by Megan Bryce
“Yes.”
“Okay, bad example.”
Her mother went back to her dinner. “Where else are you going to eat if not here?”
“Wherever I want.”
“Your grandmother makes dinner on Sundays, she’ll expect you here.”
Sunday evening, eating her nonna’s food?
Not a hardship.
“Okay.”
“And now that there are three adults living here, we only have to make dinner two nights during the week. If you don’t want us to make any for you, that’s fine. But you’ll need to share in the responsibility.”
Gia put her fork down. “What do you mean there are three adults? Does Dad make dinner?”
Her mother nodded. “I told your father that if he was retiring, then I was retiring, too.”
“Dad makes dinner?”
“Don’t get excited, it was usually pizza from Rizzo’s. He’ll enjoy finding someplace new here that is inferior yet edible. And your grandmother and I end up helping each other, but it helps to know who’s in charge. Cuts down on stepped toes.”
There was a little uncomfortableness in Gia’s stomach and she said slowly, “And now I have to make dinner for everybody?”
“It’ll be good practice for when you have your own family.”
“Uh… How do you feel about ramen noodles and canned green beans?”
Her mother sighed, then forced a smile onto her face.
“Whatever you want. You’re in charge. But I will just comment that the school that was supposed to teach you how to be a president left out some important life lessons.”
Gia shrugged. “Presidents don’t cook dinner.”
“Hmm.”
Gia picked up her fork, pretty sure that her mother would be upset that she couldn’t cook even if Gia had ended up president instead of the nothing she’d turned out to be.
She said, “You help Nonnie, though, right?”
This smile wasn’t forced and her mother looked genuinely happy to say, “We would both love to help you make dinner.”
Gia looked at her mother and said, “You know, I think I’d love that too.”
They smiled at each other and for the first time Gia thought that moving back home wasn’t going to be a throat-slashing nightmare.
Her mother said, “Now, what do you mean you’re going to be out late?”
Gia took another bite. “I think you know what I mean.”
Her mother looked at her fork, then sighed.
“Don’t give your father a heart attack.”
Gia didn’t even have to think about it.
“Yeah. I could see that going both ways.”
Gia and Nonnie were dropped off at Teresa’s salon early the next morning by an accommodating cousin and they both stood in front of it for a long time, adjusting the mental picture they’d created while in New York.
Nonnie said, “I thought it would be different.”
“More neighborhood salon, less Fifth Avenue?”
Nonnie nodded. “That brother of yours. He married well, didn’t he?”
“I’ve always wondered why she said yes.”
“Amore makes for strange bedfellows.”
“That is not how that saying goes. But it should be because it’s obviously true.”
They pushed open the sparkling clear glass door, a flowery scent inviting them in, and Nonnie took a deep breath. “I’m going to like this place. What do you think about a new ‘do?”
“Yes. Me too. I look like I stuck my finger in a socket.”
“And nails? I want those long sharp ones that look like talons. Red, so it looks like blood.”
Gia hugged another cousin at reception before being waved on to the back, and said to her eighty-year-old grandmother, “Why?”
“I’ve heard about Florida retirees. They’ll be thinking I’m fresh meat.” She whipped her hands in front of her face. “And then they’ll be changing their mind.”
Teresa waved, heading to them from across the room. “Pick a chair.”
Gia sat down on pink suede, smoothing the fabric with her hand. “Where did you find these?!”
Teresa said in a faux posh accent, “Custom, darling,” and then bent to hug Gia.
Nonnie was led off to get her red talons and Teresa sat down across from Gia, taking her hands and inspecting them.
“Good nails. You take care of them.”
“Don’t tell Ma. She’s already upset at what I did and didn’t learn at school.”
“She’s proud of you, you know? A private boarding school, the Fashion Institute of Technology, your own business.”
“Meh. It’s residual pride left over from school because my own business is nothing to be proud about.”
“We’ll turn that around, starting today. You’ve got an appointment this afternoon.”
Dread. That’s what that feeling was in the pit of Gia’s stomach.
And because she was feeling like such a successful adult, she said, “And which cousin is going to drive me there?”
Teresa laughed, placing Gia’s fingers into two warm bowls of water. “You can borrow my Escalade until you get your own car.”
Her first time driving in Florida and it was going to be in a behemoth?
Gia closed her eyes, letting Teresa take care of her hands and her business, and said, “What’s my appointment like?”
“Haven’t met him. But his boss comes in every week. She was telling me how this one executive of hers wears the same tie every day. Every. Day. And after we stopped groaning about it, I told her I knew someone who could help and gave her your card.”
Gia opened her eyes to say incredulously, “You gave her my card? I don’t have cards.”
“I had some made for you to put out front. Anyway, he finally called last week and made an appointment. And I told all the girls that you pay for referrals. We’ll work out how much later. Flat fee? Percentage?” Teresa waved that away. “Later. Later.”
Gia said, “He set up the appointment last week? You know one of the reasons I haven’t been worried about giving up my apartment and moving a thousand miles was because you said I had a client already.”
Teresa looked unconcerned. “And look, you do. See how much unnecessary worry I saved you?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now pick a color.”
Gia looked through the colored bottles and picked out a dark silver.
Teresa put it back, taking one hand and smoothing cream onto the cuticles. “No, pick out a neutral color. You’re getting French tips. You’re not some teenager dressing your best friend. You’re a professional charging a professional fee.”
“Can’t I be a professional with some personal style?”
“Yes. When you have more than a handful of satisfied clients who will recommend you to everyone they know, I will let you paint your nails silver.”
“What about glitter? Can I have glitter?”
Teresa closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’ll allow an iridescent shimmer.”
“Oh! Okay, I’ll like that.”
Teresa opened her eyes. “And your hair?”
“Do what you want. It’s a lost cause anyway.”
“It’s the humidity. You’ll get used to it. And you’re going to need new clothes to go with new hair.”
“I’ve got clothes. And yes, before you ask, professional…ish clothes.”
Teresa pushed back cuticles, saying, “It’s like the blind leading the blind.”
“I’m an artiste. I can have style. I don’t have to dress like a business executive to be able to dress a business executive.”
“Oh.” Teresa dropped Gia’s hand. “I see the problem now.”
“What?”
“Didn’t that fancy school of yours teach you about presentation?”
Gia thought about it.
“My friends learned it so it must have been part of the curriculum.”
Teresa tried to smile.
<
br /> “That’s great. Pick a color.”
Gia picked bubble-gum pink.
Teresa put it back.
“When your client tells you he only needs one tie, what are you going to do?”
“Laugh?”
“I’m thinking less and less of this school you went to.”
“I’m just kidding. I will patiently explain to him why that is dumb.”
“Good.” Teresa picked up bubble-gum pink and shook it at Gia. “This is dumb. You know why?”
“Are you going to patiently explain it to me?”
“Everyone wants you to succeed here, Gia. If Gia’s not happy in Florida, no one will be happy in Florida. If Gia doesn’t stay in Florida, no one stays in Florida. We want Ma and Dad and Nonnie here.” Teresa put back bubble-gum pink. “You too.”
Gia sunk down in the chair. “They could have left me in New York.”
Teresa snorted. “Gia, you’re their baby. You’re their little girl. I’ve got a baby girl of my own and I wouldn’t leave her in New York. Sometimes I want to ring her neck but I wouldn’t ever leave her in New York all alone. And you think her daddy could leave her in New York? Ha! Her daddy thinks she shits diamonds.”
“You have a real way with words, Teresa. And he thinks that about you too.”
Teresa held her arms up, showcasing her salon.
“That’s because I do. And you will too. When you pick a reasonable color for your french tips.”
Gia looked at the selection again and picked out a light nudish pink to a satisfied nod from her sister-in-law.
Gia said, “Do you guilt all your clients into what you want them to pick?”
“Yes. Although, I am usually a little bit nicer in the presentation. I don’t have to be careful with you since you’re family.”
“…thank you?”
“You’re welcome. It saves a lot of time when I can just say no. Sometimes I’m here massaging cuticles for hours.”
Teresa smoothed a bottom coat on and Gia said, “So, about these cards you had made.”
“They’re on the front counter.”
Gia interrupted the ritual to go gingerly pick up one of her cards, putting it on the table between her and Teresa and trying not to watch as boring neutral was painted onto her nails.
Gia Abelli. Fashion consultant. Fashion Institute of Technology (New York). 9 years experience.
“Nine years?”
Teresa shrugged. “Didn’t you dress your friends at college?”
“I’m not sure that counts.”
“It counts.”
Gia studied the card some more and said, “I do look really good on paper.”
“Oh, yeah. You should see the dates I have lined up for you. They’re fighting over you.”
Gia looked over at Nonnie, picturing a horde of men fighting for the chance to date fresh meat.
“I doubt it,” she began and Teresa snapped her fingers and got up from the table.
She came back a minute later with a paper dangling from her fingertips, and sure enough, there was a list of men’s names and numbers on it.
Gia said, “Could you sell ice to Eskimos?”
“No, but I can sell sand to Floridians.”
Gia didn’t doubt it for a minute.
“And why did you ever marry my brother?”
Teresa wiggled her eyebrows. “I couldn’t keep my pants on around him.”
“Okay, gross. Never mind.”
Teresa growled. “Animal attraction.”
“Stop. Please.”
Gia read through the Leos, Vinnys, and Carmines, and said, “No Italians.”
The salon quieted abruptly, quaffed and semi-quaffed heads turning to stare at that proclamation, and her sister-in-law said menacingly, “What do you mean no Italians?”
“I mean if I’m dating someone who is not-Italian then everyone will know it’s not-serious. Okay? You know Nonnie, and Dad, would have a heart attack if I married a not-Italian.”
Her mother would just be happy she was married.
“And I’m not ready to get married yet.”
Teresa said, “You’re twenty-seven, Gia. When?”
Gia shrugged. “Not now. Someday. When lightning strikes. When I can’t keep my pants on around him and the animal attraction is just too much to bear.”
Teresa looked down at her list. “Well, then.” She folded up the paper and put it in her pocket. “I’ll save these for later.”
“I can find my own dates, Teresa.”
“And your own jobs?”
“Oh, no. That I’m really grateful for.”
“Good. I need a babysitter for Friday night since you won’t be dating.”
Gia blew out her breath. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t be dating.”
“Yes, you did. I just heard you.” She looked at Nonnie and said loudly across the room, “You heard her, right?”
Nonnie nodded.
“Not-Italians is not-dating.”
Megan BryceThe Tie’s The Limit
Five
Her nails really did look good, Gia thought as she gripped the Escalade’s steering wheel.
Professional.
But the shimmer almost made up for it.
And the sparkly pair of flip-flops she’d found to go with her pedicure really set off her knee-length pencil skirt and shell tank top.
Florida business casual.
And when she glanced at herself in the rear-view mirror, she thought her hair might look good for another ten minutes notwithstanding the gallon of product that had been heaped upon it. The fear-sweat from driving the Escalade was returning her hair to nature at top speed despite Teresa’s best efforts.
Gia breathed out a loud breath when she finally found the right office complex, taking up two parking spaces without bothering to try a second time—she’d be parking this thing all day—and then ran for the air-conditioned building and the ladies’ room to blot and repair as best she could.
She studied herself in the mirror, deciding she did look neutral and professional.
With a splash of shimmer and sparkles.
Yeah, she could do this.
She could be professional. She could stay in Florida.
Be successful. Make everyone happy.
Get a smaller car she could actually drive.
She found her client’s office only five minutes late and held her hand out as six feet of dirty blond stood up to greet her.
She said, “Gia Abelli. Fashion consultant. Nine years experience.”
The skin between his light blue eyes puckered as he shook her hand.
“Mac Sullivan.”
She gestured under his chin. “And this is the tie, I presume?”
Mac Sullivan looked down. “It’s not the tie. I have more than one, they just all look the same.”
Gia thought about patiently explaining to him why it was dumb to wear the same looking tie every day of your life, but her hair was making a break for it and sweat was slipping down her back.
She flopped into a chair, grabbing the first paper she saw and began fanning herself with it.
“Sorry, not used to the heat.”
He sat slowly. “New York gets hot.”
Gia nodded. “Yes, but it’s more like purgatory hot. Not this welcome-to-hell hot you’ve got going on down here.”
Mac Sullivan cleared his throat. “It’s March.”
Kill.
Me.
Now.
That’s all Gia could think, and maybe Mac must have seen it on her face, because he said almost kindly, “It is an unseasonably warm March.”
“So…does it get worse than this?”
He straightened some papers instead of answering and Gia wondered if they made frozen underwear.
Be cool in the sun! Simply slide on your gel panties right from the freezer and never sweat again!
Only $19.99 plus shipping and handling.
She couldn’t do this.
Couldn’t be a neutral pro
fessional.
Wasn’t going to stay in Florida.
Wouldn’t ever be able to shit diamonds or make anyone else happy.
All she could do was be herself.
And get this job over with so she could go back home.
She leaned forward, clasping her hands together and saying soothingly, “Tell me why you’re here, Mac?”
The pucker deepened. “You mean why you’re here?”
“Yes. Why am I here? How can I help you?”
He sighed, a soft but unimpressed sound, and Gia sat back in her seat.
“I’m here to help you look professional,” she said, deciding it had been a rhetorical question. “Like a successful professional.”
Mac turned toward his computer.
“Great. Go buy as many different ties as that takes.”
She eyed his is-that-navy-or-faded-black suit. “What colors do you like to wear? Cuts? Styles?”
“I don’t care.”
“What you wear is personal. I can’t go out shopping for you until I know what you like. Do you like this suit?”
He looked down, then back at his screen.
“I have no opinion about this suit. Or any suit. Anything will do really.”
She looked around his office, seeing no personal touches of any kind to help her gauge his style.
“What do you wear when you’re all alone at home?”
“I’m not home a lot.”
“What do you sleep in?”
“That’s personal.”
“Yes! Exactly!”
He stared at her until she said, “You’re not going to tell me?”
“No, it’s personal.”
She widened her eyes. “Naked?”
He said nothing.
Gia said, “I can’t dress you if I don’t know what you like.”
“Dress me like you’d dress a mannequin.”
“If I dressed you like a mannequin, then I’d be dressing you how I like.”
Mac said, “Okay, do that.”
“I can’t do that. It has to be you.”
He turned toward her, clasping his hands on top of his desk and leaning towards her.
She sat back in her seat, forced to stare into his eyes as he sincerely said, “I. Do. Not. Care. At all. My boss wants me to look different than this. Do that. Make me look different than this. Make her happy.”
