Love and Miss Communication (17 page)

Watching her glide like a ballerina into the office resurrected Evie’s feelings of insecurity from her days at Pikesville High. Eleanor, who even managed to pull off her granny name with aplomb, was the Upper East Side version of Cameron Canon, the most desirable girl at Evie’s high school. Once when Cameron wore a white jeans skirt to school in the dead of winter, half the girls showed up wearing the same outfit the very next day. Only the day Cameron wore it, a light snow was falling and she looked
like a fairy princess who commanded the weather gods to produce snowflakes to complement her outfit. When the rest of the girls mimicked her the following day, a heavy rain turned the day-old powder to slush and mucked up everyone’s outfits, including Evie’s.

To say Cameron was Evie’s rival would be to elevate Evie’s social status to beyond what it was. Evie’s competitiveness with Cameron was strictly internal. They were actually pretty friendly, though Evie never felt like she knew her all that well. They were in the same group, the “cool” crowd, though Evie felt at most times that she was hanging on to this group with a far more tenuous grip than its other members. She was more concerned with her grades than the rest of them. In retrospect, she couldn’t pinpoint why she was so hung up on making the honor roll instead of having fun. But there was a certain security she found in her books that she could never find at a party. Study hard—get a good grade. It was a predictable path for the most part. Be nice to everyone—well, there was no guarantee that would lead to being popular.

Who would have thought Cameron would be back to haunt Evie on a daily basis in the guise of the gorgeous Eleanor? And Evie was back to her old habits, this time copying Eleanor’s style while dressing for work. Mixing some of her old standbys with her new J.Crew garb, Evie chose a checked shirt similar to the one Eleanor wore the first day they met and paired it with narrow-cut beige trousers. She didn’t own the Chanel flats, but there were a pair of black knockoffs in her closet that got her 90 percent of the way there. Instead of skipping makeup altogether, she worked carefully on her eyes, shadowing them with a light taupe color and finishing her face with a dusting of bronzer on her cheeks and a light gloss on her lips. Finally she wound a round brush through her hair, running a hair dryer over her locks to smooth
and contour the layers. When she was done, Evie noted with pleasure that she didn’t look all that different from the senior girls. Sure there were more laugh lines around her lips, but who could complain about imperfections caused by smiling too much? She topped off her ensemble with a swingy fall cape, which put a bit of a superhero spring into her step.

With perfect punctuality, she sauntered into the office with ratcheted-up confidence, but no one was there to appreciate her makeover other than the school accountant, a portly gentleman in a bolo tie who had done nothing so far to disprove her suspicion that he was a mute. Jamie filed in midmorning during a study period, and she embarrassingly took pleasure in his visible approval of her appearance. She took up his offer to help, putting him to work creating binders with the latest version of the sale contract for the members of Brighton’s board to review.

“I’ve been waiting for you to trust me enough to help you,” he teased.

To avoid having to use the Internet, she had her counterpart at the seller’s law firm e-mail the contract to Jamie’s personal account, [email protected], which she explained away with some absurd story about her e-mail account being hacked. It was improper for a student to see the details of the school’s multimillion-dollar purchase, but Evie knew from sharing an office with Jamie that there was basically zero danger of him reading any of the sensitive material. They sat side by side, a mismatched pair of assembly-line workers, Jamie handing her each collated copy of the contract for her to insert into three-ring binders. How far she had fallen from the days of merging S&P 500 companies.

“That’s my mom,” Jamie said, pointing to a page in one of the contract’s appendices.

“Excuse me?” Evie said, not sure she had heard him correctly.

“In the list of trustees. My mom is a board member.” He ran his finger over a hyphenated last name—a double-barreled, Jack would say.

“Your mother is Julianne Holmes-Matthews?
The
Julianne Holmes-Matthews?” Julianne, and her firm Holmes (how lucky was that last name for an interior designer), was the darling of
Architectural Digest,
her projects featured every month without fail. A château in Paris, a dacha outside Moscow, a penthouse in Tokyo—her clients flew her around the world to design their residences. Her style was renowned—described usually as modern but with old Parisian flair. She’d juxtapose steel doors and apothecary tables, white Thassos countertops and vintage bar carts. It was perfection. She, the Anna Wintour of home decor, was perfection. Her offspring? Evie studied her juvenile coworker once again. Perhaps a bit less so.

“Yeah. She’s a decorator,” Jamie said, without the necessary alacrity. “She just did Bono’s place.”

Holy crap.

“Actually, she’s coming in to school. She’s supposed to see the new building and, I don’t know, give her opinion or something.”

Julianne Holmes-Matthews was coming to Brighton. She had to meet her.

“When is that?” Evie asked casually, but not really casually at all. “I like her work,” she added a bit more coolly.

“Not sure. She’s in Beirut now but I’ll text her and find out. Do you want to meet her or something?”

“Sure, yeah. Whatever.”

“Okay, I’ll hook it up.”

“Thanks,” Evie said. “There are some provisions in the contract pertaining to the build-out that I’d love to go over with her.”

That was completely false. But Jamie, as in most matters, was none the wiser.

# # #

It was the end of the workweek at last, and Evie had plans to visit Bette again after school. She was bringing along a few accessories to embellish her grandmother’s dreary surroundings. There was a good chance that her mom would be visiting too, since on Fridays her theater troupe always “rested their voices,” and she and Evie would finish off their conversation from the coffee shop. Bette’s illness was forcing the Rosen family into closer contact than usual. And there was just something about cancer and hospital settings that made everyone feel entitled to catharsis at will, especially Bette. Her grandma had gone from tapping to pounding her sapphire engagement stone, and was prone to dropping matrimonial references apropos of nothing. It was easier to be at work making binders with Jamie, whose stock had basically quadrupled since she’d discovered his esteemed lineage.

Eleanor appeared at lunchtime, undeniably pretty in her lacrosse uniform (
knew it!
), and motioned him outside with a furious wave of her hand. Evie watched their quarrel unfold just outside the office door. Eleanor’s arms were folded across her chest and her head solemnly down. Jamie was thrashing about clumsily, trying to put his face in Eleanor’s line of view, difficult considering she was a foot shorter. When he rested his hand on Eleanor’s shoulder, Evie noticed it droop a bit, subtly resisting his touch. Even with their shiny hair and clear skin, Eleanor and Jamie still couldn’t escape dating’s hellish grasp. They looked like characters on one of those high school soaps Evie guiltily watched. Only this time she was catching the live show.

Eleanor unexpectedly reached into her book bag, if an oversize Louis Vuitton tote could ever be called such a thing. She whipped out her iPhone, thrusting it into Jamie’s face. She was so petite, she had to stand on tiptoes to reach him. When Jamie looked at
the screen, his face changed abruptly. His eyes closed for longer than a normal blink. He exhaled deeply and reached to take the phone from Eleanor’s grasp, but she pulled it back forcefully. Evie gasped at Eleanor’s unexpected strength and the bickering lovebirds turned to face her.

Eleanor gave Evie a pained look and scurried away. Evie was left alone in Jamie’s gaze. She felt exposed as he walked slowly toward her.

“She’s ridiculous. Let’s just get back to work.” He hunched over his desk, and she noticed that his hair was thicker than that of any guy she’d been on a date with in the last five years.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Too long of a story, and it would all sound very immature to you,” Jamie said. “But thanks.”

“Well, I’m here if you change your mind.”

“It’s all right. I’m gonna get something to eat actually,” he said. “Mind if we finish on Monday?”

“No, go ahead.”

Famished herself, she headed to a wicker bench she’d discovered in front of a sundries shop around the corner from Brighton. Sometimes Tracy joined her for lunch, her cervix fortunately holding strong enough to allow her to continue working, but today she had an English department meeting.

As Evie nibbled on her homemade PB&J sandwich (pear, brie, and jambon—a Jack special) and a bag of grapes, she thought about Jamie and Eleanor. Maybe their fighting was juvenile, but some of the arguments she and Jack had would also have sounded childish to an observer. They used to bicker about him flirting with the waitresses in the restaurant, which he copped to but said he was doing it for “morale.” They tussled about him canceling multiple plans to visit Evie’s family, which he defended by saying he had calls with distributors or needed to review payroll.
Evie would always back down—Jack had a way of making her complaints seem petty, even when at the outset of the argument she was sure she was right. She had bullied men twice her age at board meetings, outmaneuvering investment bankers and corporate titans with quick-thinking and silver-tongued arguments, but Jack made her feel as much like a child as her third-grader’s paper lunch bag.

“Evie?”

She heard a man’s voice just as she was coughing up a bite of whole wheat bread she swallowed too quickly. She looked up, surprised to be discovered in her obscure lunch spot.

“Dr. Gold?” Evie asked, trying her best to stifle her choking. “What are you doing up here?” He was smartly dressed in a navy suit with a subtle windowpane pattern, and loafers that would have been too stylish if they weren’t so worn in and faded. His horn-rimmed glasses were peeking out of his breast pocket. His yellow tie appeared conservative, but when Evie looked closer she saw it had tiny zebras all over it.

“He’s here because of me,” a tiny voice said in a botched British accent. A little girl appeared from behind his leg, licking a lollipop the size of her head. She had precious pigtails, tied up with satin navy blue ribbons, and wore a plaid jumper with Mary Janes that reminded Evie of the shoes she wore as a little girl. She was the spitting image of her father.

“You must be Olivia,” Evie said, giving the little girl a big smile. The child was ravishing, with twinkly eyes and sun-kissed hair, appearing even more cherubic than in the photo she had seen. It was hard not to experience joy just looking at her.

“Livi, this is Evie,” Dr. Gold said. “I met her through work.”

“Oh, are you sick?” the girl asked, losing her accent slightly.

“No, no. My grandmother is sick and your daddy is taking care of her,” Evie explained.

Olivia stuck out her tongue and gave her lollipop a once-over.

“My daddy makes everyone better,” she said, looking up at him with sheer adoration.

Evie fixed her eyes on Dr. Gold.

“I thought you were away,” Evie said.

“It’s more of a stay-cation,” he replied. “I had a lot of things to get done—one of them being getting my scrumptious little girl into kindergarten. We have our interview at Brighton today.”

Brighton had a lower school located one block away from the high school. It must have been Dr. Gold who she saw the other day, but why in the world would he be emerging from a chauffeured SUV? Medicine didn’t pay that well. And the wife? Evie didn’t get a closeup, but she hadn’t pictured Edward with a willowy style maven in Louboutins.

“My mummy is late, as usual,” Olivia said. The continental affect was back.

“What’s with the British—?” Evie started to ask.

“It’s a long story,” he said, shaking his head in a hopeless gesture. “We’re working on it. Right, Livi? Speaking in your normal voice?” He gave her a kiss on the head.

“Righty-O, Daddy,” Olivia exclaimed, jumping into her father’s arms, her dress flying up in the air to reveal hot pink princess underwear. Evie had a strong urge to plant a zerbert on the small of her back.

“How’s Bette feeling?” Dr. Gold asked Evie.

“She’s good. Keeping busy meddling in everyone’s lives,” Evie said with a laugh, hoping he knew she didn’t mean that maliciously.

“Ahh, yes,” he responded with a mysterious look. “I just spoke to her briefly regarding the preop testing and she told me you were working here, which is why I’m not altogether shocked to run into you.”

“Good ol’ Bette,” she said, wondering when her grandma and he had spoken. She’d just played Rummikub with Bette yesterday and she hadn’t said a word, but then again why would she have?

“You’re lucky to get such a huge treat,” Evie said, addressing Olivia again. “You have a very nice daddy.”

Dr. Gold leaned in close to Evie, so much so that she noticed a tiny speck of white foam on his jawline. She reached over and wiped it off of him, tempted almost to suggestively lick the cream off of her finger.

“Shaving cream,” she said, surprised by her boldness.

“Thanks,” he said, still leaning in close to her ear. “Livi’s mom isn’t really late. It’s just she’s not a big believer in candy, so I brought Olivia up early for something special.”

“Ahh, I see,” Evie said, and they shared a knowing smile. She was disappointed, though, not to get a better look at his wife, just to satisfy her curiosity. Would Mrs. Gold be gorgeous and sweet, the third piece of their flawless puzzle? Or would she be bucktoothed and ill-mannered, leaving Evie to wonder why some women had inexplicable luck to land an ideal man and spawn the loveliest child?

“What are you saying about me?” Olivia asked, tugging at her father’s hand.

“Just that Mommy doesn’t love sweets. And that you’re my best girl.”