“I’m so, so sorry, I was horrible, you were right, I was being a major bitch.”
She sounds so sincere, and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen Lynne cry, and it makes me cry too.
“I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to say what I said.”
“No, you were right. You were really right. I don’t even know what I was doing.”
“You’re hurt and confused.”
Teresa comes over and grabs us both in her soft arms. “All right now, ladies, we are going to sit down and get it all out, all of it. You are going to tell each other the truth the way we used to. Eloise, you are going to go first and Lynne is going to listen and not respond or react or interject until you have told her everything that is in your heart. And then Lynne will have her turn. Neither of you are going to lie or omit or gloss over, and you are both going to agree to really hear the other person. We never had secrets, the three of us, we never held anything back, and it’s what made us strong and kept us together. So we are going to say everything that scares us, and then figure out how to move past it. Deal? Because I am not going to play monkey in the middle for one more day with you.”
I look at Lynne, my eyebrows raised in query. She meets my eyes and nods.
“Okay,” we say, and we follow Teresa to the couch.
The next two hours are brutal. By the time it is done, we are both wiping tears. I told Lynne every horrible thing I have ever thought about her, about her greed for money and position and power, and her obsession with the surface appearance of things. The way she is dismissive and superior. The way that I think she goes for the jugular and couches it in joking. That she is selfish, always guiding people to do the things she wants to do, go to the places she wants to go, become the people she thinks they ought to be. That I find her purchase of Ellison, and subsequent lackluster commitment to him, to be reprehensible. That I sensed that she had been knocking things off the list for the bet just to win, whereas Teresa and I were really working to improve our lives, using the bet as a bit of extra motivation. That she hadn’t gotten Ellison to explore what it meant to have that unconditional love in her life, but because it would help her at work. That she hadn’t chosen the DuSable Museum as a place to try to get on a board because she loved it and its mission and wanted to help, but because she knew it would look good and connect her to people who would be useful to her professionally. That she likes me better when she can pity me, and sees herself as some sort of great guru helping to bring me along. I give her credit, she sat there and took it. I told her that Shawn had owned up to his part in what went down for them, and that I was so deeply sorry that the person I met and fell for happened to be someone who had caused her pain. But also that there was a small part of me that wondered if her dislike of Shawn and I being together was because she didn’t think that I should have something like that for myself before she does. When I finished, I felt desiccated, like all of my blood had disappeared. And then it was her turn.
I was surprised at how much of what she said had to do with being sad for me, disappointed for me. That she remembered someone with ambition and drive and fire in the belly, and that she would have expected so much more from me, in my career, in my life. That the girl she knew wouldn’t have let Bernard get the best of me. But also that she was resentful of me because, as much as she saw my life as so much less than what she would have wanted for me, she envied how well I seemed to know myself, to know what I wanted or needed. The fact that I had Mom and Claire and she wasn’t close to anyone in her family. That I worked for people who were also dear friends, and therefore it didn’t really feel like work, and she worked for people who were superficial and who focused all their energies on manipulating other people to do and buy and be what they wanted. That she didn’t trust anyone she had ever worked with or for, and she knows that part of her frustration with me is actually frustration with herself for in many ways becoming just like them. She said that she really had loved Shawn, and had wanted it to work, but that she had felt so betrayed by his sudden about-face when it came to their life together, because his changing his mind about wanting kids made her feel like she wasn’t enough. That she felt so betrayed when he made her question her feelings about that, because society does a good enough job making women who choose not to have children look selfish and “less than,” and she had been so relieved that they were on the same page. That he had never in the beginning made her feel like they were wrong to not want to be parents. So when he changed, she felt abandoned, like he had joined the masses in looking down at her for her decision. And then wanting to leave Los Angeles, knowing how much her career there meant to her, that she didn’t know how they could ever get past it, not really, and it became easier to just pretend that what they’d had wasn’t the real deal. So when she saw us together, saw me so happy, being successful at the one thing she’d never been successful at, with the one person she’d ever really wanted to be successful with, it just snapped something in her. She admitted it was made even worse by her low opinion of me, of my ability to have a relationship, because if I could make it work with him, broken as I am in that area, what did that say about her?
What she said to me made me cry, not just for the parts that rang so true, but for how much sadness and hurt she has about who she is and what her life is about. It made me cry for ever thinking that my life was somehow “less than,” just because it was small and self-contained. I cried because she reminded me that I have so many blessings, that there may not be a really huge circle of people in my life, but the ones who are there are amazing and loving and loyal and I trust every one of them implicitly.
Teresa just handed out tissues and squeezed hands, and let us get it all out. And when Lynne was done, Teresa looked at us, soggy weeping messes.
“I’m really proud of you guys, I know that was hard. But here is what I like more. You love each other. You need each other. You have things to teach each other. Which means that you are going to get past this. Lynne, you are going to have to figure out how to accept Eloise and Shawn, because friends want their friends to have love in their lives. I don’t care if you need to go talk to a shrink, or if you need to go talk to Shawn, or whatever, but one of your oldest and dearest friends is madly in love, and you don’t get to shit on that, or make snarky comments, or wish them ill. Yes?”
“Yes. I promise. Really, El, deep down, I am happy. For both of you. It does sound like he has changed, and it makes me glad to know that he has shared with you that it wasn’t all my fault. That shows a lot of backbone, and it makes me feel somewhat better. You both deserve to be happy and in love, even if it is with each other,” Lynne says with a wry smile.
“Thank you.”
“And, Eloise? You are going to have to give Lynne a break. She’s clearly hard enough on herself, she doesn’t need to feel like you are judging her every minute you’re together.”
“You’re right. And truly, Lynne, I’m really proud of all you have accomplished, it’s just amazing.”
“Thank you.”
“Okay. So. Before my insane boys get back from whatever sporting event they are at right now, let’s have just the smallest bit of normal conversation, okay? Lynne, anything new to report?”
Lynne smiles a bit sheepishly. “Well, the matchmaker did set me up with someone I like, and we are having a second date this weekend.”
“That’s great!” I say.
“Who is he?” Teresa asks.
“He’s a venture capitalist. Splits his time between here and L.A., and it turns out that some of my former clients there are people he knows. He’s ridiculously well connected. Not my usual type, but smart and funny. Well dressed. Really nice. We had a bunch of good phone calls and a great first date, so we’ll see what happens.”
I push down the nagging feeling that pokes at me, the fact that she led with his professional credentials, hints at his wealth and success, his contacts
. We’ve just agreed to think better of each other, so I’m just going to let it go. “That is so great, Lynne, I can’t wait to hear how the second date goes.” I put as much joy and hopefulness in my voice as I can muster.
“Awesome, Lynne, can’t wait to hear more. What about you, El, anything new?”
I hesitate. Lynne looks at me. “It’s okay if it’s about Shawn, really.”
I take a deep breath. “I met his parents.”
“They’re pretty great, huh?” Lynne says. “I always liked them. Just really lovely people. Please tell them I send my best.”
“That’s so nice, I will.”
Lynne pauses. Then she smiles at me. “Maybe you should invite them to the party. It would be nice to see them again.”
I feel bad about the nasty thoughts I was having about her motivations for dating this new guy. “Thank you, maybe I will.”
“Well, not to be outdone in the love department, I am delighted to report that without any prodding from me, Gio has suggested we do a romantic weekend away, just the two of us!”
“Go, T!” Lynne says.
“Wow! Where are you going to go?” I ask.
“He’s found some little place in Sauganash, a boutique hotel, and there are some good restaurants there, cute shopping, that kind of thing.”
“That is terrific, Teresa, really,” I say.
The front door slams open and Gio and the boys come flying in, a whirlwind of talking and laughing and telling stories over each other. Lynne and I greet everyone, give Teresa a big hug, and head out together.
We walk down the front stoop.
“Where are you parked?” she asks me.
“That way.” I point up the block.
“I’m down there.” She points the other way.
“I’m really glad we talked.” Not really knowing what else to say.
“Me too, really,” she says.
She reaches up, and I lean in to give her a hug. “Amazon,” she whispers in my ear.
“Pixie,” I whisper back.
And then we head off, in opposite directions.
Twenty-two
I look at chaos on my kitchen table. Piles of recipes and sketches. Versions of my resume. Photographs of food, lists, notes on napkins and Post-its and pieces of scrap paper. I’ve added and discarded dozens of recipes. I’ve redone sketches ten times. With the party only a month away, I’m definitely behind on my bet obligations. I mean, obviously I’ve killed it on the dating part. Shawn and I couldn’t be better. We had a great time with his family for Easter—they’re loud and raucous and fun, and it reminded me a lot of Christmas with Teresa’s family. After Easter we went back to Cheryl and Darren’s for pie and coffee, and Darren said that based on the chocolate cream pie alone, Shawn had better keep me happy or they might choose me over him.
Life is good, but the bet is weighing on me a little. I’ve completely slacked off on my socializing with strangers, especially since Teresa and Lynne informed me last week that I couldn’t count Easter with Shawn’s family, or meeting his friends, and that dates with Shawn to go to classes or things also don’t count. So I essentially have to find four more opportunities for me to get out and meet new people in the next few weeks, which should be doable. I finished the first drawing class and signed up for a second class, in lettering and graphics. I’ve been good on the exercising part: I work with my trainer once a week and Shawn and I are still doing the pool class on Wednesdays, and I bought some DVDs that I’ve been doing at home, much to Simca’s bemusement. I definitely feel physically stronger, and while I know I’ll never be fit the way I once was, it feels better to be more active.
But when it comes to creating, let alone sending out, the cookbook proposal, I’m stuck.
I read an article on pitching cookbooks, and it said the most important thing is to have a point of view, a story you are telling, a clear vision. But what does that look like? What story am I telling? The story of “Here is a bunch of stuff Eloise, who you’ve never heard of, thinks is delicious”? The story of “Have some recipes, because, dinner”? I know, why don’t I just call it what it is, the story of “I should never have told my friends that this was a dream because now they put it in a stupid bet.”
I know that isn’t entirely fair. The cookbook was my idea. I’ve always wanted to do one. All these years, testing and retesting recipes, writing everything down, it always felt like it was leading to something. But I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I don’t have a story, I don’t have a point of view, and at this stage, I don’t have a book proposal. All I have is a disaster area on my kitchen table, and not the first clue how to even mock something up. I can’t fake it for the bet, because Lynne decided that they need to see a copy of the finished proposal and that I have to blind-copy them on the e-mails for the ten submissions I’m supposed to send out for the bet, so that they have proof. So I can’t just mock up something stupid, because they’ll see it, and I have to send it to real people, and I do have enough pride not to send shit into the world.
I look at the table, at the work that needs to be done to get anywhere near being ready. Despite the fact I’ve set aside the day to work on it all, I feel paralyzed. I know I should hunker down, but for some reason I can’t. I’ve already walked Simca, done my laundry, made a batch of blondies with pistachios and figs drizzled in white chocolate, and planned the Farber menus for the week. I sent Teresa all the e-mail addresses for the people I’m inviting to the party next month. I walk over to the table with complete resolve. And I pack it all back up into the large tub sitting on the floor and slide it back into the corner. I go to the counter and take a blondie off the rack I used to do the chocolate drizzle and bite into it. They have browned butter and a combination of dark and light brown sugar, which gives them a deep caramel tang. The pistachios have retained their crunch, and the figs are just slightly tart. The white chocolate takes the whole thing over the top, and I know that, if nothing else, I can cook.
“Saturday,” I say to Simca, who is giving me the side eye. “Shawn and his partners have their strategic planning meeting all day, so I’ll work on the proposal on Saturday.” Simca tilts her head at me as if to say that she isn’t convinced, and I don’t really blame her. I sort of don’t believe me either.
• • •
So, my darling girl, come sit with me,” Lawrence says when I get to his place. He has iced tea made and pours me a glass as I greet Philippe and Liagre.
“You look perky,” I say, taking in his pale pink button-down shirt and white jeans with lime green driving loafers.
“I am a bit perky, I have to admit.”
“You look like the preppy cat that swallowed the canary. What gives?”
“I have news. Huge news.”
“Barbra’s doing another farewell tour?”
He smacks my arm playfully. “Cheeky minx. No, I bought a house.”
I almost choke on my iced tea. “A house? A whole house? But you finally got this apartment the way you like it! And you’ve always said that you would never leave this neighborhood, and unless you’ve recently won a lottery I’m unaware of, you cannot afford an actual house within a square mile of this place!”
“Oh, no, lovey, not here—Palm Springs!”
“You bought a house in Palm Springs?”
“My friends Karen and Len called me last week. The house next door to them, the owner passed away. Family didn’t want it, just wanted to unload it quick, no muss, no fuss, and asked them if they knew anyone, before it went on the market, since they are the closest neighbors. Karen called me, sent me a bunch of pictures, and hooked me up with their Realtor. Bing bang boom, I have a house!”
“I don’t know what to say . . .” My head is spinning.
“I know! Can you believe it? I can barely believe it myself, it happened so fast. But you’ll love it. It’s darling. Little mid
century bungalow, sweet little saltwater pool in the backyard, two bedrooms, two and a half baths. You can come visit, pet!”
“Lawrence, it sounds amazing.”
“Well, it will take some doing to get it organized—it needs a total kitchen and bathroom overhaul, and of course there is the matter of furnishing—but I’m enormously excited. I’m going out there at the end of the month for the closing.”
“So, when do you move?”
“Oh, sweets, I’m not moving there. Not full-time, not yet. I’m going to snowbird there, at least for now. This year I’m going to try going right after Thanksgiving, and then come back sometime early April, and see how that goes.” He sees the look on my face. “I will be back for New Year’s, don’t you worry.”
“Good Lord, Lawrence, I’m not worried about that!” But I have to say I’m a little bit relieved when he says it.
“You know, when I’m here, business as usual, yes?” He raises a white eyebrow at me.
“I’m here for whatever you want, for as long as you want it. You know that. And I’m thrilled for you. Truly. You always have such a good time when you visit your friends there, but I also know that you like your quiet and privacy. You are always deeply grateful for your friends who host you, but it isn’t completely relaxing to be a houseguest. I think it’s terrific that you’ll have your own space.”
“And you and Shawn will come visit?”
“Of course we will.”
“To new adventures!” He reaches out his glass to me.
“I’ll drink to that.”
• • •
Wow. That is so cool,” Marcy says when I call her with the news.
“I know, I’m really happy for him. Of all the places he goes to visit his friends, he’s always the happiest there. He showed me pictures of the house, and it’s super cute. He’s going to have a blast decorating it. I just know he’s already all over 1stdibs .com looking at midcentury furniture.”
How to Change a Life Page 29
