“Just be glad she’s not making you wear a scarlet ‘A,’” Sara teased.
“Not funny.”
“I’ve got to go. The board has asked for a first draft of next year’s budget by the end of the month. Crunching numbers was never my forte.”
“Really? You’ve always been the crunchy type,” Helen teased her back.
“I’ll call you on Monday after I’ve had a chance to speak with Zoe.”
It could have been a case of the Monday morning blahs, but more likely, Michael was suffering from an overdose of the bad vibes that had permeated the Drager household all weekend. To make matters worse, on his desk was a phone message from Vince Gargano; he dreaded having to tell him he wouldn’t be able to participate in the Fantasy Basketball Camp. When he finally made the call, Vince was disappointed to hear that his bidding consortium would have to continue its search for a Middle-Aged Male Willing To Spend Five Thousand Dollars To Fulfill a Sports-Related Fantasy.
“What can you do, bro? Your old lady has gotcha by the cahones,” Vince said snidely.
“I gotta tell you, I kind of see her point,” Michael said defensively. “If Zoe ends up at The Bucolic Campus School next year, we’ll be more than happy to participate in the school auction. But right now . . . it doesn’t really seem . . . kosher,” he said, hoping he might succeed in tricking Vince into giving him a prenotification date thumbs-up. Sara’s optimism about The Bucolic Campus School was encouraging, but like Helen, he would feel much better hearing it from Vince.
“Well, if my guys don’t win the bid this year, maybe we’ll have another shot at it next year. Okay, bro?” Vince offered generously.
I could construe that to mean that an acceptance letter is forthcoming . . . or not, Michael thought morosely.
“By the way, I’m playing in a three-on-three game up here in the school gym tonight. Want to join us? I think we need another guy,” Vinnie extended a conciliatory invitation.
“Don’t think I can make it, but thanks anyway,” he answered. Last week he would have jumped at the invitation, but today he felt as though he needed to get home as early as possible.
“No problema,” Vince replied, and hung up.
Michael’s thoughts were jolted back to the Cooking Network when Charlotte poked her head in to tell him Justine Frampton had arrived for the production meeting.
“Take her to the conference room. Let the team know she’s here, and I’ll be there in a minute,” Michael instructed, and gathered his La Cuisine de Justine files. He couldn’t believe he had to participate in yet another game of charades with this ridiculous woman. And in the presence of his staff again, no less.
Everyone was assembled around a large table and was passing around eight-by-ten prints of the photographs Michael had taken in France, admiring Justine’s country kitchen as she looked on eagerly.
“I adore those tiles, too. Do you know, I bought them from an old monk right before his monastery was demolished? He was so happy to know they would be put to good use. Thank you. The view is lovely, isn’t it? And in the spring it’s divine. You can all look forward to seeing it then!” she gushed. “Oh, hello, Michael.”
“Hello, Justine. Okay everyone, let’s get going here. We have a lot to cover. First of all we need to go over how we plan to block the basic shots in Justine’s kitchen. Notice, the width of the door is slightly too narrow to accommodate the cameras. We may have to widen the doorway slightly. Justine, how would you feel about that?”
“Well . . . it is an historic building, sixteenth century, mind you, so it would have to be done very carefully. Hmmm . . . but if you’re going to the trouble of bringing in a crew . . . I was just thinking . . . you might want to consider raising the roof ever so slightly. It’s awfully low. I’ve always thought a cathedral ceiling—with skylights, naturally—would be so much more attractive. For the show, that is. Don’t you think?”
“I’m not sure about that. Let me talk to the set designers and get back to you,” Michael said evasively. “Cynthia, what do you think about Justine’s stove?” he asked the head of the cooking department.
“Gorgeous. I love the ancient look of the burners. And that old brick oven is so authentic.”
“Ahhhemmm,” Justine cleared her throat loudly. “I agree, the antiques have their charm. But let’s be honest—not for the kind of serious cooking we’re talking about here. I really think we need to upgrade all the appliances to top of the line. Don’t you, Michael?”
“I agree with Cynthia about the authenticity. Let’s continue to look at it. We don’t have to make a decision now,” he answered diplomatically.
“Look at this shot of Justine’s cookware,” Michael said, passing another photograph around the table. “Aren’t these old pots wonderful?”
“Gorgeous.”
“Lovely patina.”
“So real.”
“Worn thin. Broken handles. Downright dangerous. They all need replacing. For the show, that is,” Justine insisted.
Cynthia looked sideways at Michael. “We’ll decide about these details, Justine. Cynthia has a great eye for what works on film. Trust us.”
“When you see how shabby they are, I’m sure you’ll agree with me,” Justine said stingily.
“Now, what about a second pair of hands in the kitchen? I was thinking it might be nice to have a young French chef. Someone Justine is sort of training on the set with her. Get some nice little back-and-forth going. Mentor-protégé kind of feel. What do you people think about that?” He directed his question to the marketing experts.
“Marvelous idea!” Justine responded enthusiastically. “I was actually going to make the same suggestion. And I have the perfect person.”
“Lovely young local female talent, perhaps?” Rubin, the dirty old head of international syndication, inquired.
“Er, not exactly local. Or young. But she does speak French. Michael knows her. An extraordinarily competent student of mine named Pamela Rothschild.”
Michael gagged and splattered his coffee. “WHAT?”
“Rothschild, eh? Lots of panache and great name recognition. Didn’t know you knew a Rothschild, Michael.” Rubin seemed impressed.
“Ah, yes. I do. Um . . . could you all excuse us for a minute. I need to speak with Justine alone. Let’s take a ten-minute break.”
Perplexed, the staff straggled out of the room and Michael closed the door. “Why the hell would we EVER want Pamela Rothschild on this show?”
“Oh, my, oh, dear,” she clucked like the Little Red Hen. “Because . . . she’s a marvelous cook? And a dear friend?”
“Bullshit.”
“Because without her this show never would have happened and she has a little free time before she starts her new post and asked me to get her a part on the show,” she explained nervously, moisture beginning to accumulate on her forehead and upper lip.
“It’s not going to happen. Got it?”
“Michael, you must be more considerate. I mean, after all she’s done for you. For Zoe, I mean,” Justine said righteously, and flung her braid over her shoulder.
“She hasn’t done SHIT for me OR my daughter!” he yelled.
“Are you forgetting your candidacy at The Fancy Girls’ School? Without Pamela in your corner, Zoe would never have been considered. There are dozens of applicants who are more qualified than she is. But Pamela never let up. She’s pushed and pushed . . . ,” she pressed.
Michael stood up and, towering over the still-seated Justine, declared with a certitude that, in retrospect, even he found astounding, “From this moment forward, consider our application to your Fancy-shmancy Girls’ School officially withdrawn!”
“You’re not serious. You can’t be serious. And my show. What will happen to my show?”
“That’s between you and Xavier now. I hereby resign as producer of this travesty,” he said, throwing his folder onto the table. Photographs scattered, Justine trembled, and Michael stormed out of the room.
After suffering through a tension-filled weekend, Helen was glad when Monday arrived and she was finally alone in the apartment. She had really hoped that she and Zoe could have spent some time together, knowing that if they had had a chance to get out and do something they both enjoyed, they would have reached a more peaceful accord. But Zoe had put up a wall and made sure she had scheduled plans with her friends for every hour of both days. It wasn’t until Sunday evening, when Zoe finally settled down and Michael was at the gym, that Helen had an opportunity to broach the subject of Phillip. But as soon as she uttered his name, Zoe recoiled.
“And I would prefer if you never, ever said his name in my presence again!” she shouted melodramatically. “And on that subject, I never want to see or talk to Catherine Cashin, either. She’s a spoiled brat!”
Helen had not expected that but was hardly in a position to argue with her. She then said, as calmly as possible, “If that’s what you want, that’s your decision. But it’s important for me to know that you understand that Phillip and I are no more than colleagues, as you implied the other night.”
“Mom,” she shrieked, “I said I don’t want to talk about him!” And she ran into her room and slammed the door. Later, when Helen gingerly went in to say good night, Zoe impassively accepted a kiss.
After a sleepless Sunday night spent thinking about all that had happened (and not happened) with Phillip, she woke up on Monday morning knowing that she had to end whatever it was that was going on. Unsure what Miss Manners had to say about an electronic Dear John letter but having concluded that the phone was awkward, a rendezvous was unwise, and snail mail was too slow, she settled on sending an e-mail.
Dear Phillip,
I couldn’t bear the idea that Zoe blamed herself for leaving the earrings at your house, so I invented a flimsy explanation as to why I had been there and how they came to be left behind. It was truly pathetic and I’m embarrassed even thinking about it.
We once joked about me being your wake-up call. In a way you provided the same for me. You woke me up to the fact that I have a loving husband and a trusting daughter. To risk the loss of either of these relationships for an amorous adventure would be self-indulgent and ludicrous.
You’re a gracious, kind and outrageously sexy man who deserves a compassionate, devoted companion. Alas, that cannot be me. I wish you only the best.
Fondly,
Helen
PS. Please send the earrings via mail or messenger at your convenience. Thank you.
She read it several times before pushing “Send” and then, as she had been on the verge of doing all weekend, had a good, long cathartic cry. Within minutes her computer announced that an e-mail message had arrived.
Dearest Helen,
Although terribly disappointed, I respect your decision to put an end to the adventure we seem to have begun. It is more painful than you can imagine, as being with you has been the only bright spot in my life these days. Understandably, your commitment to your family must come first.
Would you possibly agree to let me see you one more time? Since Margot died so suddenly I have learned the importance of saying goodbye. It would mean so much to me if you would allow me this one indulgence. And I promise to bring your earrings.
Just tell me when and where.
Yours always,
Phillip
Phillip,
How can I refuse? I’ll be near your office for a meeting tomorrow. How about tea at Quattro Stagione at 4:00? Helen
Michael came home from work in the late afternoon looking bedraggled. With scraggly hair, blotchy face, and stuffy nose, Helen was not at her best, either.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You sound like you’re getting a cold.”
“I’m fine,” she sniffled. “Maybe it’s allergies. You’re home early. What’s up?”
As he poured out the story of the production meeting, raising his voice at least three decibels as he reported on Justine’s proposal that Pamela have a part on the show, Helen listened intently, emitting sympathetic murmurs along the way. Visibly nervous, Michael dramatically paused before revealing the denouement and then, having reached the end, warily awaited her reaction.
“You’re not angry?” He gaped in disbelief.
“Michael, I’m really proud of you. What you did took a lot of guts,” she said sincerely. “You should feel really good about it.”
“You know what? I do. But I was scared to tell you. I thought you’d hit the roof.”
“Zoe has no interest in going to The Fancy Girls’ School, and you at least had the balls to support her choice. I respect that. For some stupid reason I let Pamela talk me into thinking it was THE school for her. Now that I’ve finally accepted the fact that everything Pamela told us is utterly bogus, I’m finally ready to let go of my preconceived notions of where Zoe should go to school,” Helen explained with a lump in her throat.
“Fuck Pamela and the horse she rode in on!” Michael announced.
“I second that,” Helen added, taking Michael’s hand and holding it against her cheek to catch the tears that were streaming down her face.
“What’s the matter?” he asked gently.
“Nothing in particular. I haven’t cried in such a long time. I just need a release. I’ve been holding in a lot of stuff.”
They sat that way for several minutes.
“I guess one reason I’m feeling so sad is because I’m coming to grips with the fact that Zoe isn’t my baby anymore. I’m no longer in control of her and have to learn to stop trying. I once read that good mothering means giving your child roots and wings. There’s no doubt that we’ve given her good, solid roots. Now she’s beginning to spread her wings and is ready to fly. I have to let her,” Helen sniffled as she spoke.
“Allowing her to choose where she goes to school next year is a good way to start,” Michael said firmly. Helen closed her eyes and nodded.
“Good morning, Michael. Sorry to call so early,” Sara apologized, “but I just heard some very troubling news.
“I don’t think I can take any more bad news,” he moaned.
“What? What’s wrong?” Sara was concerned.
“Nothing, nothing. Just some stuff at work,” he finessed.
“Oh, it sounded serious,” she replied dismissively. She knew from Helen that Michael often exaggerated the gravity of his professional travails.
“So what’s up?” he asked.
“I got a call this morning from Lisa Fontaine, whose ex-husband’s step son goes to The Bucolic Campus School. She had just heard that Vince Gargano is taking a three month leave of absence. Apparently, his eighty-four-year-old mother broke her hip and he’s gone to take care of her.”
“Oh shit,” Michael responded. “This IS bad news. Should I give him a call? Figure out some way to make myself useful?”
“I don’t think there’s much you can do. He caught a flight to Rome late last night. She lives in some place called Finale Ligure.”
“He just dropped everything and blew out of town?”
“From what I hear, his father died a year or so ago and he’s been worried about his mother ever since. He’s an only child so the whole burden has fallen on him. He really didn’t have any other options,” Sara explained.
“Three months? That’s a long time to be away. Especially smack in the middle of you-know-what.”
“Admissions? I know,” she responded flatly.
“How do you think The Bucolic Campus School will handle it?” he asked.
“I gather that his assistant will be jumping in. Did you meet her when you were there?”
“No. All of our contact was with him,” he said sadly, and then, with a perceptible increase in panic level, added “She won’t know us from a hole in the wall. We’ll be just another name on the list. It’s a disaster!”
“Whoa. Slow down. I have to believe he made extensive notes after all of his interviews. He was certainly enthusiastic about Zoe when I spoke with him, so let’
s just hope that was recorded somewhere. If we’re lucky, he may have already made his first round of selections and she was one of them. There’s a good chance of that.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He sounded crestfallen.
“One more thing. I spoke to Zoe yesterday and she’s still very stuck on the public school idea, so I went ahead and set up a meeting at The High School for the Musically Gifted later this week. I’ll let you know what I learn.”
“Thanks, Sara. I’m glad we’ve at least got you on our side.”
“Talk to you soon. And, Michael? I’m really sorry,” she added.
As soon as Helen returned, Michael broke the news.
“This is totally insane! Poof! In the last twenty-four hours our two best shots have disappeared into thin air. Just like that. I can’t believe it!” She was in tears again.
“The Fancy Girls’ School is out of the running. But The Bucolic Campus School isn’t. Sara’s still very optimistic about our chances there. She thinks it’s highly likely that Vince had already made his selects before he left. When I talked to him yesterday, I got the sense that he was in the middle of doing that. I have to believe that Zoe is at the top of his list and that whoever takes over will honor that,” Michael said stalwartly.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think,” Helen said, shaking her head. “It’s just too bizarre.”
As he was leaving for work, he remembered to tell her about Sara’s appointment at The High School for the Musically Gifted. “I’ll be anxious to hear what she thinks,” he added.
“You and me both,” Helen replied.
It was a cold, gray day with a forecast of sleet, one of those dreary days when the sky hung like a blanket of wet cement. Helen spent a good part of the afternoon in a meeting with Ruth Noble, a program officer at the arts foundation that she had been counting on to fund her exhibition. As the meeting progressed, Helen became increasingly frustrated as Ruth repeatedly asked such uninformed questions that it was obvious she hadn’t read the proposal. Normally Helen would have persevered in guiding Ruth through the particulars, but given her overall state of mind, she instead sank into despondency. She was beginning to feel as though everything she had done over the past three months was futile, like she’d been madly spinning her wheels and was getting nowhere. It was in this mood that she arrived at Quattro Stagione to meet Phillip.
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