Love and Miss Communication (16 page)

Evie found her grandmother seated on the tattered sofa with the phone to her ear, mid-yenta.

“He’s a little on ze short side, but from vhat I remember yours isn’t so tall either. Listen, she’s thirty-nine, she can’t be so picky. I’ll give him her number later on today. I gotta go, my granddaughter just valked in.” Bette motioned Evie toward a chair next to the sofa.

“Vhat’s that?” Bette lowered her voice. “Oh, Evie. No, nobody right now.” She moved the phone to her other ear—the one farther from where Evie was hovering. “Almost thirty-five . . . I know . . . I know.” Then she hung up and looked up innocently at Evie.

“Who was that?” Evie demanded. “And I’m not almost thirty-five. I just turned thirty-four.” Hadn’t she? It was only September. Her birthday was at the end of May.

“Carol Goldenberg, from Sunny Isles. I’m trying to find someone for her granddaughter.”

The child in Evie wanted to cry out, “What about me?”

“Her daughter is an aspiring puppeteer living in San Diego,” Bette continued. “As if anyone can aspire to zat. She vorks as a vaitress to support herself. Who knows vith zese kids? Anyvay, I may know someone living out zere for her.”

Evie’s pulse slowed. Carol Goldenberg’s granddaughter was in California.
And
she was pursuing the art of marionetting. She and Evie were not in the market for the same sort of guy.

“I can’t believe you’re even fixing people up at a time like this. You should be focusing on yourself.”

“Vy not? Doesn’t hurt me to try to make other people happy,” Bette said with a shrug of her shoulders. “Have you spoken to Dr. Gold?”

“He has a family, Grandma. I saw a picture of his freaking daughter when I met him.”

“Vhat are you getting so angry for? I’m not trying to make a
shidduch
. I vas just asking if you spoke to him. Maybe you have questions about my care, zat’s all.”

Evie softened, regretting being so mercurial. “I’m sorry. I’m just so used to you trying to marry me off. Anyway, I really don’t understand why you’re waiting for Dr. Gold to operate anyway. I’m sure Sloan has many capable doctors.”

“I’ll be fine.” Bette sighed. “I’m used to vaiting for things.” She looked down at her lap and began twisting her sixty-year-old engagement ring around her finger.

Evie was speechless. Who compares having cancer to having a single granddaughter?

# # #

“Bette drives me completely crazy, Mom,” Evie whined to her mother over coffee at a café near the hospital. “Totally, utterly crazy.” She noticed Fran was wearing a messenger-style purse across her chest, in the style of the tourists who believed Manhattan was a den of pickpockets. Evie did the same thing when she first started law school. Now she walked around with her bag unzipped, usually dangling precariously open from the crook of her elbow. But she had achieved the gait of a confident New Yorker, which in her mind was all the deterrent she needed to ward off thieves.

“I know how much it bothers her that I’m single. But honestly, I have enough problems with my career and with my floundering love life—the last thing I need to worry about is how my being unmarried affects those around me. I swear I could win a Nobel Prize and all Grandma would say is that I have no one to accompany me to Sweden.”

Fran quietly stirred her coffee, her expression undecipherable.

“Mom, are you listening? Don’t tell me you agree with Grandma? You also hate that I’m single?” Evie slumped into her chair. “I would expect more from you. Bette is trapped in a time warp.”

Fran looked at Evie. Her eyes, tender and surrounded by the beginnings of sagging eyelids, were repositories of compassion and wisdom. Evie peered into them and saw her own reflection. It made sense. Fran thought of Evie above everything else.

“Evie, it’s not me that it bothers. It’s you. If I believed you were okay with being single, I wouldn’t care one bit. And neither would your grandmother.” Her gaze fluttered down to her pocketbook, where she started digging around for something. “No, she would still care. But I really wouldn’t,” she added softly.

Evie didn’t know whether to believe her mother, truly a woman of the glass-half-full varietal. The meltdown she’d been holding
in since visiting Bette threatened to erupt. She lifted her chin, unsuccessfully willing the tears back.

“Honey, I’m not trying to upset you. I just want to have a candid conversation with you. I feel like you being single is this taboo subject between us. And it shouldn’t be. I know Bette is more outspoken about these things. But I’m afraid to broach the topic most of the time.”

Evie didn’t know what to say. At Brighton a few hours ago, she had felt like she had a shot at regaining so much of what she’d lost when she left her old job—responsibility, self-reliance, and respect. Now at coffee with Fran, she felt adolescent.

“I want you to be happy. And yes, I’ll admit, I want you to get married. Because I believe that will make you more secure. You have so much going for you, Evie. You’re beautiful, smart, successful, outgoing. The list goes on and on. But the fact that you’re single makes you forget all of your fabulous attributes. When I look at you, I see insecurity. It kills me. I want to shake you and remind you of all you have accomplished.”

Evie continued to listen, even though she felt like she couldn’t bear another moment of this honesty session. At least the coffee shop was empty.

“But to tell the truth, I don’t really blame you. The world is designed for couples. Practically every movie and song on the radio opines on love. Valentine’s Day. Anniversaries. Even restaurants. Not many tables for one or three, are there?”

Evie thought of Jack’s restaurants. No small tables for singles. He used to complain about people making reservations for odd-numbered parties.

“It totally wastes a seat that could go to a paying customer,” he’d say to her when they were up late gossiping about the evening’s patrons and he was tallying the receipts. “And it just looks bad. The asymmetry is very off-putting.”

Evie would respond callously, “Singles should just order in.” Maybe that’s why he ended up getting married, Evie thought now bitterly. He wanted to lead his customers by example. And she’d egged him on.

Evie nodded at her mother to show she was at least open to hearing more.

“And this is not some antifeminist rant you’d expect to hear from Bette. Men too feel lonely. Winston was burned by his divorce. He couldn’t wait to remarry. When you were young, you were so precocious. You used to say to me, ‘I don’t need to get married. I’m going to get straight As, go to Harvard, and become a millionaire.’ You were seven years old. Do you remember saying those things?”

Evie essentially did—not from the time she actually said them, but they’d been repeated to her so often that she could picture herself at seven years old, pigtailed and chubby, walking arrogantly around their yellow-and-blue Provence-by-way-of-Baltimore tiled kitchen telling her parents about her future. She gave Fran another shallow nod.

“Your father and I would just look at each other and think how much you had to learn about the world. I’ve never admitted this out loud—never. But when your father died, one of my first thoughts was that I would have to go to the Lichts’ anniversary party alone. Can you imagine? That I worried about that after losing the love of my life? It’s shameful, but it’s human nature.”

Evie jumped out of her seat and came within an inch of her mother’s face. The hostess looked up from her
People
magazine to see what the commotion was about.

“Are you trying to make me feel worse? I agree with you. I don’t want to be alone, but it’s not like I can walk the streets from nine to five with a ‘husband wanted’ sign on my back. And
pressure from you and Grandma doesn’t help.” Evie settled back into her chair and folded her arms across her chest, ready for Fran’s rebuttal.

Instead Fran swiveled in her seat to face the counter, turning her back on Evie.

“Excuse me, could we get our check please?”

Evie simmered. Like her father and Bette, Evie had to see any argument or discussion through to a peaceful conclusion. Her mother could just stop a fight midsentence, leaving the other person unnerved and the matter unresolved. Closure was not Fran’s biggest priority, while Evie desperately sought it in all things.

“Mom, please talk to me about this. I’m sure you agree that looking for a spouse can’t be my full-time occupation. I’m a bit overeducated.”

Acting as though it was a big sacrifice, Fran waved the waitress away when she started coming toward their table. But then her face unexpectedly softened and she reached for Evie’s hand. The warm touch made Evie shiver.

“Of course I agree. I just think, and don’t bite my head off, that you chose to dive into your career to avoid rejection. Even though you complained about the work, you volunteered whenever there was an opportunity to take on additional assignments. Think about Jack, even. Your longest relationship was with a man who didn’t believe in marriage. There had to be something there—subconsciously, to make you fall for someone who refused to commit. Thank God you finally broke that off. I swear, I worried you would date him into your forties before you finally grasped that he’d never propose.”

Obviously Evie still hadn’t told Fran that Jack was married. She didn’t want her mother to pity her, or worse, to question what
she had been doing wrong all that time to scare Jack off. The Baker Smith debacle had been embarrassing enough. But this was her opportunity to show her mother that she wasn’t at fault for her single status. At best, she was the victim of bad luck. At worst, simply undesirable.

“Actually, Mom, Jack got—”

“Hi, everyone, I come bearing chocolates,” Winston announced cheerily, his figure appearing unexpectedly in the doorframe of the café. Winston handed Evie a box of Godiva truffles with one hand and loosened his tie with the other. He gave Fran a quick peck on the cheek. Evie smiled back, relieved to put off a conversation about Jack and Mrs. Jack.

“I told Winston we’d be here,” Evie’s mother said, and then turned to her husband. “How was work?”

“Busy,” he said, flagging over the waitress. “You have anything stronger than coffee here?”

The waitress shook her head.

“Okay, then just black coffee please. And a BLT.”

“I’m going to head home. The first day wiped me out,” Evie said. “Just going to take a chocolate for the road.” She unwrapped the gold foil, feeling she deserved at least one truffle after the tongue-lashing from Fran. Plus her pants had been loose that morning.

When she turned to leave with a raspberry cordial in hand, she heard her mother gasp.

“Evie, your behind is sticking out of your pants. I can see your underwear! How can you walk around like that? And at a school!” Fran’s shrill voice rang through the restaurant, which of course had gone from empty to semifull in the last three minutes.

“What are you talking about?” Evie asked, reaching her hand back. She palmed the smooth silk blend until the tip of her pointer finger found its way to a hole. Right in the crack.

“Oh my God! How bad is it?” Evie sank back into her chair to hide her exposed derriere. The morning’s events ran through her mind in streaming video. Feeling surprised that her pants were loose when she got dressed . . . Walking around the main office to fill her coffee cup . . . Visiting Tracy’s classroom and bending over to give her a hug. What if one of the students had recorded her peep show and posted it on YouTube?

She couldn’t bear to face Fran and Winston, so she used the jacket she was carrying in her right arm to bury her face.

Her jacket! She had definitely been wearing it at work and had only taken it off when she got to the restaurant to have coffee with her mom.

“I was wearing my jacket!” Evie exclaimed, and she awkwardly slipped into it from a seated position. Rising, she rotated slowly like a lamb on a spit.

“It covers your behind,” Fran said, less than impressed.

“Thank God,” she gushed. “Now I’m officially leaving.” Evie waved sheepishly at Winston and Fran. The truffle stayed behind.

As she pivoted her front foot toward the exit, she heard Fran whisper to Winston: “She complains about being single but a first step would be some decent clothes.”

“‘Commercially reasonable condition’ and ‘reasonable condition’ do not mean the same thing. We’ve got to go with ‘commercially reasonable’ or I’m hanging up this phone right now.”

The threat to hang up on the conference call came from Louis Madwell, senior partner and head of the white-collar crime division at Crohn and Hitchens, one of Baker Smith’s rivals. Their office was located on Third Avenue in what was commonly known as the Lipstick Building due to its shape, but which Evie thought looked more phallic. Based on how Madwell was acting, her vision of his workplace was more fitting.
He was a member of the Brighton board of trustees, and, as he told everyone at the start of the call, would be “running the show” for the school. His services were being offered to the school gratis, another fact he brought up at the outset when he urged everyone to be mindful of his time.

“‘Reasonable’ means ‘reasonable,’” Joe Cayne, a member of the opposing counsel, whose name Evie immediately noted rhymed with cocaine, chimed in. “And that’s all we’re willing to agree to. Besides, you’re not selling anything. This is a school. Why do you need to put in the word ‘commercially’?”

Madwell snorted for the benefit of all fifteen people on the call. “At forty thousand dollars a pop, we damn well are selling something. We’re selling an education. Which is why when your client turns over the keys to their building so we can put in a goddamn award-winning computer lab, I want the contract to say it will be in ‘commercially reasonable condition.’ I don’t want to come in and find holes in the walls and a rat infestation. You hear me?”

“With all due respect, Louis, my client was running a high-end art gallery in her space. There are no rats in the building. And I can assure you there are no holes in the walls,” Caine retorted.

“No holes in the walls? So how did she hang the damn paintings?”

Good point, Madwell. It was time for Evie to interject.

“Gentlemen, we’re getting off track here. Can I make a suggestion that I think might please everyone?”

Silence on the line.

“Why don’t we change the clause to read that the building will be delivered in ‘reasonably habitable’ condition? That way we take out the word ‘commercially,’ which I think we can all agree is making the other side uncomfortable. And our side can feel good that the building will be deemed habitable for students,
which I’m sure is what we’re all concerned with. How does that sound?”

“I can live with that,” Madwell said. “I have a three-billion-dollar lawsuit on my hands right now and I’m trying to keep a client from rotting in an upstate prison for the rest of his life. That’s more important than this shit. Joe, can you agree to what the girl said?”

Evie did not enjoy being called “the girl,” but she’d heard female lawyers called worse before. There was whispering on the call, which she assumed was Cocaine conferring with his client.

“That’s fine with us,” he said. “I’ll shoot your team over a new draft of the contract and let’s try to get this sale wrapped up by the end of the week.”

“Thanks everyone for a productive call,” Evie said. “Have a good day and please call me if any further issues arise.” She rested the phone in its cradle and took a deep breath. Her first assignment as interim in-house counsel at Brighton was going fairly smoothly. She was an old pro at rehashing the meaning of everyday phrases. Similar minutiae in the M&A world might have included a week-long debate on what was better for her client: “Management will report promptly to the investors whenever a significant issue arises” or “Management will report to investors without delay whenever a significant issue arises.” It all felt like a futile exercise in dictionary wars. If any problem arose, the matter would be settled out of court. Nobody would consult the contract to parse the meaning of an adverb. This was Evie’s first legal assignment outside of a firm, but it wasn’t proving to be that much different. Maybe some lawyers got a high from sparring on conference calls and throwing around words like “goddamn” for emphasis, but she wasn’t one of them.

“Hey, I know you. Mrs. Loo’s friend.”

Evie looked up to find Jamie Matthews, the texter from Tracy’s
class, hovering near her with his book bag slung over one shoulder and a tiny paper cup in his hand.

“If I’d known I’d have an office buddy today, I would have gotten two espressos.” He plopped down in the abandoned cubicle next to hers and pulled out a pain au chocolat from a crinkled brown bag.

“Yes, hi, I’m Evie. Evie Rosen. I mean Miss Rosen,” she stammered. What the hell should she call herself? She wasn’t a teacher. But some level of decorum felt necessary. “I’m filling in as in-house counsel for a while.”

“Hi, Evie, I’m Jamie.” Apparently he decided what she would be called. Whether he knew what an in-house counsel was didn’t seem to matter. “We’re going to be office mates. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Aren’t you a student?” she asked, sitting up straighter, forming what Caroline’s daughters called “happy back” from ballet class.

“Yep. But I got into a little bit of trouble last year and I kind of made a deal with the headmaster that I would help out in the office during my free periods so that—”

“So that what?”

“So that my suspension wouldn’t show up on my student record. I’m applying to college this year. I do filing, make copies, etcetera. Whatever anyone needs, which I guess now includes you.” He gave her a devilish smile.

“I’m okay. I don’t need any help.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks.” She turned around to face her computer, agitated by the invasion of her already cramped workspace. Who was this kid anyway, with his espresso and French pastries? In high school, she ate Pop-Tarts. At least he was cute, in a boyish sort of way.

She turned her attention back to the contract revisions, but
found herself thoroughly driven to distraction by Jamie’s presence. His cell phone buzzed every ten seconds, whistling something high pitched and clawing each time a text arrived. She threw a disparaging look his way, but he took no notice. The words from the document on her desk lifted off the page, the phrases “fee simple,” “easement,” and “right of first refusal” doing a legal circle dance. It was time for more caffeine. She rose to fill her mug from the communal pot with the plastic handle (how she missed Baker Smith’s Nespresso machines on every floor) and noticed a striking young girl enter the office and head straight for Jamie’s chair. He moved over to accommodate her tiny bum, and the two of them sat nibbling on his pastry and giggling.

“Evie, this is Eleanor, my girlfriend,” Jamie said when he caught Evie staring.

“Eleanor Klieger,” she said with poise, adding her last name, as though it was supposed to mean something to Evie. Maybe it was. “It’s nice to meet you.” She had one of those enviable raspy voices. Like she was on day four of a cold and all that was left to show for it was a sexy hoarseness and a throaty laugh.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Evie said, feeling suddenly ancient in front of these two.

While she doctored her coffee with milk and sugar, Evie watched Eleanor’s lithe body movements as she tucked Jamie’s long hair behind his ear and popped a piece of puffed pastry into his mouth. She admired Eleanor’s ensemble—cropped jeans, a red-and-white-checked shirt and navy ballet flats with discreet double Cs on the side. The clothing hugged her body enough to show off her excellent figure but was loose enough to make it seem like she didn’t want anyone to notice. Evie knew this sort of girl. She woke up with perfectly tousled hair, had an infectious laugh, and was a good student without being too intimidating.
She was ditzy when it was cute to be ditzy; clever when it was cool to be clever.

“I have to get to study hall,” Eleanor said, popping up from the chair and planting a kiss on Jamie’s cheek. “Let’s meet at the vending machines before practice, okay?” Of course Eleanor played a sport. Field hockey or lacrosse most likely.

“I’ll see you there, babe.”

Evie looked back at her contract. The words had quit their pesky dancing and she was able to concentrate. Jamie moved about the office doing random tasks, many of which involved him reaching into upper cabinets, taking his polo shirt northward to reveal a chiseled core. When he was done with his work, he tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Great to see you. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Later that day, in the faculty bathroom, Evie ran into Tracy, who was struggling to snap an elastic belt she was wearing to support the weight of her tummy. Evie fastened it for her.

“One of your students works in the office right next to me. Jamie, I think,” Evie said. “His desk is about a millimeter from mine. I’ve already met the girlfriend.”

“Oh yeah. That’s Jamie Matthews. I think his parents helped make that arrangement. He was apparently about to get tossed out of Brighton. Half the kids here worship him. I’m not quite sure why.”

“He seems nice enough,” Evie said.

“Not very good at English, though.”

# # #

After a week of sartorial failures, the nadir of which was the pants-splitting episode, Evie decided it was time to invest in a wardrobe that was more suitable for Brighton. With the smug
Jamie punching in for duty almost daily and Malibu Barbie Eleanor dropping in for visits, Evie felt compelled to take her look up a notch. She asked Stasia to accompany her on a shopping outing.

She was still peeved that Stasia had never returned her call, especially knowing that Rick must have shared that her grandma was sick, but she let her curiosity about wanting to sniff out a baby bump override her grudge. They met at the J.Crew in the Time Warner Center, which was the closest thing Manhattan had to a mall. Evie loved walking into the front entrance of the shopping center because of the two giant nude Botero sculptures, known as
Adam
and
Eve,
who stood in permanent greeting. At twelve feet tall each, they made Evie feel delicate and childlike, and when she walked right up to them they reminded her that her issues were quite inconsequential in a city of eight million people with struggles of their own. Oddly enough, Evie found the feeling of not mattering all that much comforting.

Evie waited for Stasia at the base of these two sculptures, and when her friend showed up ten minutes late looking haggard and ill, Evie felt sorry for making her travel all the way from SoHo for a J.Crew run. But then again Stasia still hadn’t officially announced the baby, so it wasn’t really fair for her to expect special treatment. She didn’t even giggle when Evie pretended to reach for Adam’s massive genitalia.

After an hour fussing in the cramped dressing room together, Evie was satisfied their mission had been a success. She found periwinkle and hunter green corduroys, two A-line skirts, an assortment of cashmere crewnecks, and a hot pink peacoat with chunky buttons. Stasia provided decent commentary but seemed preoccupied the entire time. When she didn’t even try anything on, Evie grew more convinced of a pregnancy.

“How’s the new job going?” Stasia asked while Evie compiled all of her garments to take to the register.

“Proving to be surprisingly similar to my old one.”

“Well, that’s good, right?”

“I’m not sure. At least I know what I’m doing.”

It was Evie’s turn to pay and she approached a clerk with retro glasses and a shrunken flannel shirt. Evie deduced from the
U SUCK
sticker he had affixed to his cell phone that he was the sort prone to eye rolling.

“Thank you for shopping at J.Crew,” he said lifelessly while removing the antitheft sensors from Evie’s new clothes. “If you provide your e-mail address, you can enter a contest for a thousand-dollar shopping spree.”

Evie gave him a knowing smile. “And exactly how many spam e-mails will I have to endure to enter this supposed raffle?” she asked, putting air quotes around the word “raffle.”

“Um, I’m not really sure,” he responded with a careless shrug, his attention diverted to a ping from his phone.

“Oh, I’m sure J.Crew and whoever else they sell their mailing list to will be really considerate and only e-mail me when it’s very important,” Evie said sarcastically. As she spoke, Stasia gradually inched away from Evie.

“Well, guess what?” Evie went on. “I don’t use e-mail. I don’t even have a computer. Or a BlackBerry. Or an iPhone. Speaking of which, I don’t think you’re supposed to be using yours while ringing me up.”

That got his attention.

“Listen,” he said. “You can just opt out of the daily e-mails and still enter the raffle. Want to give me your e-mail address or not?”

“I wasn’t lying. I really don’t use e-mail.” Despite the growing line behind her, Evie persisted. “People are so addicted to technology these days. It’s really changing the way people relate to each other—and not for the better. How many times a day do you check your e-mail? Be honest. Thirty? Forty? And do you actually
learn anything important from Twitter or Facebook? Think about how much time you waste with that nonsense. You get what I’m saying, right?”

“Hey, Pretentious,” a voice boomed behind Evie. “Can you maybe finish up this little speech later?” A middle-aged woman carrying a pile of gray and brown slacks tapped her on the shoulder. “Some of us have lives to attend to.”

“Sorry,” Evie mumbled and sheepishly handed over her credit card. But she was still happy she spoke up, soccer mom with the stack of earth-tone pants be damned.

“Evie,” Stasia said, pulling her by the elbow toward the exit. “I think you’ve got to tone it down. Like, now.”

# # #

The next morning, Evie stood in her bra and underwear eyeing the spread of new clothes on her sofa, coffee mug in hand. Her stomach still looked pouchy, despite her subsistence on grapefruit since the shame of the pants-splitting. Facing the high school girls every day was rough. They were skeleton thin, despite scarfing down Dylan’s candy by the bagful and drinking Red Bulls, their metabolisms still a decade away from decelerating to a grinding halt. Eleanor, the leader of the pack, had a particular lightness about her; she bubbled like a human soft drink and her peers couldn’t seem to wait to drink her in.