How to Change a Life

by Stacey Ballis

  “How ghastly. Shall I kick him out immediately?”

  “You know what I mean.” Because he does.

  Lawrence reaches up and places a finger under my chin, turning my head to face his. “Yes, I do. So listen good. Let your guard down. All the way down. Do you think that I of all people would put you in hands that I believed to be dangerous? If you break, you break, and I will make it my mission to put you back together again. But do not follow my very cowardly and bad example, my dear. I’m no role model. I let a deep hurt close me off from love forever, and I’m too old now to open myself back up. But it was a mistake and if I had it to do over, I would let myself get hurt again, even worse, in pursuit of love. Love is all, sweetness. And you deserve it.”

  There are tears swimming in his ice blue eyes, and such deep fervor in his voice that it lodges a lump in my throat. “Okay,” I croak.

  “Good girl.” He wipes his eyes on a kitchen towel. “Now, for the love of Barbra, can we please eat this pie so that the queens in the other room can begin complaining about how many SoulCycle classes they are going to have to take to make up for tonight’s indulgences?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He reaches up and kisses my cheek, and we each take two plates of pie and head out to serve the guests.

  The pie is gone in a flash, and we’ve barely gotten everyone a refill on champagne when it is time to count down to the New Year.

  Ten!

  Nine!

  Eight!

  Seven!

  Six!

  Five!

  Four!

  Three!

  Two!

  One!

  HAPPY NEW YEAR!

  • • •

  We all toast and pull the cords on our confetti and streamer poppers, and then Shawn takes me in his arms and kisses me and whispers in my ear, “I believe this will be the best year ever.” And then he lets me go, and goes over to give my mom a twirl, and dips Claire.

  My mom comes over to kiss me. “Happy New Year, my wonderful girl. He’s just everything I would have ever picked for you myself, and I can’t tell you how much I like him, for himself and for you.”

  “Thanks, Mom, that means a lot.”

  “I invited him for dinner this week.”

  “Of course you did.”

  Claire walks over, fanning herself. “Good Lord, niece, please tell me his daddy is single. Maybe an uncle? Youngish grandfather floating around?”

  “Claire,” my mom says, faking serious. “You leave poor Eloise alone.”

  “Just kidding, niece of mine. It’s just my little stamp of approval.”

  “I know.”

  “Your mom invited him for dinner.”

  “She told me.”

  “I invited him to continue to put that shit-eating grin on your face, or suffer my personal wrath.”

  I smack my forehead. My mom shakes her head.

  “Good to know.”

  Within twenty minutes or so, people begin making movements to the door, my mom and Claire first among them.

  “Thank you, Lawrence, a fantastic evening, but the old ladies are turning into pumpkins at the ball,” Claire says, giving him a hug. My mom leans in and whispers something in his ear that makes him smile and nod. They both receive hand kisses from Shawn, and then he leaves me behind to make sure they are deposited safely in the car service he arranged for the evening. He doesn’t trust regular taxis on New Year’s Eve. The driver will drop them off and then circle back for us; I’ll have to pack up equipment and such before we can leave anyway.

  The rest of the guests make their good-byes, some eliciting promises of shared recipes from me, and soon it is just me and Lawrence in the kitchen with Olga, his cleaning lady who always works his parties. She has done a miraculous job of stealthy silent cleaning as the evening progressed, and in the short time since dessert, she has loaded the dishwasher again and placed all of my spotless equipment back into their carrying bags. Always easier leaving than coming, with the food consumed. I load the bags of gear into the now-empty coolers for ease of transport.

  “The driver will be back for us in about thirty minutes—he’ll text when he’s close,” Shawn says, wandering into the kitchen and receiving the mug of tea I hand to him.

  Olga shoos the three of us out of her kitchen, and we repair to the living room to sit.

  “Well, dears, another year. Have we any resolutions?” Lawrence asks.

  “Hmm. Good question. I think I resolve to make this lady here as happy as I can for as long as she’ll let me,” Shawn says.

  “I approve of that one,” Lawrence says.

  “As do I,” I say.

  “What about you, my girl?”

  I think about this. My bet list isn’t exactly full of resolutions, per se, and it would feel like cheating to name any of those things. “I resolve to let him.” This comes out more serious than I mean it to, but the look on both of their faces lets me know that it was safe for me to say.

  “Another good one.” Lawrence nods.

  “And you, my little yenta? What do you resolve?” I ask.

  “I resolve to take full credit for your love and expect that your firstborn café au lait baby will be named either Lawrence or Eunice, for my mother.”

  We laugh at his seriousness, and then Shawn looks at his phone and nods to me that the car is back. We thank Lawrence again for his generosity and hospitality, and I promise to see him Tuesday as usual. We both grab a cooler and roll them out and downstairs, and Shawn and the driver load them into the back of the SUV.

  On the drive home, Shawn tells me all the silly things that he talked about with my mom and Claire, all the embarrassing stories they shared about me growing up, the touching stories they told him about my dad and Uncle Buddy. It means a lot that they were so candid with him, so I can forgive them for telling him about the time I pooped in the bathtub and completely freaked out the babysitter while they were having a dinner party downstairs.

  At my house we load the coolers into the kitchen, let Simca out into the backyard for a quick evening toilette, and head upstairs.

  “I think I’d better get started on my resolution,” Shawn says.

  “Well, then, I’d better get started on mine,” I say, moving into his arms. We melt into the bed together, and it is sweet and deep and joyful. In the dark, just before we drift into sleep, Shawn murmurs to me.

  “We are not naming our daughter Eunice.”

  “No, we most certainly are not.”

  “Happy New Year, Eloise. I love you.”

  I take the deepest breath I’ve ever taken, and whisper back, “I love you too.”

  I’m pretty sure he fell asleep without realizing that the dampness on his chest wasn’t sweat.

  Sixteen

  I hand Shelby a cup of coffee, just the way she likes it, light and sweet.

  “Bless you. How are they doing?” she asks me.

  “See for yourself.” I motion over to the island, where Teresa and Ian are separating eggs, dropping the whites into bowls and the yolks into the mouths of twin volcanoes of flour. There is a huge pot of Sunday gravy on the stove, a rich tomato sauce full of pork neck and sausage and oxtails, fragrant with onion and garlic, and hiding a pound of whole peeled carrots. The carrots are Teresa’s family recipe secret for a bit of sweetness without grinding up the vegetable, which changes the texture of the sauce. They’ll be fished out at the end, soft and imbued with the meaty savoriness of the sauce, and will serve as a special “cook’s treat,” drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with coarse salt and ground pepper. In the oven, a tray of meatballs, roasting to browned perfection, to be simmered in the sauce and served on the side. Teresa starts to show Ian how to use a fork to gently begin to mix the egg yolks into the flour to get the pasta dough started. His apron is covered in meat juices a
nd there is tomato in his hair, and I’ve never seen him happier.

  “Look at that boy. Like a little bitty Bastianich.”

  I laugh. “He’s taking to it like a fish to water. I’d be ready for some serious Italian feasts in the coming weeks.”

  “Perfect. Ingredients are plentiful, results are delicious and palate friendly for the other monsters, and frankly it’s what I crave in the gloom of Chicago winter.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “So, date night tonight?” she asks with a sparkle. I finally fessed up to her after New Year’s about Shawn and she is over the moon for me.

  “Yes. He’s taking me to MK.”

  “Ooh. Fancy.”

  “Well, we figured out that we both know Erick, the chef, a little bit, so we thought it would be a fun place for a date night.” We’ve been staying in a lot, cooking together, for the past couple of weeks, but Shawn mentioned the other night that he doesn’t want to get complacent with me, he doesn’t want to stop planning special nights out, so I agreed to an upscale dinner. Besides, Erick is one of my favorite people and chefs, and the meal will be spectacular. And his pastry chef, Lisa, is one of Marcy’s best buds, so I know that dessert will be a ruinous postdinner feast of amazing sweets.

  “I think that is just so lovely. Thank you for bringing Teresa over—he’s having such a great time. I worry sometimes that he takes it so seriously.”

  “Yeah, it’s why I wanted T to teach him this stuff instead of me. She’s a mom of three boys, so she has that nurturing energy and way of talking to him like a kid that I just don’t have. I know I’m helping make him a great technician, but truly amazing cooking isn’t really so much about technique, it’s about heart and soul, and I don’t want him to ever be missing that part of it.”

  “You have plenty of heart and soul, El. And you’re great with kids!”

  I smile at her and sip my tea. “I’m great with your kids. But that’s because I know them so well. I know who they are and what they like and what their moods are. It’s based in years of being with them. But I’m not a natural, not like you, not like Teresa.” It’s true. I might be terrific with the little Farbers, but put me in a room with anyone else’s kids? I panic. I talk down to them or over their heads. Hand me a baby and I break into a sweat, sure that I’m going to drop it or let its neck snap back or, worse, that it is going to erupt some effluvia on me. Kids make me nervous as hell.

  “I was terrible in the beginning,” Shelby says.

  “I have a very hard time believing that.” She exudes the calm of the natural mom, the way Teresa does.

  “Are you kidding? I was a hot mess for the first year of Robbie’s life. I thought I was doing everything wrong, I overthought every decision, I thought Brad was going to divorce me. It took time and practice and recognition that kids are resilient and as long as you love them and aren’t a complete idiot in the common sense department, everyone is going to be okay.”

  “Well, that gives me hope.”

  “Eloise, I know these things are inherently none of my business, but for the record, you’d be a great mom.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  “It’s a little more than that. Brad and I have a favor to ask.”

  Uh-oh. “Okay . . .”

  “Well, you know our folks are getting up there, and my dad has the heart stuff and Brad’s mom has diabetes. Brad and I were talking over Christmas, and we were wondering if you would be willing to serve as guardian for the kids should something happen to us both.”

  I almost drop my tea mug. “Oh, Shelby . . . I . . .”

  “Don’t answer right now. Just say you’ll think about it. It’s just a legal protection, just in case of some insanely impossible tragedy. But when we talked about what would be best for the kids in that circumstance, it would be for them to be able to stay in Chicago, in this house, to continue to go to their schools, to keep everything as normal as possible for them. And to be sure that the person who would be taking care of them shares our fundamental values when it comes to politics and religion and all of the important things. We love you, and we trust you; you’re family to us and the kids adore you. It’s just paperwork, nothing bad is going to happen, but it would mean the world to us if you would consider it. Give us a little peace of mind.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I promise to think about it. It means so much that you would even think of me, so thank you for that. When do you need to know?”

  “You know, before that big bus crash in the next week or so.” She grins wickedly.

  “Oy! Stop that, don’t even joke.”

  “Mom! Lookit!” Ian yells from across the kitchen. He is proudly showing off a deep golden ball of pasta dough, the flour volcano on the island completely gone.

  “Good job, bud!”

  “Are you sure there’s no Italian blood in this young man? He’s a natural!” Teresa says.

  “I’m really doing it, Eloise!”

  “Yes, you are, Chef. I’m super proud of you.” I look at his gleaming face, at the way he is excited for my praise, and think that maybe, just maybe, in my new mind-set of embracing the things that scare me, maybe I should say yes to Shelby and Brad. It goes against my personal rules of keeping separation of church and state, work-wise. Complicates the relationship well beyond my comfort level. That worries me more than a little. But I don’t know how I can turn them down without it being hurtful and, what’s more, I don’t know that I want to.

  “This is so fun!” Ian says, and we all laugh at his exuberance.

  I look at Shelby. She winks at me and squeezes my hand. “That’s our boy.” And I know exactly what she means.

  • • •

  Holy crap. What did you say?” Shawn says, as I tell him about Shelby’s request over our pasta. Watching Ian all afternoon gave me serious pasta cravings, so Shawn and I decided to ask Erick to sneak us a small pasta course between our appetizers and entrées. As usual, he obliged us brilliantly, sending out a riff on cacao y pepe with a light but creamy sauce, crispy guanciale, shredded Brussels sprouts, and a fluttering of lemon zest, all punched up by the copious black pepper, which is somehow tamed of its acridness. I’ll have to ask for his secret.

  “I said I would think about it.”

  “It’s a big honor.”

  “And a big responsibility. And it breaks all my rules.”

  “Well, of course, it isn’t to be taken lightly. But from what you’ve told me, rules or not, you love those kids like family. Isn’t it sort of late to try and pretend that they aren’t all in your heart beyond being great employers?”

  “I do love them, can’t help it.”

  “Nor should you.”

  “What about you, can you imagine? If the worst happened?”

  “Oh, baby. Talk about an hour-long dramedy waiting to happen! Can you picture it? It’s perfect! Freshly in love, interracial, interreligious, middle-class couple suddenly find themselves with custody of four fabulously precocious rich white kids and their trust funds? The show would write itself. My mom will want Phylicia Rashad to play her, just be prepared for that.”

  I love how casual he is in his response, implying that we are in this together. As if it would be no big deal. “Ha! Yeah, and my mom will want Sally Field to play her, and Aunt Claire will insist on Carol Kane.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Idris Elba can play you,” I say. “Or Morris Chestnut.”

  We keep laughing, casting our hypothetical blended-family comedy as we tuck into our entrées—veal for him, duck for me—feeding each other bites and reveling in the wonderful flavors. And then Shawn’s face goes dark.

  “Linda,” he says, staring across the room.

  “Linda who?” I ask.

  “Linda, my ex-wife Linda. Just walked in.”

  Holy crap. I turn around to look
behind me across the room and see the last person I expect. Lynne, with Angelique Morris, getting seated at a table about twenty feet away from us. Talk about coincidence. When she got back from her vacation, I finally fessed up to her about dating someone seriously, and I found her response to be less than energetic. She seemed to imply that it was good for me to have found someone I liked, but I should remember that I’m way out of practice in the dating arena and not to get too caught up in any one person. She implied that I would easily be prey to some guy with ulterior motives, and reminded me that I got snookered by Bernard. So I shared as little as possible.

  “Well, that is a coincidence, because my friend Lynne just walked in too. Where is Linda?”

  Shawn gestures to Lynne’s table and a sinking feeling starts in my gut. When we were kids, Lynne, who always thought her name was an old lady name, used to say that she would reinvent herself as Lindsay or Lisa or Linda when she went into business. The California connection. The pasta turns to lead in my stomach. It’s just not possible. I turn back around quickly before she sees me. “Maybe we should bail?”

  “Of course not. We’re adults; I’m sure she won’t make a scene. Besides, what do they say is always the best revenge when running into an evil ex? To be madly in love with a gorgeous, smart, funny, spectacular woman on your arm?”

  “Yeah, that’s what they say.” I down the rest of my wine quickly.

  “Well, prepare yourself, she’s coming over.”

  Maybe it isn’t her. Maybe he was pointing at the table behind them, and it will be a funny story Lynne and I can tell Teresa later.

  “Shawn,” says Lynne’s voice over my head. Fuck.

  “Linda,” he says, rising. “You look well.”

  “Visiting from San Francisco?” she asks, still not noticing me.

  “I left San Francisco a couple of years ago, moved back here. You in from L.A.?”

  “Nope, moved back myself a few months ago.”

  I can see the dark cloud move over Shawn’s face, and I can’t blame him. Since moving anywhere for his career was a big part of what broke them up, even just a few hours away from L.A., it must be a real slap to hear that she moved all the way back to Chicago. “How interesting,” he says.