Working It (27 page)

When I look up again, Calder isn’t standing in the doorway. I find him on the porch, leaning against a railing, arms crossed over his chest, Aviators hiding his eyes.

“Is something wrong?”

“Aye,” he says, his brogue thick with emotion. “Angus had a heart attack.”

“
Mon dieu
!” I put my hand over my mouth. Angus is Calder’s older brother, but only by a few years. “Is he going to be okay?”

“I didn’t ken.” His voice sounds gravely and I know he is struggling to contain his emotions. “He is scheduled for a bypass tomorrow. We will ken more after that.”

“What would you like me to do?” I move closer, wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my head on his chest. “I am here for you and will do whatever I can to support you.”

“Will ye go to Scotland with me?”

“When?”

“The detachment is cutting my orders and working a ticket on the next flight to Edinburgh.”

“Of course I will go with you. I will call Finn Thompson, the president of the charity, and tell him I need some time off. When do you think we would be back?”

“I am not coming back.”

I stop hugging him and look up at his face.

“Ever?”

He shakes his head. “My tour is almost up anyway, and I didn’t plan on signing on for another one. Fiona is going to need my help running the farm. She can’t manage it alone, and I will not let her.”

His brogue is so thick—with his shorter words running together and the ending consonants dropping away completely—I have a difficult time understanding him.

“You mean to stay in Scotland.”

“Aye,” he says, the word rumbling in his chest. “And I mean for you to stay with me.”

My heart skips another beat. Is he asking me to marry him?

“I want you to live with me. We can stay in one of the cottages until Angus is back on his feet.”

“You want me to quit my job?”

“’Tis only a volunteer position.”

“It’s my career.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” he says, pulling me closer. “Some things are more important than a career.”

I pull out of his embrace. “Maybe to you!”

He inhales sharply and steps back.

“You don’t understand,” I say, trying to ease his pain and my conscience. “I received an email this morning, from the Vice President of Chanel offering me a position in Paris. It’s an amazing opportunity, especially after what happened at L’Heure, and I won’t let anything ruin it.”

“Anything or anyone.”

“It’s not like that—”

“I thought you didn’t want to work in fashion?”

“I thought that, too, but then I got that email, and….”

“And everything has changed.”

“Nothing has changed between us.” I grab his hand and lacing my fingers with his. “I still want to see you.”

“How will that happen?” He opens his fingers and lets my hand drop away. “If you are in Paris and I am in the Highlands, how will we see each other?”

“It’s a short flight.” I smile and push my hair behind my ear. “Direct from Charles de Gaulle to Edinburgh.”

“Weekend hook-ups?” He shakes his head. “I didna want that. I am looking for something more.”

His words hit me like a stiletto to the heart. Something more. More than me, he means.

“I am sorry, but I can’t give you any more right now.”

He smiles and shakes his head.

“This is goodbye then,
banfhlath
.” He bends down and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Take care of yourself.”

I can’t move. My feet feel as if they are frozen to the porch, and my arms hang heavy at my sides. I am standing in the same spot when he gets in his jeep, starts the engine, and drives away.

He never took off his sunglasses. I never even got to see his eyes.

My knees buckle, and I literally have to hold onto the porch railing to keep from falling on my face.

Chanel-ing my Inner-Coco

Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:

I know I have made the right choice, but my heart hurts so much.

Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:

“I only drink champagne when I am in love and when I am not,” Coco Chanel. Drink champagne.

“I can’t believe this is goodbye.”

“It is not goodbye,” I say, giving Laney a quick hug. “You will come to Paris and live out your Starving Artist in Paris Fantasy. You will stay with me, so you won’t really starve.”

When we stop hugging, I see Laney’s big glasses are steamy and tears are dripping down her cheeks. I give her another hug.

“Here,” she says, handing me her panda hat. “I want you to have this.”

“Are you kidding?” I put my hand up. “I can’t take your panda hat. It’s your favorite.”

“Take it.” She sniffles, shoving the furry hat at me. “I think the panda is your spirit animal.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Why do you think that?” I say, taking the hat.

“The panda is a powerful spirit animal, known for its strength and determination.” She takes her glasses off and cleans them on her shirt, puts them back on, and looks me in the eye. “People who have the panda as their spirit animal are usually uncomfortable with feelings and intimate relationships, so they put up strong defenses and seek material comfort.”

“Yikes!” I say, frowning at the hat. “Panda people sound cold and hedonistic.”

Laney shakes her head. “Pandas are very sensitive.”

“So we’re not all bad?”

Laney shakes her head again.

I have already said my goodbyes to Keith and Hector, so I grab my carry-on and pull it over to where Alexi the cab driver is parked. I open the door and climb into the back seat.

“Wait!” Laney comes running over.

“What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t want you to leave until I told you one more thing about the panda,” she says. “The panda’s struggle is to find balance, but when it does, it nurtures and receives great nurturing in return. I hope you find your balance, Fanny.”

“
Merci, mon amie
.”

I hug Laney again and climb into the taxi. We wave to each other and blow kisses until the taxi turns onto Halibut Point Road and we can no longer see each other.

“Excuse me,” I say, swallowing a thick lump in my throat. “I need you to stop at Make Knit Work before driving me to the airport.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nowhere to park.”

“Just leave it running out front and turn your hazards on.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I get ticket.”

“Listen, Alexi—”

He looks at me through the rearview mirror and raises an eyebrow

“Oh, yeah, I got your name. And don’t you pretend you don’t know who I am, either! This town isn’t that big.”

“I know you.”

“Yes, you do! You left me at the bottom of a hill, in a blizzard, with a ton of luggage. I have a feeling the Sitka Chamber of Commerce and the Department of Tourism would be very interested to hear about the way taxi drivers treat helpless female visitors.”

He snorts. “I wait.”

“Smart decision, Yeltsin. Let’s end this Cold War.”

He pulls up to Make Knit Work and I jump out.

Netty greets me before the bells have even stopped jingling. “Good morning, Fanny. Nolee told me you got a new job. She said you would be leaving us.”

“
Oui
,” I say, smiling. “I was offered a position at Chanel.”

“That is good news, but I am sorry to see you go. I really hoped we could work together to design some new garments.”

“Maybe we can,” I say, reaching into my pocket and pulling out an envelope. “I wrote down my contact information. Once I am settled, I will sketch a few designs and send them to you. If you like them, we can figure something out.”

“I’d like that.”

I hand her the envelope and she slips it into her apron pocket.

“I do have a favor to ask you.”

“Me?”

“
Oui
.”

“What is it?”

“There is a check inside that envelope. I was wondering if you would mind cashing it and giving it to Nolee to pay for her tuition to Parsons.”

Netty’s eyes widen. “Are you serious?”

“
Oui
,” I say, smiling. “Please don’t tell her it is from me. Just say you came into an inheritance and want to help her to fulfill her destiny.”

“I couldn’t—”

“Please.” I gently squeeze her arm. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable with her knowing I was her benefactor.”

“Why would you help a girl you hardly know?”

“Nolee has talent.”

“Plenty of people have talent. Why Nolee?”

Alexi honks the horn. I hold up my finger and mouth the words, “Just one more minute.”

“I want to help Nolee because I see myself younger self in her,” I confess. “My mother died when I was young, and my father was too wrapped up in his own problems to be a parent. Growing up without affection made me jaded and mistrustful. I don’t want to see Nolee become hardened.”

Alexi honks his horn again.

“You are a kind and generous girl,” Netty says, patting my cheek. “Your mother would be very proud of you.”

“Thank you.” Tears flood my eyes. “Nobody has ever said that to me.”

“Well, they should have.”

Filling the Hole

Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:

Coco Quote: “How many cares one loses when one decides not to be something, but to be someone.” Bisous.

I am standing in Chanel’s light-filled atelier at 31 rue Cambon, just above Coco’s old apartment, when I realize I have made a huge mistake. One minute, I am snapping photos of the
petits mains
putting finishing touches on a collection of garments designed exclusively for Kate Middleton, Prince William’s stylish wife, and the next minute I am locked in a bathroom stall, silently sobbing into a wad of toilet paper.

I should feel deliriously happy. I spend my days conversing with the most skilled couturiers in the world, surrounded by garments so beautiful they could hang on the walls of the Louvre. A million women would kick off their Jimmy Choos and walk barefoot over scalding coals and broken glass to have my job. I realize, with painful clarity, that I am no longer one of those women.

My colleagues have been warm and welcoming. We’ve even gone out for drinks after work. Véronique, my boss, is the best mentor I have ever had. The work is challenging, but not so challenging that I feel like a piece of elastic that has been stretched to its limits.

Yet I can’t help feeling like what I am doing is frothy, fluffy nonsense. If the world is a carnival, couture is the cotton candy. Have you ever watched cotton candy being made? Sugar is poured into this big heated drum that spins and spins until fine strands begin to form. Sure, they add flavoring and food color, but it lacks any real substance. It’s a lot of work for something that lacks substance.

I’ve never liked cotton candy.

The work I did with Each One, Teach One had substance. A group of strangers came to me to be educated, elevated, and enlightened. I didn’t teach them how to split atoms or conduct brain surgery, but every time we met, I made sure they left my classroom with at least one new skill.

I miss feeling truly useful. I miss falling into bed at night happily exhausted. I miss fresh air, towering trees, and quiet. I miss hearing Laney strum her ukulele. I miss…

…Calder.

I miss Calder so much I feel like someone reached into my chest and ripped a part of my heart out. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I just want to hole up in my room in my father’s apartment and sleep away the pain.

I have emailed him and tried calling him, but my messages go unanswered. I sent flowers to the hospital for Angus and spa certificates to Fiona so she could feel tended to, as well. Fiona sent a lovely thank you card, but she didn’t mention Calder.

What if every breath, every step I took before Calder was just so I could reach him? What if my destiny was to love and be loved by a cocky Scottish cowboy, and I blew it?

My chest tightens. My breath lodges in my throat. The bathroom stall suddenly feels too small, as if the walls are moving closer together to crush me.

I open the door and walk out of the bathroom, wad of toilet paper still clutched in my hand. I walk through the atelier, down the stairs, and out into the sunshine. I try taking a deep breath, but the air feels heavy, polluted, smothering.

And so I start walking.

I walk and walk and walk. I walk through the Tuileries Gardens, past the freshly planted tulip beds and the children tossing coins into the Bassin Octogonal. I walk around the Place de la Concorde, past the stalls that will sell trinkets and treats once the weather warms. I walk to Les Caves du Marais and purchase a bottle of champagne.

I walk until I am standing in front of my father’s apartment building. I walk into the elevator. I walk out of the elevator. I walk into his apartment and into my bedroom. I pop open the bottle of champagne, drink the contents from the bottle, and then climb into my bed without taking off my clothes, pull the covers over my head, and go to sleep.

* * * *

Text to Vivia Perpetua Grant:

I am miserable. Too miserable to talk.

Text from Vivia Perpetua Grant:

Of course you are miserable. You are in the city of love without your lovah. Forget high fashion and go after that cowboy. You look better in Wellies than Louboutins anyway.

“Fanny?” My father knocks on my bedroom door. “Fanny?”

I pretend to be asleep because I am not ready to listen to him lecture me about how I have made colossally bad career choices and how I have wasted my education and ruined my professional reputation. Blah blah blah.

He opens the door anyway. Bright light floods my room. I groan and pull the covers over my head.

“Fanny?” He walks close enough for me to smell his cologne, an expensive scent made exclusively for him in a perfumerie in Grasse. “Vivian has called three times this morning. You can’t keep ignoring her.”

“Tell her I am sleeping.”

“
Non, ma puce
.” His voice is low and firm. “She said to tell you if she doesn’t hear from you in the next hour, she is booking a seat on the seven twenty-six TGV from Montpellier to Paris. I could not tell if she was serious.”