The Spinster Sisters

by Ballis, Stacey

  Beeep beep beep. My cell phone. I have a voice mail message. I dial in and enter my code.

  Then I hear Chet Baker singing “My Funny Valentine.” The whole song. I listen, letting the perfect words flow over me. As the song fades out, I hear the one voice I have been waiting all day to hear.

  “Hey. It’s Connor. I’m generically shitty at Valentine’s Day. I get sort of paralyzed at the very idea of being romantic, and I ignore it for weeks and get swamped in work instead, and the day of, I procrastinate so long trying to think of something cool and not cliché, that all the florists are sold out and the candy stores are closed and all I can think to do is hold the phone up to my hi-fi. I know. Makes me totally lame. I’ll try to make it up to you. I’d say that I hope you’re out having a lovely evening, but frankly I hope you’re not with someone who is better at this stuff than I am, since that will make me an even bigger loser. I’ll call you tomorrow. Good night, sweet girl.”

  I didn’t even know that I yelped out loud until Paige came running into my room.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, breathless and wild-eyed.

  “Listen.” I press the button to repeat the message on my phone and hand it to her. She listens. She smiles. She listens more. Then her eyes well up with tears.

  “Fuck you,” she says, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

  “Hey, that’s not very nice.” Really.

  “I know. I’m just jealous.” She sits on the bed. “Do you think he might be the one?”

  “The one what?”

  “Don’t be obtuse.” She smacks me on the leg. “The one.”

  “Oh. That one.” I think for a minute. “I can’t really say. I mean, I don’t really know. He could be. But he might not be. But he might. I’m not sure.”

  “Do you want him to be?”

  “Maybe. Then again, maybe I don’t want anyone to be. I like my life. I like my freedom. I’ve been down that road before, and I’m in no hurry to be there again. And there are a lot of things I’d have to give up if Connor Duncan were, as you say, the one. I don’t know that I’m ready for that.”

  “Do you think you could lose him if you don’t take a step forward soon?” Paige’s eyebrows dance around a minute before settling back down. “I mean, obviously he knows you are dating other people; he referenced it in his message. And I know you aren’t having sex yet, and it has only been two and a half months, but how long is that going to be okay with him?”

  “That’s just the thing, Paige. He hasn’t given me any indication that it isn’t okay with him. Maybe he’s in the same place I am. Maybe he isn’t going to want more than what we have.”

  “And is that okay with you?”

  “Um, well, no, actually. It isn’t.” Which is the first time I have voiced this out loud.

  “Wow. You really like this guy.”

  “I know. And it scares the crap out of me.” I can feel everything surging upward. “What do I do if he doesn’t want to take the next step? I mean, the kissing and petting are great, but he isn’t exactly trying to rip my clothes off. I’m starting to think that maybe he isn’t that attracted to me at all and doesn’t really care about sex with me. I’m also thinking maybe he has his own female version of Abbot, which makes me insane with jealousy, even though I know I have no right. I feel trapped. I can’t exactly suggest moving forward myself, not with Ben and Abbot hanging around. I mean, it’s one thing if he asks to be exclusive and I say okay, or if he pressures the physical side and I acquiesce. But if I ask and he says no, then I’m a moron. And I certainly couldn’t ask if I hadn’t already told Ben and Abbot that we were over, and if Connor turned me down, then I’d be all alone, and—”

  Paige slaps her hand across my mouth. “Boss Lady, you have lost it. Take a deep breath.” She removes her hand.

  I inhale.

  “Better?” she asks.

  “Better.”

  “Now, for someone who is one of the smartest, sanest, most clearheaded women I have ever met, you are an idiot.”

  “Paige, you’re fired.”

  “Right. You give the best relationship advice of anyone in the world. Why can’t you get your head around this situation?”

  “Because I can’t be objective about my own life. And my subjective self is, as you point out, an idiot.”

  “What would you tell a caller if she posed this scenario to you?”

  I think about this for a moment. “I’d tell her that she is clearly going through a paradigm shift in her wants and needs personally, and that any reward worth having is worth risk. I’d tell her to dump the two placeholders and present herself free and open to the guy she really wants. I’d tell her that she can’t keep a backup plan just because she doesn’t want to be rejected. I’d tell her—”

  “Go big, or go home,” Paige says, one of my favorite tag lines.

  “Go big, or go home,” I repeat.

  “This is what I’m saying,” Paige says. “Jodi, go big. For what it’s worth.”

  “Thank you, Paige girl.”

  “My pleasure, Boss Lady.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  One eyebrow raises as if on hydraulics. “Yes?”

  “Are you really so sad about your dating drought?”

  “Really, truly?”

  “Truly and really.”

  Paige pauses and runs her fingers through her hair. “You have to promise not to tell Jill, but I wasn’t feeling so bad until she got engaged. I mean, that whole single woman united thing at work, even when people are dating seriously, it still feels like we all come first. Even Kim, our only married hen, she and Marc have so many problems, she’s practically single herself. But then Jill got engaged, and Benna is on this crazy are-you-the-father-of-my-children-to-be? hunt, and you have your gaggle, and Kim does have Marc, however fucked up they may be, and the marketing girls have their endless adventures, and I’m starting to feel like the last girl picked for dodgeball.”

  “Poor Paige. You know you’re just in a rut, right? I mean, you know you are exceptional and gorgeous and smart and sexy and lovable, right?”

  “I know. I know. But I can’t seem to make the guy thing happen, and it really didn’t used to bother me, but now it kinda does.”

  “I have an idea. Why don’t you sign up for one of those high-end exclusive professional dating services. On the company. We’ll use it to see if they really work, so we can know whether to recommend it to callers. What do you say?”

  “You guys would pay for that? It’s like thousands of dollars.”

  “I know. You’re worth it. And it’s tax-deductible as a business expense.”

  Paige leans forward and gives me a hug. “Thanks, Jodi. You’re the best. And thanks for that whole MBA thing. I’m still thinking about it, but it’s nice to know you guys approve of the idea.”

  “Hey, you’re happy, we’re happy, the company’s healthy. Easy decision.”

  “Speaking of the company, we have work tomorrow, so I better go to bed. Good night, Boss Lady.”

  “Good night, Paige girl.”

  “I’m glad he called.”

  “Me, too.”

  Paige tiptoes out the door, shutting it behind her. I settle into the dark and then reach for my phone. I just want to hear that song one more time before I go to sleep.

  The Ides of March Madness

  Anger isn’t necessarily a sign of weakness. But screaming obscenities

  and name-calling is! Anger can be a useful emotion. It can help us find

  strength to remove ourselves from unhealthy situations. It can drive us

  to succeed. It can spur us to honesty with each other. When we talk

  about anger management, we don’t simply mean not to hit people. We

  mean learning how to tap into that emotion and express it in ways that

  help you and those around you. To use it to its best advantage. As

  women, we are told in subtle, insidious ways that it is basically unattractive


  to have any emotion that manifests itself in an obvious way.

  We’re told it isn’t ladylike to get angry. Which poses the question,

  what’s so great about being ladylike anyway?

  —From an article for Cosmopolitan magazine about expressing emotion, April 2004, Jill and Jodi Spingold

  “You off to the airport?” I ask Jill across our office.

  “In about fifteen minutes,” she says, still focused on her computer. “I’m starting to wonder if we’ve done this book in the wrong format.” She’s looking puzzled at the draft of Facing Down Forty, which is due to our editor next week. She’s cleaning up the last two chapters, which I cranked out over the weekend, to get it ready for the one-two punch of the aunts’ edits.

  “What do you mean, wrong format?” Jill always does this. She comes up with the single most brilliant idea at the single least convenient time.

  “Well, right now it’s sort of haphazard. What if we organized the chapters into sections, like Romance, Career, Travel, Adventure, Finances, Friendships, Family, Personal Growth. I mean, all of the chapters seem to fall into one of those categories pretty neatly. It would help lump all the advice pertaining to them in one section, and we would just have to write a brief introduction to each section. What do you think?”

  “I fucking hate you.”

  “It’s not that bad an idea, Jodi, yeesh.”

  “No. I fucking hate you because you’re right, and now I have to write eight fucking section headers while you gallivant off to O’Hare to fetch your clenched mother-in-law-to-be.”

  Jill laughs. “So, it’s good, right? We should do it that way?”

  “Yes, you insane bitch. Just once in our lives could you please have the genius idea at the beginning of a project instead of ten minutes before it’s due? Good grief, you’ve been doing this to me our whole lives!” This is true. Every science fair entry, history fair paper, and art project, Jill always came up with the idea that took it to the next level at the eleventh hour. I would never admit to her that those are some of my favorite memories, those long all-nighters making the suddenly necessary changes. Never once was it an option not to take her idea and implement it. Something about knowing it could have been great and letting laziness prevent the improving just isn’t in the Spingold code. But Jill was a hands-on adviser, and if she gave you a great idea, you knew she’d be helping you execute till the final minutes, Aunt Shirley coming around with sandwiches the minute you felt your energy wane, and Aunt Ruth sweeping by for five minutes of some secret Thai acupressure to make your cramping neck unclench.

  “Sorry. I could do the section headers, and you could go to the airport . . .”

  “No, thank you. I have to get this done and then go home to help the aunts with the shower prep.” Jill’s bridal shower is tomorrow, hence the imminent arrival of not only her future mother-in-law, Grace, but Hunter’s paternal grandmother, Grammy Ella; Grace’s sister, Aunt Bunny; and her daughter, Cousin Twish. Not Trish. Twish. I’m not exactly envious.

  “It’s not going to be a nightmare, right?” she asks, imploring me with her eyes to assure her.

  “Hey. You have us, your friends, there are going to be forty women there celebrating you and giving you awesome presents. The fact that Hunter’s family is likely to maintain a stoic distance from any fun should be only a blip on your shower joy.”

  “They aren’t going to embarrass me, are they?”

  “Oh, yeah. Be prepared. There are a couple of great games planned, a video presentation, and some really revealing toasts and roasts.” Actually this is a lie. No games, no roasts, just elegant and perfect, and I think exactly what she would have planned for herself.

  Jill sighs deeply. “Oh well, it’s just an afternoon. And at least there will be booze. I’m shooting you an e-mail with my notes on these section headers. We can work on whatever you don’t finish on Sunday afternoon after everyone is gone.” She clicks away at her keyboard for a few more seconds, then shuts it down and gets up. “I’m going to head out. I’m supposed to just hang out with them at the hotel and get them settled, and then Hunter is meeting us for dinner. Are you sure you can’t come?”

  “No can do. Much prep on the first floor, and then Connor is coming over for a late supper.”

  “Really? That is the third time in five days. A new record.”

  “I know. I actually had to blow off Abbot to accept the offer. Thank God your shower made for a perfect excuse to back out.”

  Jill smiles a knowing smile. “Maybe you should blow Abbot off permanently. Since Connor has been so attentive of late, I have to assume we are reconsidering the idea of devoting ourselves to just one man.”

  “We are waiting for him to broach the subject, and if he does, we are prepared to accept him.”

  Jill shakes her head. “While you’re doing the section header on romance, Sis, reread your brilliant prose on ensuring one’s romantic future, would’ja?” She crosses the room and opens the door. “Have a great night. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Love to the Gentiles!” I call after her, and open her e-mail to get down to work.

  “Honey, we’re fine.” Aunt Shirley is trying to shoo me out of her kitchen. “Go get ready for your date.”

  “He’s not due for another hour. Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “Of course not, kiddo,” Ruth says, gliding past with an armload of gift bags. “We just want you to know that whenever you need to go, you should go.”

  We’ve been prepping all evening. Well, prepping and drinking. The sparkling pink Prosecco Aunt Ruth found for tomorrow was much in need of testing. It will be gorgeous on its own or with the blood orange juice for a decadent pink mimosa. We’ll be in a private room at the Peninsula, so most of the food is taken care of there. But Aunt Shirley has made a ridiculous number of cupcakes, Jill’s favorite, dark chocolate with vanilla buttercream icing, sprinkled with silver and lavender dragées. These aren’t the dessert but part of the gift bags. We found a company that makes a contraption called a Cup-a-Cake, a plastic container specifically designed to hold a single cupcake in perfect portable stillness so as not to mush the frosting. Each guest is receiving a single cupcake in one of these cute containers, which we’ve personalized by having them imprinted with each woman’s name. Also in the gift bags, a set of photo coasters with pictures of Jill as a kid, a small foil container of toffee, a little pot of red currant-scented Parfumeria lip balm, and a little makeup purse in brown corduroy with a pale blue ribbon detail that we designed at 1154 Lill Studio custom bags.

  “You seem to be doing better these days with the whole Jill-getting-married issue, if I’m not mistaken?” Aunt Ruth asks, taking the last load of gift bags out to the living room.

  I stick a finger into the bowl of icing, as Aunt Shirley tries to smack me away. “It isn’t about Jill getting married; it’s about what may happen to the business as a result of her being married. It’s about what happens to our credibility with our primary audience and how much fodder it gives our ever-growing list of detractors.”

  “Things getting any better on that front?” Aunt Ruth asks.

  “Not really. There have been a few small local pieces, three nationals, some Internet snarking. The volume of ick mail has neither increased nor decreased. Nothing has gotten more violent or threatening, nor less. Security is on high alert, we doubled the number of cameras in the office, and the local police have been wonderful at managing the picket crowd. And I’m trying to just not think about it and enjoy Jill’s happiness. Jill is handling the PR stuff pretty well. We’re just moving forward.”

  “But your concerns are still very deep for the life of the business, not to mention your personal relationship with Jill,” Aunt Shirley says. “You should talk to her about your fears for your connection.”

  “I have to put my own neuroses aside right now and let Jill focus on being a happy bride and on keeping the business moving forward. The rest will wait.” I can’t talk to Jill a
bout the damage it might do to us; I can’t even get my own head around it right now.

  “If you think that’s best, dear,” Aunt Shirley says.

  “Don’t listen to the guilt, darling; I’ve thought about it, and I agree with you. Just let Jill get married, and deal with your concerns if they still remain afterward.” Ruth pours the last of the Prosecco deftly into our glasses, and Shirley finally sits down with us at the table. We clink and drink.

  “Well, Ruthie, I still say they should talk it out sooner rather than later, but you’ll do what you think best. Now truly, scoot, go get ready for your date!”

  I drain the last sparkling sip and stand up. “All right, I will. Good night, ladies. I’ll come down at eleven to head over to the Peninsula.” I kiss them both on the cheek and go to primp for the evening.

  I nestle into Connor’s chest, feeling his arm snake around me, his hand making its lazy way from shoulder to hip and back again. For the first time, I feel irresistible with him. We’ve just made love for the first time, and the waiting was well worth it. In less than ninety minutes Connor has erased all my doubts about his physical attraction to me.

  “Mmmm.” He sighs. “Nice skin.”

  I lift my head and kiss his skin, slightly moist and salty from our exertions, and replace my head over the spot as if to seal the kiss between us. “Thanks. I’ve got miles of the stuff.”

  He chuckles, low and deep. “And I’m fond of every square inch.” He kisses the top of my head.

  “Really? Every inch?” I tilt my head up to his and receive a kiss on my lips for my effort.

  “Every. Single. Inch.” Connor rolls over and begins to kiss me and stroke my body. I’m tingly everywhere.