Vanity Fare (16 page)

“Which is?”

“Do something you would never do in a million years.”

“Fly a plane, try out for
American Idol,
wear
white after Labor Day—”

“Or before,” I muttered.

“—read Proust, perm your hair, get a suntan—there are any number of things you could do,” Keisha chirped.

“Right. How about ‘wipe the memory of Hugh from my mind’ while you’re listing impossible things?” I asked in a whine.

“Ah, Molly?”

“Mmm?”

“Take me off the invitation list to your pity party, I’m not coming.”

I laughed despite myself. “Well, I do have to admit I looked pretty good today.”

“What’d you do?”

“Met with Nick.”

“Nick—Tall, Dark, and Intimidating?”

“That’s the one.”

“So what did you wear?”

“Those black tailored pants, a scoop-neck black long-sleeve, and a black beaded sweater.”

“Did you have a meeting with the Future Nuns of America or something? Geez, how about a little color sometime?”

“I had my cherry earrings on, the ones that look almost real? And by the way, Ms. Pot, aren’t you usually dressed in black, too?”

“Not since moving back here, Mrs. Kettle. You would not believe what I am wearing today.”

“Try me.”

“A pink Old Navy T-shirt and khakis.”

“You are kidding me.”

“I said you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Is that because of the new guy? Because if it is, I take back every nice thing I’ve said about him.”

“No, it started when I got back. People in California just don’t wear black like New Yorkers.”

“More fools them.”

“You say that now, but do you know what people pay for rent out here?”

I groaned. “You people always play the rent card.”

“All right, I gotta go. Let me know when you do something completely unlike you.”

“Maybe dress in pink and tan?”

“Ha-ha.”

“Love you, too, honey. Bye.”

I hung up the phone and padded into the kitchen to see if there was any coffee left in the pot from the morning. Armed with half a cup of coffee and about as much milk, I wandered into the living room, where Aidan was building some sort of menagerie with Lincoln Logs and Mom was watching.

It was a nice, cozy, domestic scene. It was also as fragile as my finances. I pulled out the stack of bills and began sorting through them: must pay now, pay in a few days, wait another billing cycle. The first pile was way larger than the other two, and I sighed, thinking of how much money Hugh and I had wasted when he had gotten his first cushy legal job. Dinners at Union Square Café, Betsey Johnson sample sales, Chinese takeout, trade paperbacks at retail prices.

We had lived a good life, full of lovely clothes and good food. At least until Aidan arrived.

I knew Hugh adored Aidan, and he definitely loved him, but I had to wonder if Aidan’s arrival meant Hugh had to face being an adult. And he wasn’t very good at being an adult. Is that why he ran?

I just wish we’d been more responsible with our finances back when it didn’t matter so much. I’d still have to figure out What to Do with My Life, but the looming decision wouldn’t be fraught with so much worry.

And my mother’s finances were now my burden, too. She’d always had more than enough money, the benefit of being the descendant of some clever investors back at the turn of the twentieth century. Now over a hundred years of careful financial planning was residing on Wall Street’s trading floor.

I knew I wouldn’t hear from the Teaching Fellows until at least early summer, so I pulled out the
New York Times
’s classified section and headed for the marketing section. The freelance work would help, but I should probably try to find something full-time. Let’s see. I could:

• Market for an MRI facility in Queens
  
• Become the Marketing Director of Wealth Management
  
• Market to take the company “to the next level”
  
• Manage a supermarket’s marketing efforts
  

How could everything be both boring and intimidating? I was too picky, and also way too underqualified. If I could find a job where it was important to be able to juggle appointments (playdates, doctors’ visits, afterschool activities), utilize diplomatic skills (getting someone to eat peanut butter and jelly when they really, really wanted to go to McDonald’s), multitask (play superheroes while doing the dishes/ cooking dinner/putting on makeup), balance budgets (allowances are not elastic), and operate on a very small amount of sleep, I’d be set. Of course, I already had that job, and it paid nothing. In fact, it cost me money to work there.

Not that I’d trade it for anything in the world. I looked over at Aidan’s head, bent over the floor. Just as I did, he looked up and gave me one of his sweet smiles. To paraphrase a refrigerator magnet I saw once,
A BAD DAY BEING A MOTHER IS BETTER THAN A GOOD DAY AT WORK
. I waved at him as he bent his head down to the important task of building a log cabin for some plastic frogs.

I just had to figure out how to be a mom
and
afford to feed us. I hadn’t gotten a check from John yet. The next thing I knew, Dr. Lowell’s voice rang in my head as clearly as if she were speaking to me. “Yeah, yeah, something I would never do,” I muttered, getting up and reaching for the phone.

“Corning and Associates. How may I direct your call?” John’s Redhead Receptionist, I was pleased to hear, had a nasal tone to her voice. There was some justice in the world.

“Hi, this is Molly Hagan. Is John in?”

“Let me check. Hold on, please.”

I straightened a pile of books my mom must’ve gotten into while I waited for John. If I concentrated hard enough on them, maybe I wouldn’t have this panicky “going-to-ask-for-money” feeling in my stomach.

“Molly?”

Rats. Even Voltaire couldn’t save me. “Hi, John.”

“I was just going to call you. How’s it going?”

“Fine.” Especially since I hadn’t worked on anything since the last time we talked.

“Great, because the Cooking Channel wants to get a taste—ha-ha, get it?—a taste of what Simon’s new venture will be like.”

“Uh . . . when is this presentation scheduled for?” I asked. My voice rose at least an octave. A television network?

“Probably in a week and a half,” John replied, not realizing he was making my heart jump out of my throat.

“Oh.”

“What were you calling about, anyway?”

“Right. Um, I was wondering when you’d be sending—”

“The consulting fees. Of course, I totally forgot. I’ll have Ida send the first payment out tomorrow.”

“Okay, thanks. And—do I have to be there for the presentation?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Of course, Molly. You’re presenting the concept,” John replied, sounding as if he were gritting his teeth. “Simon will field questions afterward, but you’re the details person.”

I imitated his Big Corporate Guy tone. “Right, of course, I knew that, I was just checking.”

“We’ll have time to go over the presentation—say next Tuesday?”

“I’m busy on Tuesday.” Tuesdays With Scary were, sadly, the brightest part of my week.

“Wednesday, then.” Now he sounded annoyed. I refused to allow his Business Male Voice to intimidate me.

“Right. Wednesday. Will Simon and Nick be there also?”

“No, just us.”

“Okay, see you then. Good-bye.”

“Bye, Molly.”

I hung up, a little bit in shock,
but also ridiculously pleased with myself: I had called John, something I did not want to do, to ask about my money, something I really did not want to do. And I had done it. Dr. Lowell would be proud.

I stuck my head out the doorway to make sure Aidan and Mom were still busy, then I did a little end zone victory dance. Midshimmy, I thought about things I would never do.

And I got a really good, really scary idea.

Bite in August

Mere words—no matter how many you use—cannot describe this rich, dense masterpiece. A chocolate truffle for the plebeian; a drama in white and dark chocolate for the cognoscenti. Don’t wait for Christmas to celebrate.

16

“I STILL DON’T HAVE A POWER RANGER FOR JASON’S PARTY,”
Aidan wailed. I kneeled in front of him, struggling to get his sneakers on. He was too busy bemoaning our lack of finances to help.

“Aidan, could you just push a little?” I asked, brushing my hair out of my eyes. He glared at me and jammed down hard, smashing my finger. I stifled a word Aidan should not hear. “Not that hard. Look, Aidan, I’m sorry I can’t get you a Power Ranger Alien Thingie—”

“Alien Planet,” Aidan replied in a sullen voice. “But we just don’t have the money. Right now,” I added, so he wouldn’t start thinking we had no money whatsoever. Only one of us needed to have that worry.

He gave me a hurt puppy look, pushing his lip as far out as it could go.

I sighed, straightened the hem of his shirt, and looked in his eyes, resting my hands on his legs. “Honey, I promise, if I could afford to get you the toy, I would. But I just can’t.”

His lower lip receded, just a bit. “Okay, Mommy. I can ask Jason if he has any extra.” He stuck his finger in his nose, and I just as quickly removed it. “Are you coming with me?”

I glanced around, making sure Mom wasn’t hiding behind the enormous log cabin/judo stadium/Dipsy Doodles theme park Aidan had completed last night. I lowered my voice, just in case. “I’ll be there, but do you remember that man Nick we saw at the coffee shop that day?”

He nodded. “The one who liked the Justice League?”

“Yeah. Well, he said he’d go to the party, too, and he said he’d help you with some of the contests.”

His face brightened. Maybe almost as much as if he were clutching a brand-new Power Ranger Alien Thingie. Sorry,
Planet
. “Cool!”

“I hope so,” I muttered. Aidan leapt off the chair and ate the judo players’ dressing room.

My mother bustled in, her coat tucked under her arm. “Well, I’m going out for a bit,” she said cheerily like she wasn’t facing financial disaster.

My mouth gaped. “Mom, did you forget?”

“Forget what, sweetie?”

“Forget,” I said in an exaggeratedly patient tone, “that my . . . friend is coming here this morning to talk to you about the financial stuff? Remember?”

“Oh, honey, I can’t,” she said, drawing her arm through her sleeve. “I promised Mrs. Simpkins I’d go over for the day to visit with Dante. He’s been moping a bit, it seems.”

I stood up and held her arm. “No, Mom, Dante has to wait. You’ve got your own circle of hell to go through”—
and so do I
—“and you’re staying here, at least until Nick leaves.”

“Nick? You haven’t mentioned him before.” She took her coat off and draped it on the couch. Of course, a potential Molly-Man was able to get her coat off faster than reminding her of her commitments.

“He’s one of the guys I’m working with on that copywriting job, you know, the bakery one you helped me with?”

She gave me a puzzled look. “I thought his name was Simon. I know it’s not John, I know John.”

“This is another one.”

Now her face was positively ecstatic. “
Three
men? You’re working with
three
men? Molly, even you should be able to find someone with that many to choose from.”

Thanks for the vote of confidence. “Mom, I don’t want another man in my life right now.” I shot her a quick look to see if she bought it. Her eyes narrowed. “I’m working to pay the rent, remember?”

She waved a hand in dismissal. “Of course, dear, but a boyfriend couldn’t hurt, could it?”

“Paying the rent couldn’t hurt, either. It’s not a date, he’s coming over to talk to you about your financial planning, and he’s going to be Aidan’s ‘agile grown-up’ at this birthday party we’re going to later.” I checked around to make sure Aidan wasn’t
just
having Dipsy Doodles for breakfast. Oh, good, a stale Pop-Tart. The nominating committee for Mother of the Year probably wasn’t going to be calling me anytime soon.

She plopped down in the chair, picking up
The Ambassadors,
which she had left splayed open on the table. “Well, I’ll stick around, then,” she said, as if she were the queen granting an audience or something. Not an impoverished snob.

“Good, Mom. Thank you,” I said through gritted teeth as I went to my bedroom to get dressed.

What did you wear when you wanted to look casual but nice? Not jeans and a sweatshirt, which was my usual Saturday garb. I grabbed a black turtleneck sweater and black wool pants. I slipped on some silver hoop earrings and slid a chunky silver ring on my right hand. My left hand remained unadorned.

Aidan was on his third episode of the
Power Rangers’ Marathon
when the buzzer rang. I leapt up to get it, my heart in my throat. What if Nick changed his mind and realized the prospect of spending his Saturday with me, my son, and my mother was going to be miserable? What if it
was
miserable?

As I waited at the top of the stairs for him to ascend, I felt a mixture of dread and anticipation settle in the pit of my stomach. The anticipation won out as I saw the top of his head. Even his mass of black hair looked solid. Reassuring. I knew he wouldn’t let Aidan down.

Whether he would let
me
down depended on my ability to get over myself and do something I would never do in a million years.

“In a minute, sport.”
Nick ruffled Aidan’s hair, realigned a Lincoln Log, then sat down at the dining room table. Mom held a small plate with baby carrots, some stale Wheat Thins, and plain yogurt toward him like it was caviar. My mother may have lacked funds, but she certainly had finesse.

Nick shook his head no, and she lowered the plate slowly onto the table. One of the carrots had that old mushy carrot look to it, so I grabbed it and held it in my closed fist.

“Mrs. Hagan, I understand you don’t want to lose your house. Of course not. The goal here is for you to do what you need to do to save your financial situation.”

Nick looked at me over my mother’s head and winked. I was really getting to like that wink.

“But, Mr. Harrison—what you say here is unless I give up all my habits, all the necessities of life, I will lose my house. That I cannot tolerate.”

I stood up and walked over to observe Aidan’s progress so I wouldn’t bite my mother’s head off. I couldn’t take her supercilious attitude—never had been able to, actually—and it took all of my strength not to yell at her.

Something I definitely wouldn’t do in a million years. And never would, my temper and her finances willing.

Nick leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “Well, then, Mrs. Hagan, you will lose your house. And your necessities of life. It’s that simple. Sometimes you have to make short-term sacrifices for long-term gains.”

Welcome to the club, Mom. “Spoken like a true money man,” my mother said, wrinkling her nose. Apparently successful men who tried to tell her how to live her life were not nearly as attractive as successful men she wanted to date her daughter.

“Yes, ma’am,” Nick said politely. It sounded like he’d had experience dealing with people like my mom. “I can run the numbers for you, if you like, and show you what I’m talking about.”

Mom shoved the papers away from in front of her and rested her elbows on the table, ignoring his comment entirely. “Now where did you grow up? And where did you get your degree from?”

He unfolded his hands and crossed his arms across his chest. “I grew up in Manhattan, and went to school in Boston.”

“Harvard?” my mother asked in an arch tone of voice.

“B.U.,” he said. Before my mother could lower her eyebrows, he continued. “And an MBA from NYU.” She brightened considerably. “But discussing my past does not solve the problem of your future, Mrs. Hagan. And,” he said, looking at Aidan, “Aidan and I have a party to go to in about fifteen minutes. Right, sport?”

Aidan grinned. “Right.”

“Well.” My mother sniffed. “It’s clear nobody is going to give a woman a break for making an honest mistake.”

I couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Mother, investing what you could not afford is not an honest mistake. Mixing darks with colors is an honest mistake. Asking for white rice instead of brown when ordering Chinese takeout is an honest mistake. I would say this,
this
was a dishonest mistake. A terrible, awful, misguided mistake. And the fact that Mr. Harrison—”

“Nick,” he inserted. So it’s Nick now. Oh. Well, then.

“—Nick is kind enough to give you the benefit of his advice does not mean it is his fault you have behaved recklessly, irresponsibly, and foolishly.” I stopped speaking, feeling my heart racing and my armpits begin to well with perspiration. Was it because he’d been friendly, or because I’d told my mother what I really thought?

“Well, Molly Moira Hagan, I guess you have done well enough yourself that you can cast a few stones at your mother.”

I gave a weary sigh. “That’s not the point, Mom. I’m not saying I’ve done a fantastic job of this, either—” I looked to see if Aidan was listening, but he wasn’t. “I married a man who dumped me, and is now not able to support us; I stopped working so I could be a mom; I hope to start a new career, but I won’t know about that for a while; and I’ve generally made a mess of my life, but that doesn’t mean I’m not right.”

She looked at me—hurt, anger, and remorse flashing in her eyes. She held my gaze for a few seconds more, then dropped her eyes to the table.

She looked as old as she ever had, and my heart ached with seeing her that way. My mom. My judgmental, intellectually snobbish, condescending, Swarovski crystal–collecting mom laid low by her obsessive need to beat the market.

“Mrs. Hagan,” Nick said, pulling the papers she’d pushed away back to him. “I promise, it’s not as bad as all that.” He looked up at her. “What is as bad as all that is refusing to deal with the effects of poor fiscal management. You’re an intelligent woman,” he said, and I saw her preen, “and you know as well as I do that you have to do something. Or you’ll lose everything.”

She bit her lip, then nodded slowly.

“And,” he continued, bending toward the table and picking up a pen, “I have a fantastic financial guy who, as it happens, owes me a favor. He and I were at NYU together. Here’s his number,” he said, scribbling on the margins of the paper, “and you will call him on Monday. Or I won’t be able to come hang out with Aidan and Molly anymore.” There was that wink again.

“Blackmail?” She sounded almost . . . flirtatious. Who knew my mother had it in her, even in the pit of her financial despair?

Oh, I guess I did. Especially when there was a man and Molly in the same sentence.

“I’m serious, Mrs. Hagan.” He tapped the papers with his index finger. “This is serious. This isn’t something to be glossed over. I can tell that, just by reviewing your numbers for a few minutes. So—you’ll do it?”

She nodded again. And looked at me, asking for something she had never asked for, not in all my years of knowing her: comfort. I went over to her and wrapped her in my arms. She laid her head on my shoulder, gave a little sob, and pulled away. “Don’t you have a party to go to?” she asked, peering at Aidan over my shoulder.

“Sure do,” Nick replied, patting her on the arm. “Listen, call me whenever you want if you have any questions about this stuff.”

“What was your undergrad degree in, anyway?” Mom asked, apparently bouncing back enough to quiz him further about his college career.

He rolled his eyes at me before he replied. “Philosophy.”

“Interesting,” she said, quirking her lip. “I didn’t know philosophers were financial planners.”

“Didn’t you ever hear of John Stuart Mill, Mrs. Hagan? David Hume, Karl Marx?”

“Hm.”

Ha. Hoisted on her own snotty petard.

“Sorry my mother is so difficult.”
Nick, Aidan, and I had left the apartment and were heading the few blocks over to the local chichi children’s gym for the birthday party.

“She’s not, really. It’s hard to have to adjust to a new lifestyle—”

“Even if the adjustment is caused by your own idiocy,” I said, more bitterly than I meant.

“She seems like she’s trying, though,” he replied in a soft voice. Every hard-ass had his soft spots—Nick seemed to go for the standard children-and-old-ladies option.

“I was actually thinking more of myself.” I gave a humorless laugh.

He clutched my arm as we strode down the street, Aidan holding his hand on the other side. “You can’t beat yourself up for your mistakes, Molly. People do things for reasons, and sometimes the original reasons change. It’s okay.”

Right. He’d heard what I told my mom about Hugh and my life. I relaxed into his grip, feeling his warm strength. “Thanks.”

As we walked I couldn’t help but think about the last time Aidan and I had walked this sidewalk with an adult male. It’d been early last summer, right before Aidan and I had gone to visit my mother. The day had just been fading into night, and we were headed for the pizza/gourmet place that catered to families just like ours.

Aidan was running ahead, and Hugh and I were watching him do his little skip-jump down the sidewalk. “He’s such a sweetheart.” I sighed.

“Yes, he is,” Hugh had replied, sounding unusually serious. I remember glancing over at him, and he caught my eye, then shook his head, as if to say it was nothing.

But it was something. It was blond, beautiful, and named Sylvia.

I must’ve done something, maybe tensed up when I thought of Hugh, because Nick nudged me with his arm. “What?” he asked, keeping an eye on Aidan, who was bounding ahead of us.

I shook my head. “Nothing,” I said. But it was something. What it was, I wasn’t sure yet.

We arrived at the play place a few minutes later, Aidan practically speechless in his excitement. Whenever we’d been to parties there before, the kids had gone into an enormous padded play area, emerging sweaty, tired, and happy forty-five minutes later. I usually hovered in the corner, idly conversing with whichever parents deigned to stay, drinking flat soda and wishing I had brought a book.

This time, though, the parents shepherded the child and adult of choice into the room, providing both with weird sock/slipper hybrids to put on their feet. Nick slipped his sneakers off without question, then helped Aidan with his. They walked into the gym area, both of them stopping to wave before joining the group already assembled in the middle of the floor. I didn’t see a Power Ranger anywhere. Hmph.