The Book of Jane (16 page)

“You're a little obsessive about staying in shape,” I say.

“Aha!” he says, after finishing his bite of bread. “Now, there you are wrong. I have to force myself to work out, and I only do that because my doctor is upset about my cholesterol.” He sits back and beams at me. “I've never been on this end of things. It's exhilarating. Keep going.”

“Okay,” I say, reaching for one last sip of water. “You come from a wealthy, prominent New York family.”

“That's cheating. You already knew that.”

“You don't need to work, but you do just for the challenge.”

“Wrong.”

“In college, you were the kind of guy who took a lot of philosophy classes and thought that you were above the silly pep rallies and frat parties.”

“They're pointless, don't you think?”

“You don't like modern art.”

“Even I could draw that.”

“But you do have a soft spot for opera.”

“Hate it.”

I take a bite of bread and chew thoughtfully. I look at his shiny dark hair, his clear, tan skin. He is good-looking. I guess I can admit that now.

I think back to the article I read about him months ago.

“Why are you here?” I say slowly.

“That's not how the game works, Jane,” he says, smiling at me. His eyes sparkle in the candlelight.

“Fine.” I brush my hair behind my ear. Now that I'm here, he doesn't seem like Satan incarnate. But he's still an arrogant rich boy. And even if I were to begin to think otherwise, that doesn't change what I know. “How about this. You're being sued for mistreating women.”

His smile fades, and the sparkle drains from his eyes. He stares at me, lifting his chin. “You observed that just now?” he asks, setting his jaw.

My breath catches. I look away, but I still feel his gaze on me. I play with my napkin. He didn't deny it.

Coates takes a deep breath as the waiter sets our plates down in front of us. He looks down at his food, and he doesn't look up.

Later
that night, I sit on my rooftop deck, staring up at the stars with Charlie in my arms. I have a blanket wrapped around me because the fall seems to really be coming on fast this year. We probably won't have too many more nights out on the deck, and I need to clear my head. I'm even more confused than ever after seeing Coates. Luckily, it's unlikely I'll ever have to face him again, but the whole evening was kind of…unsettling.

I think about what he said about not seeing me in PR. What would I do if I didn't do PR? It's the only thing I've ever done with my life. It makes the best use of my God-given talents—the gift of gab, strong organizational skills, and decent public speaking. Granted, I don't exactly get to help people very often. Is there some way to do something like PR but also help people? I think about how I feel when I'm with the Brownies. Those are some of my happiest times. A day-care worker? No. I admire day-care staffers, but I don't think I could do it. Those places seem like hothouses of germs and crying kids. A missionary? No. Too extreme in the other direction. I get nervous at the farmer's market, and when I actually leave Manhattan it feels like my throat might be closing up.

I hear my porch door open and see Lee coming out. “Hey, Steel Magnolia,” I say. “Long time no see.”

He comes over and sits at the edge of the chaise longue I'm reclining on. In the moonlight I can see the tears running down his face. I sit up, throw my blanket around the three of us, and hug him for a while. I listen to him sniffling and say, “There, there. It's okay,” like my mom would always say, but in my heart, I know that something must really be wrong.

After a while, he stops heaving and looks me in the face and frowns.

“Talk to me,” I say.

“I didn't know. She kept it all from me. I didn't know.” He begins to cry quietly again, and I hold him and wait.

After a minute or so, he tries again. “Today, my mother got an e-mail from my Auntie Di. I've been checking her e-mail for her while she was at the hospital. So I open it up to read and find out—” His voice fails him. He swallows hard. “I find out that she's gone, Jane.”

“Who's gone? What?”

“
She
is gone. She's already gone.”

“Mary Sue is gone?” I ask. How could this be?

He shakes his head violently. “Not yet. They gave her three months to live in Charleston. That's why she came up here. She only had three months this whole time, and she didn't tell me. And now the cancer has metastasized and is in her lungs, her stomach, everywhere.”

I hold him again and listen to him sobbing on my shoulder.

“Why would she have kept it from me?” he asks.

I pull back from our hug and look at him. I think about the last time I saw Mary Sue and what she said about Lee. “Honey, she still sees you as her little boy. Just like I don't tell Haven bad things. You keep things from your children because you want to protect them from the hurt and pain of life.”

He looks into his lap. “I would have done it all different if I had known that we only had three months together.”

I rub his back. “That's exactly what she didn't want. She wanted her last months to be as normal as possible with you. She didn't want to focus on the negative. It's her way.”

Lee looks at me. “I can't lose her. I still need her.”

I smile at him. “First thing tomorrow morning, we'll go and tell her that.”

Chapter 19

M
y future
sister-in-law and her mother are clutching each other as if neither is able to stand without the support of the other's willowy frame, dabbing their eyes ever so gently with matching monogrammed linen handkerchiefs. They are crying in elation at the first dress brought out by the svelte woman at Barney's, who is our personal wedding dress shopper.

Patrice called last week to “beg” me to come to help her pick out a dress for the wedding. She positively refused to do it without me, her new “sis.” I have been avoiding my family like the plague, so I had half a mind to refuse, but Patrice is so sweet and kind that denying her requests is physically impossible for anyone born with a heart. I remember the time she baked me a cake when I broke my arm in second grade, hoping it would make me feel better. As I recall, Jim devoured most of it before I even got home from the doctor's office. Patrice reminds me of a little hopeful bunny, so I relented, even though she'd told me that our moms would be there, and my mother is about the last person I want to see right now.

“Isn't this exciting?” my mother asks and squeezes Patrice's arm. This is the fifteenth time my mother has said this. I'm keeping count in order to stay focused. Poor Mom. I think she's out of things to say at this point. She glances at me for help, but I look away.

“Mom,” Patrice says to
my
mom, catching me off guard, “this is the happiest day of my life.” Patrice hugs my mother again, and my mother returns it. This is the eighth hug of the morning. If she starts jumping up and down, holding my mother's arms, it will be the second time. Definitely the highlight so far.

“It sure is, honey,” my mother says. And then “Morg,” Patrice's mother, starts whimpering all over again and I nearly lose it and laugh.

Luckily for me, according to the Lovell ladies, the only proper place to buy a wedding dress is Manhattan, so it didn't take too much for me to roll out of bed this morning and meet the other women for a coffee at Starbucks to “talk strategy.” And when I say coffee, I mean nonfat, no-whip, sugarless, grande, vanilla latte, extra hot. There, Patrice's mother, Morgan (please-call-me-Morg) Lovell, brought out a thick binder and listed all of the places we had appointments at that day. Barney's was our third stop. We'd already been to Bergdorf-Goodman and “Vera.” At Vera, Morg had pulled me into a corner and demanded to know from me, a true New Yorker, if Vera was “over” or not. Didn't everyone go to Vera? Hadn't she become a bit, well, common? I waffled until she pressed me harder and harder, and I realized I was going to have to come down on this (non)issue one way or another. I took a deep breath and pronounced Vera “not over” and then cited the example of a recent starlet using Vera Wang for her wedding. Morg was quite relieved.

The saleswoman holds the dress aloft and clears her throat. Here comes my favorite part: the long, gibberish description. “A strapless, modified mermaid gown, with reverse pleating, taffeta sash, English net overlay, and ruching detail. Emanuel Ungaro.” Well, then. That certainly cleared things up. And before me is a dress that I and anyone who has not drunk the laced Kool-Aid wedding punch would describe as a “long, white, poofy gown. Overpriced Designer.”

“Ungaro,” Morg says dreamily.

“Different,” says Patrice, nodding.

“Like him.”

“Love him,” Patrice says.

Our personal shopper smiles. “Then let's begin by trying this piece. I have more to show you, of course.”

Morg and Patrice walk over to a dressing room that's bigger than my living room and go in together. I was a little surprised the first time this happened, as my mother and I have an unspoken contract to never be naked in front of each other, but now it's come to be just another fun aspect of Patrice and Morg. Does my brother know who he's marrying? Does Morg know that Jim doesn't work at Deloitte Touche?

My mother and I sit down awkwardly on a giant, round pleated silk ottoman and rest. I won't look at her, so I look around. It's funny. Just a few months ago I had thought it would be me in here trying on dresses for my marriage to Ty. I shake my head, a little sad. Those dreams seem to be from another lifetime.

Mom and I both look up when we hear Morg and Patrice whimpering again, and even though I'm not really talking to Mom, I can't help but glance at her to exchange a look.

“They're kind of something, aren't they?” she says. She laughs and then pulls her purse up on the ottoman when a Barney's employee frowns at us as she passes by.

“Putting it mildly, I'd say.” Am I really ready to be friendly with Mom again? I look at the corner and tap my foot impatiently. And then I look around the room. Something catches my eye. In Mom's purse, in plain sight, I see a hardcover book called
She's Thirty and Single: How to Talk to Your Modern Daughter
. My face flushes in embarrassment.

“Mom, I'm not thirty yet,” I say, pointing at the book.

She snatches her purse into her lap and hugs it to her, covering the book. “It's on the bestseller list. I heard it was good.”

I sigh. “I can't believe that's how you see it.”

“You
are
modern, Jane.” I roll my eyes. Modern is code for spinster.

Patrice comes out of the dressing room, looking like a big vanilla meringue pie, but the look works for her. She really is stunning.

“Patrice, that one is just gorgeous,” my mother says, rising. “You're going to be the prettiest bride to ever walk down the runway.”

I look at Patrice's baffled face.

“I think she meant to say ‘aisle,'” I say.

“Oh yes, sorry—aisle! Of course. How silly of me,” Mom says. I smile at her, and she shrugs at her mistake.

Patrice slowly turns on the platform in front of the three-paneled mirror. “I do like the way the skirt moves.”

Morg stands by her with her arms crossed. “I just don't think this bodice is flattering, though.” She shakes her head slowly, brow furrowed. “Patrice has very narrow shoulders, just like me, and she has to be careful about the bodice.” Morg walks away from the dressing room. “Where is that woman? I need to talk her about our bodice concerns.”

My mother volunteers to go on a mission to locate our personal shopper with Morg. I walk over to Patrice to get a closer look. This one really is more beautiful than some of the others we've seen.

“I think I really like this one,” I say.

Patrice frowns at herself in the mirror and looks even cuter than before. For some reason I can't stop myself from imagining little bunny ears on her head. Hey, they'd match.

“Do you think Mom likes it?” she asks.

I turn around, wondering where the moms went off to. “She seemed concerned about the, uh, bodice thing, but I've never thought you had particularly narrow shoulders.” Nor have I thought anyone had narrow shoulders.

“Oh no,” she says, laughing. “I mean your mom, Mom. Did she like it? I want her to like it too. I want all of us to love the same thing.”

I smile at her kindness. This woman is amazing. How on earth did Jim talk her into marrying him? “Mom loved it,” I say. “And so do I.”

Patrice flings her arms around me and gives me a hug. I hug her back in what seems like the longest hug ever given until finally the moms return. I never thought I'd be so happy to see Mom and Morg.

“Patrice, let's get you out of that ill-fitted frock. The consultant and I had a little chat and agreed it was all wrong. She's adjusting our next selection with our bodice concerns in mind.”

I look at my mom. I see that she's miserable too and smile.

 

I sit
with my hands in my lap, trying not to fidget. Why am I so nervous? It's just an interview. I never get nervous.

On the other side of her desk, Annie Myers, the YMCA director of after-school programs for the entire Northeast, reads my résumé. She is all business. Even her phone message to schedule this interview was curt and precise.

“I see you don't have any experience working for a nonprofit,” she says and then looks at me over her reading glasses.

I place both hands flat on my thighs to calm myself and try to think of my comeback to that. I prepared for this. Okay, what did I plan on saying? Oh right. “That's correct. But as you can see, I've helped lead Brownie Troop 192 for three years now.” I don't mention that I may no longer be a member of the troop.

Annie looks at me with cold brown eyes. She's got curly brown hair that's a little wild, and she's wearing billowy black pants and a loose top made of some kind of rough fabric. “Yes, I see that,” she says. “But I don't think you realize how different this is.”

“I realize it's not the same thing as being the after-school coordinator for a branch of the YMCA, but if you've ever gone camping with twelve eight-year-olds, you'll know what I mean when I say I now feel I can do anything.” I smile, hoping she'll laugh at my little joke. She doesn't.

“These children come from all walks of life,” she says simply. Okay, so my troop is a little privileged. “This program is what keeps many of these kids off the streets. There is no parent at home in many of our families until nine or ten at night. It's up to us to be their surrogate parents. I'm just not sure you have the…background to relate to them.”

“I assure you, I am prepared to give my heart and soul to these kids,” I say quickly. “I can relate to all kinds of people.”

“Is that a Marc Jacobs suit?” she asks. I nod, simmering. So I have nice clothes. So what? Does that make me unqualified to work with these kids? As she looks over my résumé dismissively, I begin to wonder if she's right. Maybe I'm not cut out for this. I don't know anything about keeping kids off the street.

“The person who is awarded this position will be responsible for coming up with a full after-school curriculum, everything from staffing the tutoring center, to organizing outings, to regularly scheduled intramural sporting events. We're looking for someone who is organized, quick on her feet, tough, and excellent with children.” Annie raises her eyebrow at me. Maybe I should just stick to PR. I've already got one company putting together an offer for me in writing. I'm not even sure why I came on this interview. I'm wasting this busy woman's time. She sees that I'm not remotely qualified. What was I thinking? That's the last time I listen to Coates's advice.

Annie slides a piece of paper to me. “Perhaps you can look over our current curriculum. I need to step out for a moment and check in on our older kids. We're short-handed today. When I come back, we can have a discussion about changes you'd make to this schedule.”

The door closes behind her, and I begin to panic. What's she pulling? Putting me on the spot? I roll my lips in and start reading the list for the after-school programs. It's a pretty standard lineup of crafts, basketball, tutoring in the computer lab, and swimming lessons in the pool. I have nothing to add. It's going to be terrible when Annie comes back to find out I have no original ideas at all. Okay, focus, Jane. Think about the girls. What would Haven like to see on this list that isn't here? You know a lot about kids. Don't let her suggest that you don't. I tap the page with the pen for a moment. Oh! What about Friday night movie night? We could rent kid-friendly movies and pop popcorn and sit around on beanbags. That'd be fun. Haven would definitely approve. What else? What about Bella and Kaitlin? What would they like? Dress-up. There is nothing they like better than to imagine themselves as sophisticated adults. I'll bet we could get the neighboring community to donate a bunch of fancy old clothes and have a big dress-up tea party once a month. I write down on the paper “movie night” and “tea party.” Oh no, the boys. What do boys want? Think, think. Oh. Water volleyball tournaments. We can divide them into teams and have a bracket system. It would only cost us for the net and the ball since they have a pool. Maybe some variations with inner tubes. That's something, maybe.

What an amazing job this would be. No more staring at a computer screen all day, answering e-mails. No more placating demanding, rich clients. I could give back to my city. I could play with kids every day, see them find hobbies and passions they love, develop skills they're going to need.

Annie knocks on the door and sits back down behind the desk. “Good thing I checked on them. Anarchy was developing. I'm afraid our time together must be short. Can you tell me what you've come up with?”

I tell her my ideas. “We'd never get permission to keep the children overnight,” she says. “Anything other than swimming lessons in the pool is a legal liability our insurance doesn't cover, and…I'm afraid ‘dress-up' isn't quite as fun when many of these children can't even afford decent clothes of their own. Do you have anything more…economically appropriate?”

I am dumbstruck. How can she just shoot all my ideas down? And what is she implying—that I'm some spoiled rich kid who doesn't get it?

“Tell me, Jane,” she says. “What brought you here today?”

How dare she? Why am I here? I'll tell her why I'm here. “I've learned a lot lately,” I say. “You're right. I was privileged. I had everything going for me, and then it was all taken from me.” I stop to swallow. “I had to look hard at life and figure out what really made me happy at the end of the day. And what I came up with is helping people. Because you know what? It's not a very happy world out there,” I say, my voice rising. I think about me and Ty, about all that Raquel's been through, about Mary Sue. “It's hard and painful, and people you love might hurt you or disappoint you, and your possessions aren't going to make you feel better about any of that. And when I think about all the kids in New York who are alone, and afraid, and unloved, and just overlooked by society, I want to help them.”