by Lynda Curnyn
I straightened, returning my gaze to Jonathan. “In fact, I asked him about the painting. You know, who the girl was waiting for.” I felt a smile tugging at my lips. “Apparently she wasn’t waiting at all,” I continued, raking my eyes over him the way he had done moments earlier. “I guess she was merely…checking out the view.” I smiled suggestively. “And why wouldn’t she? It is, after all, a beautiful view.”
I saw his pupils widen and I knew I had him now. Fresh heat curled through me. And I knew just what I wanted to do with him, too….
Even the weather seemed to comply with the fantasies now swirling through me when Jonathan and I stepped out of the gallery a half hour later. The rain had been transformed into fat, wet flakes, and the sight was so stirring I turned my face up to greet them as they fell, closing my eyes against the feel of the cool dampness cascading against my skin. I breathed deeply, savoring the feeling. There was nothing quite so beautiful as the first snowfall….
When I opened my eyes, I found Jonathan staring at me in a way that pierced me. His eyes held desire, yes, but also something else. Something I could not put a name to.
“Going uptown?” he queried, dropping his gaze and focusing his attention on the damp, empty street, which seemed oddly lit up by the whiteness whirling around us.
“Yes, Upper West Side,” I replied, watching him carefully as he raised his hand to hail a cab.
He looked at me. “Me, too,” he replied, but not joyfully—rather, as if disturbed by the synchronicity of our destinations. “Perhaps we should share a cab.”
“Perhaps.”
As it turned out, Dr. Jonathan Somerfield lived no less than six blocks below me, on W. 80th Street. And maybe it was the pull of what was starting to feel like fate, or a longing to dally in the delicious chemistry that only built between us once we were enclosed in the back of a cab together, that had me making a move on the somewhat elusive professor.
“You know there’s a pretty little pub on W. 79th that makes a mean hot toddy,” I ventured, entertaining visions of sharing this first snowfall in front of the crackling fireplace that was bound to be lit on a night like tonight.
He turned to me in the darkness, his face shadowed by the lights that whizzed by and I saw, clearly, that he wanted just as badly to check out the view. But then he looked down at his watch.
When his gaze returned to mine, the connection was gone, replaced by the same worry, the same something, I had witnessed earlier. “Well, that’s tempting,” he said carefully, “but I’m already running late for another engagement.” He smiled, a bit patronizingly, I thought, and said, “Perhaps another time.”
“Perhaps,” I said, smiling back just as coolly and receding farther into the shadowy darkness, turning my gaze to the twinkling lights of the street and knowing, with the certainty that age and the kind of wisdom that only years of disappointment could bring, that there would be no next time.
At least he couldn’t see the disappointment spiraling through me. Couldn’t know how much I cared.
13
“It’s not the having, it’s the getting.”
—Elizabeth Taylor
Though I was as loath to admit it now as I had been as a rebellious teen, I couldn’t help but remember the old adage that said your mother was always right. Come Thanksgiving morning, when I awoke in bed alone, facing a day as empty and bleak as the cloud-filled sky that stared back at me from my window, I realized I was just as lonely as my mother had suspected I’d be. Even more so when I headed out to the street in search of sustenance and found the avenue beginning to flood with people, anticipating the festive parade that would start in a few hours.
Tourists, I thought with disdain. All the real New Yorkers had left town—except me. And Shelley, who I had avoided by canceling our appointment last night, figuring I had a handy enough excuse. It was a holiday, after all. I decided I was entitled to a holiday from her scrutiny.
I blustered through the crowds, hitting Zabar’s and filling a basket with more food than a single woman with limited freezer space should ever purchase. Driven by a wave of pure nostalgia as I passed a display of fresh cranberries, I even went up to the deli counter and ordered a premade platter of sliced turkey, complete with a heap of stuffing, a woefully glazed-over bed of turnips, sliced mushrooms and cranberry sauce. I tried not to feel embarrassed as the cashier rang my sad, solitary little meal through the checkout, and felt something worse than shame as I headed back through the crowded streets to my too-quiet building.
Once I made my way through the empty lobby and took a mercifully brief elevator ride, I entered my apartment, my gaze flicking to the answering machine, which, of course, contained no messages.
Who would have called? Angie was in L.A. with Justin. “You could come with us, Grace!” she’d offered, not considering that I might feel superfluous when she and Justin sat down to the veritable family of friends they had in that city from their years in the entertainment industry. By the third phone call on this subject, during which she threatened to call her own mother to ask her to set a place for me, I found myself resorting to the same lie I had told my mother. “Claudia and I have decided to treat ourselves to dinner at the Four Seasons,” I said, then crossed my fingers that Angie would just let the subject drop.
“You’re going to spend Thanksgiving with Claud-zilla?” she said, incredulous.
“She’s not so bad lately.” That wasn’t a lie, at least. In fact, in Claudia’s own view she was doing fabulously. Indeed, my boss was spending her Thanksgiving in Milan, at the last-minute invitation of her new gal pal, Irina. I would have laughed, if the spectacle of Claudia running around trying to live like a teenager—a horrifically wealthy and up-to-the-moment fashionable teenager, but a teenager nonetheless—didn’t depress me.
My mother had already called to wish me a good day, gleefully reminding me that I would do well to share a little chardonnay and stuffing with my boss.
I did have some idea that I might use the day to further my career. I had dragged home a history of the marketing of Youth Elixir, planning to use all the free time I suddenly had to find a way—on a shoestring budget—to put this product in the public eye again.
So once I had packed away all my purchases—with the exception of the box of chocolate-covered cherries I had treated myself to—I sat down in the living room and began poring over every sales brochure, campaign strategy and print ad I had managed to dig up, from the day Youth Elixir first hit the market in the winter of 1982.
I smiled at the out-and-out glamour of the first campaign, which featured Daniella Swanson, a giant of a girl made even larger by the furs and jewels she was perpetually draped in for the print ads. “The time of your life” the ads proclaimed, positing Daniella, a buxom, aging film star, as the new model for beauty. Daniella was beautiful, but I was certain the sophisticated yet surprisingly fresh-faced glamour she was sporting had less to do with Youth Elixir than with the veritable spa she was reported to live in. I had been a teen at the time, but I remembered reading how Daniella had mineral water shipped into her secluded Santa Monica estate to bathe in and round-the-clock trainers, masseuses and nutritionists to keep her from looking even close to the late thirties she was reported to be. But whatever fantasy Roxanne Dubrow had been weaving at the time, it had worked. Because from the moment it hit the shelves, Youth Elixir shot to the top of the bestselling cosmetic products. Daniella was the new goddess of the over-thirty set, and Youth Elixir, the nectar of the new generation of thirtysomethings.
Of course, the spin was modified over the years. Daniella was replaced with the much-younger-and-much-more-all-American-looking Chloe Dawson, a blue-eyed blonde who might have been called bland in this day and age of multi-ethnic exotic looks, but who exuded a shining, wholesome appeal. No one seemed to care that she had barely hit the quarter-century mark yet was at the center of a campaign that attributed her youthfulness to the wondrous effects of Youth Elixir. “Beauty you can bank on” the ads rea
d—it was, after all, the eighties. Skin care, like everything else, was a gamble on which the wisest might make their fortune. But it was Roxanne Dubrow laughing all the way to the bank, because although Chloe barely had a wrinkle to call her own, her sweet little countenance lured youth-obsessed clientele to Roxanne Dubrow counters.
There were other faces over the years, some prettier, some younger or older as the climate changed, but the Roxanne Dubrow message had always been the same: We have not forgotten you, oh neglected thirtysomething woman. We are here for you and we come bearing solutions. We are the fountain of youth.
Despite this soothing message—or maybe because of—sales went into decline around the mid-nineties. And it seemed no matter what new face was touting this miracle cream, or what fresh campaign was launched, Youth Elixir’s sales remained stagnant.
No one had found a way to reverse the sales trend. In fact, after making my way through the history of the product, I couldn’t even see what had precipitated the decline.
No wonder the company had decided to seek out a new savior in Roxy D.
I picked up the bottle of Youth Elixir I had placed on the coffee table, studying its clear, voluptuous design not unlike that of an hourglass-shaped female, the flowery font used for the name. I had always liked the way it looked on my bathroom shelf, had even taken a certain pride in it when I had first placed it there, just after I had begun working at Roxanne Dubrow. Now I noticed, for the first time, the thin layer of dust that had developed around the cap. It occurred to me that there was a reason this bottle had grown dusty on my toiletries tray. I couldn’t remember the last time I had actually used Youth Elixir, even though I was a part of the post-thirty demographic it was intended for.
I opened it now, dabbing a little on the back of my hand and relishing its satiny texture. Raising my hand to my nose, I took a delicate sniff, and found myself flooded with memories of my grandmother.
My grandmother?
I sniffed again, taking stock of the floral notes that almost overwhelmed the hint of musk I knew was in there somewhere. No wonder I was reminded of my grandmother. This stuff smelled like old-lady perfume.
I studied the bottle again with new eyes, noting the overly ornate script, the fussy design, and realized the product itself looked dated.
As if to confirm my suspicions, I raided my medicine cabinet, marveling at the sharp fonts and sleek designs of the cosmetics that filled it. Yes, I was guilty of going to the competition. Roxanne Dubrow couldn’t satisfy all my skin-care needs. Or maybe that was just it, I thought, dabbing more of the cream on my palm and noting how quickly it absorbed, despite its richness. Maybe it could. Perhaps I just hadn’t given Youth Elixir a chance, because it didn’t look like a product someone like me—single, cosmopolitan and, yes, thirty-four, but far from old-fashioned—would ever try.
I smiled at this revelation. Maybe the day had been well spent after all.
My satisfaction was a bit short-lived when I realized what my revelation would cost Roxanne Dubrow. A repackaging—and a retempering of the fragrance—meant big bucks. And in a year when Roxanne Dubrow was sinking a good portion of profit back into the new Roxy D product line, how the hell was I going to sell the corporate bigwigs on the notion of giving Youth Elixir a face-lift? They’d all but given up on it, from a financial point of view. Probably the only reason they did keep it around nowadays was a PR maneuver. After all, they didn’t want to alienate the customer who had made Roxanne Dubrow the cosmetic giant it was today. The problem was that customer was now likely edging toward fifty.
Still, I took a certain measure of satisfaction that even if I hadn’t solved Roxanne Dubrow’s problems, I had potentially discovered the root of them. Too, I had managed to spend the day in a way that kept me from cringing every time I heard the sounds of the Thanksgiving festivities of my neighbors. Buoyed by my success, I decided to crack open a bottle of red zinfandel, gratified that at least I knew how to conjure up the proper wine for a turkey dinner, if not the company. As I poured my first glass, I hoped it might conjure up my appetite, too, since I had downed no less than half a box of chocolate-covered cherries during my brainstorming session.
The wine made me hazy, but not any hungrier. So I gave in to my relaxed mood and drew a bath.
I wasn’t much of a bath taker, but it seemed a lot of women were, judging by the number of bath salts and oils I had received as gifts over the years. Fishing through the selection, which I kept in a box in the back of my vanity, I chose a bottle that claimed to contain jasmine along with the healing aromas of chamomile. Though I wasn’t entirely sure of what I needed to heal from, I dumped it into the steaming water, breathing deep as the vapors filled the room, then stepped to the bath.
Once I’d settled in, I picked up the glass from where I’d placed it on the floor and drank deeply, rolling the cool glass across my cheek against the sudden flush of heat I felt the moment I was submerged in the steaming water. Returning the glass to the floor, I sank lower, relishing the mix of scents and feeling the ease of some ache I had not even known my body held.
Old bones, I thought, smiling to myself. They weren’t so bad. They helped me remember what it was to be alive. To feel…
Twenty minutes later, I was feeling a bit too much. I didn’t know whether it was the wine I had consumed, or the now-suffocating heat, but my body was so relaxed, my mind so emptied, that something else had crept in when I wasn’t looking. Something alarmingly close to melancholy….
Now I remembered why I didn’t like baths. They made me feel depressed. Even more so today.
The sound of my phone ringing startled me out of my despondency, and also right out of the bath. Though I hated the thrill of anticipation that cheerful ring filled me with on this otherwise lonely day, I hurriedly wrapped myself in a thick terry robe, leaving a trail of water as I darted through the living room and practically dove for the receiver.
“Hello?” I said, a bit too eagerly, even to my own ears.
“Grace Noonan?” came a now-familiar voice.
“Katerina,” I acknowledged, with a surge of—what? Surprise? Relief? Whatever it was, I felt my guard come up against it.
As if sensing my peculiar shift in mood, Katerina hesitated. “I just…called to…to wish you a…a happy holiday.”
“Oh,” I replied, then realizing some return greeting was required, I said, “Happy Thanksgiving to you, too.”
She chuckled. “Thank you. We never celebrated this holiday when I was growing up. Kristina started the tradition after Sasha was born. My niece, after all, is American. My sister wanted her to live like an American.”
I bit back a smile as an image of Sasha, the personification of punk American youth, rose before me. “So you and Sasha are sharing a turkey today?” I said, conjuring up a new image of that comfortable living room, laid with the traditional feast and surrounded with a family of people I could not really envision, except for Sasha and Katerina, of course. Still, I felt a twinge of something at the thought.
“Well, usually, yes.” She sighed. “Sasha is spending the day…away. At her…her boyfriend’s house.”
The way Katerina bit out the word boyfriend clarified just what she thought of Sasha’s plans. Then another thought occurred to me. “Are you…are you spending the day…alone then?” I asked. Somehow the thought of the seemingly vulnerable woman I had met spending the day alone bothered me.
“Oh, no, no,” she said quickly. “My cousin Anna—well, she’s not so much a cousin, more like a family friend—from the old country, too, she’s making the dinner. I’m going there now. I just wanted…I just wanted to wish you a good holiday.” She paused. “You are having dinner with your family?”
“Um, no. My family lives in New Mexico. It’s too far a trip, really, for just a weekend.”
An awkward silence followed, and I realized Katerina was now feeling sorry for me. “Um, I…I’ll be joining some, some friends for dinner,” I hedged, hoping to cut off the invitation
I sensed would be forthcoming. Because I knew there was only one thing worse than spending a holiday alone—spending it with strangers. And Katerina and her family were strangers, no matter what bonds tied us.
“Oh, that’s nice. Pretty girl like you. I bet you have lots of friends.”
I smiled at that, a little sadly. “Yes, yes, I’m fortunate to have friends.” Just not strong enough to truly let them into my life, another voice whispered.
“Well, I’ll let you go then,” Katerina said, as if she sensed I had already drifted off in my mind to that place where others waited with open arms.
I hung up a moment later, wishing, with a flood of pain, that someone was there to hold me.
And never let me go.
I left the house bright and early the next morning, knowing that another day alone in the apartment might do me in.
So I did the thing that never failed to bolster my spirits.
I went shopping.
No, I wasn’t looking for a new pair of shoes to uplift my spirits or a flirty skirt that might soothe some momentary fashion whim. Christmas was coming, after all. Since this was the season of giving, I needed presents to give.
And as I sailed through Bloomingdale’s, picking out a soft cashmere sweater my mother would adore once she chastised me over the cost and a navy turtleneck that would suit my dad’s scholarly air, I started to look forward to the coming holiday. There was a certain joy in stumbling upon a gift I knew would be just perfect for someone on my list. Each find brought that deep satisfaction that came from knowing how to make another person happy.
I began to understand, in part, what might make me happy, too. Knew now it was something that a lifetime of solitude would never satisfy. I needed people.
Okay, Shelley? There, I said it.
By the time the afternoon rolled around, I had people—lots of them. Especially since, on a whim, I had headed down to Herald Square. I wondered what madness had driven me there, when after three hours of plowing through crowds, I stepped out onto an even more crowded and darkening sidewalk, only to realize it was close to five and conceivably the worst time of day to even attempt to hail a cab.
