That's (Not Exactly) Amore (14 page)

“How do you mean?” Tabby asks as the waiter sets sushi in the middle of the table. “How could you possibly be arrested because Frank and Joe may or may not be bribing someone to hurry a few permits along? You’re the interior designer. Your part of the project doesn’t even start until the architects and contractors do their part. You’re making too much of this, Laini.”

Okay, that felt a little rough to me. Doesn’t my life feel insignificant enough as it is without my best friend rubbing salt in the proverbial wound?

“Excuse me.” Tabby’s chair scrapes hard against the floor and she dashes out of the room, leaving me bewildered and feeling betrayed.

“She didn’t mean it like that, Laini.”

I grab a sushi roll with my chopsticks and shrug. “Oh, I know.” But the thing is, I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. For instance. Why are both of my friends in happy relationships and I’m not? What’s wrong with me? Why are they both in the careers they want, and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing even in my last semester of design school? I ask again, what is wrong with me?

13

I
decide I’m not in the mood for sushi after all and leave before Tabby gets back to the table. I head out and walk the two blocks to Fifty-first, where I catch the number six train. I’m feeling disheartened as I reach my stop. I can’t help it that I’m sort of hoping to find Joe waiting for me. But then, why would he be there? He didn’t know I was having dinner in upper midtown. I trudge home in the cool evening air. It’s a few days away from March. Spring is peeking around the corner and announcing that it’s heading to Manhattan. I can’t wait! I’m so tired of being cold.

Tabby calls me and it turns out she’s battling terrible sickness due to the pregnancy. Which, she tells me, is a good sign that hormone levels are rising as expected. It means the pregnancy is going well—less chance of miscarriage.

She tells me this with such relief that I realize for the first time that maybe Tabby has been worried about losing the baby. Such a horrible thing never occurred to me.

Her tone sounds quivery over the phone. “I’m sorry if it sounded like I thought your contribution to the renovation at Nick’s wasn’t important. You’re the frosting on the cake. I hope you know I only meant that your involvement comes along far after the big dogs settle the permit stuff, so you shouldn’t get in trouble.”

I actually do understand what she’s saying and there are no hard feelings. I tell her as much. “I’m just feeling a little nervous about getting the grade. If anything illegal is involved and the project gets shut down, where will I be? I can’t afford to take the last semester over.”

Financially or emotionally, to be honest. I can’t fail. I don’t know what I’d fall back on. I’ve already been an accountant. For eight years I did a job I hated. And I know I could go back to it if I had to, but oh, the thought feels like a crushing weight.

“It’s worth taking this risk to be doing what will make you happy, Laini,” Tabby says softly, as though reading my thoughts. “I knew I couldn’t do anything besides acting. What is it that you feel like you have to do or else you’ll always be unhappy? Oh, shoot, Laini. I’m so sorry. I’m going to be sick.”

She hangs up and I imagine her making a run for the bathroom.

I think about what she said, though. Is there a certain career path I must follow to be happy?

Young single women in New York are career-driven. Why else would a woman live in an insanely expensive matchbox apartment in Manhattan and work so hard pursuing that American dream?

I’m not even sure what the dream is anymore. When I was in college, it was about doing what my mother expected of me. What she assumed my dad would have wanted. And that’s what I did—I became an accountant.

When I was about to turn thirty, I figured out that accounting stressed me too much, made me tired, and not only that—I dreaded going to work every day.

Forget that I was very good at accounting. I mean, the numbers were there and made perfect sense. . . . I just happened to hate working with them. It was my lucky day when Ace Accounting went bankrupt and they had to let me go.

That bankruptcy set me free to pursue something else. Everyone told me I had an eye for putting rooms together, and I liked it, so I decided to take these classes. Okay, everyone questioned my color schemes, but the furniture, art pieces, those sorts of things, were constantly praised. But—oh, I hate to admit it—I’m not the whiz at design I thought I might be. If I don’t succeed at design, I might have to go back to accounting, and there’s no way I can do that.

Thank goodness the phone rings and pulls me out of the maudlin, whiney thought process in which I find myself.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Mark.”

The corners of my mouth lift into a smile. I haven’t heard from him since last night. When it rains it pours. Literally.

“What’s up, Mark?”

“I was just wondering if you’d be interested in dinner Saturday night.”

“Sure. What did you have in mind?”

He hesitates. “Actually, it’s my dad’s birthday. My sister is closing the restaurant early and we’re having a huge bash with about fifty family and friends.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“You sure? We could wait until Sunday night and have a date just the two of us.”

“Hey, are you backing out already?”

He chuckles. “Not likely. You’ll be at your mom’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I’ll pick you up at six.”

“Looking forward to it.”

And that’s that. I’m still basking in the glow of it when the phone rings again. Only it’s Joe this time. “So, I’m calling.”

“Yeah?” I give a little laugh. “It’s about time. Glad I wasn’t holding my breath.”

“So how about Saturday night?” A curious disappointment shoots through me. How can I live in a male-barren wasteland for years and in the span of one month have not one but
two
fantastic-looking, great guys ask me out? And wouldn’t you know it, they both want me to go out on the same night. Darn!

I can’t believe that, for a second, I consider accepting Joe’s invitation and calling Mark back to cancel. But that’s not nice. Besides, there’s a lot to be said for sticking to the plan. I swallow past disappointment and try not to sound pathetic. “Actually, Joe, I have plans for Saturday night.”

“The cop?”

“Sorta, yeah. He just called a couple minutes before you.”

“I see.” He clears his throat. “Well, better luck next time, I guess.”

I want so much to ask if we can make it another night. But I can’t bring myself to be that forward.

Besides, Joe’s already moving on to the next thought. “So, did Nancy tell you we hired the contractors?”

“Yep. When are they going to start knocking down walls?”

“A week from this coming Monday. I put signs up to let the customers know.”

“That’s great. You must be excited about it.”

“I never thought Uncle Nick should expand this much, to be honest.”

“I thought you were the one who wanted the changes, Mr. I-Have-a-Degree-in-Restaurant-Management.”

“We definitely needed changes, but not necessarily expansion. It takes away from the intimate feel.” I can’t help but laugh as the image of all those people crammed into Nick’s comes to mind. “What was he supposed to do with the crowd, Joe?” During most of the morning hours and until around one thirty in the afternoon, the place is standing-room-only as it is.

“What’s wrong with people waiting their turn? That’s what all the good restaurants do. Instead, everyone thinks they oughtta be bigger and better. In a crunch, we could add outside tables—like we’re doing between the two buildings, only we could have done it out front instead.”

You know, now that he mentions it, he has a point. Why try to fix what isn’t exactly broken? Although Nick has a point too. It’s crazy to hobble a business when the opportunity for expansion presents itself—for instance, when a shop goes out of business right next door. I mean, what are the chances? How could he not hop on that?

I sigh. This is why I can’t figure out my life. It’s too easy to see both sides of the issue. I have to learn to take a stand and stick with that point of view.

“I think it’s a good idea. Nick needs the extra business now that he’s living in L.A. and hiring a manager and all of that. The extra money will come in handy.”

He hesitates for a split second. “I guess that’s true.”

Yep. Now if only I could figure out my own life.

By Saturday I’m more than ready to leave Manhattan and take the forty-minute train ride from Penn Station to Long Island. It’s been a depressing, rainy week. One of those weeks where nothing new happens and life feels mundane. I think I have a little spring fever. It’s not time for spring buds, but all the excitement of winter has long since gotten old and worn out and I’m ready to move on.

To make matters worse, I’m shocked to find boxes all over Mom’s house. Moving boxes.

“Mom!” I call as I wade through the clutter all over the living room floor. “Mom! What’s going on?”

“I’m in the kitchen, honey.”

She says it so calmly, like I’m not supposed to notice that my childhood is being simultaneously packed into cardboard, taped up, and made ready to go who knows where. I flounce (yes, I’m ashamed to say, I do, like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum) into the kitchen, following Mom’s voice. I find her headfirst in the lower cabinets, her behind the part of her that greets me. “Ma? What’s going on?”

She pulls out of the cabinet, puffs out a breath, and rests back on her heels. “I haven’t done a good cleaning since your daddy died. You wouldn’t believe some of the old things I’ve found.” I can’t even imagine the look that must be on my face when she looks at me. But her expression washes from fatigue to compassion. “Surely you knew I’d have to start cleaning everything out.”

I hoist myself onto a barstool and grab a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter. “I guess.”

She stands and presses her hands into her back for a stretch. “I need a break. Do you want some tea?”

“Thanks.”

I hold the unpeeled banana and watch her fill the teakettle. “Are you keeping the teakettle, Ma?”

From the sink, she looks over her shoulder. “What are you talking about? Of course I’m keeping it.” A soft smile spreads across her face. “It was the first gift you ever bought with your very own money.”

Money I earned babysitting for the horrible neighbor boy, Marty Brunstroms. I wonder what ever happened to him. Probably in jail. Or a millionaire. He was a shifty one, that Marty.

“Dad took me to Macy’s, remember?”

“I fussed at Daddy for letting you spend all of your money on it.”

“Twenty-three dollars and eight cents.” That was a ton of money in 1988. I was ten. Actually, it’s still a lot of money when you’re as broke as I am. I crack open the banana and break off a piece. “I was so excited about the teakettle I’d seen you look at so many times that I forgot about saving money to buy Dad something for Christmas.”

She nods, pulling out two teacups and setting them on saucers. “You shoveled snow for so many weeks leading up to Christmas Eve just to get enough to buy him a gift.”

“A new adding machine—which he preferred to calculators.” I swallow my banana bite and snicker. “He loved it.”

“He sure did.” I wonder where that adding machine is. . . . The boxed-up room doesn’t even look like the room I remember. Things are happening way too fast to suit my comfort level.

“When are you and Aaron getting married, Mom?”

“May.”

Exactly what I’m talking about. Way too fast. “So soon?”

“April and June are very busy months for florists. April is the beginning of spring and everyone is looking for Easter lilies and flowers in general. And you know what June is. Aaron has several weddings in June, plus prom and graduation flowers. May just seems more practical.”

“Why not wait until July or August? O-or even fall?” I can’t quite look her in the eye as I try to manipulate her future. “That would give you more time to know each other.”

The teakettle shrills as if in protest to my finagling. Mom sends me a rueful smile. “We know all we need to.”

“So you’re getting married in two months to a man you hardly know.” I don’t mean it to be sarcastic. I’m just trying to wrap my head around the relationship that escalates every time I see my mom. I’m almost afraid to speak to her for fear she might tell me she’s on her way back from Vegas after one of those drive-through weddings. Or that she’s adopting a baby from China or South Africa.

Mom sets my tea in front of me and takes a seat on the barstool next to mine. “I know this seems very fast to you.”

Seems very fast? This woman has been standing still while life goes on around her for the last twelve years. Does she even know who is president right now? Does she know what the Internet is? An iPod? I mean, really—how can she just open her eyes one day, see a man, and decide to marry the dude?

“But when something is right, it’s just right. Aaron and I don’t have the luxury of youth. And we have no reason to wait.”

“What about buying your own place together? I thought Aaron was selling his house. Surely it didn’t sell in two weeks.”

“No. But it’s been on the market since before his wife passed away. Just this week two very promising prospective buyers entered the picture. So you see, it could happen very soon.”

“What about this house, Mom?”

Somehow I know it’s not going to be my inheritance the way Dancy’s parents’ condo was for her, but I’m still not at all prepared for the answer. “I’m sorry, Laini. I have no choice but to sell. The equity I have in the house will pay off all of my debts and give us a down payment for a condo.”

My suspicious nature takes over. “And what will Aaron contribute from his house?”

“Honey, I know you’re worried. But you need to trust me.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, Ma.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you, because you have a right to know. The entire profit from Aaron’s house will have to go toward paying his wife’s hospital bills. There will be nothing left.”

“So you’ll be taking care of him.” I give a short laugh and sip my tea. “No wonder he finds you so irresistible.”