by Tracy Ewens
“And Mom will not let it go that her friend Frida is allergic to nuts. She’s brought it up at least a dozen times. I told her the restaurant could not guarantee a nut-free environment.”
“Especially since you’re serving almond-crusted salmon. Wild caught in the US, by the way, I did check.”
“No. I changed it. It’s salmon and a dill sauce now.”
“Why?”
“Mom would not let it go. Are you on Twenty-Fourth or Twenty-Third?”
“Twenty-Third.” Meg pulled her toothbrush from her mouth to respond and rinsed. “I can’t believe you changed your menu for Frida. Who the hell is she? I’ve never even heard of Frida.” It occurred to Meg that there were probably a lot of her mother’s friends she’d never met.
“Naughty Book Club. They’ve known each other for a few years.”
Meg took her phone into the bedroom and pulled the covers up on her bed. Sage, Middle One, had e-mailed her an article that outlined the habits of highly successful people. Most of it had given Meg a headache, but she did remember the part about always making the bed.
“Did you say naughty?” she asked.
“Yes. They read steamy romance and then meet over drinks to discuss.”
“Are you kidding me? Our mom?”
“Let’s say she and her lady friends have an extensive knowledge of firefighters and all of their… equipment.” Anna chuckled.
“Wow. That is a surprisingly clear visual, so thank you for that. Back to Frida, you need to tell Mom her friend needs an EpiPen just in case. You’ve already rearranged your menu, which is more than I would have done.”
“I was hoping you could help me with that and the florist. I somehow ended up agreeing that if the color of the snapdragons isn’t right, she could use something else, but I need snapdragons.” Anna sighed. “I foolishly thought getting married was going to be enjoyable, but things keep coming up and…”
“I will take care of Mom and the snapdragons. You’re too agreeable. This is your wedding. You need to make it know who’s boss.”
“Not my strong suit. I’m here, parking now.” Anna disconnected and Meg wondered how her sister could so confidently guide her classes through Shakespeare and yet allergies and flowers threw her.
Meg pulled on a T-shirt and, catching her reflection in the mirror, stepped closer. “What the hell?” she said to the specks of black still clinging to the skin under her eyes. Was there a reason mascara had to hold on for dear life? NASA could put something this sturdy to good use.
After picking the last of the bits off her cheeks, Meg slathered her face with coconut oil. No matter how many spas or facials Amy tried to lure her to, Meg knew all about keeping things soft and moisturized. She had spent years in the elements. She’d found coconut oil on one of her first assignments in the Philippines. Jessa, a woman at the local fruit stand, warned that if Meg didn’t start putting something on her skin, she was going to look like an “old ox.” From that day forward, Jessa was the only beauty expert Meg had ever needed.
Nothing worked better than an eight-dollar jar of coconut oil, and the smell was a bonus. The guys on assignment used to tell her she smelled like an Almond Joy. Toby, who carried all their gear in the Arctic, still addressed his emails to Almond Joy. Now that she was back in the city and things were a different kind of harsh, Meg had a feeling she might need something more than coconut oil.
In addition to her professional photographs, Meg had taken pictures of the people she’d met on her travels and thought about framing a few for her apartment. They too were a collection of her experiences and might add perspective to her current state of disarray.
Deciding she should ask her mom for a good frame shop once they went over Frida’s EpiPen, Meg pulled her hair off her face with the elastic around her wrist and heard the knock.
“You’re early,” she said, opening the door to find her sister Anna looking more like a future bride every day. She deserved happy, and while most of their family was still a bit shocked she’d found it with a football coach, their father was thrilled. Said he knew all along his “Anna Banana” was a closet football fan. Anna humored him, but they all knew by now that Dane, her fiancé, was so much more than his job. He was a welcome addition to their family, joining Garrett and Matt as the men who loved the Jeffries sisters.
That left Meg, which was fine. She was used to being last and was starting to think her happiness required a kind of wild rarely found indoors. Besides, she was focused on planting roots of her own and was in no hurry to take on anything or anyone more than she already had at this point.
“I am right on time.” Anna closed the front door and glanced at her watch.
“Why are you wearing work clothes?”
Her sister looked down at her skirt and blouse. “I’m not. We are going to try on the dress. I needed to wear the undergarments I’m wearing for the wedding. I can’t do that with jeans.”
“Why not? What’s under there?”
“Lace and silk.”
Meg opted for her jacket instead of the sweatshirt she was planning to wear. She didn’t want her outfit to scream, “Hey, I’m the unpolished one,” through the bridal boutique. She pulled out her phone.
“Okay, so I’ve added naughty mom and the snapdragons to my to-do list,” Meg said.
“You can’t call her naughty mom.”
“Oh, but I can.” Meg turned her phone to show Anna that their mother was now in her contacts as Naughty Mom.
Her sister tried to register her disapproval but ended up laughing. “How have I gotten by all these years without you?”
Meg felt an apology swell in her chest, but there was no reason to apologize. They’d all left her first. She needed to remember that and not completely dismantle the choices she’d made in return. Her sister hadn’t meant to make her feel guilty, and there was no reason to be.
“So, last fitting and then you need to decide on the shoes.” Meg’s thumbs tapped. “Vivian”—she looked up, her face scrunched—“is that honestly the shoe lady’s name?”
Anna nodded and put a mint in her mouth. Meg had mints somewhere.
“Right. Well, Vivian has your final three choices, and she’s meeting us at the boutique. You didn’t go with the dress that makes you look like a pilgrim, did you? I can’t remember which one you finally picked. God, it’s like a sea of white and cream when I try to focus on the dress.”
Her sister laughed, took her by her shoulders, and kissed her on the cheek.
“What was that for? You did choose the pilgrim one, didn’t you?”
“No pilgrim. I love you.”
“Your breath is so minty. Give me one of those.”
Anna held out the tin and Meg placed two little disks on her tongue.
“I love you too. Now let’s get going. You promised pizza for lunch and since I am going to join a gym soon, I need pizza.”
Meg grabbed her bag and locked the door. “So glad you didn’t go with the pilgrim. I’m not sure I could have kept quiet about that.”
“I did not look like a pilgrim.” Anna pulled her coat closed as they flagged down a taxi.
Meg opened the door for her, wanting to be a full-service maid of honor. “Oh, but you did. That collar was screaming for a pumpkin pie.”
Anna smacked her shoulder as Meg scooted in next to her sister while giving the driver an address. This was why she was home, Meg thought as they pulled into traffic. If she’d come back solely to stand next to Middle Two, that would be enough.
The Jeffries girls were born Hollis, Sage, Annabelle, and Meg. Their mother was an only child and used to stare in transparent fascination that despite the same parents, her daughters had each turned out differently. Hollis was “a textbook firstborn,” their mother used to say, and she often bellowed down the hall, “Why can’t you be nice like Sage.” Hollis and Sage, almost opposites, were close growing up. Hollis was the popular yin to Sage’s good-girl yang. That left Annabelle, the second middle child wit
h her head “always in a book,” and Meg. She was the baby and the sister most likely being lectured when their mother assessed all four of them and scrunched her face. “Meg, honestly, did you even try brushing that rat’s nest?”
Anna and Meg were the two daughters least understood, and that somehow bonded them growing up. Meg allowed and appreciated the silence when her sister read most days they spent together. Anna had a subtle way of sticking up for Meg and her efforts to protect creatures large and small. She taught Meg how to braid her hair so she could be outside until the last minute and pull herself together quickly. She ran interference, often stepping out from the shadows to protect Meg. When Anna left for college, Meg was devastated. At the time, she turned the loss into anger and rebellion, but years later, she recognized that losing Middle Two to reality had left a mark on her heart forever.
Such a strange thing to grow up one, two, three doors down the hall from one another and then be sprinkled into the world to fend for oneself, Meg thought, glancing at Anna, who grasped the bench seat between them as the taxi swerved to avoid a double-parked delivery truck.
“Mr. Westin Drake.” Artie, the maître d’ of Deluxe, approached, arms outstretched, causing the smooth white linen of his tailored jacket to inch up past his belt. “A pleasure, my friend.” He hugged West and gently guided him toward the dining area. “Hannah has already been seated, and I will order your Tanqueray and tonic now that you have arrived.”
“Club soda with a lime today. Thank you,” West said as he sat in the chair pulled out for him and took the white cloth napkin presented to him with more flair than he ever understood. It was a napkin for crying out loud. But, Deluxe was the best, or so everyone said. And it wasn’t like West wanted to go back to eating the economy bag of hot dogs from Costco.
“Absolutely,” Artie said, leaving West to his agent and her iPhone.
Hannah glanced up quickly and focused back on her screen. After a moment, she held up her finger to indicate she was almost ready for human contact, her thumbs flying feverishly about. West took a sip of his water and enjoyed the bubbles as they danced across his nose. Looking out the enormous bay windows as other diners began filling tables for what would soon be the see-and-be-seen lunch crowd Hannah loved so much, West realized he didn’t look around much anymore. His head was often down or hidden. What did that do to a person? he wondered as two women pointed and reminded him why he rarely looked up. Closing his eyes for a beat, he picked up his menu and prepared to smile as the taller of the two approached.
“Here,” Hannah said, not the least bit startled by the interruption or finally being torn away from her phone, “the life source” as West liked to call it. She stood. “Let me get a shot with you and West. Did you want to include your friend?”
The woman extended a frenzied gesture to the other woman, and by the count of three they were all huddled together and smiling as if it was the most natural thing in the world to stand up in a restaurant and take a picture. Not like there were people paying to eat or discussing their lives. He was Westin Drake, and that meant something, or so Hannah would say if he ever hesitated to stand up anywhere in the name of pleasing a fan.
After signing one of the menus, West returned to his seat.
“So, the press loves you with the photographer.” Hannah shifted gears flawlessly and downed the last sip of her martini.
His brow furrowed. “Sorry?”
Her ice-blue eyes peered through the delicate tortoiseshell frames perched across her pointy nose. “The woman, at the thing. The one in the thrift shop skirt.”
“That’s her favorite skirt.”
“Okay. The woman in her favorite thrift shop skirt. The press saw you kiss her and rumors are flying. People are loving it. National Geographic is trending. That never happens.”
“I’m sure there are several reasons an institution like National Geographic would be trending. It has nothing to do with me.” He took another sip, somehow enjoying the bubbles less.
Hannah shook her head. “It has everything to do with you, well, that kiss. People want to know who she is and more importantly, what she means to you. Which, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, is good PR for you.”
“I didn’t kiss her. I mean, I did, but it was a peck on the cheek.”
“They saw a kiss.”
“Neat.”
“Don’t ‘neat’ me. I know what that means.” She pointed at him. “You say neat when you’re on your ‘this is so trivial and superficial’ trip. I sat next to a crying baby on the plane this morning. In first class, mind you, so I’m cranky. Please don’t be an asshole.”
“Her name is Meg.” West signed two photographs their waiter slid in front of him. He’d gotten to the point that he signed practically anything, except for skin. A guy had to draw the line somewhere.
“Good. Well, Regis called me this morning and Next Generation, who chose you last year as their spokesperson mostly due to the fact that I spent three conference calls pretending to be fascinated by their new workout pants made from recycled bottles, just saying, is interested in the two of you for some of their upcoming promotions.”
“The company that does the solar panels?” he asked and tried to remember the tagline from the commercial he’d done. “Reinventing what’s green?”
“What’s right, it’s reinventing what’s right.”
“That’s bad. I said that?”
“Yes, you did. Several times, and they paid you incredibly well. Based on the call yesterday, they would like you and the photographer to participate in some of their community events. She has a gallery show coming up or something like that. We, that is Regis and I, think she’s hot right now and you two both care about… fish or birds. That part is irrelevant. Next Generation is global and they appeal to your earthy, introspective side. It’s a win-win, so why not?”
Hannah had been West’s agent for most of his career and sometimes, he wondered why. He wasn’t sure he liked her and he was positive her percentage was inflated, but he’d never bothered to shop around. Hannah brought him Full Throttle and had been in his ear or up his ass ever since. His dad liked to say, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” but it was safe to say if he and Hannah were married, West would be looking for a good lawyer.
“We start filming in four months,” he said.
Hannah nodded with her wide-eyed “you’re a moron” face. West hated that face. They ordered salads, and she removed her glasses and proceeded to fold them with a dramatic pause.
“I know when you start filming, Westin. I want you to do the feel-good shit before filming. I’ve done all the hard work here. You simply need to show up and smile.” She leaned in as if she were a mother scolding her son in the middle of Sunday service.
“And if I don’t want to do this? If I want to continue having some down time before I slip behind the wheel again?”
“It is certainly your prerogative to decline.”
That was too easy.
“Of course, Regis thinks these events and hanging around Bad Skirt could give you some depth, especially since you mentioned wanting the lead in that sappy independent film. The one about the guy with a bicycle or something else utterly ordinary. Christ, when did real life make a comeback?”
“The Messenger?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Word is they’re going to start looking for the principals in a few weeks.” She popped a tomato into her mouth, and her expression was downright fairy-tale evil. “Might help if you were seen schmoozing with the patchouli and essential oils crowd, huh?”
West rubbed his eyes. Why did everything feel like a compromise? Wasn’t success supposed to bring with it a certain amount of pull?
“Fine. What do I need to do?”
Hannah patted her mouth with the white linen napkin. She picked up her phone, and West felt the puppet strings snap taut into place.
Chapter Five
Meg had never seen tinier water bottles than the ones clustered on the metal c
onference room table at the Regis Agency. What was that? Two sips of water and a bottle that would take one thousand years to decompose? Stupid, and the older Meg got, the less patience she had with stupid.
Clearly the first one to arrive, she politely asked the receptionist for some tea and set her bag down on one of the conference room chairs. Meg smoothed her hands along her new black pants and willed her nerves away. She needed to start getting a handle on these types of meetings if she was going to make a business out of photography. That’s what she was trying to do, wasn’t it?
The truth was she didn’t know what she was doing, but instead of continuing to question her decision, she woke this morning determined to take back control. That started from within. She didn’t need one of Sage’s motivational Instagram posts to remind her. Meg knew who she was. She simply needed to figure out how that person fit into her new picture.
Tossing her tea bag in the small trash can, Meg walked slowly around the conference room, which was larger than her entire apartment. There were movie posters and glossy pictures of beautiful people, some of whom she recognized and others she wasn’t sure were real. On the other side of the room were windows, floor to ceiling and framing an almost omnipotent view of the familiar skyline. The fog, which Meg knew from her father wasn’t fog at all, but low-lying clouds, began to burn off as the morning sun continued its climb through a blue-gray sky. The Golden Gate Bridge came into focus right before her eyes through a cloud that caressed the crimson metal into view.
Meg was used to being surprised by the natural world. Her job had practically been a model for the unexpected, but she felt unprepared for beauty in the middle of the city. Stepping closer, she touched the window as the receptionist in all white informed her the others “would be along shortly.”
How did she keep all that clean? Meg thought, turning from the window to the portraits. They were twenty by thirty-eight maybe. Artificial light for effect, Meg guessed. The angle, while flattering to each model’s features, made most of them look detached and intimidating. She supposed that was for effect too. She wondered if they held interviews for new employees in this room. Nothing like two dozen beautiful people looking down at some poor hopeful candidate in a callous, industrial-chic conference room. All of them subliminally asking—Are you sure you’re gorgeous enough to be here?
