Marrying Up (12 page)

“Sorry, dear,” she says. “They just get shorter and shorter till eventually they disappear and all that’s left is a closetful of white shoes and a life-insurance policy. And that’s if you’re lucky!”

Just because Florida happened to be a complete bust doesn’t mean I’m giving up.

While George sleeps off her New Year’s hangover, I sneak down to the hotel business center. A few minutes of intense Googling reveal that I may have jumped the gun a little with the whole Naples thing. In fact, it turns out we were on the wrong coast altogether.

Yes, I have discovered a fifth and final fact:

In the Year 2000, the San Francisco-Bay Area was home to more Millionaires under the age of 50 than any other urban center in the country.

Again, thanks to the dot-com dorks and their love of microchips and circuit boards. And just to sweeten the pot, the City by the Bay sounds like a pretty nice place to be. Even the so-called Silicon Valley seems to have its good points, according to the San Jose Convention and Visitors Bureau Web site. Sure, there’s endless urban sprawl and hundreds of
miles of fault lines, but next to the inclement weather of Seattle, strip malls and the occasional earthquake might be easier to live with on a day-to-day basis. (Who am I to be picky, anyway? I live in a place where the mean annual temperature has been deemed unfit for dogs.)

Shit.
How could I have missed this?

On my way back up to the room, I alternate between cursing myself out for choosing the wrong city to lay our groundwork in and praying that George will be willing to give The Plan another go on the other side of the continent. Neither of us can afford a vacation again any time soon, but one way or the other, I’m going to make this plan work.

No matter what.

Of course, Mateo calls as we’re packing our bags. He wants to know what I’m doing tonight. “Digging my car out of a snowbank at an airport parking lot in Buffalo,” I tell him. “Then going home to an empty apartment.”

A day late and a dollar short is the way my dad always puts it. Typical.

“At least one of us got some action while we were here,” I say to George after hanging up.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say action, really. It was more like canoodling.”

“Well, I personally witnessed you get to second base on the dance floor last night, so that’s got to count for something. And by the way, canoodling sounds like something Morrie would say.”

“Come on—we’re going to be late.”

The plane blessedly climbs into the sky without incident as I press George for more details.

“José’s very special. He plans to go to med school one day. He’s only working at the hotel to save up enough money for tuition. The tips are awesome.”

“What a line,” I say, pulling down the window shade to avoid the sight of bouncing wings. “That’s exactly what strippers say to rich guys. Men just love thinking that the women they’re treating like slot machines are up there degrading themselves for a higher cause.”

“You think José’s a gold digger?”

“Sure. Why not? He’s probably just looking to meet some leathery-faced old sugar mama who’ll feed him grapes all day and roll around with him in the pool house.”

“Do you think he thought
I
was rich?” George marvels.

“Probably.”

“Wow! I like that!” she says, snuggling down in her seat.

“You’re not insulted by that?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t it bother you to think that someone would like you just for your money?”

She thinks about it for a minute or two. “Actually, no. I guess it doesn’t. At least in some circumstances, anyway.”

“Interesting. I take that to mean you’re okay with The Plan, with what we’re doing….”

“You mean, what we
wish
we were doing? Because in case you haven’t noticed, we’re having a little trouble putting the puck in the net.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Well, even though engaging in this sort of behavior promotes the worst kind of stereotype about women, I guess I am okay with it. Mostly because we’re having fun and I honestly don’t think it’s actually going to happen.”

“You think The Plan is going to fail.”

“Don’t be so sad, sweetie.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Cheer up—the movie’s starting. I think it’s
Love Actually.
”

I slip on the headphones and try to watch. Normally, two hours of Hugh Grant’s fumbling sexiness would be enough
to distract me from anything—even the fact that I’m thirty-six thousand feet higher than I’m supposed to be—but I can’t really concentrate. My mind races off in other directions….

“George.
George
—wake up!”

“Wha? Are we there yet?”

“Almost.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been thinking. It’s going to take about two-and-a-half months of living without Jill’s half of the rent and bills before I’m flat broke. And where am I supposed to find another roomie on such short notice?”

“I can’t afford your place, otherwise you know I’d move in a heartbeat.”

“I know, I know. Don’t worry about that now… My point is, this trip was our best chance, now it seems like probably our
last
chance, to find us some Moneyed Mates. And we failed… No, make that me—
I’ve
failed…. It was all my fault, G, and I’m sorry. If I’d paid closer attention to all that research I was doing, I would have chosen a better vacation destination for us than Naples. Like San Francisco, for example! The San Francisco Bay Area has more Millionaires
under the age of fifty
than any other urban center in the country! Did you know that?”

She shakes her head.

“Well, neither did I until this morning! I am such an idiot! A complete idiot! Naples? What was I
thinking
? We should have at least gone to Seattle. There’s a ton of them there, too, and I bet they don’t have pacemakers….”

“It’s okay, Holly. Calm down. You didn’t know. It’s not your fault. We had fun, anyway, right?”

“I know,” I sob. “But I want to change. I don’t just want a vacation. I want a new life.”

“I know, sweetie. So do I.”

“That was the spirit behind The Plan. Not just to kid around. I don’t want to live in a city that’s unfit for dogs.” I wipe my nose with a cocktail napkin.

“Of course you don’t, Holly, and neither do I, but we have to be realistic, too. We have to make small changes, one thing at a time. And we’ve made a good start. Things are going to look up for us soon. We just have to be patient. Okay?”

My ears pop as I blow my nose again. We’ve begun our descent.

Damn it.
George is right. I
know
she’s right. But I don’t want to go back to the
Bugle.
And I don’t want her to squander her talents for another six years at that shitty bookstore. She deserves better than that. We both do. Before we know it, we’ll be forty…fifty…sixty…and still in exactly the same place we are today.
I don’t want my obituary to come true.

So I turn to face her. “We have to go for it, George. Really go for it.”

“Put your seat up, Holly.”

“Your work sucks. My work sucks. I’m not happy.”

“Yeah, I know, but I can coast on the José thing for months before it fades away. Maybe we can go back next winter. Wouldn’t that be great?”

“George. We’re moving.”

“Okay, Holly. Sure we are. Where to? Monte Carlo? Las Vegas? Peru?”

“I’m serious.”

“I can’t move.”

“Yes, you can.”

She reaches across me to lift up the window shade. The plane shudders as we descend haltingly through the clouds, through the darkness. Buffalo twinkles beneath us and slowly comes into focus. We pass over highways and neighborhoods we know. Pretty from the sky, but we both can tell how cold it really is down there, how bleak, how familiar.

“Funny how the snow makes everything look so white from up here, but when you actually see it up close, it’s all dirty and slushy and brown.”

“How true,” I say.

“I’m not happy, either, Holly.”

“I know.”

She sighs.

“I know you’d never agree to Seattle,” I say, sensing a change of heart.

“No way. It’s far too rainy for people whose hair tends to frizz.”

“So…San Francisco, here we come?”

The ground approaches outside my window, and anticipating my fear, George grabs my hand. But for a change, it’s a pretty smooth landing.

Queen of the Sea

T
he bushy little patch of hair on Cy’s forehead is dangerously close to becoming an island. The causeway that connects the patch with the mainland is no more than an inch wide, and in the unkind overhead fluorescence of his office, it appears the link is eroding fast.

I’ve always thought bald guys are kinda cute; a completely overlooked team of swimmers in the dating pool. Of the many physical traits that can relegate men to overall B-list status—short, chubby, flaccid, bald—bald is arguably best. At least, that’s the way I see it. Those men whose confidence or personality can outshine their gleaming pates are definitely worth a second look, for who among us has not also been stung by the cruelty of nature or heredity? And if you happen to be one of those fortunate women whose bodies are unblemished by familial saddlebags or cankles, and whose facial features formed into pleasing, symmetrical
arrangements, just wait—gravity and time will have their way with you, too. Only by then, when the playing field is finally level, all the good men—the bald, the bellied, the humble, the humorous—will be gone.

In the meantime, those of us prescient enough to date guys with more character than hair or height or abdominal musculature will be laughing all the way to deliriously happy eternal coupledom. Yes, ladies, though you may prefer the look of a six-pack now, a spare tire is definitely a better bet in the long run—it’ll get you where you need to go in case of emergency, and the guys who own one are more likely to have their egos and commitment issues in check. Besides, men suffer at the hands of time, too, though perhaps not as cruelly as we do. Once-glorious hairlines recede, bulging biceps atrophy, Levi’s don’t fit quite like they used to. With gorgeous guys, the fall from grace is the most striking, because all that’s left behind is a series of personality flaws gleaned from a lifetime of coasting on their looks.

Well, that’s one way of seeing things. (I’m looking for something altogether different these days, anyway.) It’s pretty much the same philosophy behind my burgeoning “Two-Thirds Theory” of dating, what was to be one of the central thematic concepts in my book. Basically, the idea is this: The holy trinity of looks, money and personality cannot possibly coexist in a single vessel at any one point in time, and so we must be willing to prioritize (on a case-by-case basis, of course), accept two out of the three and move on. It’s the reason why dating the elderly seems to work so well for so many women. It’s the reason why pairings like Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio, and Julia Roberts and Lyle Lovett,
technically
could have lasted. It’s the reason why I’ve always been sure not to overlook bald men, rich or poor.

At least, until today. Because now I fear the follicle-free—or at least those sporting Cy’s particular capillary configura
tion—will forever be associated for me with pain, humiliation and rage.

Yes, rage.

It’s an emotion I’m not entirely familiar with, so when my boss informs me that not only is yet another one of my story pitches being turned down, but that Virginia Holt herself has commandeered my idea and will be “tweaking” it into a story of her own, it takes me a while to realize that the burning sensation in my gut is actually anger and not cheeseburger.

“But what about me?” I ask him, trembling.

“What about you?”

“It’s my idea. Shouldn’t I get to write it?”

The story in question was inspired by our trip to Naples. “Grandmother Chic: Life’s a Beach” would be a perfect fit for the Life & Style section, a how-to guide to looking sexy over sixty when the weather turns warm. But Virginia wanted to take the elderly angle out completely and turn it into a boring pictorial about resort wear. Like the world needs another look at models in sarongs.

“Well, technically, it’s not your idea anymore, anyway. And I guess Virginia feels she’s the best one to write it.”

God forbid she should tell me this herself, instead of getting Cy to do her dirty work for her….

My scowl must give me away, because Cy feels compelled to add, “Virginia thought it would be best if I told you. She mentioned that you seemed a little on edge lately. And also that she’s been having trouble communicating with you.”

I can’t look him in the eyes, so I focus instead on that little bush on his forehead while I fight back the tears.

“She never liked me.”

“Oh, she’s not so bad. Did you ever make an effort to get to know her?”

“Sure,” I grumble. “I know she takes her coffee with two milks and one Sweet & Low.”

Cy throws his pen down on the desk and sighs. “Don’t be upset, Holly. This is just how things go sometimes. It’s not that big a deal. Really.”

Dammit.
I hate that I’m being such a girl about this. Real reporters are tough. Real reporters don’t cry when things don’t go their way or when their story gets spiked. Real reporters just take what’s theirs and make no apologies. Maybe that’s why I can’t seem to get ahead here—because I’m too damn conflict-avoidant, too much of a doormat, too polite to insist on anything.

Or too afraid to take charge. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this after all.

“It may not be a big deal to you, Cy, but it is to me. This is
my
piece.
I
did the research. It’s just the same damn thing, over and over again. Haven’t I proven myself yet? Tell me—exactly what does a girl have to do to get noticed around here?”

A sheen of perspiration glistens on his brow. Although it wasn’t really my intention to hint that the men seem to move up through the ranks around here a lot faster than the women do, I realize after I’ve said the words that that’s exactly how it sounded. I wouldn’t be the first female employee to suggest the possibility. Unspoken accusations of sexism and harassment bristle beneath the surface at the
Bugle
, which is still pretty much an old-boys’ club. But that’s not what this is about for me, so I ease back a bit.

“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that I feel unappreciated, and I’m no longer sure what’s holding me back here. If it’s a lack of talent, fine—but then somebody should come out and tell me. I’m tired of the excuses. I’ve been here longer than you have, you know, and all I do is write obituaries and take ads for lost dogs and passports. When I was hired I was told there’d be room for advancement.”

If he thinks I’ve crossed the line, he doesn’t let on. “You’re good at what you do, Holly. We appreciate that.”

But I am in no mood for generic placations. “Who exactly are ‘we’?”

“Uhh…the senior staff.”

“Cy, I don’t think it’s fair and I don’t think it’s right. This piece was my idea.”

“It may not be fair, but it is right,” he insists. “It’s Virginia’s section so it’s her call. She knows best what works and what doesn’t, so we’ll have to defer to her on this one.”

“That’s bullshit!”

He leans back and gives me a long hard look. “Just give it some more time. When the time is right and the story is right for you, you’ll get your chance.”

“I don’t believe you,” I say quietly. “I’ve queried Virginia over and over again and she nixes every idea I have. Sometimes, she assigns the exact same piece I suggested weeks before to another writer. It’s happened at least half a dozen times, and I’ve never bothered saying anything before, but it really pisses me off!”

“I get it, I get it. What can I tell you? She’s been here for a long time, Holly. The publishers are really happy with Life & Style—”

“I just don’t see why a personality conflict should stand in my way here. She’s, like, the
only
person I’ve ever had trouble getting along with in my entire life! But I’ve accepted it and tried to move on, even though I think I’ve had a lot of great ideas for that section. So what do I do?”

“What can I tell you? That’s just the way things go sometimes.”

“Well, I don’t think I can wait around here forever.” My chest tightens, and I can scarcely believe the words coming out of my own mouth. “My opportunity for advancement here isn’t what I’d hoped it would be.”

“Aw, come on, Holly. Don’t be rash…”

“I’m not being rash. But I
am
angry.
Really
angry. And after
this whole thing, I know my heart will never really be in it again.” I adjust my gaze from the tuft on his forehead to his eyes. “I just don’t think it’s right to stay under these circumstances. I’m sorry.”

As I say it, my rage dissipates. I know it’s crazy, completely crazy, but it’s also the right thing to do.

Cy stands up as I do, and extends his hand. “We’ll all be really sorry to see you go.”

“Have you spoken to your mother since you got back from Florida?” Zoe asks after a few minutes of chitchat.

“No. Things have been a little hectic around here. You’re the first one I’ve called. Why? What’s up? I thought you had something to tell me.”

The annoying Christmas scene at my parents’ house is still pretty fresh, so I’m in no hurry to speak to either of them. And I’ve barely had the chance to get my thoughts together after quitting the
Bugle
, something I need to do if I’m to have any hope of properly justifying it. To my parents, leaving a job voluntarily is something normal people don’t do. Concepts of vague unrest, professional dissatisfaction and the desire to self-actualize are definitely beyond them. They’re still having trouble coming to terms with the ’60s, for God’s sake, and they were
there.

“I do,” Zoe says. “You should call her.”

“Okay, now you’re freaking me out!”

“No, no—don’t worry. Your mom’s fine—”

“Oh my God! My dad?”

“He’s fine… They’re both fine! Sorry—didn’t mean to scare you.” She pauses to gather her thoughts. “But she did call me while you were away.”

“She called you? You’re kidding, right? How on earth did she manage to find your number?” I would have bet one hundred bucks that my mother couldn’t remember any of
my friends’ last names, let alone track down their phone numbers.

“She spoke to Asher’s dad. They went to high school together, remember?”

“Oh yeah.”

My mother’s resourcefulness is beyond alarming. Certainly, the end of the world is nigh.

“She couldn’t remember the name of your hotel in Florida, and your voice mail was down. She…umm…wanted me to let you know where she’s staying, in case you’re looking for her.”

It’s almost 10:00 p.m. by the time the cab drops me off at my aunt Deb’s house, where my mother has apparently moved in pending the divorce.

She comes down the stairs in her curlers and nightcap and greets me coolly.

“I didn’t know where you were,” she says. “And you didn’t call me when you got back. If I was dead, you wouldn’t have known.”

“Mom, the guilt thing doesn’t really work with me. You can’t start pulling that now after a lifetime of not minding what I did or where I went. So please, don’t even go there.”

“You think I don’t care?” She tears up. “I care. I’ve
always
cared. I just wanted to give you your space. Your brothers always wanted their space, so I did the same with you. And I think it worked out very well. Look at you now—with a degree and such a good job. But don’t I deserve to know where you are when you’re out of state?”

“I told you where I was staying, Mom. You just forgot.”

Aunt Deb hurries in from the kitchen. She looks a lot like my mother, only older, shorter and with an even bigger helmet of red hair. “Holly dear, don’t just stand there in the hall
way—come in, come in. Take your boots off and throw your coat over there. It’ll be a few minutes for the tea. Louise, go sit down. You’ll catch your death.”

Mom tightens her twenty-year-old floral housecoat around her waist and pads off into the living room.

“Where’s Dad? He hasn’t been answering the phone.”

“Your father is at Cole’s,” she all but growls. “I told him, ‘Larry, if I have to leave the house, then so should you! It isn’t fair that one of us gets to stay,’ I said. And between you and me, your father would die of starvation before he’d turn on the oven, anyway. He needs someone to cook for him! I just hope Cole and Olivia have the good sense not to take his side. He’ll try and win them over, I’m sure….”

As my mother plays out each and every possible machination and plot against her, I collapse into Deb’s enormous overstuffed couch. Cole and Mike and Brad used to use its big square pillows to construct a fort whose sole purpose was to keep me out. “I don’t know if I have the energy for this,” I say to no one in particular.

“…and it’s not my fault! Any of this! Because if your father were more assertive, we all might have been spared this agony!”

The poor man had been listening to her drone on and on for decades, and she’s faulting him for his patience? “Dad’s just introverted. He has a lot going on inside. A rich inner life.”

“He’s weak,” she says. “Weak and broken. How can a marriage stay fresh when only one party shows signs of life? Marriage is more than a wedding, Holly—it’s a sincere commitment you make to each other every single day, not just a life sentence under house arrest.”

Odd words, coming from her.

“I can’t say I care for your tone, Mom. You can be very demanding of him, you know. And Dad’s not weak—he’s just
very…tolerant. That’s why you guys work so well together. So Dad loves you, and you love him, okay? Oh, and by the way, I quit my job.”

“Do you know what it’s like to be married to a man without a tongue?”

“What do you care?” I mumble. “You don’t seem to have any ears, anyway.”

Deb brings in the tea on a tray and sets it down on an aluminum TV table. “I’ll leave you two to talk. I’m going up to bed. Uncle Herbie needs his pills.”

“What would I do without her?” Mom says after Deb leaves the room. “She says I can stay as long as I want.”

“That’s great, Mom, but do you really think you’re going to stay for long? I mean, this is all going to blow over, right?”

She snuggles up beside me and pulls my head down onto her shoulder. Normally, I would have resisted—physical displays of affection aren’t exactly the norm for us—but I need her to tell me that everything is going to be all right.