Life, Libby, and the Pursuit of Happiness

by Hope Lyda

  Or am I?

  Twelve

  “Will she make a good dog parent?” I asked Pan while petting two of her canine children and throwing a gym sock for another.

  Sandy, one of my former coworkers, had just left Pan’s house after spending quality time with a couple of the dogs. I was curious about Pan’s evaluation system. Sandy was looking into adopting a dog because she and her husband had just hit their three-year anniversary and had “the child talk.” They were undecided but did agree to read up on parenting and ask their individual therapists, who were quick to suggest Plan Dog.

  “Well, the fact that she’s even considering taking in one of these dogs is a plus in my book.” Pan was in her cool, retro kitchen making macaroni and cheese from scratch. It was logical that macaroni and cheese existed before the blue-and-yellow box, but I was impressed.

  “Why? What’s wrong with these dogs?” I tried to tie the ears of the cocker spaniel together, but he wouldn’t get into the fun of it.

  “Nothing. Couples only want to adopt a pup so that they are dealing with the same issues that come along with a baby. I just had one adoption fall through because the wife convinced the husband that these dogs would be too trained. The poor guy loved Hershey, my brown lab, but his wife was sure their experience would be tainted. So annoying, especially when you consider that within a year, the pup they choose will probably just end up at the humane society.” Pan stirred her pasta with excessive force.

  “You know what we should do? Well, first you should open a restaurant because you’re an amazing cook. But then you and I should start an animal adoption business for people who don’t want one of those messed up dogs.”

  Pan’s forehead rippled and she shook her head.

  “And our promise would be: No relationship was tested on this animal.”

  Pan started to laugh so hard that she closed her eyes long enough for me to dip my finger in to the cheese sauce. “This is a totally different subject…but did Ariel invite you to Angus’ concert last weekend? I’m curious. I had asked her to tell you about it.”

  She paused mid-stir and looked over at me. “It’s not as different as you might think.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The subject is not so different. To answer your question, Ariel did mention the concert but only after a heated discussion. It wasn’t exactly a warm invitation, so I thought it best to stay away. Sorry I wasn’t there to support you and Angus.”

  “I broke up with him that night.”

  Pan raised her eyebrows. “I always figured it was a passing time thing for you. But…wow. How’d he take it?”

  “He took it well. Too well for a girl’s ego to remain intact.”

  “Someone new in the picture for you or for him?”

  “I don’t think so. Angus felt like one suitcase over the baggage limit, you know?”

  “I understand.” She laughed. “I get these dogs because people are deciding all that life stuff. And really, I’m probably doing the same. I keep taking them in to help me decide if I could face the commitment of marriage or kids. More and more, I’m not sure.

  “Either that or they’re ensuring that you won’t have to face that decision. They are a protective barrier between you and guys.”

  “Watching afternoon counseling television, are we?”

  “We all create our own barriers when it comes to relationships. I do it too.”

  “With sarcasm,” she said without any of her own.

  “That was a mighty quick response.”

  “Am I right?”

  “Beside the point,” I pouted. “When is that ‘cheeses of the world’ pasta dish going to be finished, anyway?”

  Pan served up the delicious main course in two green-and-blue striped bowls.

  “Can I say grace?” she asked. Pan had grown up with sort of a schizophrenic version of Christianity, but as an adult, she’d developed a healthy faith. She started to pray and the dogs settled at our feet beneath the table. It was comforting. “Lord, thank you for the gift of friendship. Bless this food, this time, and our lives with your goodness and guidance. Amen.”

  “I’ve been trying to go to church for a while,” I blurted.

  Pan paused while salting her pasta but didn’t look up. She seemed to be giving this news serious consideration. The saltshaker was set down beside her bowl. “How does one try to go to church exactly? And I’m not being sarcastic.”

  I fumbled with my fork and stabbed at the noodles nervously. It isn’t every day that you out yourself as a person of faith. Pan would be the easy one, the understanding one. Ariel would be accepting but not understanding. “You know. I walk to the corner, I watch people go inside, I stand there and consider how I’d feel being in the church, and then I get nervous, and so I go get coffee and pastries and visit with Mr. Diddle.”

  “Your thing with that old guy and his bookstore baffles me.”

  I looked at her pleadingly for more than judgment.

  “I wasn’t finished. I do understand the church thing. You can find me walking my dogs most Sunday mornings. There’s something so intimidating about entering those doors. Will they like you? Will you understand what’s going on? How do they take communion? Are they teaching something you believe in?”

  I realized I was nodding fiercely. “Yes. All those things. And I wonder whether I’m at the right place in life or, I don’t know, worthy to go through the doors.”

  Pan shook her head in protest but smiled. “If we had to wait until we were worthy of grace, we’d never make it into a church. Isn’t that the entire point of grace?”

  “True. This is exactly what I need…a new way of seeing faith.” I’m not so weird after all. A huge forkful of cheesy goodness filled my mouth. “Aunt Maddie had me get the book The Practice of the Presence of God. I’ve just started it. There isn’t much to it, page count-wise, but I think that’s part of the message as well. The most difficult and the simplest thing are the same…seeking God’s presence in all that you do.” My eyes stared at the formation of noodles for a moment.

  “This one?” Pan reached over to her bookshelf by the dining table and held up a copy with the same cover as mine.

  “That’s it.”

  “This totally helped me decide to move from New York. All my friends there said I was crazy to leave authentic film Mecca, but through months of prayer and asking for direction I felt this huge burden lifted. It took me a while, but I got it.”

  I motioned with my fork for her to explain further.

  “I understood that the ideal place for me to be wasn’t related to where others said I had the greatest career advantage. If I went where I was supposed to go, then I’d be closer to my purpose.”

  “Are you?”

  “I believe so. I hope so. There are days and nights when my thoughts get the best of me. And those endless hours alone in the editing suites can make even the most sane person stir-crazy. But every week there is some point when I realize, yet again, that I’m where I’m supposed to be. And even though there are things I hope will be a part of my life or that will change, I’m also very content. I never had contentment in New York. There were too many ads, skinny models, or limo-encased tycoons to make you feel as though you should want a different life.”

  “I’m glad you’re content, Pan. You’re a good example for me right now.”

  “So you’ll go in next Sunday?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Maybe. I’ll probably get closer, at least.”

  “I’m sure it’s a good Christian practice to play hard to get with God,” she added.

  “Welcome to my church of sarcasm, Sister Pan.” We laughed and continued to indulge in the glorious carbs before us. Only the sound of the dogs licking their chops in anticipation of cleaning the bowls could be heard.

  Then she turned to me with a serious look. “Do you want to know what Ariel and I are arguing about?”

  “Yes. I mean, whatever you can tell me.”

  She paused
for a moment. “I won’t go into details, but our argument relates to what we were discussing before…the dog adoption thing.”

  “Ariel wants a dog?” I was shocked. She was such a free spirit and not exactly good at nurturing anything that required routine and consistency. The girl changes her hair style monthly.

  “Not exactly,” Pan said with her eyes downcast. I could tell I was losing her. I’d given her too much time to think about the sin of gossip. She was fading.

  “Tell me…” I begged. So unbecoming of me, but I absolutely hated the fact that Ariel was keeping something from me, even if it was a dog. “What?” I almost grabbed her shoulders, but she pulled away. My erratic behavior wasn’t helping.

  “No. I can’t. If Ariel wants to tell you, she can.”

  “Tell me what?” I asked, thinking I could trip her up. She’d had two glasses of wine, after all. I had the advantage.

  She wagged her finger at me. “Nice try. Talk to Ariel. In fact, I think you should. Just don’t tell her I told you to.”

  The window for gossip had been slammed shut on my fingers. Wounded, I filled my bowl with another round of dinner, much to the disappointment of the waiting canines. I would approach Ariel. We shared everything. What could she possibly want to keep from me? I was her best friend. Or used to be.

  Thirteen

  I slogged home. The assistant tasks I was forced to master were taxing my nerves. Keeping up the good attitude was taxing my soul. A herd of stray cats chased my lethargic body up the stairs from the street to my apartment entry. I was a big fat human joke to these quick-footed nomads. I shooed them away like old Scrooge. “Get away, you nasty, lazy chillin’”

  The hallway smelled like old socks and oil. I breathed it in, refreshed. At least the sulfur smell from my fried bathroom had cleared out. I would not take responsibility for oily sock smells. There was a flyer taped to my door. I’d received these before. A neighbor down the hall hosted Bible studies and periodically invited other tenants to join. You’d think walking down the hall would sound easier and more enticing than entering a strange church. But both actions were equidistant from my comfort zone.

  I pulled the memo off and the tape made a snap sound. My back was bent like an old woman’s under the weight of my leather case and Prada bag. Not that they were heavy. I’d just assumed this position lately. As soon as I was in the apartment, the bags were released, free to follow gravity to my dusty floor.

  My message light blinked out its SOS pattern. Ariel had rigged that for me. Maybe it was her. We hadn’t spoken much since my breakup night. She’d emailed me a few times to check in. Nothing seemed different except for the gap in our connection that she and I both knew existed but could not discuss for whatever reason.

  I had three messages. A Wednesday night record for me. Everyone communicated with me via email during the days, and I hardly ever had need of a phone after 5:00. I should never confess that fact to anyone. If that isn’t the mark of a nondater, I don’t know what is.

  Message 1: Mother asking if I could come at 3:00 instead of at 5:00 on Saturday.

  What? Did our conversations make that little of an impression? Good grief.

  Message 2: Dad telling me that Mom meant only to remind me to come at 3:00, oh, and Mom would be making berry cobbler as my special birthday dessert.

  I guess my throwing up Mom’s blueberry muffins every Christmas and her blackberry jam pancakes every New Year’s wasn’t consistent enough to warrant a deduction. Berry. Puke. Berry. Puke. Does anyone know who I am?

  Message 3: This one had to be played a few times. My pulse quickened at the sound of that voice.

  Libby? Libby? It’s Cecilia. Are you there? I cannot reach Rachel…it’s 5:15. Is the office falling to pieces? Does the work ethic turn to absolute crap when I leave? Anyway…call me as soon as you get in. This is an emergency. You owe me, Libby.

  She left no number. I was just about to pick up the phone to check my last incoming call when the phone rang again. I reluctantly picked up. “Hello?” I answered in a near-Irish accent, hoping it could allow for a “sorry, wrong number,” if necessary.

  “Thank goodness you’re there.”

  Okay. The woman who once asked when I stopped wearing my hair in a blond shag (what?) had no problem recognizing me through my Lucky Charms spokesperson impersonation. “Yes, Cecilia. I just got home and played your message. I’m sure Rachel was in the copier room. She has been staying late every evening.”

  Pause. “And you would know this how? It is only 5:40 your time.”

  I needed to get this over with. The cliff was right there; I had to jump. “You said I owed you something, Cecilia?”

  “Libby, I’m furious. Furious. Here I’m dealing with a major corporate crisis on behalf of the company…and I get a call, out of the blue, from Crest Ridge Vineyards, the biggest vineyard account on the West Coast, telling me that they are sad to no longer be working with me but are excited about what Blaine Slater can bring to their PR efforts. They wished me well, Libby. A corporate kiss off.”

  “I…I…” She didn’t know about losing some clients? I was confused. Was Blaine here to replace Cecilia completely? Had I been a part of an immediate purging of all things Cecilia without even knowing it?

  “Do you know when one person wishes another person well?” Cecilia said “well” as though it were a swear word.

  “There are all sorts of occasions where that sentiment can be…”

  “Either someone is in remission or getting fired.”

  “Now wait, Cecilia. I don’t know everything that is going on, but I do think I would have heard rumors by now. And there has been nothing like that. In fact, people are eager to have you back in the office next week.” Okay, I lied. But she was scaring me. And I felt a wee bit sorry for her. I hoped she didn’t know I was the one to call Mr. Fattello of the vineyard to arrange the conference call with Blaine.

  “Really? What about the account? You work for Blaine. Surely this rings a bell?”

  “Well…yes. I received a list…the name…of this account and was told it was going to be one of Blaine’s from now on.”

  “List? What else do you know, Libby?”

  Dang, she heard that. I wasn’t the one who should be conveying this to her.

  “Blaine brought some clients with him. I got that list of names and then was told Crest Ridge was an add-on. After all, I’ll bet Ken Dunson wants to be sure Blaine has more than a full load of work. Good grief, you are in Texas putting out fires. You shouldn’t have to handle every stinkin’ account too!” I thought that was a nice touch. There was silence. I pulled it off.

  “Point.” She said that instead of “good point,” which made you aware that she was tracking the score to some game nobody else was playing. Willingly, that is.

  Cecilia sighed heavily. “This conversation is just between us. I’m sure there is an explanation similar to the one you described. There is probably an email all about it in my in-box. I couldn’t get online from the center.”

  “The center?”

  Another sigh. “Business center…at the hotel. The places I stay do not have vending machines, game rooms, or parking lots. They have spas, penthouse suites, five-star restaurants, private lounges, valet parking, and full-service business centers.”

  “Got it. No Motel 6 for you. And I’m sure the details are in that email. Mums the word on my end.”

  Then she hung up. No goodbye. No thanks. Just gone. I was thrilled. Now I needed to track down Rachel and find out what she knew. From the list I’d been working with, Crest Ridge wasn’t the only large account that was going to be wishing Cecilia well. I tried information…unlisted. I tried the office again, but no answer. Philip was still there, but he wouldn’t release a home number for Rachel. He took his job way too seriously. I tried the “in-house task force” threat indirectly again, but he probably thought I was testing him.

  There was no way to reach Rachel.

  Except.

  U
gh.

  I unfolded the piece of paper with Marsha’s number on it. She had drawn a ring of flowers around her M. I would have to use the reading group as an excuse to get Rachel’s number.

  I started pacing as I dialed. The things I did to keep my demotion.

  “Hello?” her voice was falsely light but the nasal quality could not be disguised.

  “Marsha?”

  “Libby?”

  How does everyone recognize my voice so easily? “Yes. Hi!”

  “I’m so glad you called. What are you up to? Wasn’t today at work just a bore?”

  Great. Small talk.

  “Oh, hey…look, I’m actually headed to a manicure appointment, you know how hard it is to get in sometimes!” I used Rachel’s suggestion early. “I wanted to call Rachel and ask her to go to the reading group with me tomorrow. Do you have her number?”

  “Oh,” she said, obviously disappointed.

  Swell. She wasn’t going to make this easy. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said with a sarcastic tone. “Just don’t hold your breath. Rachel decided a long time ago that she was too good for us. But give it a shot. Of course, we would love to have her join. We adore Rachel. Absolutely adore her.”

  Abhor her. It was obvious.

  “So you do have her number?”

  “Let me grab my cell. I have it listed, though it really is just using up space.” She gave me the number and then took in a big breath. “Now, where is your manicurist? Do you go to Latisha at Samson’s Salon? She’s the best but she has quite the little attitude for a manicurist. She said she did Courtney Love’s nails for years. Spare me…”

  “Oh my gosh, thanks for reminding me. I have got to go. See you tomorrow…and at the group!” I hung up quickly and dialed Rachel immediately.

  One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Should I leave a message? Four rings.

  “Hey, I’m on my way, already!” Rachel’s voice blasted my eardrum.

  “Rachel?”

  “Libby?”

  Good thing I wasn’t into prank calls. Everyone seemed to know my voice.

  “Yes, it’s me. I have a bit of a situation. Guess who just called?”