, I reached the nurse on Melanie’s floor at the hospital and learned Melanie was sleeping and in stable condition. Visiting hours were from three to five this afternoon, she informed me firmly. Well, fine, I was busy. I had a business to launch in five days. On Friday we received twenty-five yeses, and the invitations had been mailed just the day before. That’s some impressive postal work and some party-loving Realtors. I liked that in a group. In my experience hosting parties for the law firm, for every affirmative RSVP there were double the number who didn’t bother to reply and simply showed up. On that basis, I was already up to a guesstimated seventy-five attendees. Factoring in summer vacations and the like, my goal was to reach two hundred out of the six hundred invited. And that was before counting “and guest.”
Now, how would I convince the real estate agents at the party that their business would boom with me in it? I needed to show them proof in the form of before-and-after photos of the Thompsons’ project, mounted for display just in case Charlotte and Bruce wouldn’t let me use their house-to-be to showcase my work. I couldn’t imagine Charlotte wouldn’t allow it; I couldn’t imagine that Bruce would. Number Twenty on the Things to Change list: Tell Patrick I love him every day, especially because of the little things. And I counted my blessings again (T2C #8).
I walked around the first floor of our house looking for spots to place my new business cards for easy pickup. I’d have the computers—mine, Patrick’s, and Melanie’s—open to my website and encourage guests to register for preferred status, tonight only, and receive 15 percent off on each of their next five home staging jobs. That was a deal. But what was I giving away? I didn’t even know how much to charge. Charlotte had suggested a flat fee, but had paid me for our first job by calculating hours. Turning to the fount of all wisdom, I went online.
“What is the average fee for home staging in the Midwest?” I typed. I was happy to learn I was ahead of the curve in the heartland, because while home staging—or neutralizing—a home has been around for thirty years, that was only in major cities like Seattle, San Francisco, and the other fly-to cities. Grandville being a fly-over place, they hadn’t dropped leaflets, so we didn’t know. I looked at six sites and discovered home staging pros charged about $100 per hour in the Midwest and spent, on average, fifteen to twenty hours of time working on each home. Fees were higher for a whole-home makeover, where furniture was brought in. I guess that’s what I’d done at the Thompsons’ house—called, I had learned, “vacant staging”—although I would call it disturbed staging myself.
So, I would charge $100 an hour. That seemed fair to me. I hoped the real estate community agreed. I realized I’d need to become good at estimating the hours required per project. I knew I worked fast, so I needed to be careful not to minimize my price. With my hourly rate established, the next step would be setting up a business process for potential clients. That would require a spreadsheet; I hated spreadsheets. The creative side of my brain rebelled at the notion of all those linear little boxes.
To procrastinate and avoid spreadsheet process-making, I decided to open the check from Charlotte. I hadn’t told Patrick about it; I hadn’t even taken it out of my jeans pocket. I didn’t look at the amount when Charlotte handed it to me. I walked upstairs, sped past Mel’s room, getting the accompanying chill, and f
ound my jeans in the dirty clothes hamper. I rummaged around in the front pocket and pulled out the check.
Pay to the order of Kelly Johnson Home Staging. Amount: $15,000.
I blinked, a lot. At first I thought it was $1,500 and I started to fume. After my Internet searches, I knew I was worth more than that. Then I realized what I held in my hand.
I have to admit the dance I danced in my bedroom by myself over the first check for my own business was the best dance in my life. I’m not taking anything from Patrick, but boy, it felt good to feel good about myself. I’d done it! And, there was still a check coming from Global Furnishings.
My first job was at the top of the pay scale. I realized I had nowhere to go but down, theoretically, but still, it was time to celebrate. Based on what I just decided to charge—$100 per hour—she’d given me 150 hours worth of payment, but I’d pulled off the transformation of the Thompsons’s house in just five days. Amazing.
I heard my cell phone ringing. I’d left it downstairs. Shoot. I dropped the paycheck, ran down the hall, bounded down the stairs, and raced into the kitchen just in time for whoever it was to go to voice mail. I checked the call log, thinking, Kathryn finally calls and I don’t answer. It was David.
“Are you okay?” I asked, calling him back immediately on the camp’s main phone number. I was still out of breath from my jog through the house.
“Yep. I’m just calling to see if you could send me a couple more books,” he said. “I finished the stupid book on my school summer reading list, and I’m ready for some good stuff.”
Be still, my heart. “Are you trying to make my day?” I love it when my kids read. I love picking out new books with them, sharing the classics.
“Mom, listen, I’m not supposed to be calling now, it’s rest time, so be serious,” David said in his boy-man voice.
“Got it. I’m on it. Expect a book care package within the next two days. No, make that three, since tomorrow is Sunday,” I said.
“Thanks mom! And feel free to throw in some candy and root beer. You know that gets me a lot of trading weight around here,” he said.
“You got it, super star! I love you,” I said. And I miss you so much I want to fly up to Maine right this minute and take you home with me, I didn’t say.
“I love you too, Mom. Gotta go. I’m swimming head of the lake today!”
And then he was gone again.
I was okay. I had my business. And the boys would be back in a few weeks. They’d be so proud, and this year I could tell them tons of stories about my summer.
But what if they didn’t like having a working mom? What if I couldn’t be both successfully? What if my boys turn out like Melanie, feeling ignored for the sake of their mother’s big career? Maybe I was starting all of this business stuff too soon? Maybe I should wait until they were in college and didn’t need me anymore. Sean would be off to college in just seven more years.
Seven years?
I couldn’t wait seven more years, I thought. I loved the project next door, loved changing the Thompsons’s ugly house into a fresh, new home. I knew I was good at home staging, and I’d been having so much fun helping to create my marketing materials, overseeing my website design and development, and talking with others about my business. Millions of other women did it. Heck, Beth was doing it right now, with an infant, and she seemed to have no guilt. But maybe she was just too tired to have guilt yet. No, I could do this. I needed to do this—for me. I remembered the fat check upstairs and smiled.
In one of the books Patrick had given me I’d read that balance is internal; that there really wasn’t one set formula for how to live your life nor how to handle the wife-mother-businesswoman juggling act. Maybe it was just being tuned in to every role and knowing when one or the other needed to be the focus. My mom hadn’t said anything negative about my new career; in fact, she’d encouraged it. I hadn’t even realized that until now. She had given my future a blessing and hadn’t said anything to make me feel guilty about the boys.
“Hi Mom,” I said when she answered. “Thank you.”
“For what, honey?” she asked.
“For encouraging me to start my own business. My website is almost ready to go, and I’ll send you a link in my next email. I want your opinion about how the site looks and feels. But what really means a lot is that you didn’t say anything about my working making me a bad mom.”
“Of course not, dear. Having a job doesn’t make you a bad mom. It makes you a smart woman, as long as you’re doing what you want to do. You’re so lucky, Kelly, to have a choice. Most women don’t. To not value that choice, to not make the most of it, well, that would be the real shame, dear.” I heard the telephone cord thwumping. She’d been thinking about this.
“You and Sally both married great men. But you just never know what the future holds,” she added. “I’ve been trying to get your sister to understand that, too.”
“She has to realize it for herself, Mom. Maybe she’ll have a wake-up call like I did.”
And then I told my mom about the double biopsy just before Christmas, about the job across the street, and about what had happened the night before, with Melanie. I shared everything, and I didn’t pretend I could handle it. And finally, I told her about Dr. Weiskopf, and the prescription I was taking.
“I’m so proud of you,” my mom said. “It took me until I was sixty-five to really take charge of my life. You know, I’d like to come up for your launch party. Would that be okay?”
“I would love that,” I said.
It was surprising, actually, how good sharing my true feelings felt. I was downright giddy. After I’d hung up from talking to mom, I called Patrick. I needed to tell him about the check. And about our child prodigy’s reading acumen. I called his private line, and ever-efficient and helpful—but not attractive and definitely married—assistant Jeanne answered. Drats. She said he was in a meeting and would call back ASAP. I could call his cell and he would answer, but it wasn’t an emergency. We’d had enough of those.
My cell phone was ringing again. Where had I put it this time? I followed my ring to the laundry room, where I’d left the darn thing after putting in a load. I answered before my voice mail did. Small victories.
“What’s up” Patrick asked.
“Oh, it’s you. I mean, hi! I was just hoping it was Kathryn.”
“Yes, well, she hasn’t called, then?”
“No, but I got my first paycheck, Patrick! And guess how much I made?”
“I’ve got to get back into this meeting; we’re getting ready to pitch a new client on Monday, but, um, okay. $5,000?”
“Triple that!”
“Wow, that’s awesome. Just one job like that a month and you’d really be in business.”
“I really am in business.”
“Right you are. I’ve got to go, but let’s celebrate tonight, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah whatever,” I said, echoing Sean’s favorite saying whenever we told him something he didn’t want to hear. I hope Patrick got the gist.
Back to work, I told myself, realizing my solo celebration of my first paycheck could last only so long. I looked back down at my list of business items to tackle and realized I was still facing the need for a process. Surely there was something more fun to tackle.
Publicity. That was what I needed next, and that had been my specialty back in the day. I was planning on taking photos at the party and sending them to the local newspapers. I knew they’d cover a new business opening, especially if I had shots of local dignitaries and luminaries. But what about before the event? Did I still know anybody in the media? During my days at the PR firm, it was my job to connect with key reporters at all the local radio and TV stations, and client-specific reporters at the newspapers. These days, most of the traditional media folks my age who I’d worked with had been replaced by youngsters. Especially at The Dispatch and the major broadcast television affiliates. Except, I just remembered, Sherry White. We had worked together
quite a bit when I had pitched countless stories to her, and I still had her email address. Sherry was a respected news anchor for the local NBC affiliate, and I knew she’d love home staging. Why not give her a call, I thought? So I did.
“Kelly, that sounds like a fabulous segment for us,” Sherry said after we’d spent a few minutes catching up on each other’s lives. “Do you want to come in this afternoon? The five o’clock show could use some beefing up, and everybody is so concerned about whether they can even sell their homes if they tried right now.”
“I thought you’d like it, Sherry, but should we wait and do the story on a weekday? Don’t you have more viewers then? And come to think of it, why are you answering your phone on a Saturday anyway?” I asked, suddenly realizing what day it was.
“Oh, I thought you knew,” Sherry said. “They bumped me for a twenty-five-year old. She has the weekday evening anchor job on the six and eleven o’clock shows. A twenty-eight-year old has the 5:30 slot. I’ve got the weekends, now. That’s show business.”
“That’s stupid. You’re one of the most respected names on the air, the most well-known anchor in town,” I said, stunned.
“Yes, but that doesn’t matter much once the big 5-0 comes around,” she said. “I’ll understand if you want to pitch it to those new gals for one of their shows. Be my guest. Doubt they’ve lived in a home except their parents’, but they might understand the concept,” she said, chuckling.
“Nope, if you’ll have me, I’d be honored to be on your show.”
“Good. My demographics are better. Older folks, you know, with time on their hands and money to spend.”
SHERRY GAVE ME THE DETAILS: COME TO THE BACK DOOR, RING the buzzer, the producer will let you in, get there early so we can mic you up, and wear extra makeup. Then she’d hung up. Suddenly I realized I’d just committed to being on television tonight.
Jeez.
To make matters worse, the person I’d usually call for fashion advice was Charlotte, and she was on my do-not-call list. Or was she? My mom’s words were ringing in my ears. Stay neutral. Charlotte had just given me a check for $15,000 after all.
