Halifax, Nova Scotia
It’s a Saturday night, and I’ve let Becky talk me into going downtown, which means—in the language of Haligonians—pub-crawling or barhopping. I haven’t had a night out in three months, and she’s been after me to take some “me time” and consider the possibility that I’ve become a workaholic.
She’s not wrong. After Jacob died, I couldn’t face a return to university, where we’d shared our lives, so I dropped out of the business school permanently and set my sights on the University of Toronto, which offered a degree program in interior design. It had always been my end goal anyway, to learn the craft, and since my dad had been running the family business for decades without a business degree (he’d gone to community college to learn the plumbing trade and acquired management skills on the job), my parents supported my decision. Dad promised to help me with the business side of things if, and when, the time arrived.
So here I am, seven years later, president of my own fledgling interior design business. I have a modest office downtown on the historic Halifax Waterfront with two employees: a receptionist andbookkeeper named Gretchen, who keeps everything organized, and Jennie, my talented and creative assistant who shares my passion for decorating. She has an incredible work ethic, and sometimes I feel like she should be a full partner, but I’m the one with all the money at risk. It’s my name on the lease and the line of credit.
Tonight, I’m meeting Becky for dinner at Salty’s, a seafood restaurant with outdoor tables on the wharf overlooking the harbor. The hostess shows me to the table, where Becky is already seated with a glass of chilled chardonnay in front of her.
She removes her mirrored sunglasses, stands up, hugs me, and steps back to check out my outfit. “You came straight from work, didn’t you. On a Saturday, no less.”
“What gave me away?” I pull my chair out and hang my tote bag on the back of it.
“Hmm,” she says, returning to her chair. “Could it be the blazer and button-down shirt? Or is it the loafers? It wouldn’t hurt you to take your hair out of that tight ponytail every once in a while.”
“It was a crazy day,” I reply apologetically and settle into my chair. It’s a gorgeous summer evening with a light breeze, and a sailboat is cruising by, heading toward open water. The aroma of fried crab cakes reaches my nose, and I realize I’m famished.
I return my attention to Becky. “You look gorgeous.” She’s wearing an off-the-shoulder, formfitting blue dress and dangly pearl earrings. Classy attire is one of the perks of her job managing a high-end clothing store in the Halifax Shopping Centre. “I can’t believe how long your hair has gotten.” It’s shiny and wavy and reaches almost to her waist.
“That just goes to show how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other.” She takes hold of my hand from across the table. “How are you?”
“I’m good, actually,” I reply with a slight frown, resenting the note of sympathy in her voice, which implies that I’m sad, lonely, and wasting away. “Something amazing happened at work,” I tell her. “I got a call from Liz Tremblay’s assistant, and she set up a time for us to chat on Tuesday.”
My heart squeezes spasmodically at just the thought of it, because Liz and her husband, a major real estate developer, are local celebrities. They fight tirelessly for the rights of low-income homeowners and recently led a fundraising campaign to build a small apartment complex close to the children’s hospital for family members who come from far away. The grand opening was all over the news last week.
“That sounds exciting,” Becky says. “I wonder what she wants.”
“I don’t know, but I hope it involves decorating.”
Becky reaches for her wine. “As long as you remember that there’s more to life than work.”
How can I forget when she’s always trying to remind me that my life didn’t end when Jacob died and that I still have plenty of living to do?
The problem is that her definition of living isn’t the same as mine. She’s been in high spirits lately because she’s in a steady relationship with a guy named Mark, and she’s optimistic about her future. I’m happy for her, of course, but I don’t need that in my life right now. I don’t want any complications. I just want to focus on growing my business.
“I appreciate the concern, but I’m perfectly fulfilled.” I reach for my water glass and take a sip. “I wake up every morning and look forward to my day. Isn’t that what matters?”
Becky sits back and folds her arms across her chest. “It depends on how big or small your bubble is.”
The waiter’s arrival couldn’t come at a better time. He asks what I’ll have to drink, and I point at Becky’s wine. “I’ll have whatever that is.”
Becky rolls her eyes. “Seriously, do you not even care? Order what you want. They make a great cosmo here. You used to love cosmos.”
I smile with resignation at the waiter. “Fine. Bring me a cosmo.”
He disappears, and I pick up the menu. “I’m starving. What are you having?”
“The fish cakes, of course.”
I slide the menu aside. “I’ll get that too.” I don’t want to spend too much time thinking about food choices. I just want to talk to my friend aboutherlife, not mine. “How’s Mark?”
Her eyes light up. “Great. We’re going whale watching next weekend.”
“Oh, wow. Where?”
“Brier Island. He’s had it booked for weeks. And we’re going to Fredericton the week after that for his parents’ thirtieth anniversary. His whole family’s going to be there. I haven’t met either of his brothers yet, so wish me luck.” She reaches for her wine.
“They’ll love you. Who wouldn’t? You’re wonderful.”
