It’s the only snacking she allows herself, I rationalize, and pull a U-turn to head to Build-A-Burger.
“What’s with the bag?” Zwena nods at the canvas satchel with navy straps I found at the Saint Anne rummage sale. She grabs the enormous apple fritter Mrs. Eisenberg is pointing to and teases me, “I know you’re not heading to the beach.”
Mrs. Eisenberg gives Zwena a twenty. With her hand out waiting for the change, Zwena and I are both struck by a ginormous emerald stone, the size of a nickel, flanked by two diamond baguettes spinning around Mrs. Eisenberg’s pencil-thin ring finger.
“One of the moms dumped her discarded sweaters from this tote onto my table where I was folding and then just walked off. When I ran after her to give it back, she showed me the dirt on the bottom, said she had three new ones at home from some resort collection she was fond of, and I could toss it out. With a stain stick and a few spins through the wash, I knew this bag could be as good as new,” I babble on to Zwena and Mrs. Eisenberg, proud of my refurbishing skills.
“Well, that’s a boring story,” Zwena concludes, not taking her eyes off the emerald. Mrs. Eisenberg nods in agreement and then clamps down on her first bite of fritter.
“What I really want to know is: Mrs. E, where did you get that rock?! Did you finally agree to marry one of those eligible men who have been chasing you around the golf course?” Zwena comes from around the Build-A-Burger counter to get a closer look at the biggeststone either of us has ever seen. “Maybe I need to get myself to Arizona and find me one of those.”
“None of those men are my type,” Mrs. Eisenberg insists while holding up the ring for Zwena and me to inspect as if she did, in fact, become engaged. Her face becomes soft, almost girlish. “Eddie gave me this ring for our fiftieth wedding anniversary. Today would have been our sixty-fifth. Or is it sixty-sixth? I’m not sure, but I always wear it on our anniversary.” Mrs. Eisenberg inspects the ring herself and smiles, lost in memories of many years past. “I was going to give it to Ash’s wife, but now I’m thinking of giving it to Livy.”
Zwena raises her eyebrows at me. The hope of rectifying this horrid day with a glimpse of Ash disappears at the mention of his wife. What a waste of my time bothering to shower and shampoo. I grab the ponytail holder off my wrist and pull my hair up into a bun in defeat.
“Hey, if no one in your family wants it, keep me in mind,” Zwena suggests, waving her own fingers at Mrs. Eisenberg.
Dropping all the change from her twenty into Zwena’s tip jar, Mrs. Eisenberg kids her, “You keep the doughnuts stocked and I’ll consider it.”
“Can we stop by the ladies’ room before we go to baggage claim?” Mrs. Eisenberg asks with a mouthful of fritter. “I want to wash up after the plane.” More like wash away any evidence of a half-chowed fritter.
“Absolutely.” We still have time to kill before meeting Ash, but if we loiter around Build-A-Burger much longer, Zwena’s bound to say something about Ash or Simon or both, and I don’t have the patience to get into it.
“Before we go, I have something for you,” I inform Zwena, rummaging around in my bag.
“Can’t compete with that ring,” Zwena chides, winking at Mrs. Eisenberg.
I pull out jars of my lotion in all different tints of brown. I hold up each one to Zwena’s arm to see which color matches best. As I thought, the darkest shade is the right call.
“Will you look at who listened to me for once!” Zwena exclaims, turning over the jar that could be easily mistaken for espresso pudding. Unscrewing the top, Zwena opens it up and takes a big sniff. Keeping a straight face, she passes my product under Mrs. Eisenberg’s nose for additional inspection.
“Nice,” is all I get from Zwena.
“I’m getting a fragrant mix of floral and dark chocolate. What a yummy combination.” The sugar is definitely going to Mrs. Eisenberg’s brain.
“What’s my cut?”
“A cut of nothing is nothing,” I retort, explaining to Zwena the most basic of economic principles.
“I’m sensing a masterpiece here.” Mrs. Eisenberg’s eyes grow wide in a way they never did with my prototypes for fresh-churned ice cream, heating pockets, or empanadillas. Her expressions were always encouraging, but with a side of skepticism. “You have a shade in there for me?” Mrs. Eisenberg asks in anticipation.
“You know I do. You can slick up after we hit the bathroom.”
“While you’re in there, get after those nails, Toni,” Zwena instructs, sharing a disappointed look with Mrs. Eisenberg. “You can’t be pushing lotion with your hands looking like that.”
STILL SATURDAY, MARCH 9
Even with eighteen stalls, the women’s restroom near where the LaGuardia flights depart and arrive has a consistently long line. It’s a universal travel phenomenon that in airport bathroom lines there is one impatient woman at the far back of the queue who marches right past all those in front of her when she spies a stall with a partially open door. It’s as if the rest of us have not seen the glaring opportunity and are idiots for not heading in and taking a seat.
“She’s in for an unfortunate surprise,” Mrs. Eisenberg whispers not so under her breath.
“There’s always one,” I agree. After a superior push of the metal door, the woman recoils.
“Certainly not as smart as she thinks she looks,” Mrs. Eisenberg judges, this time not even attempting to whisper. The woman swiftly grabs the handle of her paisley-print roller bag and scurries out into the terminal in search of another line that knows nothing of her bathroom arrogance.
“Yep, there’s always one,” I repeat, sharing with Mrs. Eisenberg and the women in front and behind us that I have seen this scenario play out plenty of times before. It always ends with a quick exit.
Shoving the saved half of her apple fritter deep into her handbag, Mrs. Eisenberg loses her balance and stumbles backward. Her pursestrap slides down her arm, and the bag lands with a thud on the grimy bathroom floor.
