Hope in a Jar

by Beth Harbison

  She was pretty.

  Wow, for the first time in her life, she really honestly and truly felt pretty.

  “Thank you,” she breathed to Allie, fighting the sting of tears in her eyes.

  “It’s not me,” Allie said, unsentimental. “It’s you. This has been you all the time, you just didn’t know it!”

  It was on the tip of Olivia’s tongue to object, to say it wasn’t real, it wasn’t there yesterday, it probably wouldn’t be there tomorrow, except that she knew Allie wasn’t a magical fairy godmother and there was nothing supernatural about this.

  All it took was just a little bit of effort.

  “Come on,” Allie said, eager to show her work off to the rest of the world. “Let’s go. You’re going to have to borrow my white rabbit coat, too.” It was fake but no one knew it. “That thing you have isn’t glamorous enough for you tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  They went to the dance, walking through the crisp December air—past the suburban houses encrusted with lights and animated snowmen and moving reindeer, and, in one unfortunate case, the bottom half of a Santa on a roof—singing Christmas carols at the tops of their lungs until they got close enough to the school that someone they knew might hear them.

  They handed over the two-dollar fee at the cafeteria, which still had the smell of spaghetti under tinfoil hanging in the air, but soon all associations with the day would disappear.

  It was a magical night, before, during, and after the dance, remembered later as a blur of lights, music, smiles, laughter, anticipation, and reward.

  It was an extremely significant night in Olivia’s life and she would point to it many times in subsequent years, and not because Mark Grudberg had asked her out and become her first boyfriend (though at the time that had been awesome).

  No, it was significant because it was the first time she truly saw—and, more important, felt—how transforming the beauty game could be.

  It was something she’d never forget.

  Thirteen

  Maybe she’s born with it.

  —ad for Maybelline

  “The way this works is that it has actual snake venom in it to sort of freeze your muscles—”

  Caroline drew her hand back from the gel Olivia was squeezing out of a tube, and shrieked. “Snake venom? I asked you to help me freshen up my look, not kill me!”

  “It’s safe, Mom.”

  “How could it be?”

  Olivia held up the bottle. “Look at this packaging. For one thing, the marketing alone cost a fortune. And for another, it’s Peter Thomas Roth. They make some of the best skin products you can buy. It’s not going to poison you. For God’s sake, Nicole Kidman uses it! She loves it!”

  Her mother reacted as if this were the proof she’d needed that the whole thing was crazy witchcraft. “I always thought there was something about her that was not right.”

  “Oh, Mom.”

  “Well, there was that weird marriage to—”

  “Do you really want to talk bad marriages?” Olivia asked, as if she and Nicole were the best of friends and she had to defend her.

  They weren’t, of course, and she didn’t. But at the same time she sure as hell didn’t want to listen to her mother spitting out platitudes about what made a good marriage.

  “I take your point,” Caroline said crisply. “But I don’t know about putting snake poison on my face.” She reached up to wipe it away.

  Olivia grabbed her mother’s hand and held it while she put some of the gel onto her knuckles. “There. See? You’re still alive. Now smooth it onto your forehead.”

  Caroline looked dubious. “The skin on your face is very thin, you know. Something like poison could sink right in.”

  “Yes, I know. That’s why it wrinkles.” Olivia dabbed her fingers into the gel to put it on her mother’s forehead herself. Then she stepped back. “Can you feel it?”

  Caroline wiggled her eyebrows. “I’m not sure . . . It’s tingling a little.”

  “That’s as bad as it gets. Just a little tingle.” She took the extra and dabbed it onto her own forehead. “But do you notice how your forehead feels a little stiffer?”

  Caroline wiggled some more. “I guess it does.”

  “Good. That will help you from deepening your frown lines.”

  “Who says I have frown lines?” Caroline objected, drawing back.

  “I do, Mom. You’ve got frown lines.” Olivia looked on the shelves and picked up another tube. “Now dab this on around your eyes very gently.”

  “What is that? Cyanide?”

  Not bad. Olivia almost laughed, but she wasn’t going to hand it to her mom on that one. It would just encourage Caroline to pooh-pooh everything else Olivia suggested.

  “It’s a mushroom complex that helps erase those fine lines. And look.” She held it up so her mother could see Dr. Weil’s name on the Origins label. “It’s made by a doctor, Mom. That means it won’t kill you.”

  “It’s amazing what we’ll do for youth and beauty. But I’m tired of feeling like an old hag. If I’m starting a new life, I need a new look.” Caroline dabbed the cream around her eyes, while Olivia looked at her. Really looked at her.

  The once copper hair—which Olivia had to admit had been stunning in the sunlight—was now a dull electric red, the result of too much home-coloring on dull, aging hair. Her face was still quite lovely—the routine of Pond’s cold cream that had served her grandmother and great-grandmother so beautifully was also treating Olivia’s mother very well. The new products Olivia had given her would only help. And her teeth were a nice, natural light shade, unlike the dull gray so many women her age sported.

  But she was thin. Perhaps twenty pounds too thin. Knowing Caroline, as Olivia absolutely did, she probably thought it was a better look than a healthy weight would give her, but to Olivia she looked like a frail little bird.

  “You’ll be amazed how well it works,” Olivia said, giving her the cream.

  “I hope so. Though I don’t know how I’ll keep it up at these prices.”

  Olivia smiled. “I’ll hook you up.”

  “I can’t let you get it for me.”

  “It’s no big deal. All of this”—she gestured at the shelves upon shelves of bottles, jars, tubes, and dispensers—“is sent to me for free.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because the companies want me to try their stuff and love it and put it in the magazine.” She handed a jar of Elizabeth Arden’s Visible Difference moisturizer to her mother. That was one product she could only use in the dead of winter, when the indoor heat had blasted the life out of her skin. But for her mother’s aging skin, it would be perfect year-round. “Take this. Use it twice a day. You’ll love it.”

  Her mother held the jar up and looked at it. “Oh, yes, I have this already.”

  “Do you use it?”

  Her mother shook her head. “I save it for special occasions because it’s expensive.”

  “Mom, it’s moisturizer, not Chanel No. 5. Put it on when you get out of the shower or after you wash your face and a tiny bit will go a long way.”

  “I’ll give it a try.” Caroline looked at her. “Heaven knows you look better than I did at your age.”

  “If that’s true, I’m sure it’s because I’m not married.” Olivia looked at her watch. It was one-thirty. She had a meeting in an hour and her mother had a hair appointment in half an hour. “You need to go, they’re expecting you at the salon.”

  “Oh, yes. Now, where is this place? Saks?”

  “Bergdorf Goodman. It’s on the seven-hundred block of Fifth Avenue, you can’t miss it.”

  “And the name of the stylist?”

  “John Barrett.” Most people would kill for an appointment with John Barrett but if Olivia told her that, she’d probably decide it was too extravagant and go to Express Cuts for an appointment with the first available cosmetology student. “His name’s on the salon.”

  “Are you sure
he’s experienced styling women of a certain age? I don’t want to come out looking like some young punk.”

  Olivia laughed. “There is no way, Mom. No way.”

  There was a moment of silence before Caroline said, “I appreciate all of this you’re doing. It’s been a long time since I felt good about my appearance.”

  “Then you’re about to be really happy. Now go. I’ve got work to do.” She watched her mother retreat, then called, “And stop at the café after your cut. You need to eat!”

  Their roles—or at least the roles they were supposed to play—had been reversed.

  “. . . so now he’s going to marry her,” Allie huffed. “Marry her. As in till death do us part. God. I might just have to kill him myself. Or her.”

  She and her mother were on a brisk walk along the C & O Canal, just north of Georgetown. Her mother seemed to be going strong, a geriatric Denise Austin, but Allie was breathlessly aware of the fact that every step they took put them one more step away from the car.

  The treadmill would have been better, she decided. On a treadmill she could measure her progress daily, push herself, but stop when she wanted to.

  Or when she needed to.

  “Noah marrying Victoria Freedman.” Her mother clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Now, I have to say, you and I don’t always agree about Noah’s girlfriends, but that is one pair I would not have seen coming.”

  “It’s crazy, right?”

  “Well, I haven’t seen Victoria for years.” She made a small wince. “But if she’s anything like her mother . . .”

  “Exactly! Exactly. And why wouldn’t she be like her mother? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  Her mother eyed her.

  “Anyway,” Allie went on. “She’s a horrible person and I freaked out so badly when he told me that now he doesn’t even want to talk to me.”

  “What happened?”

  “We’d had some beers and he was going to stay over on my sofa, but the conversation went so badly that he took a cab home. It was ugly.”

  “Have you talked to him since then?”

  “We’ve had a couple of awkward, chilly calls.” Allie started walking faster, her feet stomping her anger as she went. “You’d think he’d be back to normal by now.”

  “Slow down,” her mother said.

  Allie immediately lessened her pace.

  “I meant that figuratively,” her mother said. She was being kind, because that was her default mode, but she was also making it clear that her daughter was being kind of a jerk. “Slow down with your judgment of Noah. This is a big move for him. Arguably, my dear, it’s bigger for him than for you.”

  Allie scoffed. “Arguably.”

  Her mother ignored her petulance. “Did he tell you anything about why he’s made this decision?”

  “No, but it’s a snap decision, isn’t it? You noticed it, too!” There. Allie wasn’t just being shrewish or petty about past grudges. Her mother also thought this was awfully quick. “All he’d say was that it was right and that these things couldn’t always be explained and a bunch of that kind of bull. If you ask me, it’s weirdly fast.”

  “Do you suppose Victoria is in trouble?”

  “I can’t imagine that she’s not.” Allie stopped. “Wait, you mean in trouble? Like, pregnant?”

  Her mother nodded. “That’s one reason young people get married quickly.”

  “Oh, Mom.” Allie put an arm around her mother’s shoulder, and they walked forward, slower now. “That is so sweet, but we’re not young people anymore. And we don’t get in that kind of trouble. Unless we’re morons. And I can’t speak for Vickie, but Noah’s not a moron.”

  Or was he? She didn’t know for sure what his sexual habits were. Apart from the fact that he was a great kisser. That she knew.

  That she remembered.

  But it had been so long ago . . . one night that he’d undoubtedly long since forgotten. She didn’t know anything about what he was like romantically now. If he was the kind of guy who didn’t make sure everything was in order, so to speak, before, well, doing the Deed.

  He would probably be shocked to know she was giving this any thought at all. But she couldn’t help it.

  When he first came to school, she’d thought he was cute. And he had been, in a very cute-boy way. But somewhere along the line, instead of taking that turn into weird Man-Boy that so many cute boys took (see Jerry Mathers of Leave It to Beaver), he’d instead become a really really attractive man. His once-softer features had etched into masculine contours; his mouth had a curve to it that was sexy without being too soft; his teeth, straightened by several unfortunate years of braces, were now worthy of a movie star close-up; and there were small lines around his eyes that Allie knew were both from smiling and from the way he’d squint when he was concentrating on something

  Then there was the blue of his eyes. Not startling, not washed-out, just . . . warm. If blue could be warm. Allie had contemplated that blue many times in her life, trying to figure out what exact color it was, but all she could come up with was Noah.

  Noah blue.

  It could be a crayon color.

  On top of all that, Noah was quite possibly the smartest person Allie had ever met, able to understand complicated tax forms and political issues and yet explain them to Allie as if she were a six-year-old, yet without talking down to her.

  She liked that.

  He was really damn near the perfect guy.

  It was no wonder Vickie wanted him.

  Suddenly Allie was picturing him with Vickie. Kissing her. Touching her. It was a stomach-twisting thought.

  “Allison, I did not call anyone a moron.”

  Allie returned her attention to the conversation. Moron. Right. “All right, well, as long as we’re clear that Noah isn’t one.” She frowned, still disconcerted. “Except as far as his choice of girlfriends goes.”

  “Unless it was you?”

  “What?” How did she do that? “Me? With Noah?”

  Her mother nodded.

  “We’re friends!” But her objection sounded weak.

  “Good relationships have been built on less than that.” Peggy Denty stopped. “Let’s turn around. If we keep going we’re going to end up in Georgia.”

  Oh, thank God. Allie needed to change the subject. She needed to change the direction of her thoughts. “Sure, whatever you want,” she said, and they turned around. She faced the path they’d just walked with gratitude.

  “You were saying?” her mother prodded.

  “That there’s nothing more to Noah and me besides friendship, so if you’re gearing up to accuse me of being jealous, you can stop right there.”

  “I didn’t say anything like that!” Her mother looked so genuinely surprised that Allie was immediately embarrassed.

  “Good.”

  “But now that you mention it—”

  “I didn’t. Forget I said anything. That will take us down the wrong road.” She was trying to make that U-turn right now. “The thing here is that Noah’s planning to marry the Wicked Witch of the West and I have to stop him.”

  “But honey, don’t you know this by now? You can’t. People need to make this kind of decision for themselves, and it sounds like Noah has. You need to just accept that and be his friend anyway.”

  Allie thought about that. Gave it sincere consideration. She just couldn’t imagine standing by and watching Noah marry that woman. She couldn’t imagine calling his home and politely asking Vickie if Noah was available.

  She couldn’t imagine going to their children’s birthday parties and graduations.

  Actually she could imagine that, and it was gruesome. There were ponies and clowns and Freedmans all over the place. Little children with good Haller blood running around like Freedmans.

  The thought was too much to bear.

  “I’m not sure I can, Mom,” Allie heard herself say. Then she knew it was God’s honest, too-horrible-to-admit truth. She wasn’t
sure she could stand by as his friend and watch him make such a terrible mistake. Maybe it would be better for her to back off altogether. “What do you do when someone you love is doing something you’re absolutely sure is a horrific mistake?”

  Her mother slipped her hand through her arm and gave her a squeeze. “You stand by their side anyway,” she said. “And hope they figure it out for themselves.”

  Fourteen

  As individual as you are.

  —ad for Cachet perfume

  When she got to the office Monday morning, a week after the reunion, Olivia’s administrative assistant, Tim, was ready with the gossip.

  “You have a message,” he said, holding the little yellow slip of paper up and swinging it from side to side.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What is it?”

  “It’s from an old friend.”

  “Of mine or yours?”

  “Yours, of course. It’s someone you saw at the reunion.” He put the message down and put his hands on his hips, even though he was sitting. “I cannot believe you didn’t tell me you were going to a class reunion!”

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “I didn’t even know I was going until after you’d left for the day on Friday or, believe me, you would have pried it out of me somehow.”

  “Friday a week ago,” he said, looking at her expectantly.

  “Once I’d gone, what was the point in bringing it up? It certainly wasn’t interesting.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “Later. I’ve got work to do. What have you got?”

  Tim sighed. “Okay.” He picked up the message again. “So your friend Allison, do you know her?”

  Olivia frowned. “Yes. Is something wrong?”

  “She didn’t say, but she sounded upset. Or maybe she had a cold. Actually”—he handed the message over—“she could have been drunk. Some people’s voices get that nasally quality when they’ve been drinking—”

  “When did she call?”

  “It was in the voice mail system. The call came in at two A.M.”