Working It (19 page)

Hector chuckles. Laney laughs out loud.

“I think we just figured out why you’re single,” I say, smiling.

“Because I am a male chauvinist pig?” He crosses his arms in front of his chest, but his grin widens. “I’ve been called that a few times.”

“Well if the snout fits”—I slap him on the shoulder—“wear it.”

We all laugh. This is the first time in ages—maybe forever—I’ve been relaxed enough to banter with strangers, especially ones as eclectic as this bunch. I’ve never been one for idle chitchat because it can be so banal, so insipid. At work, I firmly adhered to a self-imposed “no fraternizing” rule. After work and on the weekends, I always had Vivian around to break the awkward ice.

Maybe Vivian is right. Maybe there is such a thing as serendipity, because the woman who couldn’t break the ice has landed in Alaska.

Pushing Buttons

Text from Calder MacFarlane:

How are you settling in,
banfhlath
?

Text to Calder MacFarlane:

Surprisingly well, actually.

Text from Calder MacFarlane:

It doesn’t surprise me. I always knew there was a tough girl under those designer clothes.

Text to Calder MacFarlane:

How? You barely know me.

Text from Calder MacFarlane:

You forget I saw you wrestle an army of luggage, shear sheep, drink Scotch like a Scotsman, and organize a search party when Vivia was missing.

Text to Calder MacFarlane:

Thanks. What do you have planned today?

Text from Calder MacFarlane:

You know, same old, same old. Play the hero, rescue the world. Are we still on for dinner tomorrow night?

Text to Calder MacFarlane:

Yes. What should I wear?

Text from Calder MacFarlane:

Those lacy lady things would be nice. See you at six,
banfhlath
.

Apparently, it takes more than three days in Alaska to become proficient at breaking ice, because I am standing in my classroom, staring at fourteen strangers, and I got nothing.

Nuh-thing.

I’ve gone through my whole speech, outlining Each One, Teach One’s mission statement, my education and experience, and what I hope we will accomplish. I took a few questions, and now they are just staring at me, expectantly, unspoken accusations written all over their faces.
Is that all you got? No wonder you were fired from L’Heure.

To make matters worse, loud and uncontrolled laughter is coming from Laney’s classroom next door. It’s like an ironic laugh-track for the flat sitcom going on here.

Share, a tall, slender, and strikingly beautiful young woman with hair and skin the color of
café au lait
, raises her hand. “I have an idea.”

“
Oui
,” I say, audibly exhaling. “What is it?”

“Since we will be spending so much time together, why don’t we all take turns introducing ourselves?” She smiles easily. “Maybe we could tell a little bit about ourselves and say why we are taking this class?”

I am mentally smacking myself in the forehead. Why didn’t I think of that?

“
Bon
! That’s a very good idea.” I return Share’s smile. “Why don’t you start?”

“Okay!” She swivels around in her chair so she can face the rest of the classroom. “My name is Share. I am obsessed with designer handbags and would like to start my own line. That’s why I am here. In my free time, I like to sketch bags and read the dictionary. I love coffee, and I hate chocolate.”

The girl next to her gasps. “You’re kidding?”

“No, I am not!” Share closes her eyes and shudders, as if she just downed NyQuil. “Hate it. I had a date bring me an enormous Hershey kiss for Valentine’s Day once. Nice to meet you. Date over.”

A few people snicker. It’s not exactly Laney’s laugh track, but it’s a start.

The girl seated next to Share stands up and waves at her classmates. She’s plump, with long, glossy brown hair and sparkling green eyes.

“My name is Isabell,” she says in a cheerful tone. “I have a passion for fashion design. My dream is to work for a major designer in New York City. When I am not going to school, I like to take photographs and listen to rock music. I love rock music.”

She sits back down.

“My best friend loves rock music and is obsessed with Ronnie Radke—or she used to be. Now she is crazy about Austin Someone-or-other from some metalcore band.”

“Austin Carlile? The lead singer of Of Mice & Men?”

“
Oui
!” I smile and send my best friend a telepathic thanks for helping me make small talk. “She texted me yesterday to tell me she ran into him at the airport in Paris.”

“Shut up!” Isabell falls back into her chair. “Dying.”

Several people laugh out loud.

Maddy is the next to introduce herself. Although she is wearing bright red leather ankle boots and socks with tiny bells sewn along the hem—definitely a Notice-Me ensemble—she seems shy, smiling with her mouth closed and looking around nervously.

“I am a poet and artist,” she says, her cheeks flushing. “I am taking this class to nourish my inner Van Gogh. Gotta feed the soul, right?”

The other students nod their heads and smile.

“Are you from Sitka, Maddy?” I ask.

“Me? From Sitka? No.” She keeps her gaze averted. “I was born, raised, married and divorced three times, in Toledo, Ohio. Worked as a hairdresser for forty years before deciding I needed to make some life changes.”

“I think I heard someone once describe it as shaking your life up like a snow globe.”

For the first time, she looks me in the eye. She has kind eyes. “You get it, girlfriend. Like a damned snow globe. That’s what I did all right.”

“
Bon
!”

The class applauds.

Thank God for Share and her meet-and-greet suggestion. I am loving this group. Teaching them is going to be the easiest, most relaxing thing I have ever done.

The last person, a teenage boy with flaming red hair and an overly energetic personality, is introducing himself when the door suddenly opens and a girl with a blue fishtail braid walks into the classroom. She is wearing combat boots and a leather miniskirt.
Foutre!
It’s that little snot from Make Knit Work. What was her name?

“Hey, Nolee!” Share chirps, scootching her chair to the side to make room at the table. “I was hoping you would make it.”

Nolee!

“Hey,” she says, clomping over to a chair and dragging it across the floor to sit beside Share. “Sorry I’m late. Had to work.”

I want to lecture her about being late, tell her that she will never make it at Parsons School of Design if she can’t master something as simple as punctuality. I want to squat down in front of her, lower my voice to a soothing level, and say, “Do those little hands confuse you? Should we get you a watch with a digital display or maybe even one that talks?”

But I don’t.

Instead, I force a smile and ask her to introduce herself.

“I am Nolee Alooni.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, what?”

I grit my teeth. She’s only been in my class for two minutes, and already I want to wrap that fishtail around her neck and yank it until her face is as blue as her hair.

“Perhaps you could share a little about yourself?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “What d’ya wanna know?”

Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you could tell us what happened to make you such a Château de Versailles-sized royal pain in the ass?

“What do you do in your free time?”

Sacrifice male infants on the altar of Hera, goddess of Feminists everywhere?

“Work.”

I cross my arms and lean back in my chair. “Where are you from?”

She snorts. “Alaska.”

“Nolee lives in Angoon, which is a Tlingit island village,” Share says, obviously accustomed to being the buffer between sharp-edged Nolee and the rest of the polite world.

Nolee focuses her gaze on me and narrows her heavily lined eyes. “Do you even know what Tlingit is?”

There is no way in hell I am going to tell her that I don’t have the faintest, foggiest idea what a Klinkit village is, so I cross my arms and return her stare. Our silent battle—because it
is
a battle—continues for several minutes.

I don’t care if you are a bra-burning, card carrying member of NOW, I am the damned Alpha, so shut up and present
.

“I didn’t think so.” She smirks, rolling her eyes. “The Tlingit is one of the oldest American Indian tribes in Alaska. We call ourselves Lingit, which means People of the Tides.”

Well, light the peace pipe and let’s carve a totem.

Who the fuck cares if she is from some ancient tribe? I sure don’t. Being part of a tribe doesn’t excuse bad behavior. I smile and try to channel Papa Allight, Laney, Vivian, and all the sunshine and unicorns people I know.

Deep Breath. Look Within. Project Peace.

“That’s fascinating,” I lie. “Okay then, if that’s everyone we can—”

“That’s not everyone,” Share says. “You haven’t told us anything about yourself.”

“I would but”—I look at my watch—“it looks like we’ve run out of time.”

“No worries.” Share smiles and looks around the room. “I don’t think any of us are in a hurry.”

I take another deep breath. “I was born in Paris, but I attended boarding school in Switzerland.”

Nolee mumbles something under her breath that sounds like, “Of course you did.” Share elbows her.

“I attended Parsons for a year”—I shift my gaze to Nolee and smile a big, broad, patronizing smile—“before transferring to the Academy of Art in San Francisco. I was recruited by L’Heure before graduation, and I worked there until I came here.”

“Are you effing kidding me?” Nolee cries.

“
Excusez-moi?
”

“You left the best design school in the world to attend some inferior college in San Francisco?”

Maddy gasps. Share drops her chin to her chest and exhales. The others stare at me, waiting for my reaction.

Deep Breath. Look Within. Oh, fuck this!

“The Academy has an outstanding merchandising program, and they are the only fashion school to show at New York Fashion Week.” I take another deep breath. I don’t need the air. It’s a stalling technique, to stop myself from asking her why a blue-haired Parsons reject who sells knitwear thinks she has the right to judge an Academy grad. “Besides, Parsons is not the best fashion design school. It’s second best. Central Saint Martins in London is the best.”

Maddy winks at me and mouths, “Go, girl.”

Share lifts her head and grins.

The rest of the class have shifted their gaze back to Nolee.

“And then you quit a job at L’Heure to teach cutting and sewing to a bunch of rejects in Sitka, Alaska?”

“Now see here, young lady,” Maddy says. “There is nothing wrong with throwing off the shackles of greed and engaging in philanthropic pursuits.”

To my surprise, Nolee apologizes to the class.

“And we are not rejects,” Share hisses.

“Now, if there are no more questions—”

“Wait!” Share raises her hand. “I have a question, Miss Moreau.”

“Please, call me Fanny,” I say, sitting back down. “What is your question?”

“You told us about your professional life, but you still haven’t told us who you are? Like, what do you do in your free time? What will you do when you finish volunteering here?” She grins and waggles her eyebrows. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

I can’t very well tell them the truth: that I don’t know who I am, that I rarely have “free time,” and I have no idea what I am going to do after my year in Sitka—so I put my a little PR spin on it. Highlight the positive and ignore the negative.

“I enjoy rock climbing and cycling. I like wine and Belgian chocolate. Sorry, Share,” I say, smiling at the beautiful girl still grinning at me. “
Je deteste
slackers, pajamas, Kitty Kat’s perfume, Wonder Bread, my father’s silicone-injected girlfriend, and tardiness.”

I try not to look at Nolee.

“I am pleased to have the opportunity to share my knowledge with you and to be living in a place that is
trés jolie
.”

It isn’t until the last person leaves the classroom and I am sitting in the kitchen, my hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, staring out the window at the snow frosted mountains that I realize I really am pleased to be in Sitka.

Make me a perfume that smells like Love.

Christian Dior

Cheesy Love

“So where’s Hottie McScottie taking you on your date?”

Laney is sitting cross-legged on my bed, strumming a ukulele she purchased at a pawn shop earlier. Her chatter and string-plucking have distracted me from thinking about Calder and our non-date.

“A fondue restaurant.”

“Oh, the handsome Scot is verra smart,” she sings, strumming along. “For cheese is the way to a French girl’s heart.”

I stop applying the Dior gloss and look at her over the top of my compact. “Very funny.”

Laney grins and keeps strumming her instrument.

“And it’s not a date,” I say, closing the gloss and tossing it into my purse. “He doesn’t like me that way.”

Laney snorts.

“What? We are just friends.”

“Poor Fanny has traveled many miles, but she still resides in a place called denial,” Laney sings.

“Miles and denial don’t even rhyme.”

“Sure they do!” She stops strumming. “What’s going on with you? Why are you afraid to call this a date? It’s obvious you’re attracted to Calder. So why not release the brakes and let it roll where it’s meant to roll?”

“I am not attracted to Calder.”

“Puh-leez,” she scoffs. “You would have to be deaf, dumb, blind, and in a coma not to be attracted to that man. He’s totes gorgeous!”

I suddenly see an image in my mind of Calder in a flight suit, the green fabric straining to contain his broad shoulders, and my stomach does a frightening lurch. Calder was in command of the helicopter that conducted the search and rescue mission to find Vivian when she got lost in the Highlands. I saw a different side of him that day. The charming, flirty, winking-at-the-ladies Calder had been replaced by a serious, commanding, steely-eyed airman. Thinking back, he was pretty damned hot.