by Lynda Curnyn
And as we sat overlooking the lovely lobby of the Met from high above, he asked me all about myself. My job. Growing up on Long Island. What it was like to have the illustrious Dr. Noonan for a dad.
I laughed at that. “According to my father, you’re pretty illustrious yourself. Imagine what your kids will feel like someday….”
His expression became shuttered, and I wondered at that. Wondered even more when he returned his gaze to mine and I saw that same sadness I had seen there before. What did this man have to be sad about? I found myself wondering once more.
As it turned out, I didn’t find out that evening. Because I also discovered that one of the reasons Jonathan wanted to talk so much about me was so he could avoid talking about himself.
It made him more of a mystery. And more of a challenge. “So tell me your story,” I said finally.
“Ah, it’s the usual dull tale,” he said with a smile. “Grew up in Connecticut, went to Yale, then on to New York and Columbia for grad school. I did some post-doc work at the University of Chicago, even taught there for a while. But when the Columbia position came up, I couldn’t resist returning to New York.” He looked around the beautiful balcony we sat on. “I’m a slave to it really. All this…magnificence.” Then he met my gaze again, and I saw from the way his eyes roamed over my face that he thought I was pretty magnificent, too.
Not that that got me anywhere. Because after we shared a cab back to the Upper West Side, with me plotting during the whole ride how to get him at least to my doorstep for that end-of-evening kiss I was anticipating in every part of my body, he simply smiled at me when we pulled up in front of my building and bid me a husky good-night.
It didn’t worry me though. Because Jonathan clearly had been doing a little plotting of his own in the cab. Two blocks before my building, he had casually mentioned that he had tickets to a concert Tuesday night and just as casually asked me if I wanted to go.
It was enough to make a girl feel positively cheerful.
“’Allo, Grace!” Lori greeted me when I arrived back at work on Monday morning.
“Welcome back, Lori,” I said, smiling at her. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed her until I felt a wave of pure relief wash through me at the sight of her. “How was your trip?”
“It was fab!” she continued, her voice lilting oddly.
I raised an eyebrow at her, my smile still in place. “Really?”
“Oh, Grace, it was the best bloody vacation I’ve had in…in yonks!”
Yonks? Suddenly I understood that strange inflection in Lori’s tone. It seemed our girl had taken on a bit of a British accent during her brief stay across the pond. She went on to explain how “brilliant” her trip was, describing the sights she and Dennis had taken in, the photos she had shot. The reminder of those photos caused her to pause in her discourse to dig into the knapsack beside her desk.
My smile grew wider as I remembered what it was to be young, to feel the freedom—or was it the naiveté—that allowed you to try on different hats and boldly wear them, no matter how silly they looked—or sounded.
“So how did Dennis’s interview go at the school?” I asked.
Opening her packet of photos to show me, Lori rolled her eyes, looking like the all-American girl she clearly was. “The guy he met with was a bit of a wanker,” she said, clearly pleased with her clever insertion of British slang, “but it went very well. Dennis liked the school, even met with one of the professors he hopes to study with. And the grounds were just…fab. Have a look for yourself,” she continued, laying the photos out on the desk before her.
I leaned in to look, feeling keenly her anticipation of my opinion as I studied them. There were some shots of the campus, along with the typical tourist shots of Big Ben gleaming the sunlight, the Houses of Parliament. Dennis gazing out at the camera from beside the Thames and from within what looked like a castle turret. The photos were well executed, but they were nothing compared to the grouping she brought out next. A stormy sky sheltering a cobblestone path. A gray stone structure set off by a sweep of lush green landscape. A closeup of a child caught in a moment of surprise as she encountered a pigeon in Trafalgar Square.
“I especially like these,” I said, pointing out the landscape she had captured and the photo of the cobblestone street.
“Yeah, I do, too. I was thinking of adding them to my portfolio,” she said, gazing fondly on them.
“Portfolio?”
She looked up at me, her smile frozen on her face momentarily, before she finally relaxed. And confessed. “The truth is, I’ve always dreamed of being a photographer.”
This was news to me. Probably because the only ambition Lori had revealed to me when I interviewed her almost two years ago was that she wanted to work in marketing in the fashion industry. But I suppose she had been in need of a job.
“Well, you are clearly talented,” I said, looking her in the eye.
Perhaps it was my encouragement that made her come completely clean. “Thanks. Apparently the admissions committee at the School of Visual Arts agrees.” She smiled shyly. “I’ve been accepted there for the fall….”
Now I understood the true source of her angst over Dennis’s leaving. She had been deciding between Dennis and her dreams.
Clearly she was still angsting over it. “I did look at schools while I was in London, too. I mean, it can’t hurt to apply other places,” she added, her eyes a bit uncertain. “The London School of Photography has an excellent program, though it’s very small. Which has its advantages…”
“Better than the School of Visual Arts?” I asked.
“Well, they are comparable,” she said with a frown. Then, looking up at me, she continued, “But the London School is a short tube ride away from Dennis’s campus. I mean we could get a flat together, somewhere in between….” Her voice trailed off and her eyes held a mixture of hopefulness and…sadness. I wondered at that.
“Of course, then I’d have to leave my job,” she said, dropping her eyes as if this admission were a bit too premature to be making to her employer. “And my family…”
I smiled, realizing the true source of her sadness. Like your prototypical Long Islander, Lori was just as devoted to her family as I had always been. Because despite the rebellions of my youth, I had chosen a school a mere train ride away from my mother and father, as if the idea of being farther from them was somehow unthinkable. Of course, now that my own parents were off living their dream life in New Mexico, I knew that despite the lonely holiday I had suffered, no matter how far away your family was, they were still your family. This reminder comforted me. Buoyed me even. So much so, that I found myself taking Lori’s hand in mine and giving it a quick squeeze.
“It’s so difficult isn’t it? When life is full of possibility?” I said.
She bit her lip, then sighed as she began gathering the photos up. “I guess I better put these away before that slag gets in….”
My eyes widened, and this time it wasn’t at her Briticism. It seemed her trip to London had toughened Lori up a bit, at least where Claudia was concerned.
“That slag,” I said, mimicking her accent, “is in Milan. With none other than Irina and Phillip.”
Now it was her turn to gawk. “Really?”
“Uh-huh. Until Wednesday at least. Apparently Phillip is going to take her portrait while he’s there. For W.”
Her eyes widened even farther and I filled her in on Claudia’s coup d’etat, at least from a publicity point of view.
“Wow,” she said, suddenly losing her British accent. Then she shrugged. “Well, Phillip Landau is a genius with a camera,” she continued. “I’m sure he could make even Claudia look human.” Then, as she remembered that Claudia likely wasn’t human enough to understand her future change in career plans, she added, “You won’t tell her, will you? About my going to school? I haven’t decided if it will be in London or New York. I mean, I have the whole winter really to make up my mind.”
> Hell, she had her whole life ahead of her.
Then, for the first time in a long time, I realized that I did, too.
It seemed Lori wasn’t the only one with news.
“Okay, Grace, you ready for this?” Angie said sitting across from me on one of three couches that littered the apartment she shared with Justin. Justin sat beside her gazing dreamily at the soft red fabric that covered the couch they lovingly called “Sofa #3.” I had given Angie little argument when she’d summoned me here after work, as I had missed her over the weekend. Besides, she mentioned she and Justin wanted to trim their Christmas tree, and I thought maybe a little holiday cheer after my less than cheerful holiday would be good for the soul.
Angie grabbed Justin’s hand and he smiled at her, then she turned to face me once more.
“We’re married,” she said, her eyes barely containing the happiness those two words had brought to her.
“What?” I said, shell-shocked. “What happened to the…the swanky affair in Brooklyn? The disco ball and crystal chandeliers? Hell, the swan of ice?”
She laughed, as if the thought of doing the chicken dance with all her Brooklyn relatives no longer frightened her. “Oh, I’m sure we’re not going to escape that circus in the making,” she said, snuggling closer to Justin, who wrapped his arms around her as she spoke.
She turned to look at the man she had just tied her life to. “Justin and I decided we didn’t want to wait. So we took a side trip to Vegas from L.A. And voilà!” She kissed Justin’s cheek tenderly before turning back to me. “You should have seen it, Grace. We got married in a pink chapel. I think the altar was made of polyurethane! All we needed was an Elvis impersonator to complete the deal—but we settled for a pastor in a white Armani suit.” She giggled. “Thinking about it now, it was probably gaudier than anything even my mother could dream up. But it was all ours. Every crazy, beautiful minute of it.”
For a moment I got caught up in it—that look that passed between them, that silent communication that said what they shared was theirs alone and could not be spoiled by the madness of a DiFranco wedding.
But the thought of that family snapped me right out of it. “What did your mother say?” I said, imagining her disappointment—and downright outrage. Angie was her only daughter and her last unmarried child. I was certain Mrs. DiFranco saw planning Angie’s wedding as her inalienable right.
“Umm, we didn’t exactly tell her…” Angie said, biting her bottom lip.
“And the best part is,” Justin said, standing up, “we don’t even have to.”
I looked at Angie the moment Justin disappeared into the bedroom. “You’re not going to tell your mother you got married?”
She sighed happily, staring at the door Justin had just walked through, then popped up to join me on my sofa, sitting cross-legged in front of me. “I know it sounds crazy, but I feel calmer inside since we did the deed. It’s the best of both worlds really. Now my mother can have her wedding, and I can have my peace of mind—”
“Wait a second, back up, I’m not getting this.”
“Okay, let me start at the beginning. We’re in L.A. We just had a meeting with some investors, and though everyone seemed interested, no one had jumped on board. But since we had gotten the business part of the trip out of the way, we spent the rest of the time puttering around, enjoying the city. We had just hit the beach to relax when my mother calls to tell me that the catering hall she wanted to book doesn’t serve the Italian sausage she wanted for the cocktail hour—something about the place being kosher and the sausage non-kosher. I mean, she’s hysterical over it, too! Yelling stuff like—”
“Whoever heard of a catering hall that won’t serve Italian sausage!” Justin mimicked in his best Brooklyn accent, returning from the bedroom with a box labeled Ornaments.
Angie nodded frantically, glancing over at Justin as he laid the box on the floor and returned to the bedroom. “Then she’s going on and on about how we needed to pick a date immediately because there was only one other hall she liked that wasn’t kosher and that could hold the whole family. By the time I managed to calm her down and get off the phone, I was a mess. Suddenly I’m worrying—and not just about sausage. Like how Justin and I are going to manage together after the wedding. What’s going to happen with the movie…with us. I mean, everything just felt so up in the air, and suddenly I was freaking out. So Justin and I got into a doozy of a fight, right there on the beach. Of course, we packed up our stuff and left—I think we were causing a scene. You know, Californians don’t seem to get upset about anything. It’s just not natural. I mean what kind of people are these?”
Justin popped into the room again with yet another box, this one bigger than the last. “There’s nothing wrong with a little inner peace, Ange,” he said, plopping the box on the floor next to the other one.
“I know, I know,” she said, rolling her eyes at Justin’s retreating back. “So anyway, we head back to the hotel, and there was tension between us—and not the good kind either. I never felt such a…a disconnect between Justin and me.” Her eyes started to well up at the very memory. “He was mad at me for letting my mother’s craziness come between us, and he was right—why was I letting her make me insane?” She sighed. “When we went to bed that night, everything felt wrong. Mostly because Justin and I never went to bed so…irritated with each other. But when we woke up in the morning, Justin looked over at me with those beautiful eyes—” she smiled, her eyes filling with fresh tears “—and I realized he was the man I would always love, no matter what happened. And he must have been feeling the same way about me, because suddenly he pulls me close and tells me he wants to get married—immediately. At first I thought he’d gone mad, but then there I was, throwing everything into a suitcase and hopping a plane with him to Vegas.” She beamed, her gaze locking on mine. “As it turned out, he was right. I haven’t had a care since we said ‘I do.’ It was like something…settled inside me. I wasn’t even upset by the string of answering machine messages from my mother—apparently the Italian wedding band my brother Sonny had used for his wedding had disbanded and my mother didn’t know if she could find anyone better. And how could we have a wedding without some short, bald Italian guy singing ‘Amore’?”
Justin came back into the room again, this time with two boxes labeled Ornaments. Angie looked over at him and he smiled at her before returning to the bedroom, whistling “Amore” as he went.
When her gaze returned to mine, her face lit with a soft smile, I saw, for the first time since I had known her, that the little hamster of anxiety that lurked behind her eyeballs was—miraculously—gone.
And I felt a certainty, too. That Angie had found with Justin a love that could weather whatever the future might bring.
A crash came from the bedroom.
Angie and I both looked at the door to see Justin, his face paralyzed with worry, as he lumbered in with a box big enough to hold a large screen TV. He put the box down quickly, opening a flap that was clearly labeled Ornaments. “God, I hope I didn’t break any of these….”
“Justin!” Angie said, finally realizing that their living room now looked like Manhattan mini-storage, with all those boxes lying around. “What are you doing? We don’t need this many ornaments—”
I glanced around, realizing that what they really needed, was a tree.
“Umm, where are you planning on hanging all these ornaments anyway?” I asked.
Justin looked up at me, a broad smile displacing the worry lines on his face. “On Bernadette, of course,” he said, gesturing at the large plant that sat on the windowsill.
Bernadette was the azalea bush that had, inadvertently, brought Angie and Justin together. As part of a plot to win her last boyfriend’s affections, Angie had ordered a dozen long-stemmed roses in a vain attempt to make Kirk jealous—and had wound up with an azalea that Justin had not only repotted and nurtured from day one, but had named and written a few songs for. Songs, I sensed now, that
were really intended for Angie.
“Justin, Bernadette has gotten big, but not that big,” Angie said, clearly exasperated. “What are we going to do with all these ornaments?”
Justin looked down at the boxes at his feet, as if never occurred to him that one little azalea couldn’t possibly contain all that holiday adornment. “I dunno…I figured we could go through, pick out the best ones….” Then, as if he had just spied one of his favorites, he reached down and pulled out what looked like a stuffed Santa on a set of skis, his long fluffy beard yellow with age and one of his ski poles long gone. “Hey, my aunt Eleanor gave me this one when I was like, five!” he said joyfully, picking his way through the crowded room toward Bernadette and hanging the sadly worn Santa on a branch, front and center.
Angie looked at me then, and I knew from her expression that she was swallowing down the fact that her Christmas tree might not be the best one she’d ever had.
But her smile as she turned to her husband said that it just might be her best Christmas yet.
15
“It’s time that the blonde glamour girl dropped her modern offhand manner and assumed the seductive ways of the traditional charmer. We should be dangerous characters.”
—Kim Novak
Angie, of course, made a similar prediction for me, when I filled her in on my coup d’Jonathan, probably because I had embellished the tale of our would-be romance by beginning at our first chance meeting in front of the Chevalier painting my parents had met in front of forty years earlier. Which was probably a mistake, because Angie took it as an out-and-out sign of romantic happiness for me.
I got so caught up in that warm and fuzzy vision of the future Angie saw for me that I found myself taking measures to insure something happened between us, choosing a black wrap dress and a pair of knee-high stiletto boots for my date with Jonathan that evening. It was tasteful, but with just enough sex appeal to be…deadly.
