Working It (18 page)

“It’s from Vivian,” I say, following Laney into the cabin.

“Oo, more goodies.” Laney claps her hands. “Quick, open it and see what’s inside.”

We hurry to my room and hop onto my bed like two slumber party pals, kicking off our boots and shedding our coats and mittens. Laney pops a few moose balls in her mouth and munches on them while I unwrap the box. Once I have carefully removed Vivian’s handiwork, I hand the paper to Laney and she reads the headlines aloud, giggling.

“
Untamed Va-jay-jays
,” Laney chortles. “
Bush is back
!”

She thrusts the paper at me. Vivian has taped a photograph of ex-President George W. Bush beneath the headline. I groan and continue to pull strips of tape from the box.

“
His Butt Uncovered: What the Size and Shape Reveals about His Character
,” Laney continues reading. “
New Ways to Use Your Loofah
…”

I remove the last strip of tape and open the box. In typical Vivian fashion, she wrapped every item in pink tissue paper and tossed the lot with a liberal dose of glitter. I lift the first wrapped item out of the box and glitter floats in the air, finally settling like shimmering metallic snowflakes on my bed, lap, and floor. I remove the tissue paper and laugh out loud when I see what had been wrapped inside.

“What is it?”

I hand the nightshirt to Laney. She shakes it out and holds it up, chuckling as she stares at a cartoon version of Marie Antoinette standing on the scaffold, a shocked expression on her face, a smudge of frosting on her cheek, and the tagline, “What? All I said was, ‘Let’s have cake.’”

“Vivian has a massive pajama collection,” I say, trying to explain the emotional significance of the gift without going into detail about my preference to sleep sans clothes. “This is her favorite nightshirt.”

“Ah.”

I finish unwrapping the gifts until they form a pyramid of goodies on my bed. There are bars of Savon de Marseilles, my favorite soap, and tubes of Email Diamant, a clove-based French toothpaste. There is a box of chocolates from my favorite chocolate shop in Bruges, a bottle of wine from Castillo del Trebbio, a vineyard we visited during our bike tour of Tuscany, and fashion magazines from several European countries. There is also an envelope with something lumpy inside. I open the envelope and remove a neatly folded letter written on pink paper embossed with my best friend’s initials. A silver chain falls out of the envelope onto my lap. I lift the chain and stare at the sunflower pendant dangling from it.

“That’s pretty!” Laney coos.

It is pretty, but the delicate sunflower pendant doesn’t look like anything I would ever purchase or wear.

I open the letter and begin reading Vivian’s large, loopy handwriting. I don’t get too far before tears fill my eyes and a thick lump clogs my throat.

My dear Fanny,

I’ll bet you are thinking, “I wonder why Vivian sent me a necklace with a sunflower pendant?” I’ll bet you are also thinking it doesn’t look like the type of necklace you would ever wear. “Where’s the Tiffany tag? Where’s the Cartier stamp?”

Relax,
ma puce
, there is a method behind my madness—for to send a Platinum Princess a sterling silver necklace does indeed border on unbridled madness. (Insert maniacal laughter here.)

I am certain you already know that the sunflower is the symbol for the South of France, perhaps because of Van Gogh’s paintings, but I’ll bet you didn’t know that the sunflower originated in North America. Like you, it was taken from its native home and forced to endure in a foreign land. More than endure, the sunflower now brings joy to millions of tourists who flock to Provence to gaze at vast fields of the blossoms. I know you have it in you, sister of my soul, to do more than endure in your new foreign land. I know you have it in you to bring joy to everyone you encounter.

There is one more reason I have chosen the sunflower as your spirit flower. Did I really just write spirit flower? Somewhere Mum is saying an Our Father for my New Age transgression. Anyway, I chose this sunflower pendant because the sunflower bends in the breeze, never breaks, and it always, always turns its face to the light.

I know this is a difficult time for you, Fanny, but you will bend with this breeze You will not break. You will find the light.

Love,

Vivia

Laney gets up, walks to the bathroom connecting our rooms, and returns with a fistful of toilet paper. She hands me the wad and returns to sitting cross-legged on my bed.

I dab my eyes and blow my nose before handing her the letter.

“You don’t mind?” she asks, taking the letter.

I shake my head.

Laney’s eyes move back and forth, like the eyes on those vintage cat clocks, until she comes to the last line. She folds the letter, slips it back into the envelope, and tucks it beneath my pile of goodies.

“Was she right?”

“Excuse me?”

“Vivia said you would look at the necklace and wonder why she would send you something that wasn’t from Cartier or Tiffany. Was she right?”

I chuckle and nod my head. “It was my first thought.”

“And now?”

I look at the hand-carved sunflower pendant resting on my palm, and my smile fades.

“Now”—I unclasp the necklace and hook it around my neck—“there is only one thing I treasure more than this necklace.”

I think of my mother’s Dior diamond-and-ruby brooch, the one my father gave on my fifth birthday, and a new lump forms in my throat. It suddenly occurs to me that my two most treasured possessions came to via great loss. The loss of my mother and my job.

Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:

I don’t know where you are or if you are getting texts, but I want you to know that you are the best friend a girl could ever hope to have.

Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:

Yes I am!

Love & Other Drugs

Text from Curtis Bower:

Don't lock yourself in the tower just yet, Sleeping Beauty. Powers higher than Maleficent aren’t happy with the way she's running this jacked up fairy tale world we call L’Heure North America. A rotund little fairy—whose real identity must be protected to keep this from looking like pure, unadulterated gossip—told me the end of her cruel reign might be near.

Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:

OMG! I just saw Austin Carlile in the Duty Free at Charles de Gaulle. I am dying.

Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:

Who is Austin Carlile?

Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:

WHO IS AUSTIN CARLILE? The lightly bearded, heavily tatted hottie who visits me each night (in my dreams). Voice of a saint, body meant for sinners. Lead singer of my favorite band, Of Mice & Men.

Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:

I thought Ronnie Radke was your favorite singer?

Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:

Who? Oh, you man that boy from Falling in Reverse? *insert chuckle* Oh, Fanny, that was a mere idling crush of my misguided youth. This is for reals.

Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:

Why are you in Paris?

We are just finishing our dinner, onion soup and crusty French bread we bought at a bakery in town, when the other volunteers arrive.

Keith Wisdom is a tall, handsome African American from Minneapolis. He has a bright, beaming smile and a laugh that makes you feel warm inside.

I pour four mugs of coffee, and we go into the common room to become better acquainted. Laney assumes a cross-legged position on the ground beside the fireplace, while the rest of us sit on the artfully battered vegan leather furniture.

“What will you be teaching, Keith?” Laney asks.

“Carpentry.”

“Cool! Did you build furniture before volunteering to come to Sitka?”

“Naw.” He shakes his head. “I flipped houses.”

“Like Jeff Lewis?” I ask.

“Yeah, man,” Keith says, smiling broadly. “Only I don't have a nympho Mexican maid, make mad cash, or lose my mind.”

I nod because I am familiar with Jeff Lewis and his hyper-sexual maid. Laney frowns. I am guessing she doesn’t watch Bravo.

“So you’re teaching how to flip houses?”

"What? Ain’t enough time or Prozac to teach all the crazy that goes into flipping.” He crosses his arms and the muscles in his biceps bulge. “I’m teaching people how to make smokehouses.”

“Smokehouses?” Laney tilts her head and wrinkles her nose. “Like a place to smoke hookahs?"

Keith throws his head back and laughs.

“It's cool,” Laney says, flushing a little. “I'm from Colorado.”

“No, girl! Smokehouses for smoking herring and salmon.” Keith smiles so broadly, his teeth look like keys on a piano. “But I would be happy to fire up the hookah with you.”

Laney only laughs, which leaves me wondering if she smokes flavored tobacco—or something even stronger. It might explain a few things.

Merde!
There I go again, getting all judge-y. What does it matter if Laney likes to spend her time in dimly lit dens, sucking on genie lamps? Who am I to judge? It’s not like it’s crack, meth, or opium, right?

I hope she doesn’t smoke a hookah, though. I used to think people smoked marijuana out of hookahs, until Lady Loafers set me straight. He even offered to help me lose my “hookah cherry” by throwing an Arabian Nights party with bare-chested harem boys bearing trays of spice-scented tobacco.

I declined. I've never been about that life, and I just don't know if I could be super close to someone who makes killing brain cells a regular recreational sport.

I study the other volunteer, an extremely handsome, slender man who introduced himself as Hector Montoya from Coos Bay, Oregon.

“What about you?” I say, smiling at Hector. “What will you teach?”

“Massage therapy for healing and herb growing for holistic medicinal purposes.”

“Hector? Hector, bo-bector. Banana-fana, fo-fector Montoya!” Laney rocks back and forth to her own melody as if she’s hopped up on caffeine. “You're not the Hector Montoya, are you?”

Hector's cheeks redden. “I am Hector Montoya.”

“Any relation to Inigo Montoya?" Keith asks.

Hector opens his mouth, but Keith doesn't wait for him to answer.

“’Ello. My name ees Inigo Montoya,” Keith says in a thick Spanish accent. “You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

Whoa! What is up with Bob Vila going all racist with the bad accent and the strange threat? I am waiting for Hector to freak out, but the freak out never comes. Instead, he laughs.

“Yo, man,” Keith says, his thousand-watt smile dims just a watt or two. “That was wrong. You probably get that shit a lot, don't you?”

I must look confused, or outraged, because Hector smiles at me and says, “Inigo Montoya is a character in the movie
The Princess Bride
, and that is one of his famous lines.”

“Ah!” I nod. “I see.”

But I don't see. In fact, I feel as if I am the Helen Keller of movie trivia. I don't watch a lot of movies, so I am pathetically handicapped when it comes to movie references.

Laney, who has been tapping away on her iPhone, cries out, “Yes! I knew it! You are Hector Montoya!”

“I believe we have already established that he is Hector Montoya.”

“Yes, but he is
the
Hector Montoya.”

Keith and I exchange bemused looks.

“Hector Montoya?” Laney prompts. “The man who created Balanced.”

"Balanced?"

Hector blushes and looks down at his feet.

“What is Balanced?” Keith asks, looking from me to Hector to Laney.

“Balanced is a line of alternative medicine and wellness products,” Laney explains.

“Wait a minute!” My voice comes out one octave below fangirl screech. “I know your products. I use your products.”

“Get out,” Laney says.

“I do!” I am staring at Hector through wide, adoring eyes. The kind of eyes I have seen on the faces of countless teens scoring their first Lady Dior bag. The kind of eyes I have seen on Vivian when she has mentioned Luc—or one of those tatted-up rock stars she lusts over. “I use Balanced’s You're Off Your Rocker, post-exercise vitamin pack.”

“Thank you,” Hector says.

“I don't know what you put in those packs, my man,” Keith says, slapping Hector on the back. “But it’s working. Girl has got it going on.”

“Thank you.” I keep my gaze fixed on Hector. “This is incredible! I can't believe I am going to be sharing a cabin with Hector Montoya, the man who transformed a few acres of herbs into an international multi-million dollar health and lifestyle brand. Hector Montoya! The man who brought healthy back into health care!”

“Did my director of marketing and public relations pay you to say that?” Hector laughs softly.

“Last year, my best friend lost her job and her man. She was depressed. So you know what I did?”

Hector shakes his head.

“I slipped a little of your Get Out of Your Head into her water bottle.”

Hector looks at me through wide—more shocked and frightened than adoring—eyes. “You didn’t.”

“What?” I cry, defensive. “It was for her own good.”

Hector doesn’t blink.

Keith whistles.

“Do I sound like I've joined the cult?”

“A little,” Laney says.

“A little?” Keith repeats. "Girl, you've been drinking the Kool Aid."

“Well it worked!” I argue. “Vivian got a new job and a new man before the bottle was empty!”

“For reals?” Keith looks at Hector. “Well then hook a brother up, will ya? I could use some of that magic genie shit.”

“Unlucky in love, Keith?” Hector asks, without a hint of condescension.

“What?” Keith puffs up his chest. “Shit, no! The ladies love me.”

“Then why do you want magic genie shit?” I tease.

“Man, you ladies are like iPhones—”

“—because we like to be held?” Laney blurts.

“—because we keep you organized?” I chime in.

“No,” Keith says, clucking his tongue “—because you’re expensive, require too many damned updates to keep working, and there’s always a newer, more enticing model on the horizon.”