On Grace (12 page)

“Thank you,” I say politely and head over to the table to sit down.

The office is one big rectangular room with a few offices on the side across from the door I just entered through. In the main room, there are five desks. The nameless woman who rudely greeted me sits at a desk facing the right wall. The other four desks are grouped together in the center of the room. I see that two of them are filled. The people turn to me, smile, and return to their work. The glass door to one of the offices is shut and a nameplate says
Nicole Winters
. Another office appears to be a storage area, and I recognize all the same “stuff” that used to pile up at the fitness magazine I worked at: exercise bands and balls, skin-care products, packaged health food, books, etc. I try to crane my neck to see what’s in the third room, and it looks like a little kitchen. The office is decorated in that hip modern look popular with web operations in New York City and San Francisco: simple white lacquer West Elm Parsons desks, ergonomic black chairs, raw wood floors, flat-screen computer monitors, exposed brick walls, and lots of natural light streaming through the many windows. It’s a beautiful space.

The door opens, and Nicole walks in. She greets her staff and they respond cheerfully.

“Grace, hi. So sorry I made you wait.”

“Not a problem,” I say, smiling.

“Why don’t you come with me?” she asks kindly, leading me into her office and gesturing to one of the white leather upholstered armchairs across from her desk. We sit down, she boots up her computer, takes a sip of her coffee, and turns to me.

We talk about some of the same things we discussed at LPQ, and then she gets into more specifics about her expectations for the job. She would like the email editor, as she calls the position, to come in three days a week; take part in the weekly Monday staff meeting; brainstorm topics with the editorial director; coordinate art for the weekly email; work with the tech guy to arrange the distribution of the email; work with the ad sales rep to develop a sales sheet so she can sell incremental space on the email; etc. She reveals the salary she is offering, and I’m thrilled to hear it’s significantly more than I was going to make at the
Westchester Weekly.

“It sounds like a perfect opportunity for me,” I tell her, hoping to communicate that she should pick me, pick me.

“It’s a small operation as you can see,” she says, “so you may be asked sometimes to do something not exactly in your job description.”

“That won’t be a problem,” I say.

“What is it about this job that appeals to you?” Nicole asks.

“Well, so many things, really. I’ve spent a lot of time on your site, and I’m very impressed by the content, the design, the user interface, the community aspect. I have a lot of experience in this space, and I’m excited to jump in and use that to help build your product. I have the energy and the motivation to exceed your expectations in this job,” I say. And to top it all off, “I promise you won’t be disappointed in my work,” I say confidently, as I recross my legs and search her face to reveal what kind of impression I’m making.

“Speaking of work, did you bring in the assignment I asked you to do?”

I hand her the article and the idea list, and I watch her face as she reads my piece about meditation. I cited research about the benefits of meditation. I listed several meditation practices offered at yoga studios around the county. I highlighted two smartphone apps that provide guided meditation. And I gave tips on how to incorporate meditation into a busy lifestyle. All in 312 carefully selected words. When she finishes reading, I see a hint of a smile on her face that develops into a full smile as she looks at the second page and reads my ideas.

“Well, I have to say, you did a really nice job on this. It’s on a relevant subject, it captures our voice, and you’ve tied it to the county nicely.”

“Thank you,” I say beaming. This is why I need to go back to work. I don’t get this feeling at home. Not even when James sees a photo of Reese Witherspoon in
People
and asks me why I’m in a magazine.

“Do you have any other questions?” she asks.

I fear I’m opening a can of worms, but I can’t avoid the one thing that I hope isn’t a deal breaker. “What are the hours that you’re expecting the email editor to work?”

“My staff typically works nine to five. I’m flexible when someone has an appointment or,” she laughs, “a Friday yoga class, but that’s usually what I aim for.”

My heart sinks. The job at the
Weekly
would have allowed me to leave around 3:00 so that I would be able to get my kids off of the bus. If I get this job, I would have to arrange childcare three afternoons a week. I guess my face reveals what I’m thinking.

“Would those hours be a problem for you?” Nicole asks.

“I’m not sure,” I say honestly. “I guess I had assumed that I would be able to leave around three so I could be home to get my kids off the bus and be with them in the afternoon.” I’m hesitant to ask her for those hours because I haven’t been offered the job, and I don’t want to put my chances in jeopardy because I know she’s still considering other applicants, so I add quickly, “But I’m sure I could work something out.” My heart sinks again.

“Great,” she says and stands up. “It was nice talking to you, Grace. As I told you on Friday, I’m talking to a couple other people, but I plan on making my decision by Thursday afternoon. I’ll call you then to let you know.”

“Thank you for your time,” I say also standing up. “I’m so glad Callie introduced us!”

We make small talk as she walks me out of the office. When the door shuts behind me, I pray that I didn’t just screw that up.

When I get home, I write Nicole a thank-you note on one of my charity-solicitation note cards. Then I realize that I’ve been out of the interviewing game for so long that I don’t know whether it’s proper etiquette to send a thank-you via email or snail mail. So I do both.

I return Darren and Cameron’s emails asking how the interview went. I tell them it was great, that I think she really liked my piece, that I think I came off sounding both qualified for and interested in the job, but that the hours might hurt my chances. I tell them she might sense that I’m not committed and can’t put in the hours because of my kids. Or, if I get the job, I may need to turn it down because I hadn’t planned on hiring an afternoon babysitter. Or, maybe I’ll have to hire the sitter. Maybe, I realize, I’m kidding myself and I’m not even being seriously considered for the job, and she’s just going through the motions for Callie. I guess the easiest thing would have been to ask her if she’d consider shorter hours for me as long as I’m able to get all my work done. I bang the heel of my hand against my forehead and realize this is exactly the type of overthinking Cameron is trying to get me to stop doing.
Turn off your brain, Grace
. It just doesn’t stop.

My email chimes. It’s Jake Doyle.

hey grace. don’t know why but thinking of you. crazy, right? just double checking to make sure you don’t need me to break any legs. anyway ever since we chatted i can’t get you out of my mind. sorry i’m probably not supposed to say things like that to a married woman. man i really messed up in high school didn’t i? later, jake

What the hell? I think that email definitely qualifies as flirting. Maybe he’s just lonely? And why can’t he use capital letters?
I stare at the email and reread it several times, distressed to find that the butterflies are coming back. I can’t deny it feels good to be flirted with, even if that wasn’t his intention. I write back.

Hey, Jake. It is crazy, but you’ve always been a little crazy, haven’t you? Surely, wasting your precious high school years on Stephanie Campbell would qualify you. I don’t know why you got any impression that
my
marriage was in trouble so no legs need breaking over here. But thanks for looking out for me. Not the first time. Do you remember that motorcycle ride you took me on after my sister died? For the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid of anything. Not sure if I ever properly thanked you. I was pretty much in a daze. So thank you. Grace

I wait.

i do remember that-you were so sad. i think you were afraid tho. your arms were wrapped around me so tight i could barely breathe but i also kinda liked it. i think thats when i started having a crush on you

The email exchange continues, one after the other.

Me: Why didn’t you ever say anything?

Jake: because stephanie would have ripped my balls off. man she was a drama queen. plus you could have had any guy you wanted. especially all those guys who were 10 times smarter than me. didn’t think you’d ever go for a surfer like me

Me: I hardly could have had any guy! Hilarious that that’s what you think. Always fascinating to hear how other people perceive you. I went through high school desperate for a boyfriend. Oh how I swooned over you.

Jake: do you still?

Me: No. Sorry. Now I’ve got a husband to swoon over. You lost your chance.

Jake: and i will always regret it. what kind of work do you do?

Me: Funny you should ask, I had an interview today for a writing job for a health and wellness website. I really hope I get it. For the last eight years I’ve been taking care of my kids. Henry is 8 and James is 5. They’re adorable.

Jake: sounds great, gracie. really does. your family is lucky to have you. i always thought of you as kinda mature so you must be a great mom

Mature
? No wonder he didn’t want to date me in high school. What sixteen-year-old boy is going to choose mature over hot and slutty? Two things I was never able to pull off.

Me: I think I am a great mom. Try to be. But ready to go back to work to challenge my “mature” mind again. How is your art?

Jake: always struggling but i just scored a show at a gallery in santa monica that has hollywood clients so that would be super rad if it all goes well. i’ve been getting a lot of interest from another gallery too so things may be picking up-keep your fingers crossed

Me: Fingers, toes, and eyeballs. Anyway, gotta go. Nice talking to you. Take care.

Jake: u2

I sit back in my chair and take a deep breath. I realize that I have a huge, ridiculous smile plastered across my face.
Am I flirting, too? Or just catching up with an old friend?
When I decide to delete the entire conversation because I’d be mortified if Darren ever saw it, I realize I’m doing the former. At least I think I am, and that’s all that really matters. I decide not to initiate any email conversations with Jake. I don’t decide what I’ll do if he initiates. The thought brings the butterflies swarming.

About two years ago, I was in the kitchen one Friday afternoon overseeing one of Henry’s homemade science experiments that he used to conduct with club soda, baking soda, food coloring, and other household staples, when I heard the familiar email chime on my laptop. The email was from Darren and said, “Want to see if Kimmy can sleep over on Saturday so we can go to New York City for the night?”

I immediately wrote back, “Who is this and why have you stolen my husband’s computer?”

He wrote back, “Hello? Who is this? This is Grace’s romantic husband.”

I wouldn’t characterize Darren as a romantic. He is incredibly kind, thoughtful, and loving. But it doesn’t come naturally for him to show it. I accept that about him and really don’t hold it against him. But when little glimmers of romance present themselves, and they do once in a while, I get really excited.

Kimmy had nothing going on, so she agreed to come late morning on Saturday and stay for twenty-four hours. Darren booked a room at the The Standard, the über-cool boutique hotel in the Meatpacking District. We spent that day meandering around, checking out art galleries, and drinking wine during lunch at Pastis. We had nowhere to be, nothing to do except whatever we wanted.

Darren surprised me by insisting we go into Scoop so he could buy me something to wear that night to dinner. Now, I’ve heard of men taking their women into boutiques, helping them select dresses, and then sitting patiently outside the dressing room in between showings of each dress. But I never, ever, thought Darren would ever suggest such a thing. One of his co-workers must have suggested it to him.

And even though we could blame the wine at Pastis for putting us in a silly mood, this was still one of the most fun things we’d done in a long time. We went through the store choosing dresses that we both liked and dresses that were outrageous, and I tried them all on. He
ooh’d
and
aah’d
and even gaped. At the end of our fashion extravaganza, we both agreed on a slinky black sleeveless dress that had a deep V-neck, a belted waist, and a slim skirt. It was gorgeous and made me feel incredibly sexy.

After our shopping spree, we went back to the hotel and did what The Standard is famous for: having sex in front of the huge floor-to-ceiling windows in our room. It was still daylight so we wouldn’t really qualify as exhibitionists; we’d both heard stories about people turning on their room lights at night and doing all sorts of things while voyeurs looked on. But the sex was hot and being out of the house made me feel so free. I did things to Darren that afternoon that I hadn’t done in a while. And he to me. And when we’d finally had enough of each other, we went into the shower where it just started all over again. I’m amazed we made it out that night, but we did. We had sex twice more—once after dinner and again when we woke up the next morning—and we returned home happy and refreshed.

It’s times like those that make me realize that although Darren isn’t your standard flower-delivery, heavy-with-the-compliments, let-me-pull-the-chair-out-for-you romantic, I prefer his way a lot more. I imagine the lay-it-on-thick guys just get pretty annoying and predictable, something that Darren certainly is not.