“Anyway, I know Calliope because she was the best producer I ever trained back when we were both at CNN. She worked for me for, what, six, seven years? And just when she was ready to make the next big career leap, she left me! The guy who replaced you was the network president’s son and a total idiot. But I was stuck with him for the next three years until he went to rehab in Cabo.”
“So you knew Callie back when she was going by her full name professionally, is that right, Calliope?” Settled into her seat, Quinn reveals one of my many attempts at shape-shifting when I was forced to resurrect and redefine myself after college and heartbreak. If I wasn’t standing in one of the most prestigious office settings in the city, focused on making a positive impression, I would pettily remind Quinn that using my new moniker was also about the same time she decided to bleach her dark hair. I was no more a Calliope than Quinn was a platinum blonde.
“And back when you were Lizzy.” I move the focus off me. It feels good to know that my old life, my contributions, are still recognizable.
“I haven’t been called Lizzy since I met Leslie and she insisted that her girlfriend, now wife, sounds like the grown-up I was, running the CNN newsroom. Plus, Lizzy and Leslie, the lipstick lesbians? Sounds like a downtown cabaret act.” We all laugh together, more familiarity than formality, reflecting back on the versions of ourselves that didn’t endure. “Speaking of old times, I’m having lunch with Royce downstairs in an hour. You want to join after we’re done catching up?”
Quinn too eagerly answers for me. “Of course she does!” Though this morning Quinn was sympathetic to my torn bicoastal heart, law partner Quinn is ready to throw me back in with the wolves of journalism to find out if I still can hold my own.
“All these years later, Elizabeth”—I have to concentrate on not saying Lizzy—“I doubt he will remember who I am, and I certainly don’t want to crash your lunch. I might not be as eloquent as you remember.” Quinn elbows me hard. On her list ofnot-to-dos in interviews, self-deprecating commentary is at the top.
“He doesn’t have to remember who you are. I can introduce you as the newest member ofJuice, or Invisible XX or the Forward at Fifty team; we haven’t landed on the final moniker yet. We like all three. And Royce is one of our early investors, so it would be strategic for the two of you to remeet.”
“Wait!” My jaw drops in disbelief. “I came up with those names!” Any humility I had has now given way to shock. My off-the-cuff wit is boomeranging back to me as brilliant branding.
“I know. Quinn shared them with us, and Leslie and I love them. Just like we love your writing. After reading your Christmas essay, I made Leslie rip up our own holiday letter and start over. With our truth.”
“What did you like so much about my writing?” After it’s out, I realize my question may come across as starved for a compliment. It’s another Quinn no-no, but, well, I am desperate, and I genuinely wantfeedback, because if I don’t get this job, at least I have the résumé and writing samples to go for another. Here or in California.
“You seem to minister from the middle. And by ‘middle,’ I don’t mean politically. I mean squarely in the middle of life that we all have to contend with and muddle through. No one is immune. You are invested in the tenuous survival of democracy in the United States and abroad, and you are equally immersed in the day-to-day management of your mother’s care. You follow the stock market, housing market, and commodities markets, but your biggest investment, your most important investment, is your children, whom you wouldn’t trade for anything. You follow with distress the extreme weather patterns that climate change is creating, from severe flooding in the South to summers in the West being a devastating game of wildfire Whac-A-Mole.”
I add to Elizabeth’s critique of my points of view: “Ah, yes. The only thing I don’t blame on climate change are my hot flashes.”
“Exactly. Leslie and I are looking to bring forward the voices of Americans who have followed the rules of society, worked hard, paid their taxes, kept their side of the street tidy, yet feel like extremists have drowned them out. We want to find our undiscovered diamond in the rough, where life experience meets common sense. An intelligent everywoman. Leslie and I think you, and hopefully other women as we build the company, may be just what we’re looking for. And now that I know you are also the most detail-oriented and uplifting producer I ever worked with, what more could I, or we, ask for? You are a rare but valued combo in the news. At least, we believe so.”
I have felt so ordinary for so long that to be called a rarity seems like a paradox.
“Plus, now that I know Callie Kingman is Calliope Steele, I don’t need to know any more. Because if you were that good in your twenties, I can only imagine how fabulous you are in your fifties.”
Imagine that. My age being my greatest asset.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Present
“You two look handsome on this special New Year’s Eve,” I gush, and adjust John’s bow tie. My eldest has always been the more disheveled of my boys. I haven’t seen John and Andrew since Thanksgiving in Sacramento, but my time in New York has been as fruitful as I hoped it would be for jump-starting my career. While I’ve been here, Quinn has most definitely needed my full attention to help her let Alice go after life being the two of them against the world for so long. My other wedding-support duties included picking up the groomsmen’s presents from Ralph Lauren, grabbing the cupcakes Alice wanted from Magnolia Bakery for dessert at her rehearsal dinner, and providing a second opinion when Quinn and I returned to Bergdorf’s three times to choose Quinn’s dress for Friday night. Most of all, what I learned over the past ten days is that I don’t ever want to be without John and Andrew during the Christmas holidays again. If that means I have to share them with Thomas and his crumpet, I think I can manage for the sake of not losing one moment more being present in my sons’ flourishing lives.
“First time in a tux. I look pretty good, huh, Mom?” Andrew snaps his fingers and gives his brother and me a spin of showmanship, likehe’s about to take the stage and croon on the Vegas strip. The gaggle of bridesmaids huddled not far from us raise their champagne flutes to salute Andrew’s moves, and he further endears himself to them with a bashful half bow. Just like his father, Andrew was born with entertaining charm and an insatiable appetite for accolades, and for those two reasons alone, there are a million different ways this evening could go wrong.
“This is your first wedding as grown men where the liquor is plentiful, and Alice’s friends are single.” I smooth the satin lapel of Andrew’s jacket and then grab his chin between my thumb and index finger. “So whatever may or may not happen tonight, make sure you can look yourselves in the mirror in the morning,” I warn sternly while I still have John and Andrew’s attention. “And also, be able to look me, Quinn, and Alice in the eyes at brunch tomorrow at eleven.” If I had been thinking beyond how to not cry through my mascara during the ceremony, I would have brought emergency condoms to pass out to my budding men. Weddings can easily become a twelve-hour hall pass from sound decision-making and solid judgment. I should know—I met Thomas at a wedding reception in this exact hotel where John, Andrew, and I are standing.
“Aw, way to make it awkward, Mom.” John pretends to gag and turns away from my profound parenting advice and toward the flock of girls in their matching deep-maroon dresses, each more attractive than the next, with their unblemished, dewy skin and professionally applied smoky eyes. Before the champagne bubbles go to all our heads, I want a few minutes alone with John and Andrew. I’d like to tell them in more detail why I came to New York in advance of the wedding, as well as my surprise encounter with Porter back home.
Something deep inside me needs my sons to understand that I had a robust life before I became a wife and a mother, and that though I have absolutely loved being both—particularly their mother—I am now determined to recapture what I’ve lost. I want John and Andrew to know that they don’t have to worry about me—I have faced pain and change, and I am still willing to take big risks. That is somethingto celebrate. And I want my boys to celebrate with me. But the energy vibrating between John and Andrew and the beautiful young women six strides away is nothing against which a mother can compete. Right then, I resolve to let them both go, take their own risks, and make their own mistakes in the world.
“Listen to your mother, boys.” Thomas sidles up to us by the bar, where I was having my last doting moment of the evening with my sons until he showed up to ruin it.
“And we’re out.” John picks up two bourbons off the bar, hands one to Andrew, and then grabs his brother by the jacket sleeve to head in the direction of the bridal party. Together they beat a hasty retreat to escape what might transpire with their mother setting eyes on their lying, cheating father for the first time since our split.
“Beautiful wedding,” Thomas offers as a neutral opening line.
“It is,” I say coolly. Two can play the surface conversation game. I am in for about four and a half minutes of amicable chitchat, all in the name of maturity, courtesy, and wedding conviviality, but then I’m out. I loathe this man, and I don’t trust myself to make it past the five-minute marker without creating a scene.
In an effort to exude my indifference to his presence, I lean my elbow onto the bar, bumping up against an overflowing arrangement of calla lilies and ranunculus. Thomas quickly catches the teetering narrow glass vase before it crashes to the ground. I don’t bother thanking him; I just continue to stare straight ahead, willing Quinn to come rescue me before my promise to feign civility with Thomas today gives way.
“You look fantastic, Callie. You must be doing well.”
My head snaps at the compliment. “I do and I am,” I assure Thomas.
