by Anne Dayton
The saleswoman holds the dress aloft and clears her throat. Here comes my favorite part: the long, gibberish description. “A strapless, modified mermaid gown, with reverse pleating, taffeta sash, English net overlay, and ruching detail. Emanuel Ungaro.” Well, then. That certainly cleared things up. And before me is a dress that I and anyone who has not drunk the laced Kool-Aid wedding punch would describe as a “long, white, poofy gown. Overpriced Designer.”
“Ungaro,” Morg says dreamily.
“Different,” says Patrice, nodding.
“Like him.”
“Love him,” Patrice says.
Our personal shopper smiles. “Then let’s begin by trying this piece. I have more to show you, of course.”
Morg and Patrice walk over to a dressing room that’s bigger than my living room and go in together. I was a little surprised the first time this happened, as my mother and I have an unspoken contract to never be naked in front of each other, but now it’s come to be just another fun aspect of Patrice and Morg. Does my brother know who he’s marrying? Does Morg know that Jim doesn’t work at Deloitte Touche?
My mother and I sit down awkwardly on a giant, round pleated silk ottoman and rest. I won’t look at her, so I look around. It’s funny. Just a few months ago I had thought it would be me in here trying on dresses for my marriage to Ty. I shake my head, a little sad. Those dreams seem to be from another lifetime.
Mom and I both look up when we hear Morg and Patrice whimpering again, and even though I’m not really talking to Mom, I can’t help but glance at her to exchange a look.
“They’re kind of something, aren’t they?” she says. She laughs and then pulls her purse up on the ottoman when a Barney’s employee frowns at us as she passes by.
“Putting it mildly, I’d say.” Am I really ready to be friendly with Mom again? I look at the corner and tap my foot impatiently. And then I look around the room. Something catches my eye. In Mom’s purse, in plain sight, I see a hardcover book called She’s Thirty and Single: How to Talk to Your Modern Daughter. My face flushes in embarrassment.
“Mom, I’m not thirty yet,” I say, pointing at the book.
She snatches her purse into her lap and hugs it to her, covering the book. “It’s on the bestseller list. I heard it was good.”
I sigh. “I can’t believe that’s how you see it.”
“You are modern, Jane.” I roll my eyes. Modern is code for spinster.
Patrice comes out of the dressing room, looking like a big vanilla meringue pie, but the look works for her. She really is stunning.
“Patrice, that one is just gorgeous,” my mother says, rising. “You’re going to be the prettiest bride to ever walk down the runway.”
I look at Patrice’s baffled face.
“I think she meant to say ‘aisle,’” I say.
“Oh yes, sorry—aisle! Of course. How silly of me,” Mom says. I smile at her, and she shrugs at her mistake.
Patrice slowly turns on the platform in front of the three-paneled mirror. “I do like the way the skirt moves.”
Morg stands by her with her arms crossed. “I just don’t think this bodice is flattering, though.” She shakes her head slowly, brow furrowed. “Patrice has very narrow shoulders, just like me, and she has to be careful about the bodice.” Morg walks away from the dressing room. “Where is that woman? I need to talk her about our bodice concerns.”
My mother volunteers to go on a mission to locate our personal shopper with Morg. I walk over to Patrice to get a closer look. This one really is more beautiful than some of the others we’ve seen.
“I think I really like this one,” I say.
Patrice frowns at herself in the mirror and looks even cuter than before. For some reason I can’t stop myself from imagining little bunny ears on her head. Hey, they’d match.
“Do you think Mom likes it?” she asks.
I turn around, wondering where the moms went off to. “She seemed concerned about the, uh, bodice thing, but I’ve never thought you had particularly narrow shoulders.” Nor have I thought anyone had narrow shoulders.
“Oh no,” she says, laughing. “I mean your mom, Mom. Did she like it? I want her to like it too. I want all of us to love the same thing.”
I smile at her kindness. This woman is amazing. How on earth did Jim talk her into marrying him? “Mom loved it,” I say. “And so do I.”
Patrice flings her arms around me and gives me a hug. I hug her back in what seems like the longest hug ever given until finally the moms return. I never thought I’d be so happy to see Mom and Morg.
“Patrice, let’s get you out of that ill-fitted frock. The consultant and I had a little chat and agreed it was all wrong. She’s adjusting our next selection with our bodice concerns in mind.”
I look at my mom. I see that she’s miserable too and smile.
I sit with my hands in my lap, trying not to fidget. Why am I so nervous? It’s just an interview. I never get nervous.
On the other side of her desk, Annie Myers, the YMCA director of after-school programs for the entire Northeast, reads my résumé. She is all business. Even her phone message to schedule this interview was curt and precise.
“I see you don’t have any experience working for a nonprofit,” she says and then looks at me over her reading glasses.
I place both hands flat on my thighs to calm myself and try to think of my comeback to that. I prepared for this. Okay, what did I plan on saying? Oh right. “That’s correct. But as you can see, I’ve helped lead Brownie Troop 192 for three years now.” I don’t mention that I may no longer be a member of the troop.
Annie looks at me with cold brown eyes. She’s got curly brown hair that’s a little wild, and she’s wearing billowy black pants and a loose top made of some kind of rough fabric. “Yes, I see that,” she says. “But I don’t think you realize how different this is.”
“I realize it’s not the same thing as being the after-school coordinator for a branch of the YMCA, but if you’ve ever gone camping with twelve eight-year-olds, you’ll know what I mean when I say I now feel I can do anything.” I smile, hoping she’ll laugh at my little joke. She doesn’t.
“These children come from all walks of life,” she says simply. Okay, so my troop is a little privileged. “This program is what keeps many of these kids off the streets. There is no parent at home in many of our families until nine or ten at night. It’s up to us to be their surrogate parents. I’m just not sure you have the…background to relate to them.”
“I assure you, I am prepared to give my heart and soul to these kids,” I say quickly. “I can relate to all kinds of people.”
“Is that a Marc Jacobs suit?” she asks. I nod, simmering. So I have nice clothes. So what? Does that make me unqualified to work with these kids? As she looks over my résumé dismissively, I begin to wonder if she’s right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. I don’t know anything about keeping kids off the street.
“The person who is awarded this position will be responsible for coming up with a full after-school curriculum, everything from staffing the tutoring center, to organizing outings, to regularly scheduled intramural sporting events. We’re looking for someone who is organized, quick on her feet, tough, and excellent with children.” Annie raises her eyebrow at me. Maybe I should just stick to PR. I’ve already got one company putting together an offer for me in writing. I’m not even sure why I came on this interview. I’m wasting this busy woman’s time. She sees that I’m not remotely qualified. What was I thinking? That’s the last time I listen to Coates’s advice.
Annie slides a piece of paper to me. “Perhaps you can look over our current curriculum. I need to step out for a moment and check in on our older kids. We’re short-handed today. When I come back, we can have a discussion about changes you’d make to this schedule.”
The door closes behind her, and I begin to panic. What’s she pulling? Putting me on the spot? I roll my lips in and start reading the list for the af
ter-school programs. It’s a pretty standard lineup of crafts, basketball, tutoring in the computer lab, and swimming lessons in the pool. I have nothing to add. It’s going to be terrible when Annie comes back to find out I have no original ideas at all. Okay, focus, Jane. Think about the girls. What would Haven like to see on this list that isn’t here? You know a lot about kids. Don’t let her suggest that you don’t. I tap the page with the pen for a moment. Oh! What about Friday night movie night? We could rent kid-friendly movies and pop popcorn and sit around on beanbags. That’d be fun. Haven would definitely approve. What else? What about Bella and Kaitlin? What would they like? Dress-up. There is nothing they like better than to imagine themselves as sophisticated adults. I’ll bet we could get the neighboring community to donate a bunch of fancy old clothes and have a big dress-up tea party once a month. I write down on the paper “movie night” and “tea party.” Oh no, the boys. What do boys want? Think, think. Oh. Water volleyball tournaments. We can divide them into teams and have a bracket system. It would only cost us for the net and the ball since they have a pool. Maybe some variations with inner tubes. That’s something, maybe.
What an amazing job this would be. No more staring at a computer screen all day, answering e-mails. No more placating demanding, rich clients. I could give back to my city. I could play with kids every day, see them find hobbies and passions they love, develop skills they’re going to need.
Annie knocks on the door and sits back down behind the desk. “Good thing I checked on them. Anarchy was developing. I’m afraid our time together must be short. Can you tell me what you’ve come up with?”
I tell her my ideas. “We’d never get permission to keep the children overnight,” she says. “Anything other than swimming lessons in the pool is a legal liability our insurance doesn’t cover, and…I’m afraid ‘dress-up’ isn’t quite as fun when many of these children can’t even afford decent clothes of their own. Do you have anything more…economically appropriate?”
I am dumbstruck. How can she just shoot all my ideas down? And what is she implying—that I’m some spoiled rich kid who doesn’t get it?
“Tell me, Jane,” she says. “What brought you here today?”
How dare she? Why am I here? I’ll tell her why I’m here. “I’ve learned a lot lately,” I say. “You’re right. I was privileged. I had everything going for me, and then it was all taken from me.” I stop to swallow. “I had to look hard at life and figure out what really made me happy at the end of the day. And what I came up with is helping people. Because you know what? It’s not a very happy world out there,” I say, my voice rising. I think about me and Ty, about all that Raquel’s been through, about Mary Sue. “It’s hard and painful, and people you love might hurt you or disappoint you, and your possessions aren’t going to make you feel better about any of that. And when I think about all the kids in New York who are alone, and afraid, and unloved, and just overlooked by society, I want to help them.”
There is a long silence. I look up defiantly. Annie is studying me, frowning. Finally, she leans forward, puts down her pen and takes off her reading glasses.
“I used to be a day trader,” she says and breaks into a big smile.
On Thursday night I’m sitting on my couch drafting a formal letter of complaint to the building management company about the roof expense. The insurance company is going to come through to replace the furniture, though I’m still waiting on that check, but the roof is another story. I know I should be grateful to have my roof back at all, but I am not letting them stick me with that bill. I look up when I see something slip under my door out of the corner of my eye.
It’s a little envelope. Charlie barks at the envelope for a second. He sniffs it. I walk over and pick it up. The outside says “Read me.” I obey.
Inside is a little printed card that says:
spon-ta-ne-ous
Pronunciation: spän-’ta-ne-as
Function: adjective
Etymology: Late Latin spontaneus, from Latin sponte, of one’s free will, voluntarily
1: arising from a momentary impulse
I read it again, trying to make sense of it, when I hear a knock on my door. I peek out the peephole and see Coates standing there. What on earth? After our horrible date, I figured we both understood that it was over. I must have been half insane to agree to the date in the first place. Besides, I’m in my pajamas. I crack the door and lean out, but Charlie escapes. After sniffing Coates a moment, he tries to jump into his arms.
“Um, hi?” I say, annoyed. Coates leans over and scoops up Charlie. I need to teach that dog to be a little more suspicious of strangers.
“Jane,” he says, smiling devilishly. “I believe this is yours.” He hands Charlie back to me. I stay planted in the door and take Charlie back.
“Are you concerned about my vocabulary today?”
“A little, particularly where it pertains to that word.” His eyes take in my pajamas. “Could you get your coat? I’d like to get on with our date.”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t asked on this date. Nor did I accept.”
“Isn’t that thrilling?” He rakes his fingers through his dark hair. “I don’t like to follow the rules.”
“Me either,” I say. “So, good-bye.” I shut the door in his face. I can’t believe he’d just show up here like that. We don’t click. Why does he want to try again? I shouldn’t have answered the door.
I sit back down on my couch and turn back to my letter. Another envelope slides under the door. I roll my eyes and go back to typing, but soon yet another one slides under the door. Charlie is looking at them and at me and at them again. He gives a small bark at them. I give in and go over to retrieve them again.
I open the first one. He has written:
Please?
I open the next one:
You won’t regret it.
“You’re not funny,” I say through the door.
“I’ve got fifty envelopes out here,” he says back.
I swing my door wide open. “How did you get my address?” I ask.
“It’s really lovely out tonight. The air is so crisp and clean.”
“Why are you doing this? Remember our last date?”
“So this is a date, then?”
“Argh!”
He smiles at me and waits.
I shake my head at him in defeat and say, “Come in. I’ll go throw some jeans on.” Coates comes in and plops on my couch. Charlie jumps in his arms and begs with his little brown eyes to be petted. As I walk to my room I call out, “Don’t suppose I get to know where we’re going?”
“Didn’t you read the first card?” he calls back to me.
I pull on my favorite jeans and a top and grumble, not quite to myself, “I hate this kind of thing.”
Chapter 20
Coates is wandering the aisles with a look of glee. I’m following behind him, feeling snookered. Some wonderful spontaneous date this turned out to be. We’re cooking together. Hurrah. If only he had called me and checked with me first on this one I would have had the chance to tell him that I don’t know how to cook at all, that I once burned scrambled eggs, that my idea of making dessert is pouring a bowl of Count Chocula, that I’ve only been grocery shopping in New York twice. That I don’t date men who are being sued. But instead here we are stumbling around in Whole Foods, which is, from what I can tell, the Henri Bendel of grocery stores, with me wishing that we could just go pick up something to go. I already pointed out the section with precooked meals, but Coates laughed like this was some kind of good joke. At least someone is having fun.
“While I go and inspect the olive oil selection, why don’t you work on getting the arugula,” he says.
“Sure,” I say and smile.
“We’ll need two cups of it, chopped.”
I nod confidently, wait until he walks off, and then begin to wander around. What is arugula? I think it’s a vegetable of some kind, but I really can’t be sure. I think it was on
something I had at a restaurant once, but there was a lot of stuff on top of that tuna steak. There was some leafy stuff, a drizzle of something red, there were some crunchy nutlike things, I think one of the things on top was maybe in the mushroom family. That’s it! Arugula was that weird mushroom thingy. I wander over to the mushroom section and look for a sign that says “arugula.” I need two cups chopped, I repeat to myself. This isn’t that hard. Okay, let’s see. There’s Portobello, baby Portobello, shiitake, morel, button…no arugula kind. I frown. Then I see someone who works at Whole Foods and tap on his shoulder.
“Can you please show me where the arugulas are?” I ask. I motion behind me at the mushrooms.
The worker cocks his head a little. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m looking for the arugula mushrooms please?”
He puts his hands on his hips. “You want arugula or mushrooms? Both?”
Maybe it’s not a mushroom. I blush. “Look, I just need two cups of arugula.”
It dawns on the employee what’s going on, and he smirks. “The arugula is over here with the greens,” he says,
Green what? Everything over here is green. I follow behind him obediently until he deposits me in front of a big sign that says “Arugula.” How did I miss that? “Do you need arugula or baby arugula?”
Baby arugula? I don’t want baby food. “I just need regular arugula.”
He points at a big stack of green leaves and walks away. I hold one up and inspect it. It’s covered in dirt! I gasp and throw it back down, rubbing my hands together to try to get the dirt and water off.
“How’s it going?” I hear behind me and jump. This whole nightmare experience has really gotten me ramped up.
