“Did you sleep with him? Please tell us you did. And when I say ‘tell us,’ I mean every. Lurid. Detail. Oh, hi, I’m Lisa, the overly invested neighbor,” Lisa introduces herself to Daphne and Maureen.
“She means nosy,” I clarify, and Lisa sticks her tongue out at me like I’ve stepped on her title and her crown. Wait until she hears about the royal bait-and-switch of an evening I had last night. Over the years, Lisa has been the one to provide the juicy confidential HR stories that leave me with my mouth agape. Though exhausted by last night’s confessional, I am excited I finally have a tale that will keep Lisa talking for days.
“I’m assuming you are part of Callie’s running cult,” Lisa continues to Daphne and Maureen by way of an introduction. Okay, maybe not a potential running-club member.
“Good morning to all of you who ... oddly ... are gathered on my front stoop.” I finally get a complete sentence out among these three. I take a long sip of my coffee as my friends lean in to me, heads practically touching, impatiently waiting for more than pleasantries. In less thantwelve hours, it seems as if all the corners of my world have touched. Or more like collided.
“Fine. Fine, good morning,” Lisa huffs. “Did you sleep with him?”
Aggressive nodding by Daphne and Maureen follows.
“With Chap?” I ask with an air of disgust as I consider his newly discovered status as Porter’s son.
“Yes!” Lisa yelps, her face registering shock that I have had a complete reversal of attitude from lusty last night to appalled this morning.
“No! Porter!” Maureen and Daphne echo at the same time.
“Who’s Porter?” Lisa’s head swings back and forth in bewilderment between me, Maureen, and Daphne, who are now jumping up and down on their toes in expectation or to stay warm.
As the elder stateswoman of the group, Maureen clarifies, “Callie’s boyfriend from college.”
Grabbing the doorframe to steady herself, Lisa proclaims, “Hold on, hold on. Don’t say another word. I gotta hear this. I’m going to go find some shoes I can run in,” and sprints back across the street to her house.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Present
5:55 a.m. (Callie)
Just landed. Meet me at Tom’s at 7:30.
Tom’s Restaurant on Broadway near Columbia is where Quinn and I grappled with how to step out of our Princeton personas and into our adult selves. Over stacks of pancakes, mile-high turkey Reubens, and comforting chicken noodle soup, we wrestled with the cruelty of the world our mothers raised us to take on in all the ways that were not available to them. As we moved through our twenties following their guidance, the results weren’t always favorable. We mended our broken hearts, one french fry dipped in ketchup at a time, over indignities at our first professional jobs that our male counterparts didn’t seem to suffer. And of course, the pain of love and great loves lost. We first nursed my heart over Porter vanishing, and between breakdowns, we wrangled with Quinn’s struggle loving the money that came with practicing corporate law but never loving the male-dominated profession itself. A couple of years later, we experienced the collective heartbreak that enveloped New York on 9/11. The two of us grieved the tragedy along with the rest of America. The shine of life dimmed a bit more each time we learnedof another childhood or college friend lost in the Twin Towers going about their mornings, building their careers and families just as Quinn and I were trying to do. During the last months of 2001, when we were more than ready to turn the page on a tragic year we thought couldn’t get any worse, Charles inexplicably died. And then a year and a half later, I was headed to Sacramento when Quinn, alone with baby Alice, needed me most. By age thirty, Quinn and I had consoled and suffered and consoled each other again, tucked in the worn leather booths of our favorite restaurant. And it was here that I was about to inflict another injury on Quinn’s heart.
Quinn blows through the door in a full-length caramel-colored cashmere coat and a matching scarf wrapped around her neck several times so that only her nose and eyes are exposed. It has been well over a year since we have been together, and upon seeing me, my highly respected law partner of a best friend squeals like she’s ten and has just been handed a puppy. Quinn jumps into my arms, hugging me in an embrace that feels like coming home. Despite the boost of dopamine, I am in desperate need of a carafe of crappy coffee after my life-altering evening and then a red-eye.
The first few minutes together we trade compliments and criticisms back and forth as only forever friends can do. We each praise the other for looking great, followed by noticing new gray hairs here and there along with additional sprouted crow’s feet. Quinn claims to love my eggplant-hued velour two-piece travel attire, even as she stands statuesque in her pressed charcoal-gray pinstripe Prada suit.
“My God, I’ve missed you! But not for much longer,” Quinn pulls me in for another hug and then holds me by the shoulders, not about to let go. “Leslie and Elizabeth came over for a drink last night. They absolutely loved the Christmas letter you submitted, and they were super impressed by your exposé on women’s health care in Bangladesh. That opinion piece on why the chairman of the Federal Reserve is actually the most powerful person in the world ... also loved. And by ‘loved,’ I mean you really showcased for them that you can research,report, and write on it all. Leslie liked you from the initial phone call, but Elizabeth wasn’t on it, so she was still skeptical since your work experience is, well, let’s call it spotty.”
“Is that what we’re pretending to callnonexistentthese days?” I know Quinn is trying to keep my spirits and my confidence high going into my meeting. If I’m heading back into the news, I need to buck the current trend of spreading disinformation and rage from facts, not fiction. And since I can’t sell Elizabeth on my depth of experience, I’m going to have to do quite the sales job on my modern middle-age potential to emulate the memorably trustful Walter Cronkite, minus the turkey waddle.
“Well, I’m confident they’re going to give you a job offer after you meet with Elizabeth—at least, that’s what Leslie whispered in my ear on her way out last night. You’re coming home, Callie Kingman! You’re finally coming home!” Quinn squeals again and dances around in a tight 360 between me and the hangry customers waiting behind her, eager to be seated.
“Two.” I hold up my fingers to the hostess, and she grabs our menus, clueless that we have the long-standing offerings memorized.
“Aren’t you excited?” Quinn wants to know, and slides into her side of the booth. I know her question is rhetorical. The table is still damp from being wiped down with a germy rag, so I take our thin paper napkins to soak up the remaining drips. In case I have to drop my forehead onto the Formica in exhaustion after I tell Quinn about Porter, I want a clean place to land.
“I am excited,” I answer, the pitch of my voice too high. I can tell from Quinn’s puckered lips that she’s not convinced.
“Don’t you dare back out on coming home, Callie. Sell the house, move in with me, get a job. We’ve had this plan since Thomas went poof. The job potentially coming first is an added bonus we both weren’t expecting.” Quinn gives me ata-dahand gesture to punctuate her point. “Alice and Jack have moved into their apartment, and youare moving into mine. I do not want to be rattling around that prewar three-bedroom all by myself to become a little old lady who’s losing it.”
I raise my eyebrows at Quinn.
“Sorry, no offense to Helen.”
“None taken. She spends her days eating sugar in all digestible forms and watching porn. In the grand scheme of things, losing it has made my mom way more fun.”
“Well, you know what I mean. We’ve grown up together, and now we are meant to grow old together. You and me.”
