Missed Connection

by K Larsen

  Interiors Made Easy with Jess and Angie is the top design podcast on iTunes most weeks. It often sneaks up the charts and settles in right beside NPR, if we happen to have a strong topic project underway. Room Partitions and Folding Screens was a huge one for us. But if I remember correctly, it was Vegetable Garden in the City, which really put us on the map. My parents, however, did not send me to an Ivy League school to learn how to do interiors. They sent me to meet my husband and I did; John was more than they could have even asked for. But being a New York State senator’s wife can get boring. There are only so many luncheons and yoga classes and charity galas one can take. So when Angie was just in tenth grade, we started getting crafty. It turned into an obsession for us both and out of a hobby, we built an empire. We have our own line of paint and fabrics and crafters tools, and whatever gets refurbished on the show, goes into an online auction for charity, the minute we close the episode.

  For the last five years, we’ve been offered network deals—full creative control, an entire crew, ridiculous dollar amounts for every single episode. But I turned them all down, to Angie’s dismay. I like the anonymity of the podcast and it’s worked out so well for us this way.

  I believe, on a fundamental level, that our success comes from the soothing tone of our voices when we talk about easy ways to make everyday life more beautiful. Visuals would destroy the therapeutic experience, we’d become like every other glossy television host with a spray tan and a complicated wardrobe fit for the wife and daughter of a politician. And, of course, it helps that John likes us to be less visible; in his eyes a televised DIY design show is only steps away from a “Real Housewives” episode.

  So for now, we work out of the studio on Madison Avenue, we give verbal instructions and listeners can simply go to the website to upload simultaneously aired photos and short videos. This way, I can work in overalls or a pair of comfy jeans, my hair thrown back in a ponytail, Birkenstocks on my feet. Angie and I are spending quality time together while we work and that’s part of the appeal. Listeners tune in just to hear our banter, we’re funny together and smart and spontaneous. We love what we do and our enthusiasm shows through. Both of our voices are low tenors, without a smidge of a New York accent. That’s the pedigree of private school and hundreds of thousands in tuition. We could be from anywhere in New England, the Eastern Seaboard, the Rocky Mountains, even California, if that’s how they want to envision us. We could be anyone’s neighbor or aunt or mother-daughter team at the local flower shop. That’s why so many Americans welcome Angie and me into their living rooms, kitchens, garages and craft sheds.

  The podcast takes up all of my time. It makes me happy, it fills a void that I’ve been unsure of how to fill, ever since Angelina grew up. John is busy, he’s important, work has always come before family. I’m not complaining. I’m grateful. I’m used to being an extraneous ornament. I say it without malice. Why would I complain? My life, relative to most lives, is gorgeous. I’m a woman who owns far too many formal dresses for the average walk-in closet. Yet, I am still compelled, from someplace deep inside, to obsessively beautify.

  I set up a date for tasting canapés and cakes. A meeting with a sommelier who also advises on champagnes. In one afternoon, I have imported fabrics from India for fifty table runners; candles from a small family manufacturer in Vermont, hand poured, scented with lavender from their own thirty acres; truffles from a tiny, vegan bakery in Northern California. I peruse images of centerpieces from yacht club weddings from across the globe, searching for something that will grab my attention. I don’t want seashells or starfish, no fishing nets on Angie’s tables.

  We, the Van Burens, don’t even own a boat. It’s Andrew’s family that is big into yachts. His parents live in Cape Town and Andrew came to New York for law school. He met my Angie on a runner’s pub-crawl and they immediately took a liking to each other. John had ideas about the kind of man he wanted her to marry.

  “Cape Town is not an area I want her traveling to for the holidays.”

  “John, she’ll marry who she loves.”

  I put my foot down, I wouldn’t budge. This is one area of life where I will not make accommodations. Angie deserves true love and not a recipe prescribed by her father, not a political liaison, not a merger, not an investment, or a pardon. My daughter will marry for love, if it’s the only hard stand I make on this earth. I don’t ever want her to be like me, a profoundly lonely woman, who didn’t even want a passionate marriage, who just longed for a real partnership. An equal, with someone to share my life, my fears, my dreams, even my missteps. What I got, instead, was a lifelong commitment to the façade. A charade. And sure, I love John. I do. But we’re not a real couple, who carry a burning flame for one another. We are a presentation to the public, that’s constantly undergoing editing and shuffling. Our relationship accords to the public’s demand, it doesn’t run on a heart clock; John gets paid by the feds.

  Love, to me, seems like the most delicate pastry; divine, indescribable, and so very fleeting. I want love for my daughter. I will guard her chance at happiness like a rabid dog, if that’s what it takes, from the media, from my husband, from the whole goddamned state.

  I decide, on a whim, to drive out to the Yacht Club. Get a better lay of the land, start the enchanted, nautical theme brewing. I make phone calls from the backseat of the town car, as I sit in traffic. Angie never should have hired a designer, it was doomed from the get-go. What idiots we both were. We’re a do it yourself design team that hired a designer.

  The ballroom is huge and really quite beautiful. The hardwood floors shine with the late afternoon sun. Giant bay windows line the wall that leads out to the floating deck on the water. It will be stunning. I can see it already. This is a magical room and Angie will be so radiant in it. There’s an ornate fireplace that takes up a large portion of the back wall. It’s hard to tell if it’s usable, or just for show. The mantle houses various nautical minutia, scrimshaw, ships in bottles and a rusted, old-fashioned anchor.

  That’s it. Right here in front of me. My table centerpiece, well, Angie and Andrew’s. How charming and how perfect. A rusted anchor.

  I pull a yellow legal pad from my messenger bag. Sketching it out quickly, I add antique blue hydrangea in yellow-hued Mason jars. But an odd sensation moves through me when my pencil tip hits the paper, like a wave of nostalgia that overtakes me so fast, I feel dizzy. It’s drawing the anchor that makes me remember him.

  “We’re going to be really late, Dad,” Luke yells from the entryway.

  I know this. I can’t quite figure out why I’m dragging my feet but I’ve been staring at myself, lost in time for the last—I check my watch—ten minutes. My salt and pepper speckled hair appears lackluster. My light brown skin looks sallow now. My hazel eyes, dull. I haven’t been able to sleep for the last two weeks—and I’m exhausted. I haven’t been able to sleep since my birthday. Since I posted that damn missed connection. If I hear nothing by tomorrow, I’m taking it down. I mean, what did I actually think was going to happen? My mysterious girl would magically appear after two decades? Maybe I’m really that desperate to see her face again. To touch her warm, soft skin—so different from my rough hands. Maybe I hoped for the chance to see those sky blue eyes and her genuinely kind smile. Those lips. That voice. Maybe I just miss having someone to care for. Someone to hold at night. Someone to come home to. Maybe I just wanted to rekindle hope.

  “DAD!”

  “Coming!” I tear myself away from the mirror and trot down the stairs. Today I’m being awarded some plaque or award or something like that for best general contractor in the area. I started my own business fourteen years ago. It was a rough start. My wife was pregnant with Luke and we were living off her salary until I got up and running. You’d have thought that people would be well past their biases by then, but even now, the fact that I’m biracial, affects some people poorly. As if the black in me will affect my ability to build their houses. Or perhaps that pesky black percen
tage of my DNA precludes me from knowing what rich people want when building their homes or maybe it’s that I’ll steal something. It’s impossible to know. At this point, my business has boomed enough that I don’t take on jobs where I don’t like the vibe the customer gives off. It’s a nice place to be.

  The town does a ‘best of’ award for all sorts of local businesses. The ceremony will even be in the local paper. It’s prestigious for our small town. Rory and I moved here just before she got pregnant. It’s quiet and lush with open greenscapes and forest. The big entertainment is hitting the lake on a sunny day.

  “Lookin’ good, Dad,” Luke says eyeing me. I smile at him and ruffle his hair, as I reach the door. He squirms away and tries to fix the unruly nest he calls hair.

  “It’s sharp,” I say.

  “What is?”

  “The saying. It’s ‘lookin’ sharp.”

  “Whatever, old man. Can we just go and get this over with, already? You know Tara will be there, right?” Luke looks at me expectantly.

  I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. Tara. A year after Rory died, I had tried dating. It was a disaster; a disaster with the local news anchor. She really didn’t want it to end; and when I ended it, she took it poorly.

  “Yup. Thanks for the reminder.”

  Luke chuckles. “She was bat—”

  “Do not cuss, Luke,” I cut in.

  “Shit crazy!” he yells and starts running. I can’t help but laugh. She was. And he was on to her from day one. I chase him out the door and to the truck. Giving him a stern look as I cross around to my side, he mock shrinks before cackling. I can’t keep a straight face when the kid laughs. I start the engine as we both laugh at ourselves, together.

  The event was fairly painless. The local paper is doing a write up of it and Luke saved me from Tara. With the ceremony over and it being a near perfect Sunday, I drop Luke at a friend’s house and head to the local bar to meet up with some of my friends. The parking lot is full; when I check the clock on the dash, I realize it’s because the football game has already started. The gravel crunches under my boots and the crisp air fills my nose.

  I pull open the door and am met with the smell of beer and dirt. It’s an odd combination.

  “Hey, Titan!” Cherise calls out. Her palm is flat on the bottom of a large tray full of steins of beer. Her breasts bounce with each step she takes. Every man in here has wondered, at one time or another, whether those breasts are real or not. Even me.

  “Hi, Cherise.”

  “Usual, Ty?” she asks.

  “Please and thank you,” I say, as always.

  “Your boys are over there,” she says with a smile, pointing with her free hand to the corner. Rusty, Dan and Matt are huddled together across from the largest flat screen television, already hooting and hollering at it.

  As I approach the table, Rusty reaches his hand up to slap mine, followed by a head nod from Matt and a shoulder slap from Dan. Good ol’ all American boys. Cherise shows up with a fresh round of beers for them and a tall water for me.

  “So how was Tara today?” Rusty asks during a commercial.

  “She cornered me in true Tara fashion and Luke had to rescue me because none of you numb nuts seemed to notice.”

  Dan laughs and when he does, his large nose moves in the strangest way. “I noticed but I’m not getting anywhere near Tara. I have a scar from the scratch on my back from your breakup.” I roll my eyes at Dan and take a sip of water.

  Matt hushes us all when the game’s back on. I watch my three closest friends stare intently at the screen before them. I’m not drawn to the game today. My state of mind has been all over the place. I keep dreaming of warm hands in the snow. Green gowns, blue eyes and long forgotten conversations. The ghost of this woman kept alive only by a matchbook, a tattoo and now, a post, just hanging out somewhere online.

  “Want anything else?” Cherise’s voice snaps me from my strange longing. I look up at her and she smiles and winks at me, before leaning over and tracing my anchor tattoo on the inside of my wrist. “I’m happy to get you anything, Titan.”

  Cherise seems like a really sweet lady but she’s not my type at all. I suppose, I could use a good lay though. It’s been a long time and I’m tired of my hand. I shake the thought. No. I can’t do that to her. But I would solve the mystery of the fake or real breasts. The cons outweigh the pros in my mental list and I pull my arm away from her.

  “I’m all set, Hun.” Her smile falls just a little, before she straightens up and shakes my dismissal off.

  “I swear, Titan, one of these days, she’s going to figure out a way to get you to drink, so she can take advantage of you. Male rape is no joke.” Rusty quips. Matt spits beer with his laugh and Dan just shakes his head at Rusty. “What? It’s true. And it’s a serious thing,” Rusty says. Leave it to Rusty to be the weary female of a very masculine group.

  “Speaking of women, did anyone respond to your ad on Craigslist?” Dan asks.

  “What?” I ask. I heard him but I’m confused as hell. How does he know about the post?

  “Come on man, you think Luke didn’t tell us?”

  At this particular moment I want to ground Luke for the next fifty years or so. “I’m gonna kill that kid,” I grumble.

  “Well?” Matt pushes.

  “Nope. Well, yes. I’ve had lots of strange responses, but not from her,” I tell them.

  “Yeah, but come on, that post—damn, man, you made my wife tear up. The ladies must be overloading your inbox,” Dan says. I want to crawl in a deep dark hole.

  “Titan Breaks the Internet,” Rusty laughs, using his hands to mimic a news ticker.

  “I didn’t post it to meet women,” I say, a tad too defensive. “I am seriously going to kill Luke when he gets home.”

  Embarrassment washes over me. Strike that, it’s not embarrassment, it’s shame and fear. There are very few people who know about my life before Rory. I met her at a job site I was working. She had an infectious laugh, a kind, warm, broad smile and eyes that danced and sparkled. I’d been instantly smitten with her. I’d told her everything after a few months of dating. I told her about Bridget, about the accident, about the fact that I got away with it, simply because I was just under the legal alcohol limit by the time the cops and paramedics arrived at the scene. I told her of my overwhelming grief that followed. My suicidal thoughts and the woman who smelled like strawberries, who’d taken away that desire simply by sharing a coffee with me on that snowy night. I only shared my story with Luke last year, during a bout of depression he experienced surrounding the anniversary of the death of his mother, Rory. Of course, Rusty, Dan and Matt know, too, but that’s it. Five people know all of me. The idea of my history suddenly becoming public knowledge in this small town terrifies me. What would people think? How would it affect my business? My thoughts run wild. Spinning and swirling in my head. Scenario after scenario playing out like a movie reel.

  I am barely entertained by the game, so I decide to take off. Half way home, I pull through the coffee shack drive thru for a black coffee. The weather’s still warm enough to have the windows down. So that’s what I do. I roll down all the windows in my F350 and crank the radio, all the way to the lake. A quick boat ride alone, on a dark glassy canvas, is just what I think I need to clear my mind. When I see my boat, The Anchor, a calm washes over me. I grab my coffee and head down to the dock.

  I press the buzzer long and hard on Angie and Andrew’s apartment. I know she’s asleep. I should have just gone home. It’s rash and it’s rude. I’ll probably scare her half to death. I once promised myself that I would never be the kind of mother who intrudes on their child, who doesn’t believe in their privacy because she gave birth to them.

  “Hello?” Andrew’s voice sounds gravely in the middle of the night.

  “Andrew? It’s Jesenia. Is Angie around?” My voice sounds strained and high-pitched, too cheery for almost—I glance at my watch,—two o’clock in the morning.

/>   “Of course, I’ll buzz you in. Is everything alright?”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry to bother you two. I just had the most splendid idea that couldn’t wait until morning.”

  Silence.

  “Andrew?”

  “Alright, then.”

  The door buzzes. Somehow I’m coming off older than my forty-five years. Like a batty old mom who’s losing all of her tact with old age. Andrew’s accent is regal, even at two o’clock in the morning. No wonder Angie fell so hard, he can say “taxes,” or “proctology” and make it sound magical. They may think I’m crazy and I’ll admit, I am acting a bit manic. But I’m her boss and I know, for a fact, she doesn’t have to be at work in the morning. Our next episode isn’t until Friday. We’re making tables out of industrial wire spools for outdoor entertaining.

  I nod at the doorman, who looks up from the game. He recognizes me, tips his hat and goes back to his deli-wrapped salami sandwich and two-liter of Diet Coke.

  I take the elevator up to the tenth floor, they have beautiful views of the park. The carpeted hallway is absolutely silent, like a library after hours. I glance in the mirror and rub the mascara from under my eyes. I second-guess my decision to come wake up my daughter. She is my best friend in this world and I’m not repeating a cliché. God gave me Angelina to save me from a life of boredom, built on fabricated friendships and endless dinner parties.

  “Mom! My God, what are you doing? Where’s Dad? What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  She popped open the door before I even had a chance to compose myself and rehearse what I was going to say. I smooth my hair back where it’s fallen out of the low chignon. My Burberry raincoat is wet from standing outside of her building, staring and debating.