When Amber finally left, Ella returned to her preoccupation with the house. She was so immersed in reunion with Sims, with her soft bed and familiar kitchen, that she called in sick to work. She filled the refrigerator, cooked Sims a few good meals, and caught up on some sleep without Bruiser barking below.
Tomorrow she’d return to Crumbling Chateau and Swept Away. The honeymoon was over, so to speak, but it had been a remarkable high even without Sims spending the night. Some semblance of normalcy was starting to take hold. He’d rented a loft apartment in the new building downtown: fresh and clean, with a view of the square. Ella wasn’t even jealous. She was just content to be in her house for a full week spending time with Sims, talking, and trying to find their way again. She felt hopeful. No, more than hopeful. He’d tried to spend the night every night, but she’d refused. “Not until you come home for good,” she told him. Hope, it was a light and breezy thing.
Her walk to work the next afternoon was glorious, the kind of day when the wind was gentle and the sun held its full blaze behind the clouds. The sidewalk, cracked and uneven, seemed right. Almost everything seemed right. Except when she thought of Hunter.
Ella approached the front door of Swept Away just as Margo walked out. She moved aside to let Ella in. On instinct, Ella glanced toward the shoe section and made sure it was all in order. Far from it. Boxes were stranded in the middle of the floor, shoes were unmatched and discarded on the couch and chair. “God, who had the shoe section yesterday?” Ella asked.
“No one because you called in sick,” Margo answered.
“Why didn’t Nadine or Jackie do it?”
“Because they were busy with their jobs while you weren’t doing yours.”
Ella didn’t give Margo the satisfaction of a reply. She just walked to her section and began to put everything back in place. Dead flowers drooped over the white vase like they’d fainted. Ella threw the rotting stems in the trash. It might be a crap job, selling shoes to bratty brides, but she took pride in it.
Margo entered the section and stepped over a box. “I have a big announcement, so there’s a staff meeting in fifteen minutes in the backroom.”
“Okay,” Ella said.
“You don’t look sick,” Margo said. “That was a quick recovery.”
“It must have been food poisoning,” Ella said.
“Sure thing,” Margo said.
In the fifteen minutes before the meeting, Ella had her section looking exactly as it should. She ran next door, grabbed peonies from the flower shop, and then entered the backroom where the staff waited. Margo entered the room in her white suit, one she only wore for important occasions or interviews with new clients, and clapped her hands. “I have the most fabulous news,” she said. “One that’s not only career changing for me, but will affect the store in the most positive way.”
No one said a word. The four staff members waited while Margo just beamed at them. She stood in front of a desk and leaned back on its edges, her hands behind her back.
“Well, what is it?” Nadine finally asked.
Margo flung her hands out and held up a drawing, a wedding dress in full color on cotton paper. Ella took in a breath; God, she wished she could sketch something that beautiful: the way the bodice held at the waist and then blossomed out like a flower, the lace and threading pattern in expanding echoes through the skirt and to the hemline. The tiny pearls that lined the sleeves and neckline were exquisite.
“This design, my White Diamond, which is named after my favorite hydrangea bush, has been chosen as a finalist in the Vogue Bridal Design Contest. I’ll fly to New York in two weeks to attend a ceremony where they’ll announce the winner.” Margo took a deep breath and placed the sketch back on the desk. “Even if I don’t win, the design will be featured in Vogue. This can only be good news for all of us.”
Nadine was the first to respond. She jumped up and ran to hug Margo. “This is so fantastic.”
Margo clasped her hands in a prayer position and said, “Prayers for all of it.”
Ella couldn’t move. Something was wrong. The wistful need to have drawn something that beautiful turned upside down, inside out: she had drawn that dress. That was her dress. Yes, it was gussied up, as her mom used to say. It had been colored in and brought to life, but it was still hers, the one she’d drawn at the café table with Hunter.
Jackie and Trey had joined in the congratulations, but Ella couldn’t move. She was stuck to her seat, a weight like concrete on top of her.
“Ella?” Jackie called back. “Are you okay?”
For Ella, this was a familiar feeling, one she wished she didn’t know, the same one she’d had when Sims had said, “I’m in love.” A fearful loneliness without a way out. An almost claustrophobic panic.
“She’s been out sick,” Trey said, and then walked to Ella. “Baby, you need water or something?”
Ella shook her head and then stood. She would do this differently. She walked to Margo. “You know that’s my design. We both know that.”
“Wait”—Nadine touched Ella’s elbow—“What are you talking about?”
“That design. It’s mine. You took it, Margo. You know that.”
“No.” Margo’s voice was so calm, like Sims’s, as if the facts were indisputable. “I gave you back your design. I told you—it was too much like mine so I didn’t keep it.”
Ella shook her head. “No.”
“Oh, please,” Margo said. “You’re not a designer. I saw a little drawing you did and then gave it back to you.”
“I have it,” Ella said, and turned to Nadine and Trey and Jackie. “I can show you.”
“Oh, Ella,” Margo said.
Ella felt the crazy coming on, the need to tear apart Margo’s sketch, or throw all the shoes in the river. That wouldn’t get her anywhere. She needed solid ground to stand on, some self-respect. She took in a long breath and walked out of the room, through the dress shop, past the dressing rooms, through the flower pavilion, and veils. She grabbed her bag, put one shoe box back in its place so it lined up perfectly with the others, and then walked out the front door, hollering over her shoulder, “Bye, bye.”
Ella paced through Watersend, back and forth, landmarks familiar and not seen as her mind scrolled through the options. Even if she showed everyone the sketch, they would say she drew it right there, right then. She could call Vogue and tell them, but she’d sound like a jealous employee, a wannabe who sold shoes in a small town.
“Enough,” she said out loud to the sidewalk, to the air, and to the world. “Enough.”
She was exhausted. She was finished with things happening to her. Sims. Margo. Amber. The landlord. It was time to make things happen.
Mimi’s apartment was so quiet that Ella didn’t want to knock. She placed her ear on the door and listened. Nothing. She reentered the stairwell and went back up to her apartment, where the musty smell washed over her. She lit a candle and put on some music—her mom’s favorite—Ella Fitzgerald. She turned the volume to high and put the kettle on to boil. Her sketches were still on the table, and there it was: the dress. She ran her finger over the edges of the sketch, the pearls on the sleeves and neckline. This was hers, even if Margo claimed it as her own. This design was Ella’s alone.
With a hot cup of tea, she sat down and organized her portfolio. Lost in the anatomy of dresses, she divided them by style. She named each dress and sorted them according to waistlines, sleeves, and embellishments. Hours passed. Her mind quieted, the heartache of the day became a dull throb.
When she’d finished, she looked down and saw what had been there all along in the art of her designs: collections. She had three distinct collections. She was, without anyone labeling her as such, a wedding dress designer.
In a long stretch, she surveyed her apartment. She wouldn’t stay. She was going home and staying home. Sims could make his own decisions. It didn’t take long to pack her suitcase, put her few dishes and kitchen appliances in a box. The bedspread and
sheets were folded and in a plastic bag when she called Sims and left a message. “I’m moving back into the house for good. You can join me if you’d like or you can stay in your apartment.”
* * *
Blake sat on the metal bleachers at the lacrosse fields, watching his daughter play midfield. Her plaid skirt and navy T-shirt made her indistinguishable from any of the other girls. But Blake knew the way she ran, the twist of her arm when she threw, the holler of joy when something went right. What he didn’t know was how she felt about anything. He’d tried to spend time with her—every day, in fact. They’d had nice times, but still she was quiet. She spoke only when spoken to. He fought hard not to ask too many questions. How are you? What do you feel? What do you need? Do you still hate me?
While the game went into overtime and Amelia sat on the bench (he could not and would not call her Amelie), Blake let his mind wander to the screenplay. The meetings were going well. Reese Witherspoon and Anne Hathaway were both “interested.” A director was circling and as soon as an actor or director the studio loved actually committed to the project, others would fall into place and they’d be off and running. Blake was telling anyone who would listen that he knew the perfect small town to shoot it in.
“Blake.” He looked up to see his ex-wife walking toward him.
“Hi, Marilee,” he said, ignoring the coiffed boyfriend, whose name he really did keep forgetting.
They sat next to Blake and tried to chat. Nice day. Good game. Wicked coach. Blake nodded when appropriate and stared at the field until his cell phone buzzed. His agent. He excused himself and walked toward the tree line at the edge of the field. Marilee’s voice followed him. “Just typical,” she said.
But he was in too good a mood to let it bother him.
“Blake, man, got the call. Reese is in. The studio is putting out the press release this afternoon. You ready for the buzz?”
“Nothing has ever happened this fast.” Blake stared out at the field, at his little girl running the length of it.
“Nothing you’ve written has been this good.”
Hollywood moves so slowly, except when it doesn’t, so let the chaos begin. The casting and the budget. The funding and the fighting. But it had started and that’s what mattered. It had started.
He returned to the bench and watched the end of the game. Everything was brightly lit, outlined in a way it hadn’t been before. He even smiled at his ex-wife. She looked at him, a crusty smile and asked, “What?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just happy.”
“A little Jack Daniel’s maybe?”
“No, sweetie. Sober as a judge.”
“Even your judge isn’t sober,” she said, turning away.
He was weary of her anger. He leaned down and spoke. “I promise you’ve made me as miserable as you can. We’ve hit our limit, I’m sure. Can we stop fighting now? The day is gorgeous. Our daughter is kicking butt out there. And you look beautiful, just like the day we met in the Palisades. Maybe even better.”
She looked like she was going to cry. “Why do you have to be so charming? Can’t you just let me hate you for a while?”
“I’ve let you hate me long enough. Can’t you just let me be done now?”
“I don’t know.” She turned around and he saw her wipe at her eyes and then leave to join her boyfriend, the nameless guy, at the edge of the field.
* * *
In-N-Out Burger had a line out the door, but it was where Amelia wanted to go for her postgame burger. If they won, it was a celebration burger but if they lost, it was a consolation burger, which is what it was that afternoon. The customers were such an eclectic mix: a hip-hop guy in sagging jeans; two young girls so blond they looked like mannequins; a family with two small red-haired boys, obviously twins, pushing at each other in fun.
Amelia leaned down to the boys, laughing. “It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye,” she said.
They looked up at her, all wide-eyed with small little noses that looked like clay globs on their freckled faces. “What?” one of them asked. He looked six or maybe seven, Blake could never tell ages.
Amelia pointed to Blake. “That’s what my dad always used to say to me and my friends when we were goofing off. It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.”
“Did anyone ever lose an eye?” one of the boys asked.
“Never.” Amelia wrapped her arm around her father’s waist and gave him a little squeeze.
The boys looked at each other with the silent language of twins, then started in again. “Boys,” their mother said, “please stop pushing!”
“Did I really used to say that?”
“All the time.”
“How do you remember things like that?”
Amelia shrugged. “There’s a lot I don’t remember, but my friends and I still say it sometimes for fun, you know, when someone’s doing something stupid.”
“It’s a great line. Wish I remember saying it.” He tried to recall those long ago days when she was small enough to wrestle with her friends or pop her thumb in her mouth. It was yesterday and yet it never happened. He should have been more present. He should have been more attentive. He should have been …
They grabbed their food and sat at an outside table. Regret. It sucked. He took a long swallow of his chocolate milk shake to wash out the bad taste. How many things he would have done differently. He tried Ella’s advice. He sat quietly, watching his daughter eating French fries. “You’re awful quiet,” she said.
“Yes, I guess I am. What a great game you had today. I’m so proud of you.”
“Well, thanks, Dad. I think you’d say you were proud of me if I shot the ball into my own team’s goal.” She punched the side of his arm.
He’d described Amelia to Ella one time, but now that he sat with his daughter, looking at her across the sticky picnic table at In-N-Out Burger, the table where a thousand other people drank their milk shakes and dripped ketchup and rubbed the greasy side of the burger wrapper onto the metal, he saw what he didn’t describe. The way her eyes changed color in the sunlight, becoming almost green. How her hair formed a widow’s peak in the middle of her forehead. He hadn’t told Ella how his daughter’s nose was the slightest bit crooked to the left after getting hit in a kickball game in second grade, how she’d never wanted a nose job to fix it because “everyone will think I just wanted a better nose, and I don’t.” Her cheeks, they were fuller than her mom’s but the same rounded shape, like two tiny plums sitting on top of the bones.
“You know you’re beautiful,” Blake said.
“Wow, Dad. You sure are sappy lately. What’s gotten into you? Are you in love or something?”
He didn’t laugh. It was a legitimate question, he guessed. He smiled at his daughter. “I am,” he said.
“Oh, you are?”
He knew she didn’t want that answer, not really, because who wants their dad in love with anyone but their mom? “With my new script.”
“Ah!” She lifted her milk shake to him and tapped the edges of his paper cup. “A new script?”
“Yup. Reese Witherspoon wants the lead.”
“Oh, Dad. You’ve gotta introduce me. She’s like totally one of my favorites.”
“It’s not a done deal, sweetie.”
“Gross, don’t call me ‘sweetie.’ That’s what Jake calls Mom. It makes me feel scaly.”
“Deal.”
The sunlight filtered through the awning above them, fell in stripes along the table. Amelia twirled her straw for a minute. “Monica is in rehab,” she said.
“Your friend from ballet?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. What happened?”
His daughter started talking to him as if she’d never stopped. She told him about the guy she was dating, and the school play she’d tried out for. She told him about her friends who were in trouble and those who weren’t. And at the end, when dusk had approached and they were still at the picnic table,
she told him that she missed him. It might not be everything in the world, but it sure was everything to Blake.
* * *
Ella stood in the kitchen, cooking spaghetti with homemade tomato sauce. A salad with fresh local vegetables sat on the side of the counter and she sipped on a chilled glass of rosé. Mimi sat at the kitchen table, sipping bourbon.
“You sure about this, dear?” Mimi asked again, glancing around the room.
“Yes,” Ella said, and lifted her glass to Mimi. “I’m staying. If he wants to leave, he can, but I’m here.”
“What if he calls the cops?” she asked.
Ella had told Mimi everything, as though she were a living journal. “If he does, well, I guess that answers how he really feels. If he’s only pretending to want to get back together, then let’s get the show on the road,” Ella said.
Mimi laughed. “Who is this new girl, all strong and ready to fight?”
Ella turned the sauce to low and sat at the table with Mimi. “Hunter told me that he had a dog that barked like Bruiser and couldn’t stop, and they found out that he was allergic to his medicine. Have you thought of that?”
Mimi shook her head. “No, that hasn’t once been mentioned. I wonder.”
“I wonder, too. I can take you to the vet tomorrow if you want.”
“Oh, no, I can’t make you do that.”
“Let me,” Ella said. “I’d like to.”
“That would be great,” Mimi said. “I sure am glad you came into my life.”
“Me, too, you.” Ella hugged Mimi before standing up to stir the sauce.
Music rested between them until they both turned to the sound of the front door opening. “Well, now you get to meet Sims,” Ella said.
“God, something smells great,” a voice said, a female voice—a loud, grating female voice.
“Shit,” Sims said as he and Betsy appeared in the kitchen.
What is there to say in moments like this? Surely there was something perfect to say, a witty comment, a smart-ass retort. It was Betsy who opened her mouth first, but the noise that came out wasn’t really a sentence, it was more of a whine that contained a few words like “why” and “her” and “ridiculous.”
The Idea of Love Page 18
