The Spinster Sisters

by Ballis, Stacey

  “Deep breath, Sis. We’ll weather this storm. They have to wake up every day and be them. How icky is that?”

  “And I’ve ruined your birthday.”

  “First off, Brant ruined my birthday. And second, this isn’t about you; you haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “I still feel shitty.”

  And I hate that a tiny, bitter part of me likes that she feels shitty. But this is a very bad time to do the I-told-you-so dance.

  “Don’t feel shitty. We’re doing everything we can. Let’s get out of here before the traffic gets insane, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Jill and I finish up our last couple of workday tasks and then head for home.

  “Make a wish!” Aunt Shirley says as I lean over my birthday cake, the same cake I have had since I was old enough to eat cake: Aunt Shirley’s famous banana cake with chocolate frosting.

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I wish for continued health for the aunts. I wish for continued happiness for Hunter and Jill. I wish for Mallory and Brant to go away and leave me be. I wish for the current press crap to resolve itself without irreparably damaging the business. I wish for these last seventeen pounds to miraculously disappear. But when I get ready to blow out the candles, the only wish that really surfaces is for Connor to call. Both Abbot and Ben have made their best efforts to make me feel like a princess today. From Abbot, I got a delivery of flowers so enormous it is practically obliterating my dining room table, with a card promising a real present when I see him Sunday night. And Ben made a mini website devoted to all the interesting things that ever happened on my birthday throughout history. But my wild Irish lad has not been in communication yet today, despite reconfirming our date for tomorrow two days ago and asking what my plans were for my big day. Maybe by the time I get back upstairs there will be a message.

  Deep breath.

  Whhhoooooosh. All out.

  Jill claps. “Happy birthday, Butthead.” She hands me a small box. I pull the silky brown ribbon and open the top. Gently peeling the tissue back, I see a pair of the most exquisite chandelier earrings, sparkling with green peridots and violet iolite.

  “Jill, they’re perfect! I’ve been looking for a pair like this everywhere.” I lean over and kiss her.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m usually the one with you when you’re shopping, remember?”

  “Now this one, darling,” says Aunt Shirley, handing me a bag. I take the tissue out of the top and reach inside. Nestled in the snowy, crinkly depths, I put my hand around something smooth and cold. I pull it out. It is a gorgeous crystal wine decanter with an envelope attached. Inside the envelope is a certificate welcoming me to A Taste of California wine club, informing me that six bottles a month, three red and three white, will begin arriving shortly.

  “That is so cool!” I go over to kiss her. “New wines every month for a year. I’m going to be an even bigger lush now.”

  “Well, I spoke to Tracy over at Provenance, and she said that anything you taste and love, you should write down for her, and she’ll stock it for you.” Aunt Shirley beams. She’s always nervous about gifts, sure she’s picked the wrong thing, when in fact, her personal magic is always knowing just the sort of thing that is perfect for you.

  “Yes, Shirley, we know, it’s all been arranged to provide hours of pleasure for the rest of her natural life,” Aunt Ruth says, good-naturedly. “Can I give the girl my present before she’s another year older?”

  “Oh, stick a cork in it, Ruthie. You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.” Shirley is preening.

  “You two behave yourselves,” Jill snaps in mock horror. “This isn’t a competition. Especially since, obviously, my present is the best one.”

  “Respect your elders, dear,” Shirley says to her.

  “Can. Jodi. Please. Open. My. Present. Now?” Aunt Ruth begs.

  I take the large box gratefully. It is surprisingly heavy. I undo the ribbon and tear off the paper. Lifting the lid, I see an expanse of velvety chocolate brown color. I touch it, a lush, thick toweling, and lift it out of the box. It is an enormous bath sheet, a half-inch-thick Turkish terry, and at the bottom, in lovely celery green embroidery, is the word Hers. I look back in the box and take out the second towel. His. Then I realize there is still more in the box. I lift out another towel. His. And yet another. His. I start to laugh.

  “I thought your boys might not want to share,” Aunt Ruth says with a wicked twinkle in her eye.

  “They’re fantastic,” I say, kissing her. “I love them.”

  “Such an enabler,” Aunt Shirley says.

  “The girl is old enough to live her life the way she likes. I’m just being supportive.” Ruth is grinning wickedly.

  “You’d better keep two of those under wraps at all times, Sis,” Jill says. “Someone might mistake you for a ho.”

  “I’m not bad,” I say in my best Jessica Rabbit impression. “I’m just drawn that way.”

  We all laugh, and Aunt Shirley slices everyone a second piece of cake.

  “Thank you all very much for a wonderful birthday,” I say around a mouthful of banana-chocolate heaven.

  “What’s on the docket for the rest of the evening?” Aunt Shirley asks.

  “You mean now that I’ve eaten two pieces of cake for dinner? I have a very exciting date with my couch and the first season of House, which the gang at the office gave me. Anyone want to join me?”

  “Can’t,” Jill says. “I have to go meet Hunter. Apparently we’re going to Schuba’s to listen to some guy who he wants to play classical guitar for the wedding. Anyway, I should go. Happy birthday, Butthead.”

  “Thanks, Moose Face.” Jill kisses the three of us and heads for the door.

  “You go have your quiet night. Lord knows you’ve earned it with everything Brant put you through today,” Aunt Shirley says.

  “Absolutely,” Aunt Ruth adds. “Take all your loot and go enjoy the rest of your night. Many, many more, dear heart.”

  “I love you both very much. Thank you again for all my wonderful presents.” I hug the aunts tight, each in their turn, and kiss their soft cheeks. Then I gather my bags and head upstairs. The hallway smells wonderful, but I can’t place the scent. Until I turn the corner of the stairs on the second landing. On the last flight of stairs leading to my door are tiny bud vases with alternating burgundy and golden calla lilies, and little tea light candles in amber holders, giving off a warm, spicy scent. I follow this glowing pathway up to my front door. I turn the handle and slowly open the door. Inside my house, there are candles burning everywhere, and more flowers. That Connor. What a total muffin. I deposit my presents on the table next to the door and call out.

  “Hello?”

  The sight that greets me is not unwelcome, but it isn’t what I am expecting. Abbot Elling. Grinning and holding out a glass of champagne.

  “Happy birthday, beautiful.”

  Such a good man. I’m trying not to think of him as the wrong man, but to relish that I inspire him to such romance. And I’ll conveniently ignore that this is probably an attempt to lure me into domestic submission.

  “You darling.”

  “Just wanted to give you a little birthday surprise.”

  “Well, this is a wonderful surprise, Abbot. Thank you.”

  “Jill helped,” he admits. “I’m an idiot about these kinds of things, usually.”

  “You seem to be doing just fine so far.”

  “I’m trying. Want to go sit down?” He leads me to my living room, where a fire is burning in my fireplace, and there are all sorts of goodies spread out on the coffee table: cheeses and olives and prosciutto, and marinated artichokes and a fresh baguette.

  “Oh, my. All my favorite things. You are really knocking my socks off here.” I lean over and kiss him.

  “I’d better be knocking off more than your socks, missy. I mean, this is grade A prime romance happening here!” He smiles and kisses me deeply, making every hair on my
body leap to attention.

  “You know what I love about all of these delectables?” I say.

  “No. What?”

  “They all taste better after sex.” I put my glass down and take him by the hand. His hand is warm and firm in mine, I look over at him, and he smiles as I lead him to my bedroom.

  Wishing on birthday candles might not work, and Abbot might not be my ideal man, but you surely can’t begrudge a girl some birthday nooky.

  Valentine’s Day Massacre

  Oh, now, here we go. Okay, we say this every year, ladies, and this year

  will be no different. Let the Valentine’s Day thing go. We know that, in

  general, a day devoted to love and romance seems like a great idea.

  And on paper, it is. But men feel manipulated by the holiday, and the

  pressure we put on them is the reason. The Valentine’s Day blues, the

  need to get drunk and bitter with other singles on the fateful day, or

  the overwhelming smothering of the man of the moment is our own

  fault. Rare indeed is the guy who really gets into the holiday the way

  we do, and often their best efforts are just not enough. And what is

  worse, there is always some friend whose boyfriend or husband is the

  world’s most romantic, perfect man, who creates a Valentine’s experience

  for her that cannot be duplicated by our own merely mortal men.

  Take stock of your current guy, and if he’s a keeper, then let him be

  about V-Day. Please turn to chapter 8 in The Thirty Commandments,

  and follow our advice. Create a Valentine’s tradition with a girlfriend

  or close female relative or best gay boyfriend. Put your energy into

  looking forward to that tradition, be it a spa afternoon, a museum visit,

  dinner at a favorite restaurant, or another such thing. Homeless shelters

  don’t just serve meals on Thanksgiving, you know. Just give your

  man the Valentine’s gift he’s always wanted . . . permission to simply

  be a human being. Let him be Kevlar guy on the most mine-filled day

  of the year.

  —Advice given to a caller by Jodi Spingold, February 2005

  It started first thing when we arrived at the office. The large bunch of roses on the front desk was a testament to Gino’s continued presence in Benna’s life, despite the snafu at his surprise birthday party. The e-mail on my BlackBerry announcing that Kim’s husband has abducted her for the day. The marketing office, as we pass by, is filled with balloons, boxes of cookies, teddy bears, and more flowers, since Maddy, Cleo, and Eileen are all adorable and always dating, as per my sage advice, more than one guy at a time. Bless their hearts. I kept my chin up, headed for the office, Jill hot on my tail. And that was when I saw it.

  The basket on Jill’s desk.

  “What the . . . ?” she says, grinning from ear to ear, dropping her purse and coat on the couch, and practically skipping over to her desk.

  “Oh, please,” I say. “I just wonder what it could possibly be? And who it could possibly be from?” I’m being a little snarky.

  “Shut up. I’m entitled.” She begins to unpack her gift. A brushed stainless thermos of coffee, already made the way she likes it, with plenty of half-and-half and sugar. A pair of lemon poppyseed muffins. A Tupperware container of sliced mango that I can smell from across the room is perfectly ripe. A single deep magenta gerbera daisy in a little bud vase. Fucking Hunter. I already had to hear about his little morning gift, a handmade photo album of the two of them, chronicling the whole history of their dating. Now he’s arranged her most perfect breakfast to be sitting on her desk. I may have to kill him.

  “Hey, bitter, party of one?” Jill snaps at me. “Want a muffin?”

  “Well, duh,” I say. She tosses it over to me.

  “I thought we were over the Valentine’s Day crap? Didn’t Dr. Markovitch cure you?” she mumbles, a couple of muffin crumbs stuck to her lip gloss. For all her delicate sensibilities, my sister is a slob when she eats. It doesn’t matter where we go, when they clear the plates, hers always leaves a ring of clean in the midst of crumbs and stains. She doesn’t talk with her mouth open or anything disgusting; she just makes a mess.

  “My esteemed former shrink did indeed help me work through some of my Valentine’s Day crap, as you call it. But I will have to admit that I may be having a relapse.”

  “Poor baby. Do you think it’s because of Brant being so present right now or because Connor is so absent?” she asks, pouring a cup of coffee out of her thermos.

  I think about it as I take the top off my muffin, saving it for last. “Probably both. I mean, Brant couldn’t help his shit, and it was my own problem ultimately. But yes, I’m sure that the latest development in my relationship to him is probably dredging up old resentments. And yes, I’m still trying to figure out my hot-and-cold Irishman and wishing he were more toward hot today.”

  Connor took me out Saturday night for my birthday. The impeccable (count ’em) twenty-four-course tasting menu at Alinea. Followed by a long drive all the way up Sheridan Road and into the ravines, perfectly blanketed in snow and glistening in the sharp night air, and easy, free conversation. Then back to his house, where he had a bottle of vin cuit, a smoky nightcap sort of wine with orangey undertones, and a bar of dark chocolate so deep in flavor that I could practically taste the rain in the fields of Costa Rica where the beans were grown. A first edition of Oscar Wilde’s The Portrait of Mr. W.H., which made me cry, Oscar being a personal hero of mine. And then a night of alternate tender kissing and petting and giggly talking. I felt so taken care of that I tried not to notice that, once again, he didn’t make any move to take things to the next physical level.

  We slept in on Sunday, read the paper with croissants from his neighborhood bakery, and then he drove me home, where he got conscripted by the aunts to help repair a sticking door in their pantry. This degenerated into a full-on afternoon tea, since Aunt Shirley is currently assisting on a cookbook for a British chef. Hunter and Jill showed up, and Hunter and Connor got into an argument about some football player’s stats, so the four of us went up to Jill’s to check the computer. Jill had one of her impossible-to-ignore cravings for a game of Trivial Pursuit, and by nine o’clock had beaten us all twice, requiring an immediate infusion of Chinese food and Tsingtao beer, which Hunter and Connor fetched companionably. Connor ended up spending the night, and when he kissed me good-bye Monday morning at the ungodly hour of five, I wasn’t even mad. It felt like we had turned a corner of some kind. I mean, no guy goes out of his way for a birthday like that, no guy spends thirty-six hours in a row with someone unless he is really into her. Right?

  But it’s Wednesday, and Valentine’s Day to boot, and not only hasn’t he called today, he didn’t call Monday or Tuesday either. Which, of course, makes me think that spending that much time with me has convinced him that I’m completely insufferable, and he will be breaking up with me any minute.

  Just because I give sage advice for a living doesn’t make me remotely sane when it comes to my own insecurities.

  “And you’re still sure that you aren’t all in a snit because he isn’t jumping through hoops like Abbot and Ben?” Jill asks, slurping her coffee.

  “I’d like to think not.”

  “Well, look, you did spend most of the weekend together, and you said yourself things are really busy for him at work. And it is only nine thirty in the morning.”

  “I know,” I say. Paige knocks on the door, and Jill waves her in.

  She flops down on the couch. “I fucking hate Valentine’s Day,” she says, eyebrows in a sad, straight line.

  “What’s the matter, kiddo?” I ask.

  “Everyone everywhere has someone, even irritating some-ones, acknowledging the day for them. I got a fucking card from my grandmother. I mean, no offense to Nana, I love that she sends me valentines, but it is my only o
ne. I’m a fucking pariah.”

  “But at least you’re not dramatic,” Jill says.

  “Fuck you, and your perfect guy, and that perfect fucking rock that is blinding me from here,” Paige says.

  “If it’s any consolation, I haven’t had any valentines either,” I say.

  “Whatever. You have three boyfriends. I’m sure at least one of them will do something incredible today. I, on the other hand, have no boyfriends.” Paige is smiling through her misery.

  “Having a guy does not mean having a great Valentine’s Day, I can promise you that,” I say.

  “Tell her the story,” Jill prompts.

  I take a deep breath. I share this tale at least once every Valentine’s Day to some forlorn young thing. “Once upon a time, there was a girl who loved Valentine’s Day. From the time she was old enough to be aware of the special nature of February 14, she thought the idea of a day devoted to love and romance was the best idea ever. But she never seemed to manage to have a boyfriend for the holiday. Every year, she would end up alone on Valentine’s Day, including one year in high school when she started dating a guy on February 15, and he broke up with her the following February 13. Then one day she met a man, and they fell in love. And as their first February came around, she started to let herself get excited to finally celebrate the day with everyone else. She bought him several little presents, food and champagne, invested in sassy new undergarments. Her boyfriend announced the day before that he had accepted an invitation to a poker night with his friends. He gave her a silly card. She gave the presents to her sister to give to her boyfriend instead. The following year, the same boyfriend, now fiancé, gave her a card and spent the night assembling a new computer desk for a pal. She canceled the dinner reservations and gave the impossible-to-get theater tickets to her aunts. They got married, and the first Valentine’s Day of their married life, she made big plans. Bought the fixings for his favorite meal, a bottle of wine way out of her price range. He came home from work, announced that he was going to work on a project in the basement for a bit, and disappeared. No card. No acknowledgment at all that it was a holiday. She cooked the dinner, sure the scent would lure him upstairs. He didn’t come. She was too proud to call for him, and ate alone. He didn’t come upstairs till after nine, asking if she had eaten yet, and did she want to order in. She unleashed a stream of venom encompassing nearly twenty years of pent-up Valentine’s Day frustration. She ranted and raved and threw things and wept and got all snotty. And at the end his only response was that he was sorry she felt badly, but didn’t she know from his previous behavior that he didn’t believe in the holiday and wasn’t inclined to celebrate? And when she suggested that he get excited about it for her sake, he asked why she couldn’t get unexcited about it for his sake. And she couldn’t argue with his logic.”