On Grace (8 page)

“Bye, Grace,” Callie says, coming over to give me a big hug. “How did that go with Nicole?” While Nicole and I were talking, I had seen Callie glancing at us like a protective father spying on his daughter’s first date, not wanting to be caught staring too intently but ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble.

“Great! Thank you so much for making that connection. It could be a perfect opportunity for me. Hopefully, I’ll see you next Friday at yoga. It was so good to catch up!” I say, giving her another hug and realizing I’d missed our friendship.

When I get home, I spend an hour on WellInWestchester.com. I’m impressed with the quality of the articles, the edgy graphic design, and the amount of activity in their social networking areas. In About Us, I learn that Nicole Winters had a long career as editor-in-chief of
Yoga Journal,
but decided to create her own business so she could spend more time with her family. I write Nicole an email and attach my resume and clips. I say a little prayer and click send.

I really hope this job works out. It seems to be exactly what I’m looking for. I just hope that Nicole isn’t discouraged that my most recent writing experience has been about school sustainability efforts for the
Midland Elementary School Parent Teacher News
. I imagine the other people she is interviewing are young and eager, and haven’t been out of the job market for the last eight-plus years. As I’m wallowing in self-doubt, my email inbox chimes.

Grace, thanks for your email. It was nice talking with you this morning. Can you come to our office on Monday at ten o’clock to talk a bit more? I’m having all the applicants prepare a 300-word sample piece in line with the topics we discussed at LPQ. You can bring that with you on Monday. I look forward to seeing you again. Please confirm the time. Have a great weekend, Nicole Winters.

Okay, I think. That settles that. She is considering me. I let out a little yelp and write her back to let her know that Monday at ten is indeed a good time. I get into the shower and let the hot water soothe my aching muscles as I think about a topic for my article.

After I blow-dry my hair, I go down to the kitchen to prepare a quick lunch. The kitchen is the one room we redid when we moved in. Our home is a 1930s white clapboard Colonial with black shutters—the kind of house I always imagined New Englanders lived in when I was growing up among the split-levels and ranches in L.A. Darren and I fell in love with the house’s mature plantings, original dark-stained hardwood floors, plaster walls, and charming sunroom. Luckily, the previous owners had expanded the master bathroom and updated all the plumbing, heating, and electrical so the house was pretty much in move-in condition, save for a fresh paint job. But I hated the kitchen. Its dark (peeling) cabinets, ugly (peeling) grey vinyl floors, and avocado appliances (all of them) had decidedly
not
been updated by the previous owners. Considering how tastefully decorated the rest of the house was, I could only assume they weren’t the cooking types.

When we bought the house, Darren and I agreed that because we were stretching our budget, we’d live with the kitchen for a couple of years and redo it eventually. So you can imagine how excited I was when I opened up Darren’s birthday present to me a few months later and found it was the business card of a kitchen consultant from Christopher Peacock, the high-end kitchen design company in Greenwich. Christopher Peacock is the Gucci of kitchens. I would have settled for the Gap. “Go nuts and have fun,” his card read. And that I did.

I spent the next several months going absolutely nuts and having giddy fun as I selected white flat panel cabinets and drawers with chrome bin pulls, a white subway tile backsplash, hardwood floors to match the rest of the house, countertops of Calacatta Gold marble (which is white with grey and beige veins), and top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances. I almost slept in that temple of beauty the first night after the installation was complete. Instead, I slept with my husband. The kind of sleep punctuated by moans, not snores. Lots of moans. Practically one for every gorgeous chrome bin pull.

The phone rings as I make myself a pb&j and banana.

“Hi, Gracie,” my mom says. I can tell she’s on her cell, and I picture her driving down Santa Monica Boulevard in her gold convertible Beamer.

My mom and I talk a couple times a week, and I always look forward to catching up with her. She asks me about the boys and the first week of school. She is an amazing grandmother, and the boys adore her. They have a weekly Skype “date” on Sunday afternoons during which the boys do an art exhibit, showing her all the projects they made in camp, now school, that week. It’s very sweet and I’m thrilled that they have a good relationship. Much better than they have with my dad or Darren’s parents.

“So, get this. I lost my job at the
Westchester Weekly
, but I have an interview Monday for a new job,” I tell my mom and proceed to fill her in on all that drama.

“That’s great, Gracie. I just wish you’d give yourself a little break, though. You’re finally getting time for yourself. Why don’t you just relax a little? Take some cooking classes. Join a theater club and get into the city more often.”

“I can’t do nothing, I need to do something,” I say.

“Those things aren’t nothing. They’re rewarding and fun.”

“But they wouldn’t be fulfilling for me. I need to accomplish something. I need to work at something productive.”

“Okay, well, it was just a suggestion. But you were always so hard on yourself, so I guess I understand. The website job sounds great, Gracie. Right up your alley. You’ll be fabulous.” My mom really likes the word fabulous. As does my sister Eva. They probably use the word fabulous more often than a Beverly Hills wedding planner.

“I really hope it works out. I might not get it though. She’s interviewing other candidates who probably have more recent experience than I do and are more on the pulse of this wellness stuff.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, darling. And don’t assume that anyone has anything over you. You are fabulous, and you deserve that job. So stay confident and put it out into the universe that you want it, and it will be yours.” I’m assuming the reason she’s driving down Santa Monica Boulevard is because she’s on her way to her guru’s office. My mom employs practitioners in all of the “healing arts,” as she likes to call them.

At this point, I debate whether to tell my mom about Darren. She is a BFOD—Big Fan of Darren—and she’ll be devastated, but she always gives me great advice, and I know she’ll pull through this time, as well. I’m just not sure if I want to get into it with her.

“How’s Darren?” she asks, and I decide to go for it.

“Mom, I have to tell you something,” I say, and I know it sounds ominous. I walk to the couch in our sunroom and sit down.

Dead silence.

“What, Gracie. What is it?” she asks, and I hear her voice quaver.

“Darren cheated on me.” I start to cry—talking to my mom about emotional things has always reduced me to a puddle—and tell her the whole story. She doesn’t interrupt me once.

“Oh, Gracie. I’m so sorry.” She asks me all sorts of questions: When did it happen? When did he tell you? Was it the first time? And then she surprises me. “I know it’s going to be hard to trust him for a while, but you two will work through it. What you have is too important to give up over one silly night.”

“Seriously, Mom?” I ask in a sarcastic voice. “You think I should just forgive him and act like nothing ever happened? I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Of course you can forgive him, Gracie. I’m not saying that you should pretend it didn’t happen. Go see someone together. Work it out. You can’t do that to Henry and James.”

“
I
can’t do that?” I start sounding a bit hysterical. “Wouldn’t it be Darren doing that? So now, he did what he did, and if I decide that I would have a problem being married to a man who goes around sleeping with cocktail waitresses, it would be my fault for screwing up Henry’s and James’s lives? Is that what you’re saying?” I am feeling incredulous at this point.

“No, Gracie. Take a deep breath, darling. That’s
not
what I’m saying. And it was only one cocktail waitress, right? I’m just saying that I don’t want you to think there’s anything wrong with taking him back. You don’t need to feel ashamed about that. I’m sure loads of your friends out there have been in similar situations and you don’t even know about it. Just take some time; let him win you back. And then let him back in, Gracie.”

I hold the phone away from my ear and stare at it, shocked. This is Nina Roseman talking. Strong single mother. Feminist bra burner. Marcher extraordinaire. “I’m a little surprised that you’re so gung ho about me just taking him back, Mom. I’m not saying that I’m rushing out to get a divorce or anything, but I can’t say I’ve entirely ruled it out.”

“I’ve seen these things happen for years to friends, Gracie. Men have different needs. These things always end up worse when the marriage ends. I have friends who have been in your situation, and when the marriage was good to start with and it was just an indiscretion, the marriage can recover. And the same can happen for you. Just consider it, darling. I wouldn’t want to see the two of you unhappy.”

Happy. There’s that word again. Why all this pressure in our society to be happy all the time? “I just want you girls to be happy,” my mom would constantly tell my sisters and me growing up. What does that even mean? Who is happy all the time? I guess my mom is, what with her convertible, tanned silver-haired lovers, private Pilates sessions, and “fabulous” life. I realize I’m starting to sound bitter. But I’m just blown away by my mom’s staunch support of taking Darren back.

The first time Darren met my mom was a few months after Cameron and Jack’s wedding. Darren and I were inseparable at that point, and I asked him to join me in California for the weekend for my mom’s sixtieth birthday party. She was throwing herself a little ball of sorts at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills. Not exactly understated. Very Nina Roseman. Very fabulous.

My mom and Darren hit it off right away. She took us for dinner that first night at The Grill, one of her haunts in Beverly Hills, where the maître d’ kissed her on both cheeks. My mom was on fire, asking Darren questions, practically interviewing him. And Darren deftly returned every shot. He put all his charm, intelligence, and good looks on display that night. And Nina Roseman fell hook, line, and sinker. Had he not been with me, she would have claimed him for herself. She told me so after a few Kir Royales at her ball the next night.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that my mom is lobbying for us to stay together. She knows it wasn’t ideal for my sisters and me to grow up without a dad in the house, and it would be even worse (call me sexist, I don’t care) for little boys. But I thought she’d at least be a little mad at him. And give me a little more sympathy.

“Gracie, I don’t want you to think I’m not sorry about that happening.”
Ah, she redeems herself.
“I just hope you two can find a way to get past this. That’s all. Okay, I’m at my appointment, darling. I have to go. Will you all be around on Sunday for my Skype date with the boys?”

“Yes, 2:00 my time.”

“I love you, Gracie.”

I tell her I love her, too, and hang up the phone. Immediately, it begins to ring. The caller ID shows my mom’s number. I wonder if she’s changed her mind about what I should do.

“Hi. It’s me again. I forgot to tell you something. I ran into Rosalie Reynolds in the produce aisle at Gelson’s in the Palisades, and guess what, you’ll never believe it, Scotty is engaged!” My mom lets out a squeal.

“Really? Wow, that’s so great. Do we know the girl?” I look at the clock to see how much time I have left before the bus. About an hour.

“No, she’s British. Her name is Abigail. She came to L.A. to go to USC film school, and he was one of her instructors. Rosalie is thrilled to finally have a daughter-in-law!”

“I’m so happy for him. I’ll shoot him an email to congratulate him. Thanks for letting me know.”

“email? Pick up the phone, Gracie. You kids and your emails. Anyway, gotta run. Love you, darling. Goodbye.”

Scotty Reynolds and I met in kindergarten when he looked exactly like Dennis the Menace. We lived on the same street and played together every day after school. We stayed best friends all through high school when he looked more like Ricky Schroder, but there was never anything romantic between us. He tried to kiss me once when I was home for winter break sophomore year from Penn. I couldn’t help laughing and was relieved when he started laughing, too. That was the beginning and end of our romance, as I was seeing someone back in Philly and had zero interest in Scotty. We’ve lost touch due to all the normal reasons, but I send him our holiday card each year, and we check in on Facebook occasionally where he now looks more like Brad Pitt. I will always have a very soft spot in my heart for him.

I start to feel like it’s Grand Central in my kitchen because no more than five minutes have passed when my phone rings again. It’s my sister Eva.

“Hey, Ev,” I say, as I take a bite of the sandwich I have been trying to eat for the last half hour.

“Gracie, Mom just told me. I’m so sorry,” she says in the serious voice I recognize from hearing her talk to her celebrity clients about serious things like magazine cover airbrushing gone wrong. She’s a publicist with Farrar and Frank Public Relations, and she takes her job and her clients’ careers very seriously. Being as cynical as I am about the entire Hollywood entertainment industry—that’s what growing up in L.A. will do to you—I think it’s pretty hilarious. But I don’t tell her that. I’m not surprised that my mom hung up with me and called Eva right away. News in our family travels quickly.

“Thanks, Eva. I really appreciate the call. It sucks, but I’m just trying to figure it all out. I’m having trouble making sense of all my feelings,” I say, trying to chew quietly.

“I have an idea, and don’t say no, because I know you’re going to say no. Just don’t say anything and promise me you’ll think about it,” she says in the sycophantic voice I recognize from hearing her try to convince her clients to do things like go on
Dancing with the Stars
.