Everything’s Coming Up Josey (19 page)

“Lord,” I say. “Please forgive me for making this all about me. I want it to be about You. About Your grace. To the praise of Your glory. Help me to stay the course, whatever it takes and to do this year right.” I take a deep breath, and in the silence of the flat, I feel that sweeping tingle that I know is the touch of heaven. A tear drips off my chin.

Chosen. Saved. To the praise of His glory. You know, that sounds pretty significant to me.

And He even gave me bagels. Little Gold Rings.

Merry Christmas from God.

 

I nearly killed my roommate. No, she didn't eat the bagels.

But again, I started at the punch line. Let me back up to 3:00 a.m. Christmas night. I'm still full from dinner at the Winneman's and having a hard time sleeping, which is why I hear the door latch wiggle, then the
thwump
as it opens and bangs against the wall.

I sit up in my bed, my heart already in Jersey and headed west, fast.

“Hello?”

And then I hear it. Ew, that's not going to be fun to clean up.

I peel off the covers and run into the family room. Oh good, she made it to the bathroom, but she's looking like she's been chased by a herd of buffalo, sweaty hair, streaked makeup, oh, and now I know why—she's wearing a fuzzy hide of one of their clan, a sort of over one-shoulder wrap and black stretch pants. “Tracey?” I say, just in case it's her twin from the jungles of Africa.

“Help,” she says, a split second before she takes another dive for the biffy.

I wince. Okay, I'm having to reach back into my dark past, but I manage to find empathy for her and grab a washcloth. She leans back, emptied, so to speak, and runs the wet cloth over her face. “Thanks.”

I crouch beside her (not too close, but enough to show that I care). “What happened?”

Her chin quivers, and in a second her face crumples. “Rick!” she wails.

Oh, him. So, I take it I should stop using her room for my craft supplies?

“He broke up with me.”

Yeah! Yeah! Oh, whoops. I stifle my cheers and nod sadly. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Why? What's wrong with me?”

Oops, not ready for the acceptance stage yet. Still stuck in denial. “I don't know, Tracey. But he doesn't deserve you.” Well, sort of doesn't. He wears leather, she wears skins, I'm seeing “match made in heaven” but maybe I shouldn't say that. I do want better for her. Really.

“No, he doesn't!” she says and she blows her nose on a huge wad of toilet paper, throws it near the garbage. “I do everything for him, everything. I write the grants, give his speeches, even train our clients. He does what, shows up for the parties? The events at the embassy?”

Embassy? Hmm, he's single now, right—

“Tonight he told me that I didn't fit his style. Fit his style? What style does he have? I'll tell you what kind of—”

Okay, she's kinda scary when she's mad, because she's shaking and her lips aren't moving as fast as her words. And she's unrolling more toilet paper in clouds around her.

“His style is a girl who doesn't ask too many questions, who doesn't think past his lips, who doesn't care when she sees him at the Gray Pony with someone else.”

See, and I don't want to say it, but I knew all that.

“Trace, he's a jerk. You do deserve better.” And I mean it, now. “You need a man who loves you for who you are, for your dreams and your fears and everything great about you.”

She stares at me, blinks. And then a soft smile curves her mouth. “Really, you think so?”

Me—you're asking me? “Yes!” I say, because I want my words for me, too. They sounded so good, don't you think? “You want someone who thinks you're so incredible he'd cross the ocean just to spend one hour with you.”

We both smile.

“C'mon, get cleaned up, and then get some sleep. Tomorrow I'll treat you to lunch at my favorite little bistro.”

Oh, well. I couldn't keep it a secret forever. Besides, I think Tracey needs some bistro in her life, even if the little tables have been moved inside for the winter. They still sell great instant coffee.

 

I am an awesome roommate. Here I am, declining a New Year's Eve party at the Winnemans so I can stay home and keep Tracey company. She's turned out, under all those leopard skins, to have a sweet Ohio smile. A treasure that I would have never appreciated had Rick the Slime not sent her packing. I'm quietly thanking him, for so many things.

For example, tonight, two days before New Year's Eve, she's
cooking
. Spaghetti, and she's made it from scratch. “My mother is half-Italian,” she says, “but my father is Irish, which is why they live a couple states apart.”

And I now know where all that lush red hair came from. I'm just a boring Norse woman.

She comes out of the kitchen, bearing two plates of noodles and sauce. My stomach wants to burst out in the Hallelujah chorus.

“I have an idea,” she says as she puts the plate in front of me on the coffee table. I've poured us a couple Diet Cokes, finds from the central market. I'm feeling quite the accomplished hunter-gatherer.

I say a quick prayer, then dive into the sustenance. “What have you been thinking?” I finally respond.

“Let's go to the Embassy party,” she says.

Embassy?
Embassy?

“When is it?” I ask casually, doing my Lara Croft.

“New Year's Eve. They have a big party. Could be fun.”

Ahh, oh wise me can see through this. I narrow my eyes. “Will Rick be there?”

Her chin starts to quiver. Uh-oh—danger, Will Robinson, danger!

“Maybe we should just stay home,” I say, quietly dying.

“Yeah,” she says.

Phooey.

“Or, we could get really dressed up and show Rick what he's missing.”

What, who said that? Oh, no, that was
me!
What am I thinking?
She
can get dressed up. I have nothing to wear to an Embassy party. Again, see, mouth doing its own thing.

Tracey brightens, and the quiver is gone, replaced by a slow smile. “Love that.”

“I don't have to anything to wear,” I say, neatly opening up my insecurities. But she's my roomie-pal, and we do these things.

“No problem. I know just the place.”

Uh-oh.

And, my predictions are worth the sleepless night I tossed away because I find myself at high noon staring at a rack of shiny leather.

“I'm sure we can find your size,” Tracey says, and she's being so very nice I give her a genuine smile. She pulls out a leather miniskirt, with a slit to the waist. Uh,
no.
I'm a
missionary,
remember?

The store smells of leather, and the shades aren't confined to black, but white, brown, turquoise and even red. A bomber jacket catches my eye and I can't help think of Chase.

He wrote to me on Christmas Day, which was his Christmas Eve Day, and not only said he missed me, but gave a two-page rundown of the event at Berglund Acres.

And he didn't bring a date to Christmas dinner. Whoo hoo!

Suddenly, all I want to do tonight is sit at home and IM with him. We'll reminisce on old times, I'll impress him with my Russian, and maybe we'll talk about the future….

Only, what if he is going out? With Holiday Girl or Panty-stealer?

“How about this?”

I turn and see Tracey holding up a pair of low-rise black leather pants that flare at the bottom. “Find me a top,” I say and grab the pants. If Chase can go out, so can I. Aren't I important enough to miss
one
night cruising the Gull Lake strip?

I half expected some sort of tiger skin, but Tracey produces a white silk wrap blouse, V-neck with a tie at the bottom. Yeah, this could work.

I'm not sure I recognize the girl in the mirror, but according to this three-way, she's lost a few pounds, and frankly, despite the fact that Pudgy Woman I've grown to love/hate still hovers with a sick grin, I can see Leather Girl, someone sleek and fun and just a little exotic peeking out from the inside, smiling.

“I'll take it.”

 

The Embassy. Say it with me. Emmm-Ba-Seee. Only, we're not going there. We're going to Spaso House, which sounds much less glamorous…until I find out that this is where the American ambassador resides. And not only that, but we're going by private taxi (not a limo, sadly). But it beats surfing the subway in my heels.

Located a mile or so from the Kremlin (I wave for old times sake), we have to take the Ring Road to get there and we pull up next to what looks like a mini White House, complete with white columns and bright twinkle lights. A marine, looking oh-so American, stoic and strong, guards the door. Tracey goes in first, standing inside the glass while I wait in my frumpy parka outside on the stoop. But under the frump is sheer glitter. If only Chase could see me. I am wearing my boots under the leather pants, and Tracey swept up my hair into an inverted bun-thingie that makes me look like a runway model.

They wave me in and I have to show my passport and deposit my valuables and take off my coat, and what, are they going to frisk me? They run a wand over me, and I don't beep (phew!), then I sign the register and I'm in.

I drop my coat off with a coat checker then follow the sound of jazz and the tinkle of glasses down a red carpet to the source.

I can feel the elegance radiating off the walls. I did a little research (because I was a reporter in my other life, remember?) and discovered that Spaso House was built in 1914 for a wealthy merchant and has been used since the 1930s as the Ambassador's residence. I'm momentarily swept back in time to the era of Russian mystique as I approach the edge of the ballroom. Nearly 100 feet long, with a three-story domed ceiling, the walls are creamy white with ornate light blue etchings across the ceiling and along the second-floor balcony. An enormous blue-glass chandelier hangs from the ceiling. I can hear my heartbeat swell as I watch Americans and other guests swing dance around the floor.

“I see they're using a Moscow band,” Tracey says over the hum. She's looking like a tigress tonight in a tight black-and-brown sweater with fur at the cuffs and neck, and a miniskirt that just might be against the law in America. And she's so, so very tall. I look up about three miles to meet her eyes. “C'mon, I'll introduce you around,” she says, scanning the crowd for You Know Who. She can't fool me. “I have a surprise for you,” she says, but before I can follow up on that, she glides off and I'm her little penguin friend, waddling along behind her.

We garner little attention. Well, I do. Tracey attracts eyes like a magnet. She's smiling demurely, but I know it's an act. She took the entire afternoon to get ready and her room looks like a hurricane hit.

“Do you see him?” she asks, keeping her smile and her glide. Wow, is she good. I shake my head, but admittedly, I'm not trying too hard. I so don't want her to hook back up with Neo/Rick.

We take positions next to a column and she signals for drinks. I'm not sure—if I take the champagne, is that stepping foot over the missionary line? I decline and instead ask for a Diet Coke, feeling pretty proud of myself. The waiter, a man in white gloves, returns with my soda in a champagne flute. Cute.

Tracey gets a fresh glass. Uh-oh, she's fast. I'm going to have to keep an eye her.

“What's the surprise?” I ask her before she forgets she said it.

She just smiles at me and spikes one of those eyebrows. For some reason, it only generates a sort of queasy feeling in my stomach.

The song stops and I see Tracey work the crowd as it streams past. In a moment, she's handing me her champagne and heading out onto the dance floor.

Okay, I took swing dancing lessons once, and, well, my instructor compared me to a hippo. I didn't think that was so nice. And what's worse is that Tracey has the moves I long for. She's be-bopping and twirling and I know I need to leave, now. I'm in way over my head.

Only, she needs me, right?

Yeah, right, like the Lone Ranger needed Tonto.

I sigh, decide to circle the room. I stop for a moment, watching the band play. There are six or so violinists, two saxophonists, clarinetists, a trumpeter and a pianist. An eclectic bunch, but they're pulling off “In The Mood,” with recognizable clarity.

I return to my position just in time to greet Tracey. She's smiling and she finishes off her champagne in two swigs.

Gulp.

“That was Craig. He's married to Cari Ann.” She points to an elegant blonde talking serious shop with a group of men. “He works with me, and he says that he hasn't seen Rick all night.” She signals a waiter. “So, I guess we can relax.”