by Neta Jackson
When I hung up with Mabel, the tears had dried with a flicker of hope. Take Philip out to dinner. What a good idea. For one thing, he couldn’t yell at me in a restaurant. For another, she was right. I needed to take an interest in his business if I wanted him to support me in mine.
I picked up the phone again. “Okay, God,” I murmured. “I hope You heard Mabel’s prayer and that You’re on the job.”
The cab let me out in front of Bistro 110 on East Pearson Street just across from Chicago’s historic Water Tower. The sidewalk outdoor eating area was empty—chairs stacked, tables glistening with the recent rain, flower boxes empty. Would have been fun to sit outside, I thought, pushing through the door into the restaurant. Another time, when the weather wasn’t so iffy.
The restaurant was surprisingly full for a Thursday evening. Good thing I’d made a reservation. “Fairbanks for two, seven o’clock,” I told the maître d’ who looked at me questioningly. He consulted his list, smiled, and led me to a table covered with a white cloth. The fresh daisies tucked into a tiny vase were a nice touch.
A waiter appeared and handed me a menu. “Are you waiting for someone, or would you like to order?”
“I’ll wait. He should be here soon. But hot tea would be nice. Thank you.”
The tea soothed my jumpy nerves. Philip had been surprised when I’d called and suggested going out to dinner tonight. “Tonight? Why not the weekend?”
“Why not tonight?” I’d said sweetly. “You’ve worked hard all week, I’m sure you could use a break. I found a nice French restaurant downtown. We could meet there.”
“I don’t know, Gabrielle . . . I’ve got a five o’clock meeting with a new client, don’t know how long it’ll last.”
My heart had sunk. Five o’clock meetings usually meant drinks and “unwinding.” But I’d pushed forward. “I’ll make the reservation for seven. Just the two of us,” I’d added. No way did I want Henry and Mona to “just happen” to come along.
As my watch ticked closer to seven thirty, I was just about to change my mind and order some soup when Philip appeared, tie loosened, and sank into the cherrywood chair opposite me. “Sorry I’m late. Meeting went almost to seven. Whew! I need some coffee.” He signaled a waiter and then leaned forward, a grin cracking his face. “But if we get this account? Oh baby! We’re in. On our way.”
“That’s great, Philip!” My spirit rose. This was a good start. “See? This is a little celebration.”
Philip shook his head. “Uh-uh. When we sign this account, then we’ll celebrate—the four of us. We should know next week.”
Next week? Hopefully I’d be working by then. But it shouldn’t matter, although the staff and volunteers at Manna House seemed to be in and out all hours of the day and night. And I caught “the four of us.” Well, I had a week to psych myself up for an evening with the Fenchels.
The waiter brought Philip’s coffee, along with a pad to take our order. I selected the French onion soup, a romaine salad with apple batonnet—whatever that was—and roasted pecans, and the angel hair pasta with chicken.
“I’ll have the escargots en croute . . . mm, skip the salad . . . and the roasted duck confit.” Philip handed back the menu.
I laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Your French! You’re amazing. You do the accent so well.”
Philip rolled his eyes. “Restaurant menus. That’s about it for my French now. I was fairly fluent after two years at the university in Montpellier, though.”
“I know, silly.” My voice was flirty. “That’s where we met, remember? You pretended you were French just to knock me off my feet.”
He nodded, but I could tell his thoughts were still distracted by his meeting.
I gave up on the romantic angle. “So tell me about this new client. Is it a big project?”
“Huge.” Philip seemed glad to talk. I nodded, trying to under-stand the jargon of commercial real estate development as we polished off our appetizers, and asked questions now and then until our entrées arrived along with a lull in the conversation.
“I’m excited for you, Philip.” I was trying to eat the slippery angel hair pasta in a ladylike manner, but somehow more fell off my fork than got into my mouth. I should’ve ordered a steak. “Hopefully, I’ll have some good news next week too.”
The words were out of my mouth before I had time to think about how to bring up Manna House. For a moment, what I said didn’t seem to register. Then Philip looked up from his roasted duck and potato ragout. “Good news? What do you mean?” His face paled. “Gabrielle. You’re not—!”
I laughed. “No, no. Nothing so earthshaking.” Good move, Gabby. Scare him with a pregnancy, maybe he’ll be relieved when I tell him about Manna House. “I mean, I applied for a job, and I should know in a few days.” I reached across the table and laid a hand on his arm. “I would be able to use my skills as a recreation therapist.”
Philip dabbed his mouth with his napkin and then put it down, frowning. “I didn’t know you were applying for a job. Shouldn’t we have talked about this? We don’t need the money, Gabrielle. You know that. Especially if this new client comes through.”
“It’s not the money, Philip. I had to quit my job at the senior center pretty abruptly to move to Chicago. Which is okay,” I hastened to add, “but the boys are at the academy, you’re busy with your work . . . I want to get on with my career too.”
He threw up his hands. “Good grief. We’ve been here less than two weeks. I thought you’d appreciate time to get settled, finish unpacking, get familiar with the city. Mona knows down-town Chicago better than the cabbies. I’m sure she’d be glad to show you around, introduce you to some of the clubs she belongs to, that kind of thing.”
I took a slow breath. In and out. Should I tell him I would absolutely hate to hang out with Mona Fenchel, and I’d be bored silly at her stupid clubs? . . . Nope. I sent up a desperate, Help, Lord! and hoped Mabel was still praying.
Philip wasn’t through. “At least you could’ve waited until I’ve got this new business on a firm footing before jumping into your own game. There will be social events we’re expected to attend . . . I don’t know.” He pushed his plate aside as if I’d ruined his appetite.
I tried to ignore his pouting. “I’m sorry, Philip. I hadn’t planned to go job hunting yet—it just happened. Kind of fell in my lap. And it seemed so perfect, I jumped on it. But I should have talked it over with you before applying today. That’s why I’m telling you now.” I shrugged, trying to pass it off lightly. “For all I know, I might not get the job.”
“So what is this job? Is it full-time? I sure hope not.”
No way around it. “Um, I don’t know about the hours yet. It might be part-time. The job would be program director at Manna House—you know, the homeless shelter in the Wrigleyville neighborhood just south of us. Where we sent Lucy last week.”
Philip stared at me. “Lucy!” He spit the name out like a bone stuck in his teeth. “I should have known you’d do something stupid like this.”
chapter 13
Now it was my turn to stare at Philip. I didn’t care if we were in a restaurant. I wasn’t going to just let him kick me into a corner. “Stupid? Stupid?” I kept my voice low, but I spat out the words with the intensity of a couple of knife jabs. “Philip Fairbanks, that’s unfair. There’s nothing stupid about a homeless woman—an elderly homeless woman, for heaven’s sake!—and there’s nothing stupid about admiring the people who run shelters and thinking I can make a contribution!”
Matter of fact, it was a good thing we were in a restaurant, because I felt like throwing something. My leftover pasta would have made a good weapon—splat!—right in the middle of his Fairbanks-perfect face.
Philip threw up both hands—almost as if he knew I was tempted to take aim. “All right, all right. I shouldn’t have said ‘stupid.’ But admit it, Gabby. You’ve been obsessed ever since you tripped over that woman. I mean, you co
uld have ruined our relationship with the Fenchels right then and there when you brought her in that night! The smell alone was enough to make me puke.” He rolled his eyes. “Then you go checking up on her at the shelter and end up playing nursemaid, taking her to a clinic in the ghetto—”
He reached across the table and grabbed my wrist. “Look. We came to Chicago to start a business. I expect—I need—your support. To put Fairbanks and Fenchel first, to make decisions that will help ensure our success! For us, Gabby.” Philip released my wrist and leaned back. “Sure, maybe a job in a few months would be all right. But a job that enhances our standing in the community, maybe gives us connections that could prove profit-able. We’ve got to think about these things, Gabby.”
I looked away, envying the other restaurant patrons, laughing, talking, enjoying their meal and the easy camaraderie of Bistro 110. Where did I go from here? Philip made it sound like I, personally, was about to bring down his hopes of making it here in Chicago by taking on this job.
Are you praying, Mabel? I hoped so, because I knew we couldn’t leave the conversation here. I needed time to think, to approach with a different perspective . . .
The waiter appeared, like a God-inspired interruption. “Dessert, monsieur? ma’moiselle? We have crème brûlée, lemon and apple tarts, and if you like chocolate—”
Philip waved his hand as if brushing him away. But I spoke up. “The apple tart sounds good. And coffee, please.” Didn’t Mary Poppins say a spoonful of sugar helped the medicine go down? “Go on, Philip. You love chocolate cake.”
He shrugged.
“Make that an apple tart and a slice of chocolate cake. And two coffees.” For some reason, ordering dessert for both of us helped get my feet back under me. I had to steer down the middle lane here, or we were going to be barreling down the highway in opposite directions.
I made my voice bright. “Philip, honey, I do want to support you in this new venture. Tell you what, if Manna House offers me the job, I’ll tell the director I’m only available part-time—and hopefully that can be flexible, so if you want me to be available, I can be.” Whew. I was going out on a limb here. Would Manna House be open to a part-time program director? “But”—I didn’t flinch—“I do want this job. This job.”
The desserts and coffee arrived, once again giving us breathing space. The small talk about extra cream and dessert forks poked holes in the balloon of tension around our table. The waiter disappeared.
The Ping-Pong ball was on Philip’s side of the table.
“Fine.” He tackled the thick slice of dark chocolate cake. “You’re going to do what you’re going to do anyway. Just”—he waved his fork at me, loaded with chocolate—“just don’t get any notions about bringing your homeless ‘friends’ home with you. And certainly not to the office. Never.”
Could be worse, I told myself as the weekend loomed. At least Philip and I were still speaking. Agreeing to disagree, or some-thing like that. And maybe it was all for nothing. I could get a call from Mabel saying, “Sorry, Gabby. The board doesn’t feel you’re the right person.” Or, “Wish we could, but we just don’t have the money.” Huh, if it was just the money, I’d do it for free.
Camila had come again Friday morning, so the penthouse was sparkling. While she was cleaning, I’d tackled the boxes still stacked in the two extra bedrooms, doing load after load of sheets and towels. I made up the boys’ beds—a bunk bed for Paul, and a single bed for P.J.—and stocked the second bathroom, even though they wouldn’t be here until the end of May. “I can do that, Señora Fairbanks,” Camila had protested, when she saw me making the beds. “It is my job, no?”
“No, my job.” I’d laughed to make sure she knew I was teasing. “I want to do this for my sons, my—how do you say it?” I’d grabbed a photo of P.J. and Paul that had surfaced from one of the unpacked boxes.
“Ah. Sus muchachos.” She’d pointed to me, then to the photo. Then she held up two fingers. “Dos muchachos.”
This is good, I’d thought. I might learn a little Spanish. And by the end of the day, I’d unpacked most of the boys’ bedrooms, had dinner ready when Philip got home, and decided it was worth wasting an evening watching TV just to sit together on the wrap-around couch.
I was going to suggest we visit a church or two come Sunday, but when Philip said he had to go back to the office on Saturday, I scratched that. Doubted he’d want to spend his only free day of the weekend going to church. Besides, I’d gotten out of the habit of going to church every week. Was I ready to jump back into that discipline? Give up a lazy Sunday morning having coffee in bed, reading the paper, making crepes or omelets for brunch? At the same time, I felt a tug—a tug that was getting stronger. At Manna House, even homeless women had a chance to study the Bible and go to church on Sunday nights.
With no cleaning chores to do Saturday morning, I decided to make brownies for the boys and get them in the mail if I could find the closest post office . . . and tried not to feel too anxious about the Manna House Board of Directors meeting that morning to discuss my job application.
Mr. Bentley wasn’t on duty in the lobby when I came out of the elevator and pushed through the security door just before noon with my packages. This doorman was practically a kid, a white guy somewhere in his twenties, shirt collar unbuttoned, cracking gum, and twirling in the swivel chair behind the desk as if bored out of his mind.
“Excuse me. Sir?” Humph. “Dude” or “whippersnapper” would be more like it. “Can you tell me where to find the closest post office?”
“Nope. Don’t live around here.” Another swivel.
Good grief. What good was a doorman who couldn’t help the residents? I managed to finagle a Chicago phone directory out of him, but that was a dead end because I didn’t recognize the street names and had no idea which one was close to Richmond Towers. Finally, I walked to the small branch bank down the street and asked for directions. Didn’t sound like such a long walk to me . . . but I hadn’t counted on the wind whipping off the lake. By the time I mailed the two boxes of carefully packed brownies and got back to Richmond Towers, I felt as though I’d run a marathon.
No messages on the answering machine. Should I call the boys? But what if Mabel called? Besides, it was already afternoon. The boys would probably be out and about . . .
That set off a good cry, realizing I had no idea what my sons were doing that afternoon. And Paul was only eleven! Still just a kid who should be watching Saturday morning cartoons or playing his PlayStation 3 or imitating the older boys on his skateboard. For that matter, Philip Junior was still a kid, too, though what thirteen-year-old didn’t think he or she should have all the privileges (but none of the responsibilities) of adulthood?
I snatched up the phone. We had call waiting. If Mabel called, I’d just tell the boys I’d call back.
No luck. I just got Marlene Fairbanks’ charming voice mail telling me to leave a brief message. Beep. “Paul and P.J.? This is Mom. Please give me a call as soon as you get in this afternoon. By the way, I sent you something special in the mail today. Should get to school by Monday or Tuesday. Love you!”
Mabel hadn’t called by the time Philip got home from the office at eight. I didn’t say anything—I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get any sympathy if I wailed, “Why hasn’t she called?!”—but I did wonder out loud why the boys hadn’t called back.
“The boys? Oh, sorry, Gabby, I forgot to tell you. Mom called me at the office yesterday, no, maybe it was Thursday . . . anyway, she said she and Dad were taking the boys on a quick trip to Colonial Williamsburg and spending the night in a hotel. It sounded like fun.”
My urge to send a book sailing at his head was stifled by a stronger urge not to sink the boat, not when I had his tacit per-mission to accept this job if it came through. (“Use words to say you’re angry, Gabby,” my mother used to say when I was throwing a tantrum. “You don’t have to yell and slam doors.”)
“You forgot?! Good grief, Philip! I’ve been
dying to talk to them all day, wondering if they’re okay! You could have told me—better still, why doesn’t your mother ever call me and talk to me about the boys?” By the end of my little rant, I’d worked up a decent mad.
“Calm down, Gabby. Good grief. I said I was sorry. Besides, you worry too much. They’re fine. They’re probably having a blast with their grandparents.”
That wasn’t the point. I needed to hear my sons’ voices, to tell them I loved them, to hear them say they loved me. But I dropped the conversation, went into the bathroom, and bawled silently into a towel.
I finally heard from the boys on Granddad Fairbanks’ cell phone as he was taking them back to the academy on Sunday afternoon. They passed it back and forth, telling me all about Colonial Williamsburg, how they got to whittle a whistle, and the cool indoor swimming pool at the hotel. “So what did you send us, Mom? Our own cell phones?”
I shouldn’t have told them I’d mailed something. Let it be a sweet, simple surprise.
It was all I could do not to call the shelter to see if Mabel was there after the call from the boys. I didn’t want to seem too eager . . . though why not? It’d been twenty-four hours since the directors met. Surely she could tell me something.
Philip was watching baseball on the big plasma TV, kicking back with a bag of chips and a jar of mango salsa. I settled at the kitchen counter with a cup of chamomile tea to soothe my nerves and dialed.
Hola! Manna House. Can I help you?” “
Definitely not Angela. “Uh, hi. This is Gabby Fairbanks. Is—”
“Oh, hello, Señora Fairbanks! This is Edesa Baxter. How nice to hear your voice.”
Edesa’s lilting sunshine seemed to spark from the phone and brighten the room. “Hi, Edesa. So they’ve got you on the desk this afternoon, I see.”
She laughed into my ear. “Actually, I came to translate for the worship service this evening. Iglesia Cristiana Evangélica is doing our Sunday Evening Praise—the pastor is on the Manna House board.”
