"Your mom is home, sweetheart," I offered, expelling a sigh of relief as London raced for the door. As soon as she opened it, I heard her call out "Mommy!" I straightened up the play area before following her. By the time I reached the front steps, Vivian was already holding London, the rear hatch open, and I did a quick double take. Her hair, I saw, was noticeably shorter, now shoulder length and closer in style to what it had been when I'd first met her.
She smiled up at me, squinting in the waning summer sunlight. "Hey hon!" she called out. "Would you mind grabbing some of the bags?"
I descended the steps, listening as London chattered away, telling Vivian about her day. When I was close, Vivian lowered London to the ground. By her expression, I knew she was waiting for a reaction.
"Wow," I said, offering her a quick kiss. "This brings back memories."
"You like?" she asked.
"You look beautiful. But how you did you pull this off on Sunday? Where on earth would even be open?"
"There's a salon downtown that offers Sunday appointments. I've heard great things about one of the hairdressers there and I decided to give her a try."
Why she hadn't mentioned it that morning, I had no idea. She'd also, I noticed, gotten a manicure, and hadn't mentioned that either.
"I love it, too, Mommy," London said, breaking into my thoughts.
"Thanks, sweetie," she said.
"I made cupcakes at Nana's today."
"You did, huh?"
"And they're so good, Daddy had two of them."
"Really?"
My daughter nodded, obviously forgetting all about her promise to me. "And Papa had four!"
"They must be delicious." Vivian smiled. She reached into the car, pulling out a couple of the lighter bags. "Would you mind being a helper with the groceries?"
"Okay," London said, reaching for them. While London made her way toward the steps, I noted in Vivian a hint of mischievousness, her good mood evident.
"Two cupcakes, huh?"
"What can I say?" I shrugged. "They were tasty."
She began reaching for more bags, handing four to me. "It sounds like the two of you had a good time today."
"It was fun," I agreed.
"How are your parents?"
"They're all right. Mom's worried about Dad having the cancer again. She said he had trouble catching his breath the other day."
"That doesn't sound good."
"There's more to the story, but I'm pretty sure it's nothing to worry about. He seemed fine to me. Mom's right, though. He does need to get a checkup."
"Let me know when you round up the team of wild horses you'll need to drag him in there. I want to get a photo." She winked before glancing at the front door, her way of flirting. "Would you mind bringing in the rest of it?" she asked. "I want to visit with London."
"Of course," I said.
She kissed me again and I felt the flicker of her tongue against my lips. Definitely flirting. "There are some more bags in the backseat, too."
"No worries."
I began reaching for the bags of groceries as she walked away. Absently glancing toward the backseat, I expected to see more of the same.
But it wasn't groceries. Instead, the backseat was stacked with bags from various high-end department stores and I felt my stomach lurch. No wonder my wife was in such a good mood.
Trying my best to ignore the sensation in my gut, it took me three trips to unload the SUV. I set the department store bags on the dining room table and I was just about finished putting away the groceries when Vivian wandered into the kitchen. Opening the cupboard, she pulled out a couple of glasses and retrieved a bottle from the wine refrigerator below the cabinet.
"I assume you need a glass even more than I do," she said while pouring. "London told me you played Barbies with her."
"She played. I was in charge of wardrobes."
"I feel your pain. I was there yesterday." She handed me a glass and took a sip from her own. "How are Marge and Liz?"
Though the shift in tone was subtle, I nonetheless detected a lack of interest in her question. Vivian's feelings for Marge mirrored Marge's for Vivian, which was one of the reasons why Vivian tended to get along better with Liz. That being said, although Vivian and Liz were civil and polite to one another, they weren't exactly close either.
"They're fine. London really enjoys spending time with them."
"I know she does."
I nodded toward the dining room table. "I see you went shopping."
"London needed some summer dresses."
My daughter, like my wife, would leave the house dressed as though she'd strolled out of a catalog. "I thought you already bought her summer clothes."
She sighed. "Please don't."
"Don't what?"
"Fuss at me about shopping again. I'm so tired of hearing it."
"I haven't fussed at you."
"Are you kidding?" she asked, a hint of frustration surfacing. "That's all you ever do, even when I take advantage of a sale. And besides, I also had to buy a couple of new suits for my interviews this week."
For a second I wasn't sure I'd heard her right. "You have interviews this week?"
"Why do you think I've been running around like crazy all day?" She shook her head, seemingly amazed I hadn't figured it out. "And that reminds me--you'll be able to watch London, right? On Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday morning? For maybe three hours each day or so? I'm supposed to interview with a slew of different executives at the company."
"Um... yeah, I guess," I said, still trying to wrap my head around the word "interviews." "When did this happen?"
"I found out today."
"On a Sunday? On a holiday weekend?"
"Believe me, I was as surprised as you are. They weren't even in the office on Friday. I was on my way to my hair appointment when they let me know."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"Because after that, I was rushing from here to there and I could barely believe it myself. Isn't it incredible? I think we should celebrate tonight, but first how about I show you what I bought?"
Without waiting for an answer, she led the way to the dining room and pulled out both suits--one gray and one black--draping them over the chairs. "What do you think?"
"They're very stylish," I said. I tried to avoid the sight of the price tags but I couldn't help it. My stomach did another flip-flop, then flopped again. Dollar signs danced in my head.
"The fabric is fabulous and I love the cut," she said. "And I got these, as well, to go with them." Reaching for another bag, she pulled out four blouses, setting them first against one suit, then the other. "The blouses match both suits--I was trying to save as much money as I could."
I wasn't sure what to say to that. Instead: "I'm still a little confused as to how the interviews came about. Last I heard, you were just putting out feelers."
"I got lucky," she said.
"What does that mean?"
"I called Rob a couple of weeks back and told him I was thinking about getting back into the PR game and he promised he'd let me know if he heard of anything. After that, I called my old boss from New York. Remember him?"
I nodded, wondering why she even needed to ask. We saw the guy practically every night before turning off the television.
"Anyway, he said he'd see what he could do. I didn't expect much, but I guess he talked to his manager, and his manager ended up calling me back. And, it just so happens that he knew a guy who knew a guy, and I guess my name got passed along to the right people because last Monday, I was talking to one of the vice presidents about a job and she asked me to put in a resume and three letters of recommendation."
"You've been working on this since Monday? And never mentioned it?"
"I didn't think it would amount to anything."
"It sounds to me like you had to have some idea this might be coming."
"Oh, please. Like I could have predicted any of this." She began laying the blouses over one of the chai
rs. "And anyway, I had to scramble for a third recommendation. I wanted someone locally prominent, but I wasn't sure he'd agree. But sure enough, he came through and I got my paperwork in by Wednesday."
"And you said the job is in PR?"
"I'd be working directly for the CEO, not so much the company. I guess he does a lot of press conferences and interviews. A lot of his developments are on the coast, and environmentalists are always up in arms. Plus, he's got a super PAC now, and he's getting more involved in politics and wants to make sure he's always on message."
"Who's the CEO?"
She paused, running her fingers along one of the suits. "Before I tell you, just keep in mind that I haven't even been offered the job yet. And I don't know whether I'd take it, even if they do offer me a position. I don't have all the details yet."
"Why won't you tell me?"
"Because I don't want you to get upset."
"Why would I be upset?"
She began slipping the bags back over the suits. "Because you know him. Actually, you've worked on some of the advertising campaigns for his company."
I connected the dots almost immediately. "It's not Walter Spannerman, is it?"
She seemed almost sheepish. "Actually, it is."
I remembered how miserable he'd made me; I also remembered his penchant for hiring beautiful women, so the fact that he was interested in Vivian didn't shock me in the slightest. "You know he's awful, right? And so is his company."
"That's why he wants an in-house PR person."
"And you'd be okay working with a guy like that?"
"I don't know. I haven't met him yet. I just hope I can impress him."
With the way you look, I'm sure he'll be impressed, I thought. "How many hours a week are they thinking?"
"Well, that's the thing," she answered. "It's a full-time position. And there's probably going to be some travel, too."
"Overnight?"
"That's what travel usually means, doesn't it?"
"What about London?"
"I don't know anything yet, okay? Let's cross that bridge when we get there. If we get there. For now, can we just plan to celebrate? Can you do that for me?"
"Of course," I said, but even as I said the words, I thought about Spannerman and his relationship with Peters and found myself wondering who exactly Vivian had called for that final recommendation.
But she wouldn't have done something like that, would she?
CHAPTER 5
Changes
When London was four, a small bicycle with training wheels appeared under the Christmas tree. I'd been adamant about getting her a bicycle; some of my favorite childhood memories were of pedaling hard on my Schwinn, chasing my freedom on humid summer days. Granted, most of those memories occurred between the ages of eight and thirteen, but my thinking as the holidays approached was that London would learn to ride for a year or two before the training wheels finally came off, and in a few years, she would ride as well as I had.
Vivian, however, wasn't thrilled with the idea. Though she'd owned a bicycle, she didn't have the same joyful associations that I did. I remembered asking her if she'd bought the bicycle in the weeks leading up to Christmas and each time she put me off, telling me that she hadn't had time. In the end, I'd dragged her to the store and bought it myself, spending hours assembling it like one of Santa's elves after Vivian had gone to bed.
I couldn't wait for London to give it a try, and as soon as she spotted it under the tree, she ran over and I helped her climb on. As I began to push her through the living room Vivian intervened, suggesting that we open some of her other gifts. As always, my first thought was that she received too many things: clothes and toys, finger-painting kits, a mannequin (to dress up), and a beaded jewelry-making kit. Then there were countless Barbie-related items; it took me an hour to dispose of the wrapping paper and ribbons strewn throughout the room. Vivian, meanwhile, spent that time with London and her toys and clothes, and it wasn't until almost noon that I was finally able to get London outside.
Vivian had followed us, but it struck me that she seemed to view it more as a duty than a new and exciting adventure for London. She stood on the front steps with her arms crossed while I helped London onto the seat. Watching her breaths come out in little puffs, I walked hunched over beside her, holding the handlebars. I encouraged London to pedal as we rolled up and down the street, and after fifteen minutes, she told me she was done. Her cheeks were pink and I assured her she'd done a great job. I'm not sure why, but I assumed that we'd ride two or three more times before the day was done.
Instead, she spent the rest of Christmas Day playing with her Barbies or trying on her clothes while Vivian beamed; later, she finger painted and assembled a pair of beaded bracelets. I wasn't dissuaded, however; I had the week off, and I made it a point to bring her out to ride at least once a day. Over the next few days, as she grew more coordinated and less wobbly, I would release the handlebars for periods of increasing duration. London giggled when I pretended she was going so fast that I couldn't keep up. We stayed out longer each time, and when she finally announced that she was finished, I would hold her hand as we walked toward the front door. She would jabber on excitedly to Vivian, and I was certain that London had caught the same bicycle-riding bug that I had and would insist on riding every day while I was at work.
But that didn't happen. Instead, when I came home from work--by then it would be dark and London would often be in her pajamas--and asked London if she rode, she always said that she hadn't. Each time, Vivian had a reason for not bringing her out--it was raining, or they had errands to run, or London might be getting a cold, or even that London didn't want to. Still, after work when I'd park in the garage, I'd see the little bicycle that made my daughter laugh, collecting dust in the corner. And every single time, I felt a faint ache in my heart. I must not know my daughter as well as I thought I did, or perhaps London and I simply liked different things. And though I'm not proud to admit it, I sometimes found myself wondering whether Vivian didn't want London to ride her bike simply because it was something I wanted London to do.
In retrospect, I think I believed that quitting my job would be the most significant event of 2015 for my wife and me. I ended up being wrong, of course; striking out on my own was simply the first domino in a long line of dominoes that would begin to topple, with even larger dominoes to come later.
The following week was domino number two.
Because Vivian wanted to prep for her interviews on Monday, I came home from the office at noon. I cleaned the house and did the laundry while trying to keep London entertained, which wasn't as easy as it sounded. On Tuesday afternoon, while Vivian interviewed, I brought London to a late lunch at Chuck E. Cheese, a place Vivian would never set foot in. After eating, she played some of the games in the arcade, hoping to win enough tickets to trade them for a pink teddy bear. We didn't come close, and by my calculations, I could have simply purchased three of them for what I'd spent in game tokens.
On Wednesday, I opted for our usual Saturday morning routine of breakfast and the park, but it was impossible for me to ignore my growing anxiety concerning work. I kept imagining that potential clients were trying to reach me, or worse, standing outside an office that was obviously closed, but whenever I called the receptionist, I was informed there were no messages.
With my initial list of potential clients amounting to nothing, I started cold-calling businesses. Starting Wednesday afternoon and all day Thursday, I made more than a couple of hundred calls. I consistently heard the words not interested, but kept at it and eventually managed to line up five meetings the following week. The businesses weren't the kind of clients that the Peters Group normally targeted--a family-owned restaurant, a sandwich shop, two chiropractors, and a day spa--and the fees would likely be low, but it was better than nothing.
At home, Vivian said little about her various interviews. She didn't want to jinx them, she explained, but she seemed confident, and when I tol
d her about my meetings the following week, her mind was clearly elsewhere. Looking back, I should have taken it as a sign.
On Friday morning, I'd just walked in the kitchen when I heard Vivian's cell phone begin to ring. London was already at the table, eating a bowl of cereal. Vivian checked the incoming number and wandered to the back patio before answering. Thinking it was her mother--her mother was the only person I knew who would call that early--I poured myself a cup of coffee.
"Hi, sweetie," I said to London.
"Hi, Daddy. Is zero a number?"
"Yes," I answered. "Why?"
"Well, you know I'm five, right? And before that, I was four?"
"Yes."
"What was I before I was one?"
"Before you were one, we would talk about your age in months. Like, you're three months old, or six months old. And before you were a month old, your age was measured in weeks. Or even days."
"And then I was zero right?"
"I guess you were. Why all the questions?"
"Because I'll be six in October. But really, I'll be seven."
"You'll be six, honey."
She held up her hands and began counting, holding up a finger or thumb with every number she pronounced. "Zero. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six."
By then, she was holding up five fingers on one hand and two on the other. Seven in total.
"That's not how it works," I said.
"But you said I was zero, and that zero was a number. There's seven numbers. That means, I'll be seven, not six."
It was too much to process before I'd finished my first cup of coffee. "When did you think of this?"
Instead of answering, she shrugged and I thought again how much she resembled her mother. At that moment, Vivian stepped back into the kitchen, her face slightly flushed.
"You okay?" I asked.
At first, I wasn't sure she'd heard me. "Yeah," she finally offered. "I'm fine."
"Everything okay with your mom?"
"I guess so. I haven't talked to her in about a week. Why would you ask about Mom?"
"Wasn't that who you were talking to?"
"No," she said.
"Who was on the phone?" I finally asked.
"Rachel Johnson."
"Who?"
"She's one of the vice presidents at Spannerman. I interviewed with her on Wednesday."
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