She tilts her head. “Jesus, you’re right. I never thought about it that way. I wonder what we’d be doing if you hadn’t married a mouth-breathing Trekkie!”
I pounce on her and pin her arms. “Say Shruth!”
“Never.”
I lean over and wiggle my hair over her face.
“Okay, okay. Shruth! Shruth!” she yells, and I roll back off her. Shruth is our alternative to uncle. We never had an uncle, so it never seemed to make sense, and we didn’t want to discriminate between the aunts, so we blended their names instead.
“You ever think about getting married again?” she asks when we catch our breath. “Now that you know what not to do?”
I think about it for a second before answering. “I don’t know. I mean, I’d like to think that someday I might find someone I would trust to be a good life partner. But I’m never going to settle ever again, not for anything, and it’s a pretty tall order. I think that’s why I like dating more than one guy at a time. I can pick and choose what I need from someone and assemble a sort of Frankenstein man out of the best parts of them.”
“But aren’t you ever tempted to just stick with one and try to move forward?”
“Not yet. I suppose if I meet the right guy, then I will. But in the meantime, I get everything I want and need without being responsible for anyone else.”
“Not everything,” she says.
“What am I missing? Look at Ben and Abbot. Abbot is urbane, sophisticated, perfect in social situations, owns two tuxedos, and makes me feel like a princess. Ben is crazy and funny and takes me on adventures. Abbot is pretty sage about advice and is a good guy to debate things with. Ben is handy and fixes stuff and does the heavy lifting. Abbot is great in bed, and Ben doesn’t seem to mind that I won’t sleep with him.”
“And who says ‘I love you’ last thing before you go to bed?”
“You do. That’s enough for now.”
“And I do love you, and you know it doesn’t matter to me one bit if you ever get married again. I just don’t want you to feel like you can’t consider it just because you’ve taken a sabbatical from serious commitment.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. And trust me, if someone comes along who seems like he wouldn’t be settling, I’ll take the plunge again.”
“I have dreamt about this so often,” a husky voice comes from the doorway. We look up to find Hunter grinning lasciviously at us. “Two women at once, and sisters, no less.” He takes a flying leap and lands on the bed between us. “Am I interrupting serious girl talk?” He kisses Jill’s hip and tickles my knee at the same time.
I get up off the bed and rumple his eminently rumpleable hair. “Not at all. I was just headed up to bed.”
“You don’t have to leave on my account, sis,” he says.
“Not at all,” I say.
“Hey, thanks for handling my family tonight. That was a great idea about the party out East. You saved our wedding day,” he says.
“Anytime,” I say.
“I know they’re a little weird and pompous and Republican, but I’ve given up on trying to change them. And they did say how much they were impressed by all of you in the car.”
Interesting. They mentioned being impressed by us. Not liking us, but being impressed. Very different things. “We were impressed by them as well. Brunch still on for tomorrow at the Bongo Room?” I ask.
“Yep. Eleven o’clock,” he says.
“Okay. Good night, little brother. Good night, Moose Face,” I say.
“Good night, Butthead,” Jill says.
“Good night, Possum Toes,” Hunter says.
Jill and I both look at him.
“What? I need a good-night insult, too. No good?”
“Keep working,” I say and leave them to the rest of their evening.
When I get upstairs, I have a message from Abbot. I call him back, and when he suggests that he might be in a position to be at my beck and call for the remains of the evening, I tell him to come on over, and I go to unlock the back door. We might not be in love, but his good night is still pretty sweet.
The Holy Trinity
Don’t get in a people rut. Bringing new people into your life can be exhilarating
and helps keeps your interpersonal skills honed. There is no
trick to maintaining relationships with the friends and family and colleagues
you’ve known for years. But being open to new people can expand
your interests and make you a well-rounded individual. Don’t be
afraid to strike up conversation in an exercise class or at the bookstore.
Don’t be afraid to invite someone to share your table at Starbucks. If
your flight gets delayed, look around for someone reading a book by an
author you like, and introduce yourself. You never know who you
might meet in the strangest of circumstances. At the very least you can
have some interesting conversations, and you just might find a new
friend or lover in the process.
—From The Thirty Commandments by Jill and Jodi Spingold
I pull my car into the parking lot at Dominick’s. It’s a 1957 Ply-mouth Fury in cherry red, which I bought for myself when the first book hit the New York Times bestseller list. I couldn’t believe how reasonably priced it was, considering. It had been a show car, so it had fewer than 50,000 miles on it and was in pristine condition. Since Jill drives us to work most days in her very sensible BMW sedan, I get to tool around in Stella only evenings and weekends, which helps ensure she keeps purring. And I love how unexpected she is on Chicago streets; I always get honks and waves. I get out, lock the door, and run through the brisk winds into the brightly lit store. I’m mentally praying, Please let them have them. Please let them have them. This is my fourth stop of the evening, looking for the final ingredient for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving feast. And so far, every place I go, the stores are out of mini marshmallows. I’m a decent cook, nothing spectacular, but Aunt Shirley has trained both Jill and me in the basic culinary arts.
Lord knows that for tomorrow, all the major food groups are being covered by Shirley. But the one thing I do better than almost anybody is sweet potato casserole with marshmallow topping. I remember being maybe three or four the first time I made it with my mom. She let me arrange the mini marshmallows all over the top. I don’t have many clear memories of my parents, but Thanksgiving was always our family’s favorite holiday. Always back at the aunts’ house, and the casserole the only thing my mom was allowed to bring. And the key to the recipe is that the marshmallows have to be the mini kind. The normal-sized ones add too much sweet goo. The sweet potato casserole is my only responsibility for tomorrow, and Jill will plant her foot in my butt if it doesn’t have the mini marshmallows on top.
I run down the baking aisle toward the marshmallows, and I notice there is a man standing right in front of them. He reaches for a bag. I peer over his shoulder. He is taking the last bag of mini marshmallows. Sweet Charlie the Tuna.
“Oh crap,” I say.
“Pardon me?” he asks.
“I’m sorry. You just took the last bag of mini marshmallows. I’ve been looking for them all over town.” You bastard! I’m mentally shaking a fist at him.
“Are you trying to guilt me out of my mini marshmallows?” He smirks at me.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. “I assume that you, like me, have only one sacred Thanksgiving memory of your dead mother that involves putting mini marshmallows on the sweet potato casserole.”
He laughs. “Well then, I’m glad there’s no guilt.”
“Sorry,” I say. “That was really unforgivably bitchy of me. It’s been a long day.”
“No worries,” he replies. “Thanksgiving is stressful.”
“Sweet potatoes are hard,” I agree.
“Math is hard,” he says.
“Heidegger is hard.”
“You win.”
“I didn’t
realize we were in competition.” He’s quick, this one.
“Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal,” he says very seriously.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“I’ll let you have the last bag of mini marshmallows, but you have to buy me a drink.”
I take a closer look at him. He’s probably fortyish, thick, dark hair, hazel eyes, strong jaw. Definitely cute. An interesting scar on his chin. Not overly tall, maybe five ten or five eleven. Can’t tell much about the bod—he’s sporting a thick, puffy jacket—but the legs look good in faded jeans.
“Buy you a drink, huh?” I say.
“Yep.”
“When?”
“Right now.”
I try to look sweet and needy. “I really ought to go home and finish the sweet potato casserole.” If I’m going to have a drink with this new prospect, I’d like to be a lot cuter than I am at the moment. I’m fine in my long trench coat, but underneath is a not-so-pristine U of C sweatshirt and a pair of black leggings. Not exactly dishy.
He waggles the bag at me. “That’s going to be kind of hard without these, isn’t it?”
“You have a point,” I say.
“Do it for your sainted mother,” he continues. “I’m pretty sure she’d approve. For the sake of Thanksgiving, and all.”
“Well, if you put it like that. I’m Jodi.”
“Connor.” He puts out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Jodi.”
“Where should we go?” I ask.
“There’s a little neighborhood tavern not far from here. Quenchers. Do you know it?”
“Fullerton and Western?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll meet you there.” I hold my hand out for the bag. He shakes his head at me.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll have to hold them hostage. I wouldn’t want you running off on me.”
“Of course not.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Did you have more shopping you need to do?” I ask.
“Nope. We can go.” I follow him to the front checkout and ask if he will let me pay for the marshmallows.
“You can get the beer, but the marshmallows are on me.”
We step outside, and he says, “I’ll see you in a few minutes, Jodi.”
“I’ll meet you there.” I walk over to my car and get in. I’m definitely intrigued. I’ve never been picked up in a grocery store before. I like his brash confidence, the look in his eyes that seemed very sure that I would say yes to the drink. I drive the few blocks to Quenchers, a tiny little place known for having over a hundred different types of beer. By the time I find parking and head inside, he is already there, marshmallows sitting on the bar next to him.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” he says.
“I was talking to the marshmallows.”
He laughs. It’s a nice sound, kind of low and baritone and genuine, not like he’s laughing to impress me or to make me feel good, but because he actually finds me amusing. I have a deep appreciation for boys that find me amusing.
He orders some obscure Belgian brew, and I ask for the same. We clink beer mugs and start to talk. Connor Duncan is a commercial real estate developer. The second-oldest of six boys in his Irish Catholic family. He started his career in real estate by flipping houses with three friends from college. The four of them would buy a run-down place, rehab it themselves, and sell it as quickly as possible. Their first commercial venture happened when they bought an old former bakery on the northwest side and converted it into office space, with retail stores on the first floor. One of the original guys eventually moved to the East Coast to be close to his family. But the other two and Connor continue to grow and develop their business. They now specialize in the development and management of commercial property, and the occasional residential project.
I always like to ask a lot of questions right in the beginning when I meet someone new. One of the unexpected hazards of making your living in the way that I do is that the minute people find out what your job is, they have a million questions. Everybody wants to know how hard it is to write a book, if you have met famous people, how the radio show works. It’s always better to get as much information about them and be as interested in them as possible in the beginning so that you have some frame of reference to go back to, to make sure that the conversation is even-handed. But eventually, my digging for information on Connor leads him to retaliate.
“That’s enough about me. I didn’t ask you to buy me a drink so that I could sit here letting it get warm while I talk about myself. What about you? Do you make your living putting mini marshmallows on top of sweet potato casseroles?”
“No. I make my living telling other people how to live their lives.”
“Nice. Is that a lucrative business?” he asks.
“Being bossy is surprisingly financially rewarding.”
“So, what? Do people just call you up and say, ‘Tell me how to live my life’?” he asks.
I laugh. “Only on Thursdays from noon to two.”
He looks puzzled. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“That’s a nice job, only two hours a week.”
“No, that’s not the whole job. That’s just when people call me.”
“And how do you spend the rest of your time?” he asks.
“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be coy. My work is a little complicated. I have a partnership with my younger sister, Jill. She and I write books about getting the most out of your life as a single woman. We have a call-in radio show on Thursdays on satellite radio.”
“Aha! From noon to two.”
“Exactly.”
“So you and your sister write these books and give people advice on the radio and what else?”
“We do some speaking engagements, sometimes we serve as experts on television shows. And there is some merchandising involved.”
“Sounds like a booming business.”
I’m always nervous talking about our success. I mean, for people who grew up middle class, we’re probably considered wealthy.
But we work very hard, and the business is expensive to run. We both take home good salaries, but it isn’t millions. We put a lot of money right back into the business, believing that it is far more important to pay great people at the top of the industry scale and know that they are working with us rather than suck out all the profits for our own personal gain.
“We’re doing all right,” I say.
“Good for you. Is it difficult?”
“What’s that?”
“Working with your sister.”
“That’s the easy part.”
“Really? I love my brothers and all, but we’d kill each other if we had to work together.”
“I think it’s different for me and Jill. After our folks died, we really had to stick together. We grew up relying completely on each other. We’ve always had each other’s back, and we’ve always been best friends; the company just became the logical offshoot of who we are together.”
“It must be nice. So, you lost both your parents, not just your mother.”
“Car crash.”
“How old were you?”
“I was six; Jill was four.”
He reaches over and covers my hand with his hand. It’s strong and slightly roughened. He squeezes. “I’m very, very sorry.”
For some reason, this moves me. I look him in the eye. “Thank you.”
We continue to talk, and several minutes pass before I realize he has not let go of my hand. I catch a glimpse of my watch and realize it’s after nine.
“I really should head home to make that casserole,” I say.
“I suppose I’d better let you go. But I’d really like to see you again.”
“I’d like that,” I say.
He takes out his cell phone. “J-O-D-I. What’s your number?”
“It’s 773-555-5634.”
“Your number is 555-Jodi?”
I laugh. “No one ever catches that.”
“Well, I’m not a savant. But I did just have to punch in those numbers to get your name loaded into my phone.”
“You’re a sharp one,” I say, and he smiles. His top teeth are straight, but the lower ones are crooked. I’ve seen the phenomenon before: parents without a lot of money, and with a lot of children in need of braces. Sometimes they have to do everybody’s top teeth and leave the bottom ones to nature.
“I’ll call you on Friday. See how the casserole worked out.”
“Okay. I’ll look forward to that.”
He leans over and gently kisses my cheek. “It was very nice to meet you. Have a happy Thanksgiving, Jodi Spingold.”
“It was nice to meet you, too. Happy Thanksgiving, Connor Duncan.”
My head is all swirly. I can tell my cheeks are flushed. I put on my coat and leave the bar. I get to my car, rev her up, and drive off toward home in a blissful fog. I’m pulling into the garage before I realize that I never got the damn marshmallows from him. I smack my forehead on the steering wheel. Just then, my phone rings.
“Hello?”
“You forgot your marshmallows.”
I start to laugh. “So I did.”
“Tell me where you are. I’ll bring them to you.”
I pause and think about it. He seems like a great guy. I’m certainly looking forward to talking to him again. And even looking forward to him maybe taking me out. But I’m not quite ready for him to know where I live. I think fast. “You know the Starbucks at Fullerton and California?”
“Sure.”
“It’s right in the middle between where you are and where I am. I’ll meet you there.”
“Okay.”
I click off the phone, start the car, pull back out of the garage, and head east.
I pick up the phone and dial downstairs to Jill’s.
“Hey,” she says, “’sup?”
“Marshmallow time.”
“Don’t start without me. I’ll be right there!” she says and hangs up the phone.
Within seconds I can hear her stomping up the stairs. My door opens, and she wails down the hallway, “Don’t do it yet, don’t do it yet!” She flies into my kitchen, breathless.
The Spinster Sisters Page 7
