Hope in a Jar

by Beth Harbison

  “It’s Tori,” Vickie fumed. “And that’s just one example. You did a thousand little things to try and one-up me.”

  “Me?” Apart from the accuracy of the location of her eighth-birthday party, Allie had the feeling Vickie had her confused with someone else.

  “Yes, you.” Vickie made an impatient gesture. “And here we go with the innocent act. You know, you’re also the reason I can’t water-ski—”

  “Enough!” Noah stepped in, though Allie was dying to know how she was to blame for Vickie’s landlubber status. “Let me talk to Tori,” he said to Allie.

  “No, I just want to know—”

  “Yes. Now, you have to go. Olivia.” He nodded at Olivia and she came over.

  “Come on, Al,” she said, her voice soft, but her grasp firm. “They need to talk.”

  “She’s crazy. She can’t get away with this,” Allie objected, staring Vickie down.

  “She won’t. She already hasn’t. That’s why she’s just a miserable old cow, holding on to ancient grudges.” Clearly Olivia wasn’t without her share of vitriol. “But this is between them now.”

  Allie finally looked at Olivia. “So we can kill her later?”

  Olivia gave a tense laugh. “I think she’s got what’s coming to her already.” She threw a hostile gaze Vickie’s way. “I have a feeling there’s a long line of people who will want to give her what she’s got coming. Starting with Lucy Lee.”

  “He should have called by now.” Allie sat at her kitchen table, pulling the label off her second beer.

  “I think he’s got his hands full,” Olivia said, leaning back against the hard kitchen chair.

  “But it’s been two and a half hours. That relationship wasn’t long enough to warrant a two-and-a-half-hour postmortem.”

  “There was a pregnancy.”

  “Not his.”

  “Which, arguably, makes the postmortem even more involved. If it was his, he wouldn’t be severing all ties.” Olivia shook her head. “Ties take time to sever.”

  Allie gave half a laugh. “Yeah, I think I saw that on America’s Test Kitchen. They need a sharp knife.”

  “There you go.”

  Her door buzzer sounded and Allie sprang to her feet and flew to the door, throwing it open.

  Noah stood there, looking like a boxer who had gone twelve rounds. But a hot boxer, like Oscar De La Hoya.

  “Noah!” She put her arms around him and held fast. “Why didn’t you call?”

  He gave a wisp of a smile. “I thought a visit would be better.”

  “I’ve been worried sick.”

  “Why?”

  “Are you kidding? That woman is crazy!”

  He sighed. “Am I going to stand here all day or are you going to move aside so I can come in?”

  “Oh!” Allie stepped back. “Sorry.”

  “Hi, Noah.” Olivia came into the foyer and handed him a beer.

  “Thanks.” He took it gratefully and downed half of it in one long gulp.

  “Come in, come in.” Allie held his hand and pulled him into the living room, sitting right next to him on the couch. She couldn’t get close enough. “Tell us what happened.”

  “Tell us what you want to tell us,” Olivia corrected, always the calm one. “Because it’s really none of our business. Or at least”—she looked over the two of them—“it’s none of my business. Maybe I should leave the two of you alone.”

  “Are you kidding?” Allie asked. “If it weren’t for you, Noah wouldn’t even have found out the truth at all. At least not until the kid came out with bad anchorman hair and the perennially confused expression of his biological father.”

  “I hope you’re not disappointed about the baby,” Olivia said to Noah gently. “I realize this might not be good news.”

  He gave a brief smile. “I’m not disappointed, Liv. That wasn’t what I wanted.” He gave a quick glance in Allie’s direction.

  She flushed with warmth.

  “I just can’t believe I didn’t see who she was right away,” Noah went on. “The whole situation is so messed up.”

  “Well, she looked good,” Allie admitted grudgingly. “Your gender can’t help being blinded by that sometimes. More often than not.”

  “As a matter of fact, our gender counts on that more often than not,” Olivia added.

  Noah raised his beer. “We’re happy to comply, apparently.”

  “You wouldn’t have for long.” Allie studied his profile until he turned and met her eye.

  Heat rushed through her and he held her gaze.

  “Look, kids,” Olivia said, standing up, “this has been fun, but I have to go.”

  “What?” Allie asked, dragging her attention away from Noah. But as soon as she looked at Olivia, she knew Olivia thought Allie and Noah should be alone.

  And that she was right.

  Olivia nodded. “I’m actually going out of town in a couple of days and I need to get back to the city and do some major packing.”

  “But you just got here,” Allie said, her argument weak. “We have so much more catching up to do.”

  “You and Noah have some catching up to do yourselves,” Olivia said, smiling. “We can do it later. When I get back to the U.S.”

  “Back to the U.S.,” Noah said. “Where are you going?”

  “It’s a long story,” Olivia said. “But basically I’m taking a leave of absence from work so I can do some traveling. I’ve always wanted to see the world from the ground, not from a hotel room, so I’m going to go do that. Maybe take some pictures.”

  Allie remembered that conversation from a long time ago. Olivia wanted to travel the world, be a photographer. She didn’t want a real job, a desk job she had to go to every day.

  “Write,” Allie said. “Call. And promise me you’ll come stay for a week when you get back.”

  “I promise.” Olivia came over and gave Allie a big hug. “Better late than never, eh?”

  Allie held on tight. “Yes,” she whispered.

  Olivia drew back and smiled at her. “I’ll see you soon.” She moved to Noah and kissed his cheek. “Take care.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  Olivia gave a laugh. “This has been a long time in coming,” she said. “I had no idea the happy ending would still be so much fun.”

  “It is,” Allie said. “It’s so much fun.” She turned to Noah. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to walk Olivia out.”

  “Take your time.”

  The implication, and the truth, was that they now had all the time in the world.

  For a couple of minutes, Allie and Olivia walked in companionable silence.

  Finally Allie spoke. “I hate that you’re going so far away now that we’ve finally gotten back in touch.”

  They stopped and Olivia turned to her. There were tears in her eyes. “These past weeks have changed my life,” Olivia said. “I’m on a roll now. I can’t interrupt the momentum and stay in my old routine. I think it would kill me.”

  “Well, we definitely don’t want that.”

  “But you’re starting something new, too,” Olivia said, gesturing toward the building where Noah waited for Allie. “You and I are back. We can talk, we can e-mail, we can write. We won’t lose anything again. But there’s a certain guy you’re going to want to give your time and, er, physical presence to a lot more than me.” She smiled.

  Allie laughed. “Not that I’m the kind of girl who disses her friends in favor of a guy.”

  Olivia shook her head. “You never were.”

  They looked at each other for a moment and Allie had the strange impression of the years melting away. In a way she was looking at the friend she had known so well, so long ago.

  “Promise you’ll keep in touch,” Allie said. “No getting distracted by elephants and tigers and thinking we’re too small-time to bother with.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m going to love hearing about what’s going on with you two.”

  “You will. You’
ll hear every detail.”

  “And I’ll know if you’re holding out.”

  Allie crossed her heart. “I won’t hold out.”

  Olivia smiled again and gave Allie a hug. When she drew back, the tears were spilling down her cheeks.

  Just like Allie’s were.

  “I’m so sorry I blamed you for so long—” Olivia began.

  “I understand,” Allie insisted. “We can’t go there. We can’t go back and change it. And unfortunately we can’t actually kill Vickie, so all we can do is move forward from here.”

  “Okay.” Olivia took a shuddering breath. “Now. Go back in there and start making some interesting stories to tell me.”

  “You got it. And you do the same. Send me a picture of you on an elephant.”

  Olivia gave a nod. “I’ll make a point of it.”

  Allie returned to her apartment with a mix of melancholy about the past and excitement about the future.

  Her future with Noah.

  She still almost couldn’t believe it.

  They sat down on the sofa together, and silence bounced between them.

  Then Allie said, “This is weird.”

  “It is weird,” Noah agreed. “But good.”

  “Definitely good.”

  More silence.

  “The thing is,” Noah went on, “that it should have happened . . . better. I should have swept you off your feet.”

  She scoffed. “Imagine what that would do to your back.”

  “Cut it, Al, I’m serious. I should have figured this out ages ago.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Not that I’m the only one at fault. You’ve been a complete idiot about it, too.”

  She nodded, then said, “Well, not a complete idiot. I, at least, had the foresight to come up with the when-we’re-forty plan.”

  “The what . . . ?”

  “You have to marry me when we’re forty if we’re not already married to other people. That’s the deal.”

  He looked at her and a light came into his eyes. “That’s right, we have a plan.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “A verbal agreement.” He frowned. “That’s binding in court, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  He nodded. “Trust me. It would be very sticky for you to try and get out of it. Or me. Either of us.”

  She twined her fingers in his. It was impossible not to smile. “Better not try, then.”

  “I think that’s wise.” He raised an eyebrow. “And, really, Allie, it’s about damn time we got wise.”

  Epilogue

  Winston Churchill High School—

  25-Year Reunion—Who’s Coming?

  Peter Ford: Totally! Cant wait!

  Marlene Newman: I will definitely be there. We’re doing an 80s theme. BTW, does anyone have Vickie Freedman’s e-mail address? I need to know if she wants to be on the committee this year.

  Noah Haller: Won’t be there, will be on vacation with gorgeous wife, sends regrets.

  Allison Denty-Haller: Will not attend, has no regrets!

  Yancy Miller: Vickie is now Victoria Reigerberg. I saw her husband (with his niece) at the Marriott the other day when I was having dinner. He said he didn’t think they’d be coming to the reunion.

  Lucy Lee: Todd doesn’t have a niece. Let me guess: Was she a blonde? LOL. I’ll be at the reunion if I’m not on assignment. See you there!

  Olivia Pelham: I’m working on a book of photos in Kenya. Probably won’t be back in time. Allie and Noah, see you in a few weeks!

  Chapter 1

  When I was twelve, a fortune-teller at the Herbert Hoover Junior High School carnival said to me: “Gemma Craig, you listen to me. Do not get married. Ever. If you do, you’ll end up cooking for a man who’d rather eat at McDonald’s; doing laundry for a man who sweats like a rabid pig, then criticizes you for not turning his T-shirts right side out; and cleaning the bathroom floor after a man whose aim is so bad, he can’t hit a hole the size of a watermelon—”

  This man sounded disgusting.

  “—make your own money and be independent. Having kids is fine, but get married and you will be miserable for the rest of your life. I promise you, the rest of your life.”

  This chilling prediction stayed with me long after I realized that the fortune-teller was, in fact, Mrs. Rooks, the PTA president and neighbor who always gave out full-sized 3 Musketeers bars on Halloween, and that her husband had left her that very morning for a cliché: a young, vapid, blond bombshell. Mrs. Rooks had four kids, and at the time, I thought of her as really old and I didn’t quite get why she cared so much if she was married anymore or not.

  She was thirty-seven.

  I was thirty-seven last year.

  But for the most part, I have followed that sage wisdom she imparted, whether it came from a place of deep inspiration or, maybe, from a place of bitter day drunkenness. It had an impact on me either way.

  Dating was fine. I love men. I love sex. I love having someone to banter with, flirt with, play romantic tag with, and finally yield to. Many, many times I have thought, in the beginning of a relationship, that maybe this guy could be different and the relationship might last against the odds my young brain had laid out.

  But inevitably things soured for me, usually in the form of boredom, and always within two months. Seriously. This was consistent enough for my friends to refer to it as two months too long.

  The good thing about a breakup at two months is that there usually isn’t a lot of acrimony or anguish involved. The bad thing is that it gets tiresome after a while. Honestly, I’m a normal woman, I’d love to be in love. I’d love to have a family to take care of and to surround me as I navigate the years.

  But once I hit thirty-seven, I had to wonder if that was really in the cards for me.

  And if that was the case, I was okay with that because I had a career I loved that allowed me some of the better parts of June Cleaver–dom, along with the ability to hang up the apron at the end of the day and be my own, single self.

  I am a private chef.

  Being hired to cook for people is really different from standing around a kitchen with friends, drinking wine and making snacks. It’s different from making a whole Thanksgiving dinner for family. It’s vastly different, even, from cooking for strangers at the soup kitchen, where the pride of creating something delicious is just as compelling but somehow…easier. Less judgmental.

  Cooking for people in their homes can be like cooking for friends, but more often than that, it’s like cooking for the meanest teacher in elementary school: someone you want to shrink away from, hide from. Someone you hope to god won’t call on you or make you speak in front of everyone else. Someone you’re pretty sure will yell and scream at you if you do one little thing wrong.

  The many scenarios include—but are not limited to—taking the fall for a failed party (“the food wasn’t good enough”), taking the blame for a neglected hostess (“you shouldn’t speak with the guests even if they talk to you first”), shouldering the blame for the burden of unused ingredients (“I have to do something with the rest of these onions now, thanks a lot”), and other failures of life in general (“my husband doesn’t want to come home on time for dinner, but if you made something he couldn’t resist, then he would!”).

  Fortunately, most of the time I’m treated as if I’m invisible. Which is okay with me, except the dodging out of the way of people and not making eye contact can sometimes be challenging.

  Still, I prefer that to being faced with accusations.

  At first, I didn’t see this coming. I always loved to cook, and got pretty good at it early on—though a few major mishaps come to mind (root beer extract in cupcakes was…a mistake)—but it never occurred to me that I could make a living this way. I guess that seemed too domestic for me at the time.

  When I was working in Manhattan right after college, my mother tried to convince me, time and again, to meet a nice man and settle down.
She wanted me to open a retirement account, and my legs, and start a future and family.

  Not me. After what I’d been through, I think I was seeking some form of anonymity. What I would have said at the time was that I simply wanted to be free to go wherever the wind blew me. Like I was just a whimsical spirit, blowing through life and open to everything.

  The problem was, the wind wasn’t a reliable headhunter, so I moved from one go-nowhere job to another, proving my mother’s fears more correct every day. Every time I found a job I liked, something happened to ruin it: like when I temped in the props department for a local morning show in the city, and I mistakenly got a Cat in the Hat costume out for a celebrity guest who was supposed to be Uncle Sam for a special Fourth of July segment, but in my defense, the electricity was out and it was very hard to see in the storeroom. (And who would have thought they’d have a Cat in the Hat costume at all? Seriously, how often could that have come in handy?)

  When I hit twenty-six, I started to question if I was being irresponsible and immature by continuing my “free-spirited” ways. To my mother’s delight, I settled into some good corporate jobs with excellent benefits. Three years in the research department at the local CBS affiliate led to two years at the Discovery Channel—and a routine rut that would have bored even the most patient yogi in Tibet.

  But as I settled into a routine life and watched the years fly by like the calendar pages in a movie, I started to feel old. That was all. Not pious, correct, responsible, or anything else, just old. Suddenly I realized that actors and actresses and singers and even pro football players were younger than me.

  Ten years ago, my life was I have plenty of time to figure out what I want to do.

  Five years ago, I reached Hmmmmm.

  Two years ago, I found myself teetering on the edge of Oh-oh, and looking straight down the barrel of Oh, shit.

  I quit my tedious job, got myself a place that was tiny and modest but it was my own, and I followed my passion into a cooking career. I loved it. I love it. I’m my own boss, I meet interesting people all the time, I’m never bored, and whatever small part of me has a maternal instinct to take care of people is satisfied by nourishing them.