
The Last PageBook 1 ofLiving, Loving & Laughing AgainLacy Camey
Copyright © 2011 by Lacy Camey. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission from the author.
ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-935841-91-3
Norah Johnson is at a crossroads and is in desperate need to heal after a highly publicized breakup from her major league baseball player boyfriend. To escape, she moves to her summer home at the beach with her sister and best friend where she journals, attends therapy and works on her pending clothing line. When a gorgeous stranger finds her lost journal, he seeks to find the author and make her fall in love with him. But is Norah ready to love again?
Book 1 in the romantic comedy trilogy of living, loving, and laughing again; a Norah Johnson story.
To my gorgeous, loving, always supportive and best friend in the world, my husband, Joel. Thank you for making life so much fun! Every day you bring me laughter, joy and endless fun. You're the perfect muse I could ever need! You're also the perfect life coach and counselor. You always know just what to do or say. I love you more than words can express and I thank you for being the best husband in the world! I am truly blessed!
My hands shook as I took a deep breath and exhaled. I studied myself in the elaborate, gold mirror hanging on the ivory Mediterranean stone. On any other night, I would have contemplated the stone, estimated the amount of square feet, and judged how nice it might look in the boutique that I was eagerly waiting to open. Or, how amazing the mirror, perhaps full-length, would look in the beautiful, totally chic dressing rooms I envisioned for my future customers.
But my mind was preoccupied.
I looked hot. My brown, silky hair hung in nice, loose waves past my shoulders. My jaw-dropping, black strapless dress---my design---with ruffled detailing at the chest and gathered seams over my tanned skin, and Christian Louboutin heels---I'll own up to it---made me look like a ten. I'm not a conceited person; I'm just letting you know, I put every effort into ensuring that I looked my absolute best, like any woman would out there trying to win Miss U.S.A. or The Bachelor.
This was a life-changing, pivotal moment. Since I was dealing with a man, the man I loved, the man I wanted to win back, I had to lay all my cards on the table, and I had a royal flush!
Did I mention the dress was formfitting? More like the painted-on kind, yet it was chiffon. No one had a dress like mine. I could hear Jennifer Aniston calling me in the future, wanting the dress for her next movie premiere.
But this time, no matter how good I managed to look even in my own prize-winning design that had landed my current career lead, the biggest lead of my life, I couldn't calm my nerves even by reminding myself of this amazing accomplishment, one that I definitely did not take lightly.
My nausea made me feel like I was about to perform or give a speech in front of the whole world. I felt like I would vomit any minute! Gross, but that's my nerves for you. On cue, my mouth started watering, and I knew what that meant---the inevitable would soon follow.
But I couldn't throw up! Not here. Not now. I took a deep breath and blew out. Closing my eyes, trying to pull it together, I imagined standing on the beaches of... somewhere, Tahiti maybe, although I'd never been there.
I needed to be confident. I am confident.
I needed to pull it together. I can pull it together.
"Pull it together, Norah. Pull it together," I told myself. Thank goodness, no one else was in the ladies' room to witness that.
Even with all the energy I could muster, and despite my self-affirming pep talk, I still felt wobbly. I leaned forward against the cold granite. It felt warm against my cool, sweaty palms.
I could do this. I had to do this.
As if a bell from Pavlov's experiment had rung, I snapped back to reality and looked down into my black Prada clutch in search of my lipstick.
Shimmery? Or sultry red? If I wore shimmery, I'd look relaxed, tanned, and glamorous. If I wore sultry, I'd...
With the thought of sultry, my soul filled with indignant anger at the thought of his sultry seducer, and the fact that she was in the other room. It was all her fault. She was the reason it had ended, the reason I was here in the bathroom in freezing February.
Shimmery.
I'll wear shimmery, I decided.
If this were a movie, you would hear the Ting Ting's playing, Shut Up and Let Me Go, as I exited, confident, with the footsteps of a determined lioness on a mission. Except, I was thinking, 'Please don't let me go. Just shut up and listen and let her go.'
I rehearsed my lines.
"Truett, it's me. Hi... I know."
Lame. Of course, it would be me.
"Truett, don't ask me why I'm here. I forgive you. We can be together."
No...
I needed to hurry because, standing ten feet in front of me, was... him.
His tall, muscular build fit nicely in an Armani suit. I saw the back of his tanned neck. I felt like I might faint.
Yes, I saw friends trying to warn him of my approach.
Yes, I heard the few rehearsal dinner guests seated at their lavish tables whispering as they took notice of my appearance, along with a few clanks of forks against china plates. The bride, Alicia, was greeting an elderly couple, and luckily God answered my prayers; she didn't see me. She was as fake as ever. Couldn't anyone else see through her façade? The fact that she was clearly using Truett's fame for her instant acting career stardom?
But I knew everyone would soon find out. After, of course, she delivered their baby and joined Tracy Anderson Method workouts.
I saw Truett's parents and made eye contact with his father; he looked white as a ghost and dropped his wine glass. The swing band and commotion of the excited guests were graciously loud enough, however; no one heard or thought twice about the breaking of the crystal.
Kind of like the way Truett couldn't care less about the breaking of my heart.
But alas, there he was. There was my goal, the back of a man in a black suit. My bullseye.
One of his genius friends coughed under his breath, "Johnson at six o'clock."
Another stretched, as he pointed and whispered, "Dude, you won't believe who's behind you."
Then, as if in slow motion, he turned around. I had dreamt of this moment, of him seeing me, saying how fabulous I looked, of me sweeping him off his feet. But that wasn't the reaction I received.
He cursed. And cursed loudly.
"What are you doing here, Norah?" Before a giant scene could be made, he grabbed me by the arm. Of course, not in a gentlemanly gesture, but more like a reproach of a mother grabbing her seven-year-old by the ear for back talking---and led me to the side of the white tent. Away from the heaters. Away from the few guests who had begun to take notice of Truett's sudden change in demeanor.
His groomsmen, thank God, had some common sense and tried to block us from the nosy audience. But honestly, I really didn't care who else saw me there. They all knew the story. If they'd experienced what I had, they would be there, too. Maybe.
"Are you trying to sabotage my rehearsal dinner? I'm getting married tomorrow." He crossed his arms and let out an irritable, "Geez, you have some nerve."
Then he began to pace, unable to stand still. He always did that when he didn't want to think about the problem at hand.
I reached out to stop him and, as my hand touched his arm, he flinched. He closed his eyes and sighed annoyingly. "Well, what do you want, Norah?"
What do I want? I want you! I want us together again.
But standing there, staring into his cold, hardened eyes, I felt like an alien had abducted the man who used to love me, an alien from the used-to-be planet of Pluto, because it was the coldest one. His heart was clearly frozen, iced over. Feeling nothing. Looking at me as if I were the antichrist or something.
He was so different from the Truett I knew. He loved me. He was enamored with me. In the four years we dated, he never acted as if I annoyed him. He was clearly under a witch's spell.
Everything in me wanted to rip him to shreds and claw his eyes out. The fire in my chest felt like heartburn, as if I was about to have an anxiety attack. But practice and rehearsing paid off. So my rehearsed speech, which my best friend in the world, Chloe, who was waiting in the car for me had heard me say over and over, went to good use.
Be calm, collected, my subconscious reminded me.
I will appear calm and collected. He will remember what he loved about me, that I had class, and I was always collected. I would appear as if nothing fazed me. It was me, not her, who would be the perfect, overly-exposed wife of a mega-athlete superstar.
And on that note, I was ready to say it. I lifted my chin with perfection.
"Truett, I forgive you," I said ever so tenderly, yet matter-of-factly.
"What?" he asked, irritated. "You forgive me?" He laughed an utterly horrific, patronizing laugh. As I stood there, my insides screamed for me to stay composed.
I felt as if I was in a presidential debate and the ugliest jab had been thrown, yet I remained unfazed. So I continued with my mission.
"Look, please don't marry her. You'll make the biggest mistake of your life."
He put up his hands in protest. I could tell I was running out of time, so I quickly got to the most important part.
"I forgive you. We can work on us. We can make us work. You don't have to marry her just because she's pregnant."
Now this was the part where the beautiful music was supposed to start playing, like in the movies. Perhaps Coldplay's Fix You, where his eyes were supposed to fill with tears, and he would open his arms and embrace and kiss me, telling me I was right. That he was glad I came. That he had been praying to God all day for a sign because of his own apprehensions, showing he was supposed to be with me.
Then we would leave together as the entire wedding party and guests watched in aghast bewilderment.
If only life were like the movies. Let me be the screenwriter.
Before I could even get to the good part and tell him, "Listen, she's using you. Don't you know anything about her? Don't you know this, don't you know that?"
He bluntly said, "No, Norah." He said it sharply like someone would say if they were a prime candidate for anger management counseling. "You made the mistake by walking out on me when I needed you most to go to Milan."
"But I didn't walk---"
He didn't want to hear it. It was too late.
"Get her out of here," he said to Lewis, the Yankee's second basemen. He turned back to me. "Get out of here, because if you don't leave---"
Suddenly, that little piece of me that lurked deep inside in that little corner crevice of my heart, that piece that so wanted to give him a piece of my mind, suddenly came unfolded.
"If I don't leave, then what?" Okay, my plan of remaining calm and cool went out the window. Suddenly, everyone in the room, as if they were all a part of a rehearsed, synchronized swimming team, placed their forks and drinks down and looked my way. I felt as if I were in the Twilight Zone. And for crying out loud, the band even stopped playing!
You could have heard a cricket.
My question sat in the thick, quiet air waiting to be answered. Angrily, he turned and walked away. He snapped his fingers, and the band began to play again. People whispered. Picture phones snapped. Paparazzi hiding in the bushes flashed their hot bulbs at me.
And with that, I was escorted from the premises. As I walked away, my heart pounded with adrenaline. The man I loved with my whole heart, the man I was supposed to marry, the man I was supposed to build a fairy-tale life with---we were supposed to be the next Posh and David Beckham!---had left me for another woman, a pregnant woman.
I was left to pick up the broken pieces of my seemingly never-ending broken heart, as the rest of the country had the lovely privilege of reliving my awful breakdown on TMZ, E!, US Weekly, and every other media outlet. And I felt like I had nowhere to hide.
Then, I woke up.
But it wasn't all a dream. I awakened with my head pounding and spinning. Where was I? It all felt blurred. As I continued to lie there in the comfort of my Tempur-Pedic cloud, I knew I was either in Dubai again, or in my bedroom. My familiar alarm clock, which read 9:30 a.m. in red letters, reminded me I was home.
I was home.
I sat up slowly. I could smell the sizzling bacon I guessed my mother was making. Suddenly, I didn't feel very well. I quickly ran to my bathroom and threw up. I wallowed my way to the sink and, as I splashed my face with cool water, Chloe entered and sat down on the toilet. Good thing she didn't know I had just thrown up.
In her perfectly trained nurse-like way, she asked, "Are you okay? You don't look so good. Pepto? Sprite helps. So does ginger beer. Pregnant women drink that a lot. Of course, the non-alcoholic kind. But it's not like that matters or anything, because you're not pregnant. So... " I watched her come to the sudden realization of saying the extremely sensitive word, pregnant. As in, Truett was marrying a pregnant woman!
"Oh, sorry. Oops." She bit her nails, obviously wishing she could retract her words.
For a second, I felt like saying something in regards to the pregnant women drinking beer, but I just didn't have the energy. Not only did I feel like I had been hit by a train, with my entire body aching, I felt like one must feel after competing in a triathlon---unable to move.
My mouth was parched. I opened my mouth to speak the first words of the morning, but she beat me to it.
"Your mom is bringing you a tray. We heard you get up."
I slowly turned, leaning against the counter. Am I really awake? Did this really happen?
"It was like an elephant was stomping across the room." As soon as she said the words, like a woman in a crazed daze, I walked back to my bed and fell facedown on the bed like a ton of bricks, sinking into the duvet.
Then, I spoke my first words of the day, or rather, screamed them in pure agony.
"He's getting married today!" My muffled, scratchy, desperate declaration was the most pitiful thing imaginable. And then my elephant tears poured.
"Aw, Nor, I'm so sorry." She came over and sat down to pat my back. Just then, my mom and dad walked in with a tray holding breakfast, coffee, and orange juice.
The embarrassment! Forget the day when your training bra was found, or your first box of tampons. I was crying like a second grader with a tantrum, and I was a grown woman. I did not feel like being on display!
My mom sat opposite me and ran her fingers through my hair as I continued sob. Dad set the tray on my nightstand and cleared his throat nervously. He didn't do well with tears and hated to see any of his girls cry. He muttered under his breath about what a jerk that Truett Mason is.
"He is a jerk," I muttered, as I rolled over and sat up. "He's a jerk!"
"Yes," Mom agreed. "He's a horrible person, Norah. But we love you very much, and that man doesn't deserve your beautiful heart."
I looked around at the pitiful scene, Mom on one side, bestie on the other, Dad in the doorway, and for the first time, I noticed what I was wearing and how I looked-tank top and undies. Oh, no. I jumped out of bed and grabbed the robe draped over the chair next to my bed.
"We just wish you would have told us you were going, honey," Mom said, unfazed by my lack of clothes.
I tied my robe and sat in the chair. Too dazed to even form a thought, I laid my head back and closed my eyes.
The next few months looked like this:
Wake up at, well, one or two.
Shuffle in my slippers to the coffee pot and grab a pop tart if my stomach could handle it. If not, I simply ate toast and drank Sprite. I was a ball of nerves.
Shuffle my way to couch. Cry. Moan. Watch TV.
Mom or Dad, or my sister Maycee try and make conversation with me. Say something about how pretty the day is, and maybe we should go out. Or how fabulous this new shampoo is, and maybe I should give it a try. Yeah, not washing your hair for seven days straight might attract some of those comments.
All the while, I looked like Adam Sandler in the movie, Click. I was there, but not really there. But, instead of time flying by in an instant, like it did for Adam, time dragged for me.
Chloe had to fly back home, naturally. My ten pieces for my line were due in eight more weeks, and I had nothing to show for it. I was beginning to see the need for great robes, however.
Then, my parents stepped in.
It all happened like this.
I was perfectly miserably-happy watching a Basketball Wives rerun. I think I had seen that particular episode um, maybe three times, after, of course, seeing every episode, every season, as well as every other reality show available on Bravo. As I lay there curled up in my fleece blanket, Dad took a seat in the chair next the couch.
"Sweetie, it's time for a change."
Like a sad dog who never got to go on walks anymore, I glanced his way, again with the Click daze. "Sweetie pie, starting next week, you're starting therapy."
"Therapy?" I gawked at him.
"Yes, I'm tired of seeing my bright, aspiring fashion designer so defeated. We Johnsons don't let life get us down. Why, when I was in my fourth year residency program competing for that one spot with Dr. Chinagens, I-"
I blocked out everything he was saying and averted my eyes to the women lunching and drinking Champagne after a day's worth of shopping. That was supposed to be my life. And I was supposed to be in the new reality show, Baseball Wives. No, that wasn't technically a show yet, but I just knew it was the next sport franchise reality show. It had to be! At least, before Hockey Wives, or Soccer Wives. Baseball had to be next. And I was supposed to be the fabulous one with the design line, and chic boutique and...
"And that's why Maycee had the great idea of you two living in the summer home together because, not only is it near Dr. Hood, but..." and his voice became softer and softer in my brain. I was getting good at shutting out the world. But there was only one thing I couldn't shut out-how I felt.
Oh, wow. The women lunching were getting into a fight, and one was pouring an ice bucket over the other woman's head. I wished I could pour an ice bucket over that scum-sucking, bottom-feeding, tramp of a woman, Alicia.
\*
One week later
"Why are you here, Norah? Tell me about yourself," were his first words to me.
There I was. Vulnerable. A mess. Broken!
"Tell you why I'm here?... " I said slowly.
Let's see... where do I even begin? Great question. Yes, I knew that was the standard question a therapist asked a new client. Before I could even answer, my memory reverted to that chilly February evening. I closed my eyes and swallowed. Even though it had been three months ago, I felt like it had just happened last night.
"Have you ever woken up and found it was all a dream?"
He nodded slowly. Yet, in that nod, I just knew he was analyzing everything.
"I just woke up from my worst nightmare, except it wasn't really a dream. And I feel like I'll never wake up again, per se."
He nodded again, with great understanding.
I looked into his warm eyes. He made me feel okay. I could tell him, and he could help me. I desperately needed help. I just wanted it to all go away.
"I was on the verge of getting engaged to..."
Deep breath.
"You've heard of him. Truett Mason. Pitcher for the---"
"New York Yankees," he finished.
"Yeah." I exhaled slowly.
"Sorry." He cleared his throat and repositioned himself in his big leather chair. "Kind of a big fan here. Go ahead."
Ugh! Was there anyone in the entire world who was not enamored with the illustrious Yankees or, furthermore, their star pitcher? Didn't anyone know about his former girlfriend who practically held his entire world together for him? I knew I could keep going with my rabbit trail thoughts, so I stopped and focused.
"Listen, I'm serious. I just want to be able to trust you not to go to the media. To not---"
"Norah. Patient-doctor agreement. There is no fear of that. You can trust me." He smiled. "Or you can sue me and make lots of money." He leaned forward and folded his hands.
Not funny. I didn't know what to say.
"Kidding."
Right.
"I just... " I took another deep breath. "Want to be me again. I've experienced recently, let's see... betrayal, cheating, pain, sadness, disconnect, loneliness, disappointment, not being myself, feeling stuck in a rut." I said all of this in one giant breath, as fast as Speedy Gonzales. "Really, I'm a normal, happy, successful woman." I smiled my charming, plastered smile.
Again, that nod. What was it with therapists and nods? I hated silence so I continued, "I've been to Milan for an extensive, elite, completely exclusive fashion internship. I'm about to launch my own line because of that internship, well, after I show my financial backer the remaining ten pieces, which are not created as of now, and here I am facing this..." I searched for words to explain it.
"Massive roadblock." I just want my broken heart to heal! I screamed inside. Just fix me already!
Gosh! This was going to be hard to explain! "I wish there was a cord you could plug into my mind and preview it all like a sitcom off of iTunes, and call it a comedy, preferably. I'm at the point where I'm ready for some comedic relief. And then be able to say, 'And that's why I'm here!'" I laughed nervously. Is this guy going to talk? Give me advice?
But, maybe on another planet where species are more advanced, he would have just read my mind, understood everything, and had the perfect solution for me, and so that therapy would be a one-time visit.
"Here's what you do. Here's how you can be yourself again. Here's how to push the delete button from your mind and erase your awful memories."
But who was I kidding? It's planet Earth. We're human. It's 2011. Time to face reality...
And then, finally he spoke.
"You know, it's okay. Just keep talking. You don't have to tell me everything at once," he explained.
For the next two hours, I tried my absolute best to relay to him everything. Afterward, he gave me gentle instructions to journal every day, take walks, and relax.
I replied, "But I can't relax, I have this line I'm supposed to produce. My entire career hangs on it."
"I understand," he said kindly.
Uh, he understands what a line involves? Designing, creating, sewing, cutting, stitching, working. Functioning!
"The important thing is for you to take the pressure off. From what it sounds like to me, you've worked hard all four years in college, worked even harder in this internship, and endured a life-changing crisis. Your heart is broken; now you need to heal. Part of healing is simply resting. Think of this as healing after an open-heart surgery. What does one do? One doesn't overly exert themselves. So my order for you for the next couple of weeks is journal, walk, relax, do something new, watch your favorite movies, and just relax."
Um, one also doesn't deserve this awful pain.
Just relax? Does he know my personality? Does he know about my career?
As if he could read my thoughts, he added, "Often, our best ideas come to us out of a rested soul."
A rested soul. Not heart, but soul. So I was supposed to heal my heart and let my soul rest? Isn't my heart my soul? I furrowed my brows in confusion. I'm not a dense person, but couldn't one just heal without getting all philosophical and multi-dimensional?
"We are beings composed of mind, body, and spirit. Each component works in unison to create optimum harmony in one's health. We need balance in all three," he continued, as the perfect therapist would say. I wondered how many times he had told his patients that. Considering his gray hair, his robust belly, his classic sweaters, and the pictures of children and what seemed to be grandchildren on his shelves, I guessed he had said it thousands of times.
"Yeah, about that. Is there like some sort of special happy pill I can take?" I smiled with all the charm I could muster.
He laughed genuinely, then swiveled around in his chair and pointed to the vast collection of diplomas and awards hanging on his wall. "As you can see, I'm a psychologist, not a psychiatrist. Besides that, I tend to lean on more of the holistic side of healing and treatments."
He turned back around. "Trust me. You're in good hands. You're in a good place. You being here. You being at the summer home with your sister. You have great support. You're going to do just fine. More than fine. You'll see."
I had been living in the summer home for two weeks, and it wasn't too bad. It was actually a progression, as I went from the sliding around in my slippers to flopping around in Tory Burch flip-flops.
I had my thrice-weekly sessions with Doctor Hood, and was reminded again to journal constantly and to take walks. But still, no matter how beautiful it looked outside, I found myself feeling lackadaisical about walking and exercising as Dr. Hood had suggested. I just felt like doing nothing, extremely not like me!
In college, I had been extremely athletic and always on the go. Of course, I had been extremely a lot of things pre-heart wound, pre-open heart surgery.
And I was reminded again to try something new, which was something I hadn't done yet, but was planning on doing. And lastly, I was told to, oh, to love myself.
To love myself.
"Of course, I love myself," I told Doctor Hood in one of my sessions when he had asked if I loved myself. But as I said those words, I knew I was struggling with the thought, "Why did the man I loved, my soul mate, cheat on me with such a skank?" Yes, I guess such thoughts can wreak a little havoc on one's self esteem, more than one realizes. Yes, I guess Dr. Hood had his PhD for a reason. He could psychoanalyze, but not give me medicine. Oh, well. I did love myself, but I could love myself a lot more, considering the circumstances.
Anyway, I had to journal. And journaling, really journaling, required being alone with my thoughts.
The last thing I needed was to be alone. Yet I had to be alone to write and "think about my feelings." Now, this absolutely did not make sense to me. Why think about feelings more than I already had to feel them? But, I desperately wanted to heal and move on, so I was doing everything Dr. Hood had told me to do. Maycee and I had already watched like fifteen movies. I was actually getting my color back from laying out in the sun. But there was an aching feeling in the pit of my stomach about the last pieces of my fashion line that were due in seven short weeks. Our giant sitting room, surrounded on three sides with floor-to-ceiling glass, had been hijacked by every fashion magazine imaginable, as well as my sketches, fabric pieces, the sewing machine, my empty coffee mugs---that is, the coffee mugs Maycee overlooked when she tried to clean. She was such a neat freak, and it drove her crazy that the room was so messy. But she never said anything to me. She already felt too sorry for me---a card I might use a few more times with her.
The only problem with such a messy room was trying to keep it off limits to the adorable puppy my insightful parents, who seemed to be always ten steps ahead, had bought for me in an effort to raise my spirits. Did I mention the puppy was a little high-maintenance? Yeah, just a tad. She was beautiful, though, a Teacup Pomeranian, who chewed everything. All of my heels were on lockdown. I put up a giant makeshift safety gate to keep Coco out of the most important room in the house, my creating room. That was after she almost destroyed a dress I was working on. But, the little tear she chewed in it actually worked out for the better, giving the dress a more eclectic character. I decided maybe she liked fashion. So, I spent an entire day---yes, instead of journaling, or walking, or working on my creation, or trying something new---sewing her the most perfect little doggie outfit. No one would look as fabulous as Coco. She wore doggie couture. I guess you could say that was something new. Doggie Couture. Maybe that counts.
After I made her first outfit, I decided to make a few more, as well as a luxury dog bed, one covered in silk. It was just so much fun. It was effortless. The hours flew by as I listened to music, harmonizing with the hum of my sewing machine. I had an energy to create, but to create for my dog, not my nine remaining pieces.
That wasn't like me. I normally had things done ahead of time, way ahead of time. I had practically half a year to prepare my line, ever since I had come home from Milan. But considering the circumstances, I was slightly sidetracked. I had a plan, though. I would create two fabulous pieces each week for five weeks, then have the remaining week to modify.
It would all work out.
Since Maycee was off for the summer from teaching, her days were pretty methodical. Get up, breakfast, lay out in the sun, read, come in, eat, go out and tan, read, run, write on her iPad, check on me, eat, then we would watch a movie while I interjected with sobs, comments about the jerk in the movie, or the horrible cheater. Then I would rant about how all women should just join a union or something against cheaters. I was seriously super close to calling Elin Woods or starting a YouTube Channel-Women Unite against Male Athlete Cheaters. All the while, my wonderful sister never told me to stop feeling or stop saying anything. She would just smile and pat my feet, as we kept watching whatever it was we were watching.
Yes, I know. I had a great support system. I was truly thankful.
Sister, cute dog, summer home... oh, and my parents came by a few times a week with tons of food, still concerned about the weight I had lost when I literally couldn't stomach anything besides toast, saltine crackers, and Sprite. But, hey! I was gaining it back.
Things got a lot better one morning.
There I was, up early, trying to journal since I had kept putting it off with puppy duty, sewing, sketching, and watching movies. It was the day before my next session with Doctor Hood, and I had nothing written in my journal to show him. I was tempted to Google "journal entries to show therapist" because I didn't want to feel. Finally, I decided to get down to business and write. Live with Regis and Kelly was on the TV, with Nick Lachey as the guest host, since Regis was on vacation. Kelly was asking her energetic questions, the ever-so-perfectly-enunciated-word-questions, like, "So-is-this-your-first-marathon?"
"Yeah," he replied. "It served as great inspiration for my latest album. I-"
I need inspiration for my line! I whined inside. My anxiety grew, and I started sketching a dress in my journal.
Maycee walked in and poured a bowl of cereal.
"Oh, he's so hot!" she observed, as she leaned against the counter.
"Yeah, I miss Jessica and Nick!" I said sadly, as I worked on the sketch of a strapless dress.
"Yeah, but I love her with Eric Johnson. He seems like he's always protecting her in the pictures, and they just seem like more of a match. They seem like companions. Maybe soul mates!" Maycee shrugged and dropped her spoon in her bowl. The clank was loud.
"You know, that's exactly what I need!" Her face was bright, excited.
"You need an Eric Johnson?"
"No silly. Norah, that's it. We're running a marathon. You see-"
Uh, oh. I knew what this meant.
"No, no, no," I replied, in uneasy protest that escalated to a stammering absolute, "No! I'm supposed to walk, not run! Dr. Hood said-"
"Exactly! Aren't you ready to take long strides and heal? Running will speed up the process!"
Huh?
I shook my head. Was she trying to use psychology on me? Because it was working. I was actually considering it.
"I've got to get my books out to my agent this summer. Running will shake up my brain! I haven't done something like this in years, not since I went hiking in Costa Rica in college." Her eyes went to the ceiling. "I miss adventure," she said, like an old person missing the good old days. With finality, she added, "Let's do it. You're doing it."
I don't have a choice, I realized. When my sister said I was doing something, it always meant I was going to do it.
It was a trend set early in my life. I was four. She was seven. She wanted to play dress up, be in a play, do this, do that; I was always drawn in. I didn't mind it. I actually liked her initiative. Life with my sister was like an adventure. That was why she was so proud of me when I went to Milan on my internship, because it was such an adventure.
I remember sharing my excitement with her when I found out I got in, a spot among the chosen twelve from thousands of other applicants across the world.
"Oh. My. Gosh. I'm so inspired to write a novel about this. I'm so coming for research," she had said. New adventures always inspired her. That was one reason why I thought her being there for the summer with me was almost as beneficial for her as it was for me. She hadn't pushed out a book in three years. She was a New York Times best-selling author. I knew deep down that what kept her mentally and creatively blocked was that bloodsucking boyfriend of hers, Josh. No, he wasn't a vampire. He couldn't hold a candle to Edward Cullen, but he did have the pale part down and could seriously benefit from a nice spray tan. He also wore the solemn, blank stare all the time. I guessed that was compliments of a doctor's residency program, our father's residency program. I always speculated that there was something fishy with that, like maybe he was using my sister, but I could never tell her that.
"Yes," She interrupted my train of thought.
Oh, she agrees? He is a bloodsucking vampire? He is just using you for his residency spot with dad?
"Yes, we're running. I'm looking it up right now!" She left to get her iPad. Her voice echoed down the hall. As I watched her leave, her blond ponytail bounced back and forth. I admired her silk pajama shorts with fuchsia flowers and realized three things: I love silk; my sister is perfect. Like she needs to run. And three, I seriously hoped it would rain so there would be no running!
Or would that last part even alter the plans? My sister would probably want to run in the rain. Even more adventure.
Just then, our doorbell rang, and I sighed. Saved by the bell.
"Are you expecting anyone?" I yelled, as I stomped to the door. "It better not be another shamefully awful reporter!" I had had quite a few paparazzi try and follow me, but Dad had given them a piece of his mind that they would never forget, a.k.a. including the threat of not only a restraining order, but of "his people" who "knew people" who "knew people" from Jersey who would pay them a nice visit. That got them pretty quiet, fast. After that, I finally felt free from the press. No more paparazzi.
But, no. It was not a feared reporter. When I opened the door, there stood Chloe, the best girl in the entire world, besides my sister, of course.
Chloe and I were like Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen. We were totally twins in our sorority house at UT Austin. We were the best of friends. No, we didn't look like twins but I swear, we knew each other's thoughts.
She was dressed in yellow rain boots, cut-off denim shorts, a plaid shirt rolled up over her arms and belly, showcasing her perfectly tanned skin. Her auburn hair with its perfectly placed highlights tumbled down her shoulders.
I squealed with delight. "Chloe!" I hugged her. "You're here! What the heck? And you're in rain boots! Look at this outfit." I laughed.
"Listen, it seriously is raining a few miles out. Heading this way, it looks like. And I was cold. And well, it's summer, and I know it's East Coast here, but hey, a girl just has to wear shorts when she's worked so hard on this tan and these legs!"
"Oh, thank God," I muttered.
"What?"
"You said rain is heading this way. Thank God! Maycee wants me to train for a marathon with her. Come in, silly!" I motioned for her to come in.
She walked through the marble entryway and checked herself out in the antique mirror that covered an entire wall. "I just love antique, floor-to-ceiling mirrors." She adjusted her flannel shirt. "Oh, marathon, huh? Guess that means I'll be training, too," she said in little girl fearful apprehension as she followed me to the kitchen. "Would you look at this place? Look at the view."
Windows from floor to ceiling in the kitchen, living room, and sitting area were framed with cedar wooden beams, giving the home a French country vibe. The summer home really was a sight to new guests and even old guests, like me. I loved it and appreciated the view daily.
"Very inspirational here. I can see why you and Maycee just love being here."
I led her to the kitchen bar, and she sat down and placed her bag next to her.
Coco ran in with the excitement of a new guest.
"Look how cute this little pup is!" She bent down to pick her up as Coco profusely licked her face. "And look at her precious collar! In calligraphy! And her adorable outfit! You have such style, Norah. Did you make this?"
"Of course." I smiled proudly.
She touched the fabric, admiring the feel. "Is this satin?"
"Yep." Her expression said it all. "I know, a bit overboard, but I wanted her to enjoy the soft feel. She's my baby, after all. Girl, when I have a real child, you know she's going to be dressed like a princess! Coco is the closest thing I have right now."
"Wow. Well, this is impressive! Coco's wearing Coco couture," she said in a baby voice, and kissed Coco on the head. Coco wagged her tail harder.
"Thanks." I smiled like a proud mother. Coco Couture. I liked it. I really felt maternal toward the little puppy, as if my life had suddenly taken on new meaning. I hadn't taken care of an animal in years, but my heart would instantly warm just at the look of her. She needed me, depended on me, and I was determined to take the best of care of her. She was going to be the best-dressed dog in the world with my fashion designs. Funny, how when you started taking care of something, it did something inside of you.
"So. You're here!" I realized I was thirsty and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. I handed Chloe one without even asking. I knew she would be thirsty. I didn't see her holding a water bottle, and she always had one, or a thermos, something; she couldn't stand not being hydrated. Hence, her perfect, luminous skin...
"Yeah, so-o-o," she began. "You know how I just adore your mother. She's practically like one of my own best friends."
Yes, it was true. My mom and Chloe were a lot alike, both charming, sweet, and caring. Just being around them instantly made you feel cared for. Totally maternal. They had met during my freshman year at college when mom flew down to see my indoctrination ceremony for the same sorority she had pledged when she was at the University of Texas, which was where she met my dad. That was also why my devastating breakup with Truett wasn't just detrimental, but wrong. I had thought I was following in my mother's footsteps with some sort of blessing from the sorority gods.
Anyway, Chloe and my mom hit it off from day one. My mom became sort of like another mother to her, in a way, because Chloe's mom, Mrs. Socialite of the South, had her agenda and meetings filled from dawn to dusk. It was sort of hard for Chloe just to call up her mom and say, "Hey, Mom, I'm at Sephora and this totally awesome bronzer is here." Not only did her mom have a makeup artist and hair stylist at her beck and call every morning, but her reply would be, "Fabulous, darling. Want me to tell Vivian?" Vivian was her assistant. "Because she needs to know those things. Look, I have to go. If you need something, you know Albert or Elizabeth can assist you." They were her other assistants. "Otherwise, see you at tea tomorrow morning. Love you. Kiss Kiss. Ciao." That was how Chloe's life had always been. Her mom was "her mom," but she had been raised by nannies, groomed from infancy to follow in her mother's footsteps and maybe even become a First Lady. I felt for her. It seemed like her marriage would practically be an arranged one. What era were we living in, the 1700s?
Her mom was from England. High-class society. She had married her father, the great Texas Governor, Edward Banks, whose family "had family, who had family" in oil. What was I saying? Um, rich. An oil tycoon dynasty. How ironic that their last name was Banks, as in they were banking, all right.
"Anyway," she said. "I called your mom and talked with her about a few things. About, well-"
"Is that Chloe?" my sister exclaimed, as she walked down the Italian-tiled hallway from our bedrooms back to the kitchen, her blue eyes beaming.
"Yes, ma'am!" Chloe said in her southern charm, as she got off the stool and hugged my sister.
"Look at you! You look like a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader! So, did Norah tell you we're training for a marathon?" Maycee let go of the embrace to show me what she had found on her iPad. It was an elaborate chart detailing the gruesome task of running miles and miles.
Fun. Not.
"Today, we run two miles," she said matter-of-factly. "Did you bring your running shoes? Oh, of course you did. Mom already told me. Isn't that so exciting, Nor?" She looked my way.
Huh?
I held up my hand. "What? No! I don't know what's going on because it's like a Gilmore Girls episode here with so much dialogue happening and everyone interrupting. What's going on, Chloe?"
"Okay, long story short-" Chloe began.
"She's living with us this summer," my sister interrupted. Oh, did I mention that my sister gets a little impatient at times? Must be the first-born, birth order thing where the first-born loves to take charge.
"What?" I was shocked. "For real? What about your nursing job?"
"Well-" she began to explain, but I immediately started jumping up and down, squealing, and then hugged her.
"Oh, my gosh! Are you serious? That's so exciting! How come no one told me?"
"Well, we wanted it to be a surprise."
"Mom and Dad knew?"
They both smiled and nodded.
Man, God must really have been answering my prayers to heal quickly because my life sure was looking a lot better than it had two weeks ago.
Suddenly, we heard a crack of lightning. We looked outside.
Thank you, God.
"Okay, hurry! Nor, Chlo, go change. We have to run before it rains, and before it gets later," Maycee commanded like a drill sergeant, as she put her bowl and spoon in the dishwasher.
"What? Seriously?" I groaned.
"Yes!"
There we were, ten minutes later, trying to beat the rain heading our way, trying to run, and trying to dodge lightning. Not smart. Leave it to Maycee; she always wanted results no matter the price. She definitely proved the theory that many first-borns became CEOs. Headstrong persistence.
We were walking at a medium pace when I decided to say, "Um, Maycee. I haven't run in months." Yeah, I should have said that in the house.
"You'll be fine!" she assured me.
"You know, if lightning strikes anywhere near us, I'm running back to the house in a split second. Just warning you," Chloe said.
"I don't think this is a good idea," I added.
But then, I retracted my statement because, suddenly, as if heaven opened up and a beautiful ray of sun served as a spotlight on a center stage, the hottest guy I had ever seen was running our way. He had perfectly tanned skin, and the face of an angel, a hot angel. He was the kind of man who had statues made in his honor. That gorgeous!
If only things could stay in slow motion forever.
We all grew speechless as we tried to pick up our jaws off of the sand. We took a moment of silence. He smiled, winked at us, and ran right past. Perfect smile, perfect hair, perfect everything.
"Hey! You're like practically engaged, woman. You shouldn't stare so much," I said, as I flapped at my sister's arm.
"Okay, is it me, or did that guy totally look like... well, an above-legal-age Taylor Lautner?"
"With perfect Keith Urban hair," I added.
"And the perfect werewolf abs," Maycee finished. "You know, he probably uses a flat iron."
"Yeah, of course," Chloe said, as if it was common knowledge.
"I swear I've seen him before, somewhere. I think I saw him three weeks ago at the counseling center," I said after much thought. "It was in the elevator, and it was my first day to see Doctor Hood. I never forget a face. He was on the same floor I was getting off on."
"Really?" Maycee asked.
"What would he need counseling for?" Chloe asked.
"Okay, let's start jogging," my sister ordered. So we began.
"He looks so perfect, maybe he's one of those people who are never satisfied with how they look," Chloe guessed.
"Yeah, maybe he's depressed because he can't get an eight pack," Maycee answered. Chloe and Maycee laughed. But I continued to run with my same annoyed expression, not laughing.
They looked over at me when I didn't join the laughter. I was usually one to laugh easily.
"Why aren't you laughing? You know that's funny." Maycee asked.
I was already huffing and puffing, and then I just quit running. I knew it had been like seven seconds, but my side hurt.
They stopped and both asked, "What's wrong?"
"My side hurts," I said defensively. "I'm just not in the mood to laugh. This walk may help my thighs get rid of cellulite I gained from doing nothing for weeks, even months. But I can't stop thinking about him, the name not worth mentioning. Seeing that hot guy made me think of how athletic he was and-"
"First, what cellulite? You weigh like a hundred pounds, since for weeks you barely ate anything. Two, that's okay, Nor. This is all still fresh. And you're right. He isn't worth mentioning. That scumbag. You should write all that pent-up anger down. Speaking of, how's the journaling?" Leave it to my sister to ask.
"Ugh, seriously. Why can't you just ghostwrite it for me? I don't want to feel. I just want to create. I want to be numb. Let me just tell you a few things, and you write them down." Thinking about all I had emotionally thrown up over her for the past few weeks, she could write and defend a full thesis on the matter.
"But then you couldn't create, you see?"
"Gosh, you sound like the shrink," I replied.
"I know you don't want to feel anything. But if you don't feel, you can't heal. And you need to heal so you can finish your incredible line, Nor. You've worked for this your entire life. Don't make me have to tell all the stories of your Barbie-making clothes with Granny's print scraps again." She put her arm around me.
Everyone was telling me to heal, that I had to heal, that I had so much to offer. The truth was, I wanted to offer the world whatever I could, but I felt like I couldn't because I couldn't forget him. And I desperately wanted to forget it all, to forget him. But no matter what I did, I couldn't.
I dragged my toes on the sand. The air felt warm. I looked to Chloe's easy, relaxed face. She was so happy. I looked to my right at Maycee. From the expression on her face, she seemed deep in thought.
"Penny for your thoughts?" I asked.
"It's nothing."
Here we go. She'd never been able to hold back. Any second now... and...
"Okay, well, since you asked. It's just Josh. We got in this huge fight last night, and---" She stopped. "Sorry, Norah. Considering what's going on and everything, are you sure you want to hear my problems?"
"Absolutely, I do!" I said a bit too eagerly. "In some sort of sick way, it helps me to hear about other people's problems."
"Well, Josh is great. I mean, he's great." She sounded like she was convincing herself with the inflection at the end of the sentence that made it sound more like a question.
I motioned for her to sit down. We sat just near the wet sand's edge.
"Well, I've always wanted to be with someone like Dad. Funny, sweet to Mom, successful." She laughed. "It's funny how, out of all the residencies, he got into Dad's."
Yeah, that was coincidental. Um, probably not. I really needed to tell her how I felt.
"Well, he's just being so short with me. He doesn't care about what I like. Not even my writing."
She picked up some sand and let it sift through her fingers. "I don't think he's ever read any of my children's books. In three years. His excuse is, 'I'm not a kid, May. I'm sure they're great. That's why you made the New York Times list.' But-"
"Maycee, wait, hold up," Chloe interjected. "That is so lame and not acceptable! He should be proud of you!"
"Yeah..." Maycee said slowly, in agreement with Chloe.
There was a long pause before Chloe finally said, "Okay, you two, no more of this! We're going out, and that's final!"
Maycee started to say something about it being Josh's only night off.
"Blah, blah, blah. Too bad! Besides, it seems like he hasn't been so great to be around lately. Give yourself a break. You deserve it."
"You're right," Maycee relented with a sigh.
"We are going to go out and do something fun, and that's final."
Maycee and I looked at each other.
"We're going painting," Chloe announced.
Painting?
I'd never been to a café where you painted and drank coffee or tea. It was fabulous. We each had our own canvas, dipping our brushes in paint, stroking, and feeling in touch with our inner thoughts already. Okay, maybe I was being a little dramatic. But no matter how unartistic someone thought they were, the moment you held the paintbrush and stared at the paint and blank canvas, even if you were the worst painter in the world, it was like you instantly felt more creative. Artsy. Even if you painted crap. It was like sitting in a symphony or play; you immediately felt heightened, enlightened.
"You know what, it's final. I'm going to start writing again, starting now, starting tomorrow. I feel so free to paint on the canvas because there are no rules," Maycee said thoughtfully.
"Well, it's the same way with your writing. Write what you want," Chloe encouraged.
"Not that easy. If I hear one more time, 'The market is just too saturated with this story,' I'll just flip out! You know it's been a pathetic three years since I've put a new book out! Well, I've had books but my stupid publisher... again, the famous 'the market is...'"
"Seriously, ditch the publisher. Self publish. E-publish children's books! Be ahead of the game. You can do it."
"Hm, that's smart. I like your ideas, Chloe."
"Yeah, her dad isn't the governor for no reason! Brains run in the family," I said proudly.
Chloe laughed half-heartedly, then got quiet and put her paintbrush down. Maycee and I exchanged a slight questioning look.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Yeah, some brains." Chloe said.
"Her dad is a governor for a reason," Maycee corrected.
I gave her the look that only sisters who are annoyed with each other can give.
"Which is why I'm here escaping the..." Chloe began.
"Escaping the what?" I asked.
Chloe shook her head. "You two are so lucky. It's like your parents... their expectations are a little lower."
We both looked at her.
Um, wow. What?
"I mean, should I say, they're more loving? Is that more acceptable?" She held up her finger, analyzing our parents like a scientist contemplates the creation of earth. Air, matter, combustion, God... "Or maybe it's that they just want you to be happy doing whatever makes you happy. You know the saying, the best policy in relationships is to not have extremely high expectations."
"Uh, you're telling me," I quickly retorted.
"Anyway, you know how my family is. You know what I'm saying. Hence, the reason I'm here now and not nursing."
"Yeah, I was wondering when you were going to tell us the story," I said.
"You never followed up with your question this morning." She smiled.
"Oh, right. I've been a little preoccupied. Sorry, Chloe. Okay, dish," I said sheepishly.
"Well, I took nursing in undergrad because basically it's the same as pre-med. And, well, I knew there was no way my parents would go for me getting into pre-med."
"Why? That doesn't make sense." Maycee seemed ready to give her just-dying-to-give-opinion on the matter and how to fix the problem.
"Look, it's the same story over and over again. You guys just don't get it because your family is different. There are these expectations for me to be like the perfect Garden Club, Rotary club, freaking breakfast club, not that there is one, politician's wife. You know how my mom is. She believes a woman, well..."
Maybe she should take a visit to Doctor Hood. He could help straighten out her thoughts.
But before I ventured to make such a suggestion, Maycee interjected, "Chloe, your family should be so proud of you."
Ignoring Maycee, Chloe continued, "And so when I applied to medical school-"
"What?" I shrieked, as I nearly splattered paint everywhere. "You applied? That's incredible." I put the brush down, not wanting to ruin my outfit. "But, I'm like your best friend. I can't believe you kept that a secret from me."
"Well, I didn't want anyone to find out. And I can't even keep secrets because, well, there's always someone or something that could be-" She stopped and shook her head. "I couldn't keep it a secret because my dad knows everything. When Harvard got my application, before they even sat down with the acceptance committee, my dad was notified. I can't do anything without him knowing."
"I don't get it. Why wouldn't they want you to go to medical school? What planet are your parents living on?" Maycee asked.
"Planet Politics."
"That is so backward. It's not like this is the early 1900s, and women do nothing but bake cookies all day and clean the house. Women have ambitions now and are making a difference in the world as strong, independent, driven, focused women," I said dramatically. Maybe I should go into politics.
"Well, I know they are, it's just..." She sat there playing with her hands.
"Oh, my gosh, what? What are you not telling us? You're not telling us something. I can tell. I can tell," I practically shouted.
Other customers were beginning to look our way, so I got quieter, and whispered, "I can tell."
Her platinum highlights in her auburn hair caused the emerald in her eyes to sparkle. Suddenly, she stood and walked toward the tea bar. "Crazy if a hurricane came here this summer. That would be an adventure for you, Maycee." The skies were pretty gray outside. She put honey in her tea and walked back. "Has one ever hit here?"
"Don't change the subject! And I'm sure it's happened once. Something always happens once somewhere, I believe. Can you really not tell us? Because I can tell, you most definitely have something you're not sharing."
She stirred her tea and sat back down in her chair.
"For crying out loud, Chloe, what is it?" Maycee asked impatiently.
"Okay." she blew on her tea and placed it on her side wicker table. "Why would you think my family would be hesitant for me to spend hours upon hours studying, away from them? States away from them? This fall, that is."
"Oh, fun. A guessing game. Because they like having you around? Because they don't want you to age from stress?" I asked.
"They don't want you to start Botox too young?" Maycee guessed.
"Oh, I know! They're afraid that you'll get hooked on Ritalin since you had your little episode during finals last year." I smiled.
Chloe laughed. "Oh, my gosh! No and no! That wouldn't happen! Ritalin? Aw, come on, I saw the side effects. I seriously was like what's-her-name on Desperate Housewives. You know the episode where she tried to be super mom, and she ended up being a super witch? Having those angry breakdowns and snapping everyone's head off?"
"Yes!" my sister and I both agreed, nodding our heads. We loved that show and had most definitely seen that episode. I briefly recalled that stressed-out period of Chloe's life, and she was exactly exhibiting those behaviors. But I wasn't going to call her out on them. We all deserved grace through tough times.
"Anyway, that was when I was studying for the MCAT. I seriously slept like two or three hours a night."
Looking back, I remembered Chloe did have a lot going on. From our sorority, to events with her mother, to her full load, to volunteering, she had her hands full.
"Okay, but no. Think about it."
"Sailing? Does your dad want to go sailing for a few months?"
"Oh, he wants to go sailing, all right."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Chloe, you're killing me here!" Maycee exclaimed.
"No, I'm not. I'm trying to get you to speculate, so I don't have to tell you. What happens every four years?"
"The Olympics. Your dad is going to-" I tried one last time.
"No! Think. Oh, and take your battery out of your phone right now. No eavesdropping allowed." She motioned for us to come closer.
"Are you even serious? Are you kidding me?"
"Yes, I'm serious! I know a lot. Trust me, truth be told, Dad knew about my admissions almost as soon as it landed in the outbox at the post office in Austin. People are always watching, listening." She shook her head. "But anyway---"
Then it hit me.
"O.M.G! What?" I exclaimed.
"Shhh!" She tried to quiet us.
"Please tell your mom she has to let me design the inauguration gown. Please!"
"Seriously, shhh. You have to keep this quiet. It hasn't been announced yet. You two speculated. That's it."
"Oh, my gosh! I would just die if that happened! If I got to design her dress!" I couldn't believe it. I immediately thought of all the fabulous parties I would be invited to one day if my best friend's father was president. Maybe by that time, my design line would be rolling to where the first lady would wear my collection. I would be an instant splash. I'd-
"Okay," Maycee said. "I see your hesitancy. But, look at it this way. If you're really busy doing your own thing, studying, going to class, you might get out of the press. It might be a good thing. Like Prince William and Harry did."
"Yeah, but they had some sort of special agreement with the press. That's not happening here in the U.S.," I said.
Ignoring me, my sister asked, "When is he announcing?"
"I can't say. I let you speculate because I'm not supposed to say anything. But anyway, I just feel like they'll want me to help campaign. I don't know."
"Chloe," my sister began. "Just talk to them. I truly think they'll be proud of you. I think this would be a good thing. You can still help in your free time, if you ever have any. And like I said, I think this would be a good thing. Stay out of the press, you glamour girl. You're so hot! You would have stalkers galore. Besides, look at it this way. Since it's June 2011, and you start medical school this fall, even if he did win-"
"You would already be halfway done. Sort of," I finished.
She let out a big sigh. "I just want to roll up my sleeves and go somewhere, now. Make a difference in an orphanage or something."
We sat and let the silence fall.
"Everything's great and all. But, I feel like I can't really pursue medicine because they want me to be, you know, the respectable southern wife of a politician. Hosting partings, doing charity. When really, I want to roll up my sleeves and, in fact, do charity, but not because it's what looks good, but because I really want to do it. To make a difference. I want to go to Japan when an earthquake strikes, go to Haiti when a hurricane hits. I want to be a humanitarian."
We all nodded, taking in the seriousness.
"Wow! That's really inspiring," Maycee began. "We should go somewhere. All of us."
Leave it to Maycee.
"Yeah, okay," I joked. "You would go?"
"Of course, I would!" She did hike that one time in college, but Maycee is totally a girly girl.
"I want to make a difference in the world, too. We should all pursue what makes us happy. Your life is a blank canvas to paint! Look at us all. All inspired to change our lives for the better," I noted.
"Yeah, I'll say it again. It's pathetic. Three years since I've put out a new book." Maycee shook her head in disgrace.
"Hey, isn't that how long you and Josh-e-poo have been together?" Chloe asked.
"Yeah... well, yeah." She sat on that for a while.
"Well, maybe he's sucking the life out of you like a bloodsucking vampire."
"Yeah!"
"Maybe..." she rolled her eyes. "But if so, he's a hot vampire! And I'm transfixed by his persuasive powers, for sure."
Later, when we got home from painting, I started to feel my competitive nature surge to the surface, and I really wanted to prove that I had deep thoughts and was capable of journaling. Especially after painting and, well, it was raining again. It was like we lived in Seattle or something! So taking cues from my author-sister, I lit my favorite candle, made some tea, sat down in a comfortable chair that overlooked the ocean, and got started.
I stared down at my fuchsia crocodile journal filled with acid-proof paper. It was practically fire and waterproof for how much money I had spent on it. I even had my initials engraved in the lower right hand corner in a circle. N.J. So cute! Yes, New Jersey initials. At least my initials were unforgettable. I was destined to be an entrepreneur with my initials stamped as the logo.
I figured if I were revealing so many amazing juicy details of my life, I had to do it in style because, who knew, it could be an amazing hit on Broadway or ABC Family or something, like Diane Keaton's character in Something's Gotta Give. She sure turned her heartache into a laughing success at Jack Nicholson's character's expense! I liked that; maybe I could write a tell-all memoir and make millions of dollars. But, honestly, I could never do that. I was dignified. I could blog about it.
Somehow I needed to turn my heartache into something good. But alas, there I was, going off on a tangent, avoiding what I should be doing-journaling.
I stared at the careful lines. So precise. And going in the same direction. So, I got inspired and decided to write about direction. Call me Keats, Thoreau, Aristotle, a modern day philosopher, but I thought it was pretty good:
Direction:
Everyone always asks, "Do you have direction?"
Even if you aren't actually necessarily stating your direction, in a sense, time essentially never stops. It's always going forward. Clicking. It has a constant momentum.
Therefore, being "a being" dwelling within that momentum, you have direction.
Yes, I have direction.
I sat back in my chair and pondered as I shook my head.
Yes, I had direction.
Yes, that was deep! I should maybe be a philosopher on the side. On that note, I decided I should Google, "How does one become a modern day philosopher?" Because really, how did one?
Then, I realized my compulsion to Google was bad! I googled everything.
So I wrote about Googling.
Why must I feel the compulsive urge to Google everything? Like, is it okay for me to eat tuna every day? (I know it's bad when you're pregnant.) I like tuna, and I like it every other day in my salad. So, okay. Is it okay for me to eat tuna every day if I plan on getting pregnant in five years? What would happen if I got pregnant but didn't know and still ate tuna for a month? Would I be okay?
But after journaling about Googling, I decided to take a different approach, a more narrative approach. I stayed up hours telling the entire story---how Truett and I had met at a mixer; how he had joined my plaid fabric class. I thought he was... well, on the other team, so to speak. But, no he was just determined to meet me. I wrote about how we would stay up watching movies, skipping class, our favorite pizza joint, and how I would sit in the Texas heat watching him pitch. I wrote about visiting his parents' vineyard in Blanco, Texas.
It was therapeutic, admitting the good times we had shared. But it was true, some good things came to an end.
I wrote about how I found out he was cheating on me. I had received an e-mail from him, which was really from her, giving instructions for me to meet him at his parents' vineyard. First class ticket, a limo picked me up with champagne. I was just sure that it was the moment; I was getting engaged. But when I unlocked the door with my key and walked up the stairs, I opened the bedroom door per the instructions in the e-mail and got the surprise of my life. No, it wasn't a thousand rose petals scattered, nor was it incredible jewelry and a gorgeous evening gown.
It was a much more scandalous surprise.
And that was it. I turned away and walked out.
To this day, he had no idea I was there at that time; it was all her.
At the end of transcribing the story, I realized it would make the perfect movie. But what would happen in the end, I pondered.
At that question, I felt emotionally exhausted and decided to go to sleep.
When I woke up the next morning, the unthinkable, most atrocious thing happened. I had a voicemail from Truett who had called while absolutely intoxicated as all get out. He probably didn't even remember it, but I was left with the awful memories. His ramblings were not translatable except the, "Norah, I want you to know, I want you to know..." that he kept saying over and over again. You want me to know what? As soon as I heard it, I shook my head and deleted the message. I felt sick to my stomach. I couldn't let myself linger on whatever it was he wanted me to know. I was the one left in the dust dealing with the emotional baggage as he flew first class into Truett-self-absorbed world.
It was a good thing I had my session at two o'clock with Dr. Hood, but it was only ten in the morning. I had all morning to let the awful feelings marinate in the pit of my stomach.
My anger seethed through my fingertips and, for the first time, I knew what I could do. I knew how to release the frustration. I could express how I really felt, instead of observations of life or a narrative. I really felt like I had something to say on paper. I flipped past the twenty pages or so, past the scribbling life observations here, and other non-congruent thoughts about feeling like a lone sailboat and an analogy of eating at a French restaurant and having my tablecloth abruptly removed from underneath me, hurling all of the gourmet food, wine, water, candles, you name it, onto my lap. You know, other disjointed thoughts.
I really was feeling it on this one.
I released my hands in front of me and stretched out my arms, fake popping my knuckles for the dramatic effect.
I would write a letter.
I began.
Dear Truett,It doesn't matter how you feel. It doesn't matter how I feel. I have to make a choice.
He'll probably haunt my memories for the rest of my life if I don't make the choice.
On that haunting note:
You are like a pathetic, uberly, awful, creepy ghost, and you won't haunt me. Ever! Haunt some other stupid girl because I'm not stupid!
I liked the creative flow and the descriptions with he was a monster. So I went on.
In fact, my loathing for you is like one has for someone who has maggots all over their face.
Perfect.
That was completely disgusting, but perfect.
Okay, maybe I went overboard. But it was helping. I was actually feeling slightly amused, which was slightly above the line from absolutely distraught and devastated.
Healing is a day-by-day process. I heard Doctor Hood's gentle reminder in my memory.
But even when I'm healed, I know the love I had for him will never go away, I reasoned. Goodness, it was like the little angels on each shoulder.
Maybe that's what it feels like, I reasoned with myself, but this feeling has to go away! I will make it go away.
I continued.
What is more awful than the fact that you called me is that not only did you rip open the band-aid that was beginning to gently heal my heart, you stirred a false sense of hope. Somewhere, deep inside, I actually thought you were, um, you know, apologizing for, let's see, cheating, impregnating another woman, after having a perfectly PG relationship with me for years!
Furthermore, you have a wife now! Married men don't call their exes!
I was beginning to feel better, as if I were a lawyer who had a case to argue. My confidence was growing.
Regardless that we used to be together, you're married now. Married men aren't supposed to do that. I don't care that you're a professional athlete, you're...
"Hey, Nor," Chloe greeted me as she came into the sitting room with her coffee. I hadn't even heard her come in because I had gotten so carried away with my theatrical letter. If only he could read the letter.
"What's going on there? You should see your face right now."
"Hey." I forced a warm enough smile.
I saw her eyeing my journal. Yes, I actually had words written on the page.
"You won't believe it," I began, as I closed the journal and placed it on the side table. "Truett called me last night."
The door I had opened to let in the morning air slammed shut loudly from the wind. Another storm was rolling in. We both jumped.
"What?" she asked, flabbergasted, and her jaw dropped. "I mean, what?"
I reached for my third cup of coffee and took a sip for that dramatic affect. Of course, she was as shocked as I had been.
Chloe looked at me, waiting for more.
I sighed heavily. "He called me incredibly-Irishly wasted. Voicemail."
"I'm so sorry. I know that must have been so hard on you. You should have woken me up."
I placed my coffee back down on the table and shook my head.
She asked curiously, "Do you still have it?"
"No, I deleted it immediately after I heard it this morning. It was just too painful to hear again."
Feeling the anger rise within from retelling the story, I stood. Unable to even stand still, I started pacing, hands flying in the air.
"Gosh, he's such a disgusting pig! I just want this over. This is the worst thing ever. Why can't he just leave my life? Even if I try to choose to forget him, there's the internet. His Facebook, his Twitter, he's in the papers, on ESPN. This isn't like the typical breakup scenario for most girls. How do I... what am I supposed to do?" I cried.
I knew I lived in this century for a reason. I was a firm believer in everything happening for a reason and things being set into motion as they should be by God. But one thing I hated about living in this generation was the fact that there were so many ways to remember someone you were trying to forget due to modern technology. The whole internet thing.
"Sweetie, I'm sorry. But one thing for sure, is you're strong, brave, and such a beautiful woman who's going to change the world with your designs and charisma. He wasn't for you. You have to keep reminding yourself of that. He wasn't for you. Had he been, he would have never let you go in the first place. You have to hold on to that, Nor. Seriously. Keep your mind and your resolve strong."
I nodded thoughtfully. My friend spoke like a true poet.
"It's just so lame, though," I continued as if she hadn't spoken, but I heard every word. "Why do I feel so connected still after all these months? Why do I feel like, he was my soul mate."
She stared at me with a firm expression. "He's not your soul mate. Had he been, would he have done what he did to you?"
I couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, I love you. With your southern twang, that so sounds like a country song line Carrie Underwood would sing."
She joined me in my laughter. "That's the good thing about you, Nor. You always have such a great sense of humor."
The pain I felt in my chest was so intense, so heavy, and so real, I wondered if I might be having the early signs of a heart attack. But I knew better than that. They were chest pains from stress.
Her cell phone rang back in the kitchen. She left to go get it. I watched her leave as I sank back into my chair, let out a giant sigh, and let my head drop back to rest. Coco jumped onto my lap, and I gave her some love. "I would never let a horrible boy-pup treat you like crap. No, no, no, I wouldn't." She looked up at me with trusting eyes.
Chloe came back with a heavy expression. "Nor, I need to go take this call in private. It's my dad. Promise we'll finish this conversation." She smiled. "I'll find you when I'm off."
The increasing thunder coincided perfectly with the increasing anger rising in my chest.
I just want him out of my life! I screamed inside.
I stared at the journal sitting on the table.
"What are you looking at?" I asked it.
The lame journal Dr. Hood made me keep. The pain was unbearable looking at what I'd written. Why should I keep such a painful memory? Why? I didn't want to relive it. I didn't want to read it again. What was the purpose?
Ugh.
Angrily, I leaned forward and opened the journal. Coco jumped off my lap. The lightning flashed.
I wrote:
With all resolve within me, I choose to forget you. I have hope of a life without you. I'm letting you go and never want to hear from you, talk to you, or see you ever. My one-day kids I'll have, I'll look at their sweet faces, and their beautiful non-cheating character, their talent, their personality, and it won't be any part of you. It will be a part of a good man, a man who would never cheat on me. A man who would never let me go. A man who complements me in every way you couldn't. I end this journal with the resolve to hope.
I closed the journal. I did feel a sense of hope. But with the shut of the journal, I knew I had to release the burning sensation in my chest. I knew where it came from. I had hate in my heart.
I had been a church-going girl my whole life. I had the whole new Easter outfit down to a T. I even wore a hat once. My uncle was a pastor, and we all attended his church growing up. I knew it was wrong to hate. But I hated Truett. I had to let it go. I knew deep down inside that the anger and hatred would corrode my creativity.
So I opened the door and walked out, off the wooden deck, down the steps covered in layers of sand, and marched to the edge of the waves. No one was on the shore as far as I could see. Tiny sprinkles began to fall as the wind blew harder.
With all the anger in me, I yelled, "I hate you! I want you out of my life!" And then I crumbled on the sand, getting all wet and sandy.
Yes, I realized I probably looked incredibly dramatic and ridiculous, like one of those girls on My Super Sweet 16 on MTV who, instead of getting a Lexus at her birthday party, got a Mercedes. But this clearly was not the same. I was dealing with real pain, not the pain of a trivial matter.
I didn't care how I looked. I didn't care if I woke up Maycee. I didn't care if Chloe could see me from the kitchen.
I was at my breaking point. I sobbed for a good while. As if the Universe was on cue with my dramatic meltdown, the once tiny sprinkles turned into a heavy downpour. Then, I took my journal and threw it as far as I could. But its edge only made it three feet, barely hitting the water. So what? I had never been an athlete. The wind had really picked up, but the wind wasn't persuasive enough to take the journal out into the deep water.
I didn't care. The wind would eventually pick up, reach for it again, and take it on its journey out to sea where it would slowly sink, hit a few fish, maybe even get swallowed by a whale. The point was, it would soon enough be far, far away. Symbolically, I hoped the same would happen with my hurt.
I had to choose, with every fiber within me, to be logical. To have a sound mind. To forget him. To let go. To practice self-control and never look for him on ESPN again. To swear off baseball games. To swear off Facebook and MySpace and Twitter and to move forward and pour my heart and soul into my designs, my work. My life.
My life that no longer included Truett. No matter what would happen with him. No matter how many times he could apologize. It was too late. I could forget him. I would choose to forget him. I'd bury him in the sea.
A few hours later, after my temper-tantrum, Mom, Chloe, and I were off on a much-needed trip-a fashion show in the city and an overnight stay at a chic boutique hotel. Maycee had declined our invitation because she said she needed to obey her muse, submit to her muse's inspiration, and write... whatever that meant.
After a fantastic show, we ate at an Italian restaurant and Mom got hit on. "I'm so telling Dad," I teased her. After dinner, we ordered a chick flick as I sketched, almost unable to keep up with the strokes thanks to the inspiration from the fashion show, which had served its purpose for my coming. Just get a basketball player who wants to be in the NBA, or who thinks he can be in the NBA, to watch any playoff game and, afterward, he'll be in the gym perfecting his free throws.
But the next morning, as we made our way home early, I saw the strangest thing. No one else noticed because Mom and Chloe were both preoccupied, tied to intense phone conversations that I wasn't paying attention to because my favorite talk radio show was on Sirius. The much older version of Taylor Lautner, hot mystery man, who we had seen out running the other day, was being pushed very quickly outside of our house to the stone-covered side by Maycee. He was then seemingly hiding outside our home with a towel wrapped around his waist as my innocent sister ran back into the house. She had clearly just pushed him out.
Jeesh. You would have thought she would have been smarter about whatever it was she was trying to hide and lowered the shades, at least.
An all-glass house came in handy when spying. Maycee ran back in the kitchen, sat down, and opened the paper. Ever heard the saying, "We live in a glass house?" Well, we really did, except at the push of a button, electronic privacy shades could be lowered.
We all got out of my Range Rover. Again, Mom and Chloe were completely oblivious, on their so very important phone calls. But I walked into the house ready to let my sister have it. Cheaters would not be tolerated in my life. Since I'd been cheated on, I had become hypersensitive to it. And from the look of things, it looked like some serious cheating business was going on.
"Well, look, you're here!" Maycee said quickly.
Before I could even speak, she made her way past us and yelled, "Off to the market down the street to get coffee! Out of beans. And I know you need it for creating after seeing such a fabulous show. Be right back!" Then she was gone. And still! Neither Mom nor Chloe even noticed anything strange. I just wanted to know what they each were discussing on the phone, like stopping a nuclear bomb or something? One would have thought so.
As soon as Maycee came back from dropping the hot mystery guy off, she had an earful awaiting her from me. Meanwhile, I tried to rant to Mom, but she stayed glued to the phone, talking very quickly and running just as fast to Maycee's room, shutting the door behind her.
"Mom!" I banged on the door. "What are you doing? Why is the door locked?"
I heard her say, "Oh, Josh, that's fantastic! Oh, how lovely."
"Mom!" I continued to bang.
Chloe came my way. "What's going on?"
"Oh, finally. You're off the phone."
Then my phone rang. It was Chris, my financial backer for my line. Great. I had to answer it to update him on my line's progress.
"Hello?" I answered as confidently as possible. Mom opened the door and mouthed that she had to go, then grabbed her keys and left.
"But-" I mouthed back.
But it was too late. She didn't even see my attempt at keeping her for interrogation.
"My friend, Tim Manchion, is in town. I'm sure you've heard of him. Anyway, I've been raving about you, and he wants to see what you've been producing. Maybe even feature you in his lifestyle magazine if he likes what he sees. Have you anything to show?" Chris asked.
I was seriously feeling the pressure. My temples instantly began to pound. I paced as quickly as I could down the hallway, past the kitchen, back to my creating room, hoping, praying, that something would automatically magically appear, created and ready to show. I closed my eyes, crossed my fingers, then reopened them. No. Still the same creating room---dog bed, dog clothes, one fabulous dress, and fabric everywhere. No pieces. Nine freakin' pieces left!
"You know, I---" I searched for words, "work very spontaneously, I---"
What was I supposed to tell him? Look, I've been in therapy? My whole world came crashing down because of some lame guy who couldn't keep his pants zipped? No, a business-savvy man like him wouldn't understand and, judging by the custom suits and designer shoes he wore, he was probably just as much of a pig. The moment that last thought crept into my mind, I regretted it, even though he couldn't hear me. Since when did powerful men with money equate to cheaters? My dad was a powerful, influential man, and he had been faithful to my mom. I sighed. I hated to assume the worst in people. I wasn't cynical or negative, I was just...
"Norah? You there?"
I shook my head, trying to come back to reality.
The front door opened, and Maycee walked in, loudly speaking about what a beautiful day it was.
"Shhh!" I mouthed to her.
Chloe stood looking helpless, then shrugged and sat down on the couch. Coco jumped into her lap and started licking her face. She was sporting the red plaid outfit I had created for her yesterday, when I should have been creating that other dress, when I thought I had all the time in the world.
My left hand went to my forehead, and I leaned over the granite counter in the kitchen.
"Yeah, sorry. I have really bad reception here. Anyway, yes, Chris. When would you like to see a few pieces?" I regretted it the moment the words escaped my mouth. I couldn't believe I had just completely outed myself. I'm doomed!
"Saturday at seven? Is this Saturday good?" Four days away. "If he likes what he sees, he'll do a spread in his magazine, photo shoot and all. It will be good for both of us. Nothing like a quick profit earner!"
I immediately opened the cupboard above the coffee maker to make sure there was enough coffee. There was. I looked with accusing eyes at Maycee, who quickly averted her attention elsewhere.
"Yes, Saturday sounds great. Okay. Bye."
What the heck had I just agreed to? I had to show him as many pieces as possible in four days.
"What the heck am I going to do? Oh, my gosh. Oh, my gosh!" I began to freak out.
"Calm down! What's wrong?" Chloe asked.
"Nor, you're going to be okay," Maycee said.
"Maycee! Ugh, seriously, where're the coffee beans you were bringing me? Huh? I don't even know what to say, or even where to start with you and the hottie boy. I just don't have the time to think-"
She stared at me, clearly confused. "Wow, Sorry. Maybe you should lay off that caffeine."
I sat down and put my head in my hands. "What am I going to do? I don't have anything to show."
Maycee's phone rang. "Josh, baby!" I heard her say, as she walked down the hallway.
"Thursday night? Yes, of course. Okay. Sounds great. Love you, too." She turned around and screamed in delight, "Girls! I think Thursday is the night. I think he's proposing." Maycee jumped up and down as she spun in circles.
"What?" I accidentally said, and rolled my eyes. Can you say mental block times ten? I didn't want my sister to marry that man. I didn't want-
I need to get out of here, I thought to myself. Immediately, I stood and walked outside to sit on the sand and calm myself.
Chloe followed me, as well as Maycee.
For once, I wanted peace and quiet, and I couldn't get it.
"You could actually be happy for me, Norah!" my sister yelled.
"Maycee, I am happy for you," I finally said. "It's just, some pieces of my line are due Friday, and I have nothing to show except one dress and, besides that, what were you doing with that guy this morning? And now you're talking about getting married to the guy you have been mad at for two days? And mystery man looked like he stayed over." I had taken it all in, the plates with pancake remains left in the sink.
"It's not what you think! Dad was here, and it's---" Her cell phone rang again. It was Mom. "Oh, I gotta take this. I'll be right back! We're planning a spa date!" She grinned. Nothing could rain on her parade. She sprinted back into the house.
Is this really happening?
"Okay, look." Chloe said. "What time are you supposed to meet again?"
"Seven. Saturday evening."
She looked at her watch. "Okay, it's nine thirty Monday morning. You have over a hundred hours to work with here. Pretend you're on a reality show, and this is how you make the cut."
"I went through this in Milan."
"Well, fight for it, Norah. I'll help you. I'll assist you. I'll do whatever it is you need me to do. But sitting here," she said as she pulled me off the sand, "will get you nowhere." I stood and brushed the sand off my behind. "Let's get going and let's get the coffee brewing!"
"Yeah, the coffee that Maycee didn't pick up." I rolled my eyes.
She put her hands behind my shoulders as if she were wind behind my back. And boy, did I need the wind behind my back. "Oh, and you're still going to the concert tonight, the one I told you about last night at dinner."
"What? No, that's impossible. I---"
"No buts, Norah. It's not healthy for you to be locked up working all week. Trust me, you need inspiration. And the boys in the band are cute!"
Before I could respond, she continued, "And you're going horseback riding with me Thursday morning."
"Horseback riding? What?" I asked incredulously. "Are you even serious?" I turned around and faced her.
"Yes. I already paid. No buts. I was trying to help you try new things. I don't think you've ever been horseback riding." Her nose scrunched as she thought about it.
I stood, feeling overwhelmed. "I just want this week to be over," I groaned.
"I understand that you have work to do, but you have to take breaks. You'll thank me later. Trust me." She winked and walked with me back to the house, where we started the coffeemaker and, as promised, she was my right-hand lady. Instead of a sous chef in the kitchen, she was my sous cutter. But she remained my sous cutter for, um, one minute. I nearly had a breakdown when she almost cut the most important detailing of an overlay. After that, she graduated to inspirational life coach and comic relief.
"I can cut! I went to kindergarten you know," she said.
"Yes, well, clearly you never made it past kindergarten cutting. Now practice the social skills you learned and keep me entertained. Sorry, I just have to micromanage this."
"Okay, well, I'm micromanaging you tonight," she informed me.
Every time I was tempted to freak out and say, "I can't," she would instantaneously yell something I had never heard before, like a loud, obnoxious, "Nank!"
It sounded like a goose. Something all right.
"Nank?" I teased. "What is nank?"
"My attempt to keep you on a positive track whenever you get off track." So, nank it was for the rest of the afternoon.
A few hours later, as promised, Chloe and I were at a concert in a warehouse filled with a few hundred other fans. She was right. The boys in the band were cute. There was one in particular, though, the lead singer, that kept eyeing Chloe.
"These guys are awesome!" I yelled over the loud music. "They're like One Republic, but with that Muse flair."
"Yeah!" She smiled, looked back at the band, and then back at me. She shrugged and yelled back over the music, "Whatever that means!"
I nodded to the dramatic bridge, watching everyone's response to the emotional, yet strong melody, and I couldn't help but see Chloe's eyes go love struck.
I'd seen that look in the movies. She was gone! I smiled and looked around. Then suddenly, near the side, standing against the wall, I saw Doctor Hood!
Oh. My. Gosh.
I immediately looked down at my phone, hoping not to be seen. Panic, embarrassment, and adrenaline shot through my body. What was he doing here? Was he stalking me? Was he checking on my progress? My social interaction skills? No, impossible. But who was he there to see?
Not able to handle seeing my therapist see me at a concert, I told Chloe I had an important phone call from Chris, and I needed to go somewhere to be able to hear. I made my way through the crowded warehouse and outside to the fresh air. I was happy to see a green picnic bench and sat down, relieved. I played the Bejeweled game on my iPhone for a quick two minutes, when suddenly I heard the gregarious front man thanking the crowd.
Any minute, I guessed, the guests would start exiting the building, so my best bet was to head toward my Rover. Just as I was about to call Chloe, the hot mystery man I had seen hiding in a towel hours earlier walked out the door. He was just as startled to see me as I was to see him.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"What are you doing here? I've seen you before. You're Maycee's sister, right?"
"Are you stalking me? Looking for Maycee?"
"Um, no." He laughed. "Cute, but no. My brother is playing." His phone rang. "Speaking of, that's my brother, Ryan."
He answered the phone. "Hey, man. Killer set! You're taking me to the Grammys when you guys go platinum. Don't forget. Sure, I can go eat with you. Oh, you're bringing a friend? A girl?"
Crap, I thought inside. I had known Chloe long enough to know her magnetic charm, and I just knew she was the friend going to eat with the band, which meant that I was the friend of the friend going to dinner with the band. I was going to dinner with mystery man.
Moments later, I was with the band eating my absolute favorite kind of food, Mexican, and Mr. Nameless sat directly in front of me. While my BFF rattled incessantly about medical facts, I stuffed my face with chips and salsa as if I hadn't eaten in days. I had, but I was making up for the weeks of not eating anything. Everything was great until I heard four words.
"How 'bout them Yankees? Just need to land this game, and we'll be going to the Series!" one of the band members asked his other band-mate.
"You're a Yank? You suck. You always stack the teams. It's just not fair. The Sox better win," The other guy said defensively, letting his allegiance come out full throttle.
"You're just a baby who didn't get his way, and whose team doesn't have all the money. We got Mason," his band-mate replied.
"Yeah, whatever. It's way too early to be betting on the Series."
I placed my chip on the plate, and it was as if everything went to both slow motion and silence at once. I looked around the table. Everyone was in their own conversations. Chloe was into her conversation with the super cool music guy. Everyone else remained completely oblivious to my silent, fast-approaching meltdown.
We got Mason.
Any second, I just knew I would explode with either tears or some sort of vulgar language to shut up the lame sport fanatics.
Then he spoke to me. "You okay there? Something in your sauce?"
I shook my head from the daze. Before I could reply, it got even worse.
"Pitcher needs to get back into the game. His game's been off."
"Exactly why the Sox will go to the Series."
"The Series is months away. You can never tell," he protested.
My eyes naturally made contact with him, only to find he was staring at me.
"You, uh..." He smiled and laughed nervously. "Wanna dance?"
There was a dance floor filled with Salsa dancers.
I didn't know exactly what had gone down with him and my sister, but he was totally being a lifesaver. I couldn't stand being at that table feeling alone, wallowing in self-loathing over 'the name not even worth saying.' So yes, I decided to dance with Mr. Mystery Man, though I didn't yet know his name.
"Yes, that actually sounds great." I threw my napkin on the table. As I walked toward the dance floor, I smiled because Chloe looked at me with wide, shocked eyes as she continued to be her animated self while telling a story. Yes, I am actually getting up to dance, my eyes telepathically shot back to her.
We'd talk about it later, I knew.
A song played that I was familiar with. Merengue. Perfect.
We both started dancing. I could instantaneously feel the happy endorphins visiting me.
"You're a good dancer!" I said in surprise. "Very nice moves."
"What do you expect? It's in my blood. I'm Orien Jones, by the way." He held out his hand.
"Norah." We shook hands. A spark flashed through his eyes.
"Yeah, I know."
"You know?"
"I know your name."
"Oh, I didn't know yours," I teased.
I continued to dance, enjoying the moment, when suddenly I had an epiphany. He didn't look at all like his brother, Ryan.
"So, Ryan's your brother?"
He nodded.
"No offense, but---"
"But we look nothing alike?" Ryan had pale skin and dirty blonde hair; Orien had gorgeous tanned skin and light honey-brown eyes.
He took my hand and twirled me.
I saw sadness creep into his eyes for a split second and decided I didn't want to ask.
Quickly changing the subject, I said, "I love Merengue. It's so much easier than Salsa to me. I mean the feet with Salsa-"
He took my hands and pulled me closer. He was smooth.
Um, gulp! My heart rate like shot up to 160 bpm.
"Norah, its okay. You can ask me. You can finish your question." But before I could, he continued, "We have different mothers. My mother died when I was younger." He twirled me.
Not knowing how to respond since I was learning what it meant to face my own pain, I didn't want to linger on that topic. "I'm really sorry."
"It's okay. She's in a better place" He smiled.
The music changed to a slower tempo, the type of song that couples danced to. Now, come on, I didn't want to be completely rude. The guy had just told me his mother had passed away. What was I supposed to say? "Thanks for pouring your heart out, now I'm going go sit back down?"
So, we kept dancing.
He kept looking at me with a soft smile and a gentle gaze. Feeling a tad uncomfortable, I glanced away and felt a strange heart palpitation.
Were those butterflies in my stomach?
He studied me for a bit. "You have such beautiful, hazel eyes."
I felt myself blushing. "Thanks."
And he had beautiful eyes as well, I noticed. And his arms were... well, strong. A glimpse of him running on the beach flashed through my mind-those amazing abs, that perfect hair, that-
What was I doing? I had to shake myself free of the craziness. After all, it appeared he had stayed over with Maycee from the evidence of the remains of pancakes and plates and two coffee mugs left out from their breakfast, and him hiding as soon as we drove up. What type of guy does that? I mean, my sister is practically engaged.
I decided to confront him.
"So, tell me. Um, so you know my sister is like, almost engaged, right?"
"Yeah, really? Oh, that's great," he said like nothing even registered.
I furrowed my brows.
Try another tactic.
"So you have a thing for blondes?"
"What?" He laughed "Um, I really don't have a type."
Does he not get it? Okay, enough with the pleasantries. I would take a more blunt tactic.
"Okay, look. I saw you in a towel, outside, by the side of our house this morning."
His face froze, completely still, for an entire three seconds.
Then, his innocent angel face exploded into laughter.
"I was in the black Range Rover that pulled up," I said.
"Oh, is this what the blonde thing is about?" He laughed more. "It's not what you think. It's actually quite embarrassing. Your father was there. I have this, um, passing out syndrome, called Vasovagal. Actually, George W. Bush has it, too. Anyway-"
I looked at him suspiciously.
"Anyway-" He twirled me around and pulled me closer.
"I actually feel stupid saying what I am about to say, but why not tell you? You already saw me in a towel."
He looked like he was bragging, so I said, "Yeah, it was really nothing. You had your shirt on."
I saw his eyes dance, and I started to get even more nervous. But with what he was about to tell me next, I should have just opened the gate of my stomach and let a thousand butterflies fly in.
"I found this journal a few days ago, and I... well, read it. It was very interesting and-"
Enter thousand butterflies.
Enter humiliation.
Enter a billion spotlights shining brightly on my face.
3, 2, 1... I'm humiliated!
"Hey, are you okay? Your face looks incredibly flushed. Sorry, I can't help it that I'm incredibly sexy."
True, I thought, but then I shook my head.
"A journal?" was all I could say, barely getting the words out. For a brief sliver of time, I was still in the clear. The fact that it was my journal had not yet been confirmed. Maybe someone else had left their journal in the same area yesterday. I still had hope. I clung to hope.
"Yeah, some type of journal. Anyway, it was so interesting, and this is where I feel like a girl, but I just felt connected to whoever wrote it. Since I had just found it, I thought maybe she lived nearby, and I was kind of determined to find her. And well, I hate to admit this, but I thought it was your sister. I saw her at the coffee shop that same day, so I thought it was some sort of sign. On top of that, she had the same initials, N.J., on her portfolio or something."
Crap. You should have looked closer! It was an M.J., not N.J.! And crap, confirmed; it was my journal.
I looked at him in bewilderment.
"Yes, I know she has a boyfriend, trust me. She finally told me the next morning on our run, before I passed out. She invited me to run," he added quickly with a tone of defensiveness.
"That much of a blow from the letdown?"
"No, I didn't pass out from shock; it was because I was dehydrated. Dehydration is a major trigger for Vasovagal. Anyway, luckily, your dad was home. I actually know your dad. Did you know that? Your dad has known my grandfather for years."
It was all beginning to be too much. I just wanted to sit down. He read my humiliation, my hurt, my pain, my heart! Does he know I wrote it? He can't know. Will he go to the press? Suddenly, I had to sit down. "Oh, look. Our fajitas have come; let's go dig in."
"But don't you want to finish this dance?"
"I'm so hungry, I'd hate to pass out or something. Uh, thanks for the dance," I said and left as quickly as Cinderella must have left the ball. But instead of leaving in fear of changing into a pumpkin, I left in fear of further humiliation.
As I sat in the doctor's office the next morning, I had an influx of emotions---nervousness, had to produce pieces by Saturday, anxiety, forced inspiration, humiliation, a guy read my journal. My journal. Doctor Hood had requested in the last session to read my journal, so I had to buy a new one.
I was tempted to try and rewrite everything, but I just didn't have the energy, nor did I have the time. I was tempted again to Google fake journal entries I could copy. But I didn't. Progress somewhere, at least.
"New journal?"
"Yeah." I smiled innocently.
Dr. Hood looked at my journal. I sank sheepishly into the oversized leather sofa at the lack of, well, words.
"Things are complicated, and I want to time travel," he read out loud.
I kind of felt like that movie that came out on Christmas day last year, How Do You Know, where Owen Wilson tells Reese Witherspoon's character that he wrote her a letter after she left. "I got so mad when you left that I broke a lamp," He told her over the phone. And she said in return, "Well, read me the letter." So he reads it and says, "I got so mad when you left that I broke a lamp." That's it?
"Well, woman of few words, sometimes one doesn't need to elaborate on their feelings. But, what happened? I thought you said you were journaling a lot."
"Well, I was. But I got angry and threw it in the ocean. But now, someone's found it. Maybe I should just ask him to give it back, but then I would be revealing myself."
Dr. Hood lowered his glasses on his nose and slid my journal back to me, while nodding slowly as if he were debating in his own mind to inquire further on the journaling matter or go on to the next question. He chose the next question.
"What's on your mind this morning?"
"Well, first off, I've had a lot of caffeine. I'm under a major time crunch and have to produce a few pieces in two days. I'm feeling the pressure. I literally can't stop moving my leg. It keeps shaking!"
We both looked at my shaking leg. My knee was going up and down. I laughed as I slapped my hand on my knee, trying to stop it. I crossed my legs, recomposed myself, and cleared my throat.
He sat, waiting to hear more. He was a good listener. He never interrupted my thoughts. Even if I went off on a long, ten-minute tangent, he never interrupted. But I was sure he would eventually interrupt if I said things like, "I'm making a bomb," or "I just want to die." But I was neither a terrorist nor suicidal; I was just screwed.
"It's okay, Norah. I have great confidence in you, and I know you have great confidence in yourself. You're a very strong woman."
I smiled at his confidence in me and his encouragement. He was so kind and just a nice man. Yes, therapists basically were supposed to make you feel like a million dollars, but I sincerely felt like he could be my grandfather or something. So I decided to open up to him and tell him how I was really feeling.
"Truth is, I can't help but think that..." I took a deep breath and exhaled. "I feel like a mess. I'm so stressed and in the middle of my stress, it's easy to think that things would all be different if Truett hadn't made this mistake. I feel like my line would already be together. Heck, I'd probably be vacationing or being snapped by paparazzi displaying my designs and-"
He decided to interrupt me.
"Norah." He lifted a finger. "I must stop you, sorry. But you must know, and be reminded, change is inevitable. In our difficulties, it's easy to wish to be 'anywhere but here,' which I think you know is what you're doing here. Your mind wants to take the easier road."
I looked at him, offended because I considered myself a strong person.
He held up his hands in a calm way. "It's human nature. We all do it. You're on the right path and you have to follow it to completion. We have different seasons in life which run their courses to make us mature and ready for the next season ahead. We all squirm like little worms on a hook. Stay the course. Looking back is not going to help things. If it helps you feel better, you're not the only one that feels this way. Which is why..." He reached under his desk and held up a book with shining pride. "I want to recommend this book.
"Looking Back," I read. "Written by Dr. Ryan Hood." I smiled.
"Apparently, this very smart, handsome therapist wrote this book, and it happened to make the New York Times Best Seller List. But I'd like to give it to you today for a very special price, free." He slid the book across to me.
"As long as you promise to read it, that is. I want a report." He flashed his charming smile.
I flipped through the pages and read key phrases like, "You can't receive the new things in your life if you are looking behind."
"This looks like a great book," I admitted. "Do you have it on audio? I have that deadline. I literally don't have time to read anything."
"Of course, but please make sure you do one thing for me. Relax."
"I am. I mean, I'm trying. I'm actually going horseback riding when I get back. Chloe is dragging me to do it. But just for an hour."
"Well, that's good. I'm glad to hear that. I'll get Georgine to get you the audio version so you can listen to it and be on your way for the new things that lie ahead."
It was only a couple of hours later, and I had made remarkable progress. Horseback riding was more enjoyable now that I knew I just had to hem a skirt line, make one more top, and finish the overlay for a dress. Then I would be home free. Well, at least halfway home free. I still had those remaining five pieces, but now I at least had something to show Chris and his friend Tim at dinner. Five full pieces.
My horse's name was Betsy, and she was white. Chloe's horse was black, and our instructor was a charming southern man who reminded me of someone who ran a dude ranch.
"Now, this here, ladies, is your harness. It's the most important component. It's like your director. It's like a leash." He went on rambling about leading the horse. Truth be told, I wasn't listening. I was picturing the overlay and pattern I had created. I felt that if my horse was going to go anywhere and venture off on her own, the instructor was trained enough to calm the situation. Not a very good plan.
Now, mind you, the last time I had ridden horseback was the time I had begged my father to let me ride a pony when I was in the second grade. Even though I didn't know what I was doing, how hard could it be to sit and hold on?
The ride along the ocean shore made me happy. And I instantly felt inspired to design a new line. I was already picturing it-nautical, combined with an English horseback riding flair.
I told Chloe about it and how classic I thought she would look in fitted leggings with a sheer white top and the perfect hat. Then, I saw him ahead.
"What, with what?" she asked. "It would look great with what?"
"Oh, uh..." I stammered.
There he was, painting an already perfectly white fence. Painters were cheaters, right? At least, they were on Desperate Housewives. He was probably just a painter with no life ambitions but to paint white picket fences and cheat on innocent women, I convinced myself. But he really wasn't a cheater, I had to remind myself. Well, at least not with my sister. So, he technically could be a cheater.
But why did he have to look so hot?
He wiped his brow with his forearm while he held his paintbrush. The white paint almost got on his jean shorts. I immediately turned the other way to hide my face but nearly fell off the saddle trying to do so.
"Whoa!" I squealed.
Suddenly, Chloe felt the need to yell, "Norah! Don't you know-"
Mind you, we were only a short distance away. Surely, he heard the ruckus. But as we approached, it appeared that he was listening to music with earphones, since his head lifted for the occasional nod to the beat.
There is a God!
But then he looked up and put his paint aside.
Suddenly, my horse began to act up. So much so, you would have thought a mouse ran under its hooves. "Calm down, Betsy," I said. "John!" I called out to the guide. "What's wrong with my horse?"
"Absolutely nothing, ma'am. Probably something in your nonverbal body language. Horses sense your emotions." He drew out his words with his southern drawl. He actually reminded me of Owen Wilson.
Great. My horse could feel my never-ending anxiety from Orien. How was I supposed to know he would be there? I tried again to lower my head so my hat would cover my face. But it was too late.
"Norah!" he shouted. "Norah!" He put the paint brush down, wiped his hands on his shorts, and started jogging towards us.
It felt like the longest twenty seconds of my life. Well, maybe second or third longest.
"Norah, do you know this man?" John asked.
"No I don't. Keep riding."
"Norah, yes you do. It's Orien. We just saw him-" Chloe tried to correct.
By the time he caught up with us, he was quite winded.
"Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you, or the horse. Norah, I..." He caught his breath and shifted his weight. "No, I'm not about to faint. And, oh yeah, thanks for the concern." He smiled mischievously. Why did he have to be so darn charming?
"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt anything. I just didn't think I would ever see you again. Well, I mean, I hoped I would, out running. Anyway, there I was painting and there you are riding a white horse. Hey, how ironic. You appear riding on a white horse. Isn't it usually the other way around? Guy on a white horse?"
He walked faster, trying to keep up with the horses' pace.
Poor guy, he seemed nervous. I actually felt a little sympathy for him.
"I wanted to ask you after last night if you would join me for this thing," he said, then took another breath. "Sorry, I'm just really winded today and, hey, do you normally ride horses? You don't really seem the horse-riding type, not that that's a bad thing."
Chloe giggled. "Orien, you're just so funny."
"Sorry, I'm talking too much."
I just continued to stare at him, not knowing what to say. He was so hot.
Betsy must have thought so as well, as she couldn't contain her excitement. I was thrown off and hurled to the ground.
I'd always heard of people falling off horses. Now I was one of them and had the privilege of joining their club.
I was the kid who actually made it through her life without breaking anything, or having twisted ankles. How? I had no idea. I must have good guardian angels or something. But in an instant, I fell to the ground. I screamed like a person whose wrist was on fire. That was literally how my nerves felt. I writhed in pain and couldn't get up. Orien rushed right to my side and helped me sit up. Chloe tried to dismount but was having a hard time. She exclaimed hysterically, "Norah! Oh, my gosh. Are you okay? Are you okay? Please say you're okay."
John dismounted and held Betsy.
"My arm!" I screamed. "I think it's broken. My right arm, my drawing arm. My sewing hand! My-" I started sobbing. Not just crying. Sobbing. There I sat in the sand, with three horses, with everyone looking at me, with hot Orien, who had read my journal, looking at me.
My line!
"Now, now," Orien soothed. "It'll be okay. You'll be fine. Here, let me help you up. I'm right here. Let's get you inside, and I'll get you some ice. I can drive you to the ER."
"Ma'am, is there anything I can do for you? She sure took you for a ride. Terribly sorry. This has never happened to me before. Well, not here, at least." He nervously shoved one hand in his pocket and looked around in worry.
I couldn't say anything back.
"Please don't go and tell all your fancy friends. It would really drive down my business, and we're in a recession and-"
Through my tears and hysterical breaths, I assured him, "It's okay, John. Not your fault."
"Okay, well then, on that note, I need to calm these horses down and get them back to the trailers."
Chloe looked at him and saw his struggle. One man, three horses. "I think I need to help him back to the trailer. I'll come right back, I promise." Worry was written all over her face.
"It's okay, Chloe. I promise I'm not an ax murderer. I'm right here." Orien pointed near the fence he was painting. "I'll take good care of her. You have my number?"
"I think Maycee has it." Chloe smiled. "I'll call her and get it."
"We'll just call you," he said.
Chloe and John took the horses back to their trailer. Orien helped me up and led me toward the fence he had been painting.
Although my wrist was throbbing, and I had tried to avoid Orien minutes earlier, I was actually glad his home was nearby. I desperately wanted to sit inside in air conditioning, have ice on my wrist, and call my dad.
He led me through the tall grass, past the white fence, and into the screened-in porch area.
"So, will the owner not mind I'm here?" I asked, as we walked into the back entryway and took off our shoes. I attempted to use my right toes to stand on my left heel and use my left hand to take my boot off. Seeing my struggle, he told me to sit, and he took my boots and socks off despite my, "Oh you don't have, you don't have to" protests.
There was a small shower nearby to rinse off our sand-covered feet. Even though it was my wrist that was sprained, and I had practically no sand on my feet, he led me over to the shower as if my leg was broken, careful to let me lean on him each step of the way.
He turned on the faucet and squatted down. "Here, lean against my shoulders." Before I could object, he started washing the very little sand off my feet. I was glad I had gotten a pedicure a few days earlier.
Trying quickly to think of something to say to assuage my awkward feelings, I asked, "So, will the owners mind that you brought a guest here?"
He rinsed off my other foot and chuckled. "No, I don't think they'll mind." A smirk appeared on his face. He motioned for me to sit down in a rustic chair that looked like it had come from the catalogue of Restoration Hardware. Rustic, yet appropriate. I let myself sit back into the cushion.
I winced.
"I'll just be a second. Sorry. You must be in a lot of pain."
I glanced down at my wrist. "I'm in pain. I'm in shock." I was about to go into elaborate detail of the clothing pieces I needed to create, but I just didn't have the energy.
"Oh I'm sure it was quite a shock to fall. Here you go," he said as he helped me up, again as if I were either a senior citizen or someone who hadn't walked in years.
No, the shock is the fate of my line!
I smiled. "You would make the perfect nurse," I said, while he led me into a pristine white kitchen.
He motioned for me to sit down at the ivory-colored, distressed wood kitchen table.
"I'm really digging the décor here. Great taste." Ivory-chipped wooden beams hung from the ceilings, giving off a very French vibe.
"Oh, thanks," he said, as if the place were his.
I studied him as he opened a drawer and took out a Ziploc bag and then grabbed a yellow towel. He went to the freezer for ice. He sure did know his way around the kitchen for someone who didn't live in the house.
I looked around at the pictures in the kitchen. One depicted a beautiful woman on the beach smiling innocently as the sun set behind her. She looked like Penélope Cruz. Another showed two boys, one with dark hair, the other with light, building a sandcastle. I was about to get up to look closer at the picture, but Orien saw me eyeing it.
"Don't get up. Allow me," he said, as he brought it over with the bag of ice.
"Yeah. Those boys are just so cute." As I looked closer, I realized the tan-skinned boy had a remarkably angelic face. Orien smiled proudly as he stood next to me looking at the photo with his hand on his hip. I looked at the face in the photo, and then back to Orien's face.
"Time hasn't been too harsh for me, has it?"
"This is you? And Ryan?" I asked, surprised.
He nodded.
"I'm confused. Why does your client's house have this picture of you two?"
"My client's house?" he asked, bewildered.
"I saw you painting."
"Oh!" He laughed, clearly caught off guard. "No, this is my house. Well, my grandfather's. It's in the family."
"Oh, I see." I nodded, embarrassed. "Oops. Sorry. Your grandfather has nice taste."
"Yeah, my grandmother did. It's been a great place for me to prepare for my dissertation defense."
"Your dissertation defense?"
"Yeah, it's for my PhD in counseling, actually. I have my defense coming up on Monday. Then I'm home free, ready for my own practice. So, got anything you want to talk about?" he asked jokingly. "'Cause I'm all ears. No charge."
I shook my head, letting the unexpected turn of dialogue sink into my mind.
I guess he took it as the shake of, "No, I don't." So he suggested, "Is there someone you should call about your wrist?"
"Oh, yeah, my dad."
Dumbstruck and completely embarrassed, I remembered my wrist, the throbbing, unbearable, writhing-in-pain injury.
Instinctively, my left hand went to my thigh in search for my cell phone. Leggings.
"I just realized I don't have my phone."
He handed me a cordless phone. I placed it on the table and dialed Dad's number with my left hand.
"Hello?"
"Dad?"
"Norah, I almost didn't answer the phone because it says-"
"Dad, I've been in an accident," I interrupted.
"What?"
"A horse accident and, well, I fell off, can't move my wrist. I mean, it hurts."
"Can you move your fingers?"
"Yes."
"Are you bleeding?"
"No."
"Do you have a fever?"
"I don't think so."
"Well, take your temperature and call me back if you have a fever because you'll need to go straight to the emergency room. Otherwise, you're better off icing and elevating it at home instead of sitting in the waiting room. Sounds like a sprain. I would know if it were broken."
"What do I do, then?"
"You need to rest it four to five days. That means absolutely no texting, no sewing, nothing," he ordered. I sat in defeat, numbed in pain, numbed in sorrow.
"So why are you at the Hood's?" he asked.
"The hood? I'm not in the hood. I'm at Orien's house."
"No, I mean-"
"What?" I asked.
"What?" my dad asked back.
"What?" I asked in confusion. "You just said-"
"Well, tell him I said hello. His father and I are friends. He's... well, I'm about to give a lecture. I'll call you in a painkiller and call you in about an hour. Love you."
I hung up the phone and sighed, not really caring about the nonsense.
I felt tears coming to my eyes. All my hard work, my meeting with Chris, my line. What would happen to it?
"Here, let's keep this iced and elevated for about twenty minutes, and then get you home safe and sound and cozy. Nothing like home, huh?"
He poured water into a teapot. "Tea?"
"Yes, please," I said weakly. Dazed. "Why does everything bad happen to me? Why did I have to ride that stupid horse?"
"It's okay, Norah. You'll be fine."
"No, you don't get it. This happened at the most absolute worst time for me."
"Well, I find that in my own life, sometimes interventions are blessings in disguise. Sometimes, interventions bring us to new paths and shut doors that needed to be shut." He opened a cabinet and pulled out tea canisters.
"Chamomile, English Breakfast Tea, or Earl Grey?"
"Chamomile."
"Right, of course. I should have guessed that. The calming effects."
"Yeah, most men don't know that. You know, about the effects of herbal teas."
"Yeah, well I know a lot of things." He winked and walked over to the table.
"You'll be fine, you'll see."
You'll be fine, you'll see. I sat perplexed. Doctor Hood had said those very words to me.
"It's just, I've worked so hard on this path. So many obstacles and trials have stood in my way, and I was finally seeing the shoreline once again."
"I can understand that. But you have to trust the great Architect of the Universe." He smiled.
"You mean, God?"
"Right. You have to trust whatever season you're in and let it run its course."
"Funny, that's exactly what my---" I stopped myself before I completely let out my dirty laundry with Oh, my therapist said that! Instead, I said, "Oh, goodness. Where is my mind? I need to call Chloe."
I quickly called Chloe, and she was dying to know how I was. She said she was on her way to pick me up. She asked me a hundred questions with interjections about the horse trainer's on-going---never-ending, "Please don't sue me sympathy-attracting apologies." She was at the door ringing the bell before I knew it.
"Well, she's all mine now. Thanks so much, Orien," she said perfectly.
"Oh, uh, no problem. It was my pleasure," he said. "I'd like to check on you later, if that's okay."
"Sure," I heard myself say.
And with that we left to go to the nearby pharmacy for my rushed painkillers and some ice cream.
Two hours later, I lay on the couch and stared at the ceiling, as Chloe attempted to sew a stitch for me on one of my creations. I didn't care at that point, probably because I was heavily medicated.
I felt dizzy. "You know, I just have to accept the fact that it's over. My career is over."
"Norah! No, you don't," Chloe insistently corrected me as she placed the needle, thread, and fabric down. Like a woman on a mission, she stood, walked to the kitchen, and opened and closed kitchen drawers.
"What are you looking for?"
"That's just the meds talking. Everything is fixable." I saw her grab something and put it in a basket she found in the pantry.
"Up." She commanded as she walked my way, basket in hand. "You're coming with me."
She led me out the back to the side of the house where our rose bushes were. "We're getting you some fresh air, and we're going to pick a nice vase of flowers and get rid of this pity party."
I rolled my eyes. "Great, you know I can't cut with my left hand."
"Which is why you are to point, and I'm here to cut."
"There. That one. That one. That one. That one." I pointed. Then I heard a car coming up the driveway.
"I wonder who that is," I said.
"It doesn't matter. You're not checking until I cut all these flowers."
"Geez. What's the deal with you, Miss Bossy?"
"Well, I have to be! Otherwise, you'll wallow in self-pity all day long. I'm going to help you, Norah. Watch," She said, determined, as she cut the roses and put them in a basket, careful not to let the thorns prick her fingers.
"Norah," she said definitively, as she held up a rose. "Life is not always peaches and roses. It's how you handle the thorns in your life."
I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help smiling and then laughing. Just as I was about to reply to her witty, yet poetic thought for the day, another car pulled up and a door slammed. I heard a familiar voice.
"Yeah, man. Almost in the bag. Just here to fake this whole engagement crap thing for three more weeks, then I'm out. I'll be on my way to Southern Cali."
Oh. My. Gosh. It was Josh's voice. Fake this whole engagement crap? I placed a finger over my lips and motioned for Chloe not to utter a sound. I needed to hear absolutely everything he was divulging to whoever was on the phone.
Astonished, Chloe looked at me with wide eyes. I returned the dazed look. Chloe put the basket down, and we quietly tiptoed to the edge of the house, the side covered in stone, not glass.
Standing in the doorway, we could see Orien standing there holding sunflowers. He placed them on the porch as he turned around to eye the new guest.
"I'm telling you, it's all about who you know. Do your research. You'll get there. Gotta go."
Josh walked up the steps, and asked Orien, "Who are you?" He impatiently rang the doorbell three times in a row and looked down to the flowers on the porch.
"Hurry! Run inside," I ordered Chloe, and we ran around the back of the house. But as soon as we made it past the stone, we slowed to a walk, since it was likely they could see us through the glass.
As I made my way through the kitchen, living room, and entryway, I had fifteen seconds to try and catch my breath and appear calm. But after what I had just heard, there was no way I was going to remain calm.
I opened the door with fake surprise. "Josh, hi. What brings you here?"
They both faced me standing in their completely different uniqueness. Josh was void of expression. Orien had nervousness written all over his face.
"What are you doing here?" I directed the question mainly to Josh, but Orien opened his mouth to answer.
"I-"
Josh reached past him and grabbed for the sunflowers on the porch by Orien's feet. They were beautiful sunflowers, actually one of my favorite flowers, tied with straw yarn.
Orien had the strangest look on his face when he said, "Those are-"
But Josh interrupted. "I'm here to see my fiancée."
"Fiancée?" Orien, Chloe, and I asked in unison. I felt my stomach drop to my toes. My sister tells me everything!
"But, she-" I wanted to spout out, "Why would she marry a guy like you?"
"You got a pen, bud?" Josh asked Orien.
Orien grabbed a pen from his pocket and handed it to him with a confused look on his face.
"Well?" he dramatically began, as he signed his name to the note attached to the flower bouquet.
Orien tried to speak again. "I... I..."
I decided to try and help him out a little. "Orien, do you want to say something?"
"Yeah, those flowers are-"
"Well, I called your mother, and I'm here to pick up an overnight bag she packed for Maycee. So if you don't mind," Josh interjected.
"If I don't mind?"
I studied him for a second.
"Then why are you carrying flowers if you knew Maycee wasn't here?"
The nametag tucked in the yarn around the sunflower stems started falling. I strained to read the tag, which seemed to have the letters N-O-R. I reached for it, but Josh pulled the flowers away as if he were a five-year-old not wanting to share.
"I just want to see the flowers," I said. "Why so defensive?"
"Why so defensive?" Josh mocked in a Jersey accent with a mousy-sounding voice. Wow. He just went from suave doctor to immature brat in two seconds.
"You should audition for Disney. I think you're picking the wrong profession. You're missing your calling," I retorted. "Let me see the flowers." I grabbed for the flowers with one hand, and he pulled back like we were in a tug of war. Suddenly, all of my negative bottled-up energy released. I grabbed the flowers with the tenacity of one competing for the gold in the Olympics, and he let go. Sunflowers went everywhere, as I fell and landed pretty hard on my bottom.
Josh let himself in the house, walking past me with complete disregard to any injuries I might have sustained. He grabbed my sister's overnight bag and excused himself.
"Yeah, okay. At least I'm not holed up on some island because some lame loser left you for another woman, who's incredibly sexy, I might add, while Daddy feeds the precious therapy bill and you sulk in your misery. Real people move on from their pain."
I'm not sulking. I'm healing! I screamed inside. But, I was in control of my emotions. I breathed slowly and practiced my coping mechanism, which required me to calmly close my eyes and think of a place I would like to visit, my favorite food, and then my favorite thing to do. "Tahiti, Mexican food," I began.
"Right. And on that note, I'm leaving this nuthouse. Ciao." He turned for one last glance at my sprained, wrapped wrist. "What? Are you so depressed that you tried to slit your wrist? Probably." And then he left.
His words stung my heart so hard. So much so, it felt like he had pushed the automatic cry button. Like you get different options for washing your clothes---light wash, heavy wash---he went straight for the heavy and extra-downpour cycle. I didn't care that Orien was still standing right there. Sitting on the floor in the middle of the sunflowers, I started sobbing. Again. How many times was this guy going to see me cry?
It felt like the ton of bricks that had taken a momentary vacation came back to visit my chest.
Orien let himself in and, again, found himself in the same position from hours earlier---helping me off the ground. "It's okay, Norah. Don't cry. I hate to see pretty girls cry."
"Oh, my gosh! What a pig!" Chloe commented, shaking her head in disapproval.
"He really knows how to get under my skin," I said in between sobs.
"I can see that. Are you okay?"
"No! My whole world is upside down. I feel like I'm eating at the perfect French restaurant, and the waiter comes up to pull the tablecloth as an elaborate trick. But the trick fails, and the food ends up all on my lap. I feel plastered with the mess!"
"You sure do have a way with analogies," Chloe noted.
Orien gathered the sunflowers and grabbed the tag off the floor and put it in his pocket.
"Why don't we go for a walk? Let's take Coco." He helped me off the ground. "Your wrist okay?"
"Oh, fun," Chloe said. But after a pleading look from Orien, she quickly added, "I mean, why don't I get Coco's leash for you? Don't be gone for too long. You need to ice your wrist."
Moments later, we were outside. The sun was setting, and the sky was beautiful.
Between the salt in the air and the salt from my tears, it was hard to tell which was which. The breeze felt cold on my face, and I shivered. My eyes wouldn't stop leaking tears.
"Please don't cry anymore. It'll be okay." Orien gently wiped at my tears. "Such a beautiful night it's turning into. That jerk isn't worth your tears."
I watched him walk Coco, such a manly, buff man walking a frou-frou dog wearing couture clothes. It was a sight for sure, but a warming one.
A few women of luxury were walking our way.
"You know, Norah, I know you're probably tired of hearing this, but everything happens for a reason."
I really didn't feel like another lecture, but on the same note, I did not feel like complaining any further.
"I uh, well, uh..." He stopped walking.
I stopped walking and looked at him. I studied his face. The nervous look from earlier reappeared. "You what?"
"I-"
"Oh, my Gawsh!" a woman with big red hair and expensive diamond jewelry hanging from every limb possible said. "Would you look at this little fuwball and this adowable outfit?"
I smiled proudly.
"Excuse me, miss, but just where did you get this adowable dowggie owtfit? I must have one fwah my little Toto."
"Uh, well, actually, I made it."
"You made it?"
"Yes, I'm a designer, and well-"
"Fabulous, darling. I must have your card, then. Do you have one on you? I just must have a custom cah-tour owtfit for Toto!"
Naturally, my hands touched the top of my thighs again in search for my pockets-dress.
"I actually don't. I'm sorry"
"Well, what's your number, dear? I must get with you as soon as possible. I'll pay whatever you name. I'm going on vacation in a few weeks, and I would just love for Toto to be the best-dressed dowggie there."
Her two friends looked at her in utter jealousy. Then, her phone rang.
"Oh, one second, dear. I must take this." She walked three feet away and began yapping loudly. I stood looking at the other two women. Then, I looked around to see if there were any cameras because they seemed like the perfect clan for Real Housewives of New York.
"Whatever she'll pay you, I'll pay double if you'll dress my little Chanel."
Taken aback, I said, "Well uh..."
"Now, Nancy, that's not fair. Toto and Chanel cannot out dress my Prince." She looked at her friend in scorn, then back to me. "I'll pay triple the price, Miss, uh..."
"Oh, um, Norah."
Was this seriously happening?
"Well, right. May I have your number, Norah?" she asked, as she eyed my wrist. "Oh, how awful. Are you able to sew?"
"Unfortunately, not for a few days. I have to rest it. I-"
"That's fine, dear. Number?" she proceeded impatiently, her second of care out the window.
I gave her my number just as lady of luxury number one got off the phone. Her two friends smiled at her mischievously.
"Sorry about that, dear. May I have your contact number?"
"Sure." I shrugged.
After I gave her my number, they were on their merry way.
"That was interesting," Orien said.
"Yeah, tell me about it."
"Curious, if three women who have more money than they know what to do with all tell you they want you to design doggie clothes for their fwuh balls," he said in earnest attempt to mock a New York accent, "just how much would you charge? Nice little business you would have going."
I thought about it. "Yeah, you're right." I let the thought linger, but not for too long. "So, what were you saying earlier?"
"Well, I have to be honest with you about something." He stopped again, shifted his weight, then looked at the clouds in the sky. Clearly uncomfortable, he nervously scratched the back of his neck. "I like you, Norah. I like you a lot."
I stood in shock. You like me? Just out, just like that?
"But I liked you before I met you."
"What do you mean?
"You said something in your house that resonated with me and confirmed it all, that it's your journal I found."
"That it's my journal?" I asked with the best convincing ticked-off, yet embarrassed tone.
"And before you get mad at me, I want you to listen."
I began to protest. I tried to act like it was a complete shock, that I didn't know. "What? How could... what do you mean?"
But he put his finger to my lips. "And I like what I read. I guess what I am saying is, I like you. I like you, the you inside. Yes, I got confused at first with your sister, but it all was to happen for a reason, I see now, because it allowed me to meet you."
I didn't know what to say. He really likes me, I thought.
I guess he didn't know what to say, either, because to fill the void of words, he leaned in close, and kissed me. We kissed!
"Sorry, I couldn't help myself. You don't have to say anything back. Those sunflowers, those were for you. But that jerk took them from me." He pulled the tag out of his pocket and showed it to me with a shy look.
Norah was written on it.
"Yeah, I know." I smiled. "I saw a little part of my name when Josh, unbeknownst to him, let it linger. I saw the Nor part."
I wasn't sure where the conversation was going to go from there. I was in shock that he had been brave enough to confess his intention. He liked me. What man living in this day and age, unless they were time traveling from past centuries, was bold enough to say how they felt instead of resorting to playing games. The games of, "Guess if I like you or not by my flirting and witty banter."
"I'm sorry. I know it's so personal. But it was a very interesting read, I must say," he said.
Embarrassed, all I could say was an honest, "Thanks." I looked down at my toes.
"Well, let's get you back. You need to ice your wrist."
We made our way back to the house, letting the seagulls and wind fill the silence. It wasn't a bad silence, though. It was a knowing silence of something good in the future.
He opened the glass door that led into the sitting room, a.k.a. my creating room. His eyes naturally went to my sketches and magazine.
"Oh, feel free to look." Truth is, I didn't want him to leave. So whatever he wanted to do that would make him stay longer, he could do. I was enjoying his company, especially after that kiss.
I watched his careful admiration of my sketches and collage boards plastered with fabric, magazine pictures, and my own drawings. "These are incredible," he said. "You are really talented."
"Thanks," I said in complete meekness, my shyness taking over.
"So, want some ice cream? I'm going to have some. It always makes me feel better." I made my way to the kitchen.
"Oh, can't pass up the ice cream. So, definitely. Please." He followed me to the kitchen. "But, let me help you. You should sit down."
"My leg isn't broken!"
"I insist." He gently led me to sit on the barstool.
So I sat down at his gentlemanly persistence. "Left hand, ice freezer. Cookies and Cream, please." I shot him an angelic look.
He opened the freezer and laughed at the vast array, and I mean vast array, of choices.
"Wow, is this an ice cream parlor?"
"I'm drowning my sorrows in ice cream."
He placed the ice cream on the island. "Well, hopefully you won't have to do any more drowning of sorrows, because I'm here." He winked. "Bowls?"
"Right above the dishwasher," I directed.
I heard Chloe's flip-flops as she walked down the hallway, the only place in the house, besides the bedrooms, where you couldn't see everything happening inside through the glass.
"Hey, you two having ice cream in here? I want some." She glanced at her watch. "Norah, it's been forty-five minutes, you need to ice your wrist. Lay down on the couch, missy."
I stood up, feeling like a child with everyone ordering me around. I sulked my way over to the couch for the dramatic effect.
"She's a nurse, Orien. Can't you tell?" I asked over my shoulder.
"Making you feel better is my specialty. Speaking of, how's the pain? You can take your pain medicine in two more hours. Ice cream is fine for now, but you'll need something more sustaining later."
Before Chloe could continue, Orien suggested the best idea ever. "How about we order pizza?"
The medicine was making me so hungry, and my mood was very much in need of comfort food. Pizza sounded great.
"Purrr-fect idea, Orien!"
Chloe made a small detecting look between the two of us. The average human would not have noticed it, but I did because I know Chloe. It was the look of, "Something is going on between you two."
"Yum! That just sounds so perfect!" I egged on the answer.
He headed toward where I was lying, toward my little elevation station. He helped himself and sat down right by me. "If you don't eat your ice cream, it will melt."
"I know, but my hand... I'm right-handed." I was struggling to eat with my left hand.
"It's your lucky day, then." He reached for my bowl.
"But yours will melt!"
Oh, my gosh. Was he really going to feed me? Him being so close made me just so nervous and filled with butterflies!
"Open up, little birdy. We'll alternate." He held the bowl in one hand, spoon in other, and fed me.
But the ice cream spilled down my chin because his choice of description made me laugh. "Little birdy?" I laughed and tried to wipe my chin.
"Yeah, I know that was cheese. But you know you liked it." He grabbed a napkin and dabbed my chin. "Sorry." He laughed.
I just knew, just knew, Chloe was dying with laughter in the kitchen. She made her way to the couch and interrupted our feeding. "Excuse me, papa bird, but this little chirpy-chirp here needs ice. Don't mind me. I'll just be a minute."
She applied the ice pack, rewrapped my wrist, and looked at her watch.
"Twenty minutes, Norah! No ifs or buts. And try to keep the whining to a minimum."
She sat down on the chair nearby and turned on the TV. Orien went back to feeding me.
"More, please." I smiled as I found myself feeling comfortable with teasing and just being my goofy self.
"Oh, look. 27 Dresses is on," Chloe squealed.
"Oh, well, we just have to watch it, then," Orien said with enthusiasm dripping in sarcasm.
Good thing I detected sarcasm easily because, if he hadn't just kissed me, I'd swear that with his knowledge of tea, his overly fake enthusiasm of chick flicks, his natural ability to notice my feelings, and his sensitive side, I would have thought he was hiding in the closet.
Thank goodness he wasn't, though. No closets for him.
He stayed for the pizza, finished the chick flick with us, then asked as he got ready to leave, "Are you a morning person?"
"Depends on who's asking and the proposition."
"Join me for something fun tomorrow. But you have to be ready at eight."
"What should I wear?"
"Hmm... nautical and your swimsuit, if you like. No pressure."
"Seriously? After eating ice cream, and pizza, and..."
"You look great," he assured me.
Chloe sprang straight from her chair and interrupted. "But what about her icing?"
"I can promise you she'll have ice for it," Orien answered.
"Well, okay then. See you at eight."
"Great." He smiled, kissed me on the cheek, winked, and left.
I immediately turned to Chloe with a huge smile on my face and started jumping up and down.
She ran over to me. "Dish! Okay, so seriously, what just happened? What's going on?"
Ignoring her question, I shot straight to it, "Okay, we are so going running now. I'm drinking a laxative tea! Do you think the sauna at the gym is open? I'll be in a swimsuit tomorrow, and I just ate a ton of crap. Because I don't know if you noticed, but have you seen him? He's smokin' hot!"
Then there was a tiny tap on my shoulder, and I screamed! It was Orien.
I smiled an innocent smile. Crap, he heard everything I just said. How mortifying.
"Oh, sorry, didn't mean to scare you or interrupt your conversation but well, you forgot to shut the door, and I left my phone. Don't mind me." He smirked. He had totally heard everything! Then he left again.
"Chloe, you won't believe it. He read my journal. All of it."
"What do you mean? How?"
"Remember, I had gotten mad that one day? The day the name not even worth wasting my breath mentioning called. Well, I left it on the beach, and he found it and read every last page!"
"Wow, and he's still pursuing you?" she joked.
"Ha, ha." I rolled my eyes and cocked my head.
"Well, I can tell he really likes you. So let's go get to those stomach crunches."
The next morning, I woke up filled with a schoolgirl excitement, like the kind of excitement one feels when they're going to their first day of school not knowing what to expect, but optimistic, hopeful, and maybe a bit cautious and suspecting.
I carefully chose a turquoise swimsuit to wear under a white dress that tied behind my neck, strappy flats, and coral jewelry.
He rang the doorbell at eight o'clock sharp, which was courteous, I thought, because when guys showed up too early, they weren't allowing us women to beautify ourselves. I loved utilizing every minute. I ran away from my makeup-and hair-products-covered counter, grabbed my beige Chanel bag, and walked as calmly as possible, since he could more than likely see me through the glass.
I sneaked a peek at him standing at the door-white button-up shirt, the top few buttons unbuttoned, um... hot! Khaki shorts, and loafer-style shoes. I had to remind myself to calm down, look natural, and breathe. Oh, and he had Ray-Bans on. He looked so good.
I opened the door. "Hi!" I smiled.
He looked at me without saying anything for a moment. And then said, "You look beautiful."
"Thank you. You look nice yourself."
"Ready?"
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
We got in his Toyota SUV and headed down our long driveway lined with trees. His car smelled of fresh cotton.
"How was your night? You didn't overdose on ice cream after I left?"
I laughed. "Funny."
"Well, have you eaten anything today?"
"Not yet."
"Good." He grinned and looked in the backseat at a picnic basket as a mother would with concern for her baby.
"A picnic basket?" I immediately got excited. "You're taking me on a picnic?"
"Even better."
He turned up the radio volume, probably so he wouldn't give away his surprise. I recognized the group immediately-his brother's band.
"You brother?"
"Yeah, he's about to leave for a European tour. But first, he's going to join me on a man's trip. We're about to head to Chile for-"
I couldn't contain myself and cut him off, letting out a giant squeal as we pulled into a marina. I didn't mean to interrupt him, but beautiful sailboats floated peacefully atop the seamless water. I knew what that meant, and why we were there. I loved the water.
He parked the car and came around to open my car door. "Thank you." Perfect gent, I mentally noted. "Would you look at this weather? Not a cloud in the sky!" It felt perfect, maybe seventy-five degrees.
He grabbed the basket and an ice chest and led me to the dock. We walked past many beautiful boats with interesting names, like Fat Chance, Liquid Asset, Got Debt, and The Greedy Killer. I was anxious to see what his boat's name would be. Hopefully, not The Hell-born Pirate!
We approached a boat called Robin Hood. "Here we are. Isn't she a beauty?"
"Robin Hood? Are you like a major Disney fanatic or fairy tale kind of guy cause..." and then I slipped and fell right on my bottom.
"Your wrist! Be careful." He quickly dropped the basket and ice chest and helped me up from the wooden dock.
Embarrassed, I got up as quickly as I could. "Well, slippery here, isn't it?"
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm okay," I said, mortified. Thank goodness, I had a swimsuit on under the dress; otherwise, I would have been even more mortified at the thought of my dress flying up and showcasing my undies!
He made his way onto the boat. Instead of reaching for my hand, he went straight for my waist, picked me up, and brought me onboard. I could feel his strength as he lowered me to the deck.
Before I could compliment him, he said, "Yeah, I know. I work out. And no, it's okay. Don't worry. I won't transform into a werewolf like what's his name."
Seriously? I thought to myself.
"I get that question a lot. Must be the tan skin and the chiseled abs. One can't help but ward off these comments."
I couldn't help but laugh at him. I could tell he wasn't being arrogant; he was just being funny.
"Well, I read in your journal that you felt like a-"
"Lost sailboat at sea?" I finished for him.
"Well, this isn't a sailboat, but we can sail the boat to sea. I don't want you to feel that way anymore. You're not lost; you're not alone. I'm here now."
He reached for my hand, my left hand, of course, and kissed me on the check. I was speechless. He was such a Romeo. Before I fell under the Romeo spell and started to ask the standard question, "So, you know what you're doing, right? You know how to drive a boat?" I went straight back to the hot topic at hand, my journal.
"So, about my private little memoir you read," I started.
I watched him untie the rope and sit behind the steering wheel. "I knew you would bring it up," he said with concern. "So, I thought it would only be fair for you to feel on the same level. I'll let you read my journal." He reached into the picnic basket and handed me a black leather journal with brown leather string tied around it.
Uh, the last thing I was expecting!
"Really?" Instead of being polite and noninvasive and object, I was curious to read it.
"Just promise me you won't fall asleep from boredom or try to jump off the boat."
"You have that many deep dark secrets, huh?"
I stared at the journal and smelled it without thinking.
He looked at me, bewildered. "Trying to guess what's for brunch since it was in the basket with the food?"
I untied the string as he watched. I was just about to open it, when I shut it. "This is too invasive! I simply can't!"
"Just read a page," he tempted.
"Any random page?"
"Yes, any random page." He started the boat.
"I can't!"
"Okay, ready for some fun? Here we go!" The acceleration of the boat motor jolted me back into the chair. Luckily, I grabbed my hat before it flew off and held tightly to the journal with my forearm clinched to my chest as best as I could with my handicap.
"Sorry!" he yelled over the wind.
We drove out to sea for a few minutes, then came to a stop. "Perfect docking place for brunch." He turned off the motor and let down the anchor.
"Well, go on! Aren't you just dying to read my deepest darkest secrets?"
So I opened the journal.
Today, I hung out with a girl. She has something special about her. Not only is she gorgeous, but she's sweet, funny, talented, and a perfect kisser.
"Are you serious?" I put the journal down. But curious, I turned to the next page, and the next, and they all contained the same entry.
Today, I hung out with a girl. She has something special about her. Not only is she gorgeous but she's sweet, funny, talented, and a perfect kisser.
"Okay, you're a little mischievous, aren't you?" I asked, realizing his ploy.
"Well, I had a feeling this topic would come up, so I wanted you to feel comfortable with reading my journal. I wanted to make light of it."
"And from the ten to fifteen pages of the same entry, it looks like someone doesn't have a life." I gave him a daring stare.
"Hey, what else was I going to do while my laundry dried this morning?" He smiled that charming smile and shrugged. He pulled a coffee canister out of the basket. "Coffee? You get seasick?"
"Your lucky day. You chose the right sister. Maycee's the one that gets incredibly seasick."
He shot me a look, and I returned a "Yeah, that's right" look. "Sorry, couldn't resist."
For this being our first technical date, it wasn't awkward like most first dates. Although I had dated Truett for the four years in college, in high school I had dated my fair share. It was always awkward at first. I didn't remember ever having this much fun, or being this much at ease.
He held up a coffee cup and some mini vanilla creamers. "Sugar, cream?"
"Oh you brought little creamers? Really? That's so cute!" I squealed. Coffee did that to me.
"Boy, you're an easy one to please."
"I love those little things in life." I tilted my head and gathered my hair over my left shoulder. I watched him make my coffee.
"Remember, I promised you'd ice your wrist. Now looks like a good time."
He handed me the icepack from the ice chest and placed it on the edge of the boat where I rested my wrist. He handed my coffee to me, and I watched him pour his own. Straight black.
It was the epitome of relaxation. Quiet. Serene. Beautiful. Coffee. And oh yeah, hot guy. Charming hot guy.
"You like reading?"
"I like hearing." I smiled. He pulled a book from the basket.
"What are you? Mary Poppins?" I laughed. "What else do you have in there?"
"Some things I like to keep secret."
"I can find out secret things, you know. My best friend, Chloe, rubs shoulders with, like, the CIA."
"Yeah, I know. I've been in compliance with them all summer."
"Ha, ha," I shot back.
He opened a book and started reading aloud. As I listened to him read, I realized that he wasn't like any guy I'd ever known. I had never been with a witty, deep, intellectual type whose vocabulary went beyond "practice," "dude," "nachos," "burger," "totally," and "ESPN."
Yes, the ingredients were majorly there for a girl to fall in a big way. Now all he needed to do was pull out an acoustic guitar, and I would be sold, just as long as he didn't get like that creepy guy on The Bachelorette who sang about "guarding and protecting your heart" and then got the message of his undying love tattooed on his arm. Creepo! That was a little too die-hard romantic. Orien had the looks, the hotness, and the romantic mysterious side down, but he was playful, social, and balanced. Perfect.
Speaking of perfect, we shared a perfect brunch-eggs he actually scrambled, chocolate chip muffins, and turkey bacon. Oh, and little bottles of orange juice. Afterward, we both let our food settle and lay back on the boat cushions letting the waves rock us.
"Let me cook dinner for you tonight," I said sleepily.
"You haven't had enough of me?"
I chose not to answer. Instead, I leaned in, lifted my giant, oversized hat, and kissed him. "Is this a good answer?"
Hours later, he dropped me off and said he would be back in an hour so we could both freshen up. I made a dash like a mad woman and took the quickest shower possible. I pinned my beach waves in a loose, messy bun, and put on a nice, but casual, not-trying-too-hard, effortless, yet sexy dress. I lit a few candles, turned on some jazz music, and rinsed the vegetables as best as I could with my new handicap. Normally, I would have hand-chopped them, but since I couldn't use my left hand, I pulled out the food processor.
Like a man with an internal clock, he showed up an hour later, on the dot, as promised. I opened the door and flashed him my most alluring smile.
He was dressed in skinny, dark-washed Nudie Jeans, a black button-up shirt, and leather flip-flops. This time, he had only one button unbuttoned. Dang it. He was the epitome of a male model in Times Square. I nearly walked into my couch from his hotness.
"You look nice."
"You look beautiful."
We both said our compliments at the same time and laughed at ourselves.
"I know I haven't known you for too long, but your timing is impeccable. It's like, right on."
"Well, I'm just an on-time type of guy. Can I help with anything?"
He put his arm around me, and we walked back into the kitchen. "I love jazz," he noted.
And I love the way you smell and look!
I felt myself going all doe-eyed, so I shook my head and went back to assembling the vegetables and getting them ready to go into the food processor.
"Can I help you with anything?"
"No, you can just go back to being your good-looking self, have a seat, and keep me company."
"A straightforward woman, I like it."
He placed a bottle of Pellegrino on the table. "I know you're still on your pain meds, so no vino. Otherwise, it would look as if I were trying to take advantage of the situation. Pellegrino will have that nice touch with your pasta dish. Which reminds me, have you iced your wrist since we've been back?"
My mind shot back to the last crazy hour of my primping, painting my face, and assembling the food---no ice.
"Already did," I lied and smiled angelically.
I saw him looking at the food processor, so I said, "Yeah, I know. I hate using a food processor. The veggies won't be chopped right. The texture will be off."
"Then, let me chop them for you."
He obviously wouldn't take no for an answer. He walked over and put his arms around me. Goosebumps appeared on my arms; I turned around and looked at him.
His face had perfect symmetry with full lips and warm eyes. Like I said, epitome of a model and the kind of man who had statues made in honor of his perfection.
He kissed me on the cheek. "Let me finish chopping. I'm a good chopper, actually."
"Okay, okay." I grabbed the ice pack out of the freezer, sat down, and iced my wrist. "Blasted wrist." I let my chin rest on my hand, but not for long because then there was a knock at the door.
It wasn't the milkman, it wasn't the mailman, and it wasn't Josh coming back to apologize. There, behind door number one, stood Truett.
Oh. My. Everlasting. Gosh.
With... flowers. Pink sunflowers.
I opened the door. My heart pounded with adrenaline, shock, apprehension, fear and, of course, nausea. Nerves always did that to me.
"Norah, it's not my baby," he said.
My heart beat like the loudest drum. I shook my head instinctively. "Okay? Bravo. You might have wanted to check that before you married her."
"I know, I know. I'm so sorry, baby. I just want to be with you. I want us to work. What do you say, Nor? Give me another chance?"
"I... uh,"
I heard Orien clear his throat behind me as his shoulder brushed mine to walk past me. "Excuse me, Norah. I should go. Sounds like you two have some discussing to do." He looked at me with sad eyes. "Take care of your wrist."
And then he left.
"Wait!" I called after him.
"Who's that?" Truett asked.
"He's..." I began.
The guy I just kissed. The guy I'm falling for. I'm falling for? The guy who is a million times the man you are!
I watched Orien get into this car. I tried to see if he saw me looking as he reversed, but he didn't seem to notice.
My anger seethed through my teeth. "Truett, you and I are history."
"What? Oh, come on, Nor. I can be whatever you want me to be. Remember our fun times together? Please, say you do."
"Yes, I do, but I also remember you cheated on me. Since you thought Alicia was carrying your baby, that meant you first had to make a baby, something you and I clearly never did, which is why this all hurts even worse."
He got down on his knees and literally began begging. "Please, Norah. My game is so off. I need you. You always made me pitch the best I could."
Ignoring his pathetic plea, I said, "You know what? I'm in a good place, and I need you to leave."
The begging continued. "Baby, please. I need you."
"For crying out loud, stand up," I ordered with complete saturation of annoyance.
Like an obedient dog, he stood.
I held up my left hand, "I appreciate your-" I began. But then, I realized something. He never apologized. He just showed up looking debonair with the comment, "It's not mine." With flowers and begging, but absolutely no apology.
Then, I heard rustling in the nearby bushes and saw the lens of a thousand dollar-plus camera. Paparazzi.
"Look. I don't want to be hounded again, please leave, and please don't contact me," I hissed.
"But Nor..." He leaned in and tried to kiss me. I pushed back, but it was too late.
Photos were taken. Even though we didn't kiss, the illusion had already been photographed. The eager photographer jumped out of the bushes. No shame. He proceeded to walk right toward the front door.
"Hey, you!" I pushed Truett back and headed toward the photographer. "Leave! Remember what my father said? We have friends, who have friends, who have friends who run Jersey. If you know what I mean. Now, leave," I threatened, naturally raising my right hand in an attempt to ward him off.
Click. Click.
I looked down at my wrist and held it. I winced in pain.
Another click.
"Perfect," he said in a foreign accent. "Now I can feed my family for two more months."
"Ugh!" I turned to march back inside the house but faced Truett one last time.
"Please leave, Truett, and never contact me again," I said with all the strength in me.
"But-"
"Please! For the love!" I slammed the door and called Orien immediately. But he didn't answer.
I called him again, but he had turned off his phone. I collapsed on the couch and let out a giant annoyed scream.
"You freakin' stupid boy!"
I looked over my couch pillow to see if he was still standing there, which he was. I could see him through the glass.
I called Maycee, but she didn't answer. I had forgotten she was with Josh, the blasted jerk.
I had to stay focused.
I called Chloe. "Chloe! You have to come home from wherever you are, please! Truett is standing outside my door, and he won't leave."
"Oh, my word, are you for real? Well, I'm sorry, but I'm in some town, at some venue hearing Ryan's band. I don't have a ride home because, well, he picked me up, remember? I'm so sorry. Call your dad."
"Dad can't come. He's at the hospital."
"Call your mom."
"She's visiting my aunt in Boston."
"Well, where's Orien? I thought he was with you?"
"That's the problem. Truett showed up, and Orien got the wrong idea, and-"
I heard a loud, screeching sound.
"Chloe?"
"Hey, I'm sorry it's so loud. They're trying to do a sound check. Are you there?"
"I'm here!"
"Norah, are you there?"
"I'm here! I'm here!"
And then she hung up. A text appeared thirty seconds later.
I'm so sorry! I'll take a taxi! If there's one around here...
I texted back:
No, it's okay. Really, I can handle it.
I got up off the couch and yelled through the door, "If you don't leave, Truett, I'm going to have you arrested. Wouldn't look too good in the press."
I pushed the button for the privacy blinds and watched them lower. The house went from ultra-sunlight to near pitch-black. Having a chill run up my spine from the darkness, I immediately turned on the entry light, then the one in the living room. I double-checked the lock on the door, set the security system, and turned to a movie channel. I hated feeling like a prisoner in my home.
I dialed Orien's phone one more time. Voicemail.
Just as well.
The next day, the press had a field day. Pictures hit newsstands everywhere, and everyone was talking, saying everything from I had attempted suicide because of my bandaged wrist, to we were rekindling our hot romance and buying a castle in France. I did not want to face the awful press tour again. But there was one meeting I had to face later that night, dinner with Tim and Chris.
All I could bring myself to do all day was to be still and keep my wrist elevated with ice. If I stood, I would become too anxious. I'd pace. I'd fret over all of the clothes I had yet to create. I'd fret about how dinner would go, since I was in such emotional anguish. Meanwhile, my phone was ringing off the hook from other ladies of leisure willing to pay me three to four times the amount of original lady of leisure number one. Apparently, there was this important lunch for ladies who lunch, and their pups were invited. Every one of these ladies wanted to outdo the rest.
I was seriously considering it for the potential cash.
"I did it," Chloe said, as she handed me an iced tea, interrupting my thoughts. She sat down next to me in the living room.
"You did what?"
"I told my parents I'm going to Venezuela to assist two other doctors in an orphanage. I'm working with this philanthropic organization. Anyway, did you know with, like, one dollar a day, a child can have a mosquito net?"
"That's in Africa. You're going to Venezuela," I corrected.
"Right, I know in Africa, Miss Smarty Pants. Anyway, in Venezuela, I can do the vaccines and common wellness. I can make a difference. I'm just itching to go, to be just me, without my family's last name recognized. Oh, and speaking of itching, I have to take a few vaccines."
"Speaking of itching, Chloe, how'd your parents react? Were they itching with no's?"
"Well, I technically didn't talk to 'them,' per se, I told Vivian to tell them." Her mother's assistant. She let out that last part of her reply as fast as possible.
I nodded, thinking, I'd like to go. Would do me some good.
With the courage to voice my thought, I opened my mouth to tell Chloe I'd like to go with her. But naturally, she beat me to it.
"Don't worry. I already found something for you to do."
"You know me too well." I smiled.
"And I found something for Maycee, too! Which speaking of, have you seen her? Or heard from her?"
Honestly, I hadn't. Between being shot by the paparazzi, the whole world thinking I was on suicide watch, Truett coming, Orien leaving, hearing Josh's true intentions for Maycee, I couldn't bring myself to do anything. Paparazzi still lurked, hoping for another shot of me.
But I sincerely hoped the truth would come out about Josh, that Maycee would see his true colors. On that note, I decided to call her.
I dialed her from my Favorites on my iPhone. No answer. I tried again. I really didn't feel like calling my mom and asking where Maycee was because I didn't want to explain the whole Truett situation, hence my reply to her earlier text of:
"Oh, honey, are you okay? Please call ASAP. Right now. Worried."
And my texting back:
"I'm fine. Talk later. No, I'm not on suicide watch! You know that!"
But putting all hesitation aside, I decided to call Mom and see what was going on with Maycee.
I dialed and put her on speaker to avoid the headache talking on phone sometimes gave me, not to mention the recent release from the World Health Organization that cell phones were linked to possible brain cancer, which I knew all along. See, I could sense it!
"Oh, Norah! It's about time you called your poor mother!" my mom answered.
"Mom, it's only one in the afternoon. Who you should be worried about is sister dear, Maycee. Where is she? She didn't come home last night."
"Oh, sweetie, I was trying to keep it all a surprise!" Mom couldn't hide her excitement. "Josh flew her out to the Bahamas, to propose!"
"Mom! You allowed that?" I asked in complete utter shock.
"Why, separate rooms, he assured me." She tried to defend her honor.
"Mom, no. That's not what I mean. Not to mention the fact that you're naïve; meaning, I know Dad's the type of man who would do such a thing, protect your honor. But Josh? He can't be trusted. He's a snake. He's..." I grunted with annoyance. "Ugh!"
Chloe gave me the thumbs up to keep going.
"Norah, what on earth? You think-"
"Mom, Josh is using her! And I'm going to tell Dad."
"What?"
"Yes! Chloe and I heard him talking on the phone to his friend about faking this whole engagement and dropping her in three weeks after he finishes the residency program."
"Are you sure that's what you heard? Maybe you took too many pain killers."
"I'm sure. Chloe heard it as well!"
"Did she? Let me ask her."
Unbelievable. Knowing that my phone was on speaker and that everything I said could be heard, I loudly said, "My own mother doesn't believe me!"
My mom usually believes me, but clearly she was just in shock and needed to hear it from an outside source, a non-relative.
"Hi, Mrs. Johnson." Chloe smiled as if Mom were right in the living room, prim, perfect manners and all. She even sat perfectly straight, as one sits when playing the piano. The sight of such composure made me realize I couldn't wait to see Chloe in Venezuela.
Venezuela. Would I really be going? When was it? Where would my line be by then? Would I have a line? Would I have my boutique? Going away seemed like the right thing for me to do, yes. But what about Orien, what about-
"Yes, it's true. I'm sorry to tell you, but I heard it myself. You have another unashamedly unrelenting, unapologetic---"
"Unfaithful, probably!" I chimed in.
"Jerk," we said in unison and looked at each other with smiles creeping on our faces.
My mom sighed. "Oh, dear, we have a problem. Poor Maycee. Well, all we can do is just hope and pray she figures this out, and her high IQ will kick in, and her brain neurotransmitters will go into high gear telling her hypothalamus that Josh is bad news. Yes, I have faith that will happen. I need to start meditating on that right away."
Chloe and I stared at each other in shock.
"Mom?" I spoke louder since Chloe had the phone. "Since when do you know all of those technical words for the brain?"
"Why, ever since I started reading a book about the power of your subconscious mind and positive thinking."
I nodded. "Well, okay, then." I motioned for Chloe to hand me the phone. "Well, that's all I have for now." I just knew she was about to ask about the tabloids with her next breath.
"And no, Mom, I am not getting back together with Truett. No, we don't secretly have a house in France. He is ruining everything for me. He's ruined everything already."
"She means with Orien," Chloe spoke up.
I glared at her with an evil look.
"Orien?"
"Yes, it's this guy and..."
"Well, honey, wouldn't you know, call waiting. Might be Maycee. Call you back. Promise. I love you!" And with that, Mom hung up.
Chloe placed my phone on the coffee table. "What a circus all of this is."
"Tell me about it."
"I'm just glad you're here, Chloe." I sighed and without thinking, lifted my right arm over my head, causing the ice pack to fall on my head.
"Ouch!" I switched arms.
"Of course! That's what I'll always be for. I know you'd do the same for me if the roles were reversed."
"So what are you going to do with all those doggie calls? You don't want to neglect them or lose clients. That's if you want to make those adorable clothes that can put your name on the Hampton map. I see a future."
I habitually tried to cross my arms to ponder it, but winced in pain. "Ugh! Seriously!"
"Ah, Norah. No. Lay down. Ice." She got up and put the ice back on my wrist. It came in handy being surrounded by people in the medical profession. Having a father for a surgeon, meant that I could get stitches right at home, if needed. One time in my teens, a glass fell and sliced my ring finger, and he was able to sew it in a jiffy. Forgo the ER. It was nice.
Chloe was more than just a trained nurse. With her merely being in the same room, I felt that everything would be okay, even though chaos had knocked once again at my busy revolving door.
"You don't have to decide now, of course. If you like, I can play assistant and call the ladies back. If anyone knows how to work the socialites, it's me. All I ask in return is that you promise me you'll come to Venezuela with me."
She already knew me. I was going to go. I wasn't going to let my best friend in the world go to Venezuela alone. I had come to our summer home to escape and still couldn't really get free of the press. Venezuela would be even better.
"Okay, done. Deal. But what am I even going to be doing? If you're doing medical stuff, what will I be doing? Sewing clothes?" I asked.
"No, this precious orphanage needs help with the kitchen, the wash, preparing food, etcetera."
"Oh, kind of like Nacho Libre?"
"You could say that. It's a three-month mission, and we leave in September."
September. Less than three months away. For three months?
Again, reading my thoughts, she said, "You don't have to stay the entire three months, of course. Just help me ease into the transition. They say twenty-one days makes or breaks a habit. So what do you say, twenty-one days?" She batted her eyes as she had been trained in her debutante years.
Suddenly, my phone rang.
"Hi, Norah, it's Doctor Hood. I just saw you in the press today and, well, I just want to make sure it's not true about the suicide attempt."
O.M. sincerely, seriously G!
I tried to fake my lighthearted mood and laugh that fake girly laugh we all tend to make sometimes. "Oh, it's completely not true, Doctor Hood! I fell off a horse. You know, trying new things. Obeying doctor's orders."
"So, you're okay?"
"Not really."
"Why not?"
Was I really going to get into this with my therapist? About a guy? Sure, why not. What other dignity did I have left?
"It's just, there was this guy I started to..." Started to what? I wondered how to begin. "Who found my lost journal. And well, anyway, I met him and really enjoyed his company. And now he's gone. He just completely disappeared. I mean I know he has his oral dissertation defense on Monday, but-"
"Dissertation?"
"Yes, his oral defense for his PhD in counseling, I believe."
It sounded like he dropped the phone. I jerked the phone away, hoping to spare a few eardrum cells.
"Sorry about that, Norah. My hands were wet from doing the dishes. So what's this fellow's name?"
"Orien," I replied.
"Orien, huh? Handsome fellow?"
"Yeah, you could say that. Very handsome. And sweet. Thoughtful and intelligent and knows about tea. Every girl's dream. I never would have thought you could feel so connected to someone so quick. The fact that he read my journal and actually found it entertaining. He could really read between the lines. He even analyzed my handwriting and found that I was troubled but hopeful. Creative but stuck. Ambitious but felt trapped to a certain level. He was right on.
"But anyway, he was, well, an innocent bystander of the whole Truett spectacle. I mean, I didn't even kiss Truett. It wasn't like that. If anything, I choose Orien. But now I can't tell him that."
I heard him clear his throat. "Well, why's that?"
"He won't answer his phone."
"Well, Norah. Everything will work out. Don't you worry. I'm glad to hear that you didn't try to do anything and, uh, keep the faith. Well, I have to go and make a few other phone calls for the day. If you need me, you know where to find me. Goodbye."
I dazedly put down the phone.
Chloe said, "Wow, you gave your therapist an earful! Maybe I should go into therapy. I'd like to tell my deepest, darkest feelings. Yet I'd be afraid someone would tell someone."
"Well, they can't," I informed her.
"But they could!"
"Well, for now, you have me. But I'd be curious to be your therapist. I'm sure you have the greatest stories to tell," I said, knowing her grand, private background.
Her eyes danced. "The wildest. Maybe I'll write a tell-all memoir, huh?"
Later that night, I sat at an upscale restaurant with Chris and Tim. As soon as Chris saw my arm, worry, and concern plastered his face.
"Norah, honey. Please tell me that what I'm seeing in the press is mere fabrication."
"Yes, and before you answer," his friend, Tim, cut in, "I must let you know, you are much more beautiful in person. I absolutely love that color on you. Works perfect for your skin."
"Yes, it's false. And thanks for the compliment," I said half-heartedly, ready to move on with business. I didn't even want to thank him to begin with because, was that really a compliment? It was like saying, "Oh, you look horrendous in photos, but actually okay in person." Oh, well.
"Truth is, I fell from a horse. Of all things. Anyway, let's talk about business, shall we?" I urged.
"I find that discussing one's personal life is just so much more interesting! So tell me, is he a good kisser, honey?" Tim asked.
Oh, puh-lease! Seriously?
"Would you excuse me, please?" I asked.
I saw Chris rebuke his friend who said, "What?" innocently and shrugged, as I got up from the table to go to the ladies room.
After five minutes powdering my nose in the ladies room and keeping myself from crying, I rejoined them. "Well, would you like to see what I've been working on?"
I took off the cover of my garment bag. Chris sorted through the five pieces.
"Well, this is just so hot," Chris said.
"I like it," Tim agreed.
Yes. Score. I pictured the fabulous magazine spread where I would be wearing fur, probably, sitting on an oversized suede chair in my creating room with the perfect view of the ocean in the background, and-
"But, you know, Norah, what's in right now is silk, not chiffon," Tim continued.
"Yes, I know, but this is a class-"
"And the color, where's the hot coral? That's so hot right now."
"Right. Well, as I was saying, I was going for more of a classic-"
"Norah, these are fabulous, but I want to see what's hot right now."
This is hot right now! Let me explain!
Defeated, I sat there, thinking about Orien, thinking about my wrist, thinking about the press, thinking about Coco and the ladies of leisure. Then I couldn't control my tears from exploding. Right then and there in the middle of the restaurant, I started sobbing and got the hiccups.
And for once, I didn't apologize. No, I just continued crying and hiccupping, while the other guests looked at me with concern mixed with utter horror. My head rested in my hands as my earthquake-like convulsions continued.
Chris said, "Look what you did, Tim. You made the poor girl cry!"
"Oh, she's not crying. She's wailing." Tim immediately kicked into effeminate gear 100%. "Oh, dear. Please don't cry. I think you're a gifted designer, really. Don't take what I said to heart. I'm the owner of a magazine. We're always thinking fashion forward. But if you're going to make it in this industry, you can't be so sensitive." He played with his straw and stirred it around, making the ice clink and clang against the glass.
I looked up and stared at his water glass.
I'm not! my insides screamed. I'm making my way back to earth from emotional hell.
He shot a look at Chris, as if to say, "I thought you said she was the next big thing."
"Thanks, Tim. Would you excuse us for a moment?"
"Oh sure, I'll grab a martini... gladly." He threw his linen napkin on the table and headed toward the bar saying, "Oh, hey, Fernando! Fancy seeing you here!"
"Norah, what's going on?" Chris asked, as he scooted his chair closer.
"I'm sorry, Chris. I really am." I tried to keep the mascara from running in my eyes. I just knew I looked like a raccoon. "I'm just in the middle of a meltdown, a crisis. I didn't mean to respond this way. Everything's just falling to pieces."
He waited for me to continue.
"I'm a calm, collected, powerful business woman. I really am." I sat with the most perfect posture I could gather.
"Dear, pull it together."
"I'm trying."
He looked at my wrapped wrist resting in my lap. "How much longer until you can sew?"
"Two weeks. A week or so?"
"Cutting it close. No pressure." He tried to console me.
I could just read his mind. He was thinking about Darcy, the other prized student from L.A. Would he be calling her and dropping me?
One day later, there were eight phone calls made by Chloe to the owners of the fur balls of luxury, zero calls from Orien, and no calls from Maycee. I sat in Dr. Hood's office.
"So what are you going to do about your line?" he asked.
"I'm not sure. It feels so forced. From all this chaos. This line... it's like I associate this line with trauma."
"That's very understandable, and very insightful of you to notice, I might add." He nodded.
I nodded with him, careful to time my nods with his. Not too eager, not too slow, but right with his.
Yes, that's right. I am smart and insightful.
"Just get some time to really think about these things and be alone. You'll rise above the clutter. Well, the right thing will happen as it should."
\*
Taking his advice of really thinking about things and being alone, I decided to visit this "amazing" coffee shop that both Maycee and Chloe raved about.
Upon first entrance, I definitely saw the appeal. It wasn't one of those commercialized coffee shops, like Starbucks. It was unique, classy, and timeless, like the neighborhood. It was probably family-owned, but the variety was definitely still there. Mild roast, banana nut roast, toffee, southern pecan, chocolate mousse? Yeah! Some variety.
When I opened the door, instead of smelling like coffee, the smell of oak wood and fresh lemon alerted my morning senses. I had expected the coffee shop to smell overwhelmingly like coffee. But strangely, it didn't.
It had such a peaceful feel to it. Totally Zen. I knew instantly that I'd like it.
I ordered my coffee and walked over to the little table and fixed my coffee the way I liked it. Lots of cream. Lots of sugar.
My white ceramic mug felt cooler with the added cream. I tasted it. It was perfect.
I took my travel Louis Vuitton tote, my umbrella, and coffee mug and made my way to an empty oversized couch in the back corner. A magazine rack was filled with the latest US Weekly and People magazines among many others---political, Good Housekeeping, and decorating. I made sure to immediately turn the cover of US Weekly over because what would you know, I was on the cover. I decided to put my sunglasses back on even though it was practically about to pour outside.
I sat down and felt my body sink into the chair. Note to self, need to buy one of these chairs.
A kind man with gray hair shared my coffee table with me. I noticed him watching my every move.
"Hi!" I decided to say enthusiastically.
He studied my face. Crap, does he recognize me? I thought.
"What is your name?" he asked extremely slowly. It seemed to take every ounce of strength in him to articulate his words. My heart dropped to my toes.
"I'm Norah," I said warmly
"Sure... does... look... like... rain." He stuttered and tried his hardest to get the words out.
Oh, my gosh, self control... I'd been so much in touch with my emotions that I was about to have an emotional monsoon fest at the sight of this man. I noticed his wooden cane. He was obviously handicapped.
Then, three incredibly cute boys ran up to him. "Mr. Green!" The boys gave him giant hugs as their young mother followed behind.
"How you doing today?" she asked him with kind eyes.
"Doing good. Doing good."
As they spoke, I pulled out my journal. I didn't want to appear nosey.
"Just doing some reading?" she asked.
He had the New York Times in his hand. Upside down. "Yes."
"Well, you have a great day today! Enjoy your afternoon and your movie," she said, kindly.
The boys were dressed in wetsuits, ready for the beach.
"Those are my neighbors," he told me.
"Oh, really? Do you live in the area?"
"Yes. It's so hard to tell who belongs to who, the children. They always play in the street," he said in his slow stammer.
My heart grew with warmth. "How long have you lived here?"
"Five years. My wife passed away five years ago, and I lived in a big house all by myself. So I moved to a bungalow over here."
I decided to take off my glasses, so impersonal, anyway. I glanced at his left hand. He still wore his beloved wedding ring.
He looked at my journal. "Are you a writer?"
"No I'm in... I'm just... I journal." The right words finally came.
"Oh, that's great. I've always been enamored with writers. I'm sure they have to read a lot. Ever since my stroke, I haven't been able to read, and I just want to read a book."
"Oh, really? Have you tried books on audio?"
"Yes, I just don't like them as much."
I really didn't know what to say. I was speechless. My heart ached. Here I was thinking I had heartache, where there was a man, a widower, who had lost his wife, his books, and his speech. I was sure he had lived a happy life. At least, I knew the neighborhood he lived in, and people had to have millions to live there.
"Well, it seems like you've recovered well." I smiled sweetly.
"No. ...No....I can't... reason, do math... if I read something small in the paper, I can't remember at the end what I read."
I didn't know how to respond to that. All I knew to do was to smile really big at him. So I smiled the absolute best smile I could gather, as if I were auditioning for a Colgate ad.
"But enough about me. What about you?" He laughed a hearty laugh, which made me laugh, too.
"I just came home from an internship. I'm a clothing designer."
"That's great." he said. "Boyfriend?"
"No." I said quietly.
"Well, I'm sure... I'm sure all the boys are after you like a dog after his lost bone." With that, he got up and left.
As I watched the kind man slowly walk away, I suddenly realized, yes, I might have lost a man I once loved and, yes, I might have lost another man who I was falling in very-much like with, but I had never lost a spouse, without ever having the chance to keep fighting.
Suddenly, a giant epiphany went off in my head. I decided I would fight for Orien. I had to try and make him understand. It was the least I could do.
So I decided to rush home and Google him to see if I could at least find a lead to where his oral defense was since it was that same day.
Once home, I went to his Facebook page, and I saw that his defense was in four hours.
With that knowledge, I yelled at the top of my lungs, "Chloe!"
"What? Did someone die?" She ran to me in my creating room.
"No, we're going to Orien's school. His dissertation defense is today."
"For real?" she asked, completely surprised.
"Yes. Hurry."
We changed clothes, grabbed sustenance-Starbucks Vanilla Frappuccino coffee drinks---and went on our way.
Three hours later, we were on his campus. We parked conspicuously and watched students walking around the area. We saw a few studious-looking professors piling into an auditorium, which seemed like a place the defense might be held. We crept as quietly as one creeps into a courtroom and blended in toward the back. I felt like Elle Wood's friends in the movie Legally Blonde, where they walked into the quiet courtroom with complete disregard for the rules, and yelled, "Go, El! You're like in a real courtroom and everything. How cute!" Except Chloe and I didn't yell out, "Go, Orien" and disrupt the auditorium. I just felt majorly out of place.
The first thing I had grabbed to change into was a halter top, turquoise dress. Chloe and I were dressed to do lunch, not attend a dissertation defense.
So we tried our best not to be seen. It was a good thing the lights were lowered, as if Orien was about to take center stage for a soliloquy. I didn't want him to see me.
He spoke so eloquently that I felt like giving him a standing ovation. I couldn't do that, except in my heart, quietly, and in the squeal-ish faces I kept making to Chloe. As soon as he gave his defense, Chloe and I rushed back to our safe compound, the Rover.
"What do I do now?" I asked. I felt like I had accomplished so much already.
"I don't know," Chloe answered. I knew this was completely out of her element; chasing a boy would never fly in her world.
"Call him?" she guessed.
So I called him. "Hi, it's me. I heard your defense was spectacular."
Chloe urgently tapped my shoulder, and whispered, "Just how would you have heard he did well, if you weren't there stalking him?"
Panicked, I quickly said, "I mean, it's all over Twitter, that is. You even have your own hash tag. Imagine that. Well, uh, please call me." I hung up.
"And that, my friend, is the last stalker call you are making."
"You think he thinks I'm a stalker?" I asked in total freak-out mode.
She shrugged again. "Well, I guess you kind of covered your tracks with Twitter, but his own hash tag?"
"I know. I always do that when I get nervous or when I'm lying; I get farfetched. I guess I could create a fake Twitter account pronto and create that hash tag in case he checks."
We saw him leaving the auditorium. I recognized his brother. He put his arm around him and gave him a huge congratulatory shove. Several people crowded around them for pictures.
Then I saw Doctor Hood.
"Crap." I slid down in my seat and covered my face with my hand. "Dr. Hood is here, too? What's he doing here?" I looked at Chloe. Suddenly, I didn't feel like playing Nancy Drew anymore.
"This is getting weird," I said.
"Well, maybe he was on the panel," Chloe suggested. "He is a psychologist, after all."
Still slouched, I nodded. "Yeah. You're probably right." I looked back through the windshield and decided it was time to exit. I really didn't want to look like a stalker. So, I turned on the engine, prayed that my SUV would be quieter than normal, and exited the parking lot.
As we exited the University, I felt an intense longing to call him back. "You know, Chloe. Maybe his phone was off, and he just now turned it back on. I should call. I mean, earlier today, I was at this cute coffee shop, and I met this man who lost his wife, books, and speech, and he didn't even get to fight for it. Well, I can fight for Orien to understand."
She slowly nodded. She knew it was pointless to argue.
But I didn't call right away. I waited. Twenty minutes.
And then I called. "Hi, it's me again. I promise I'm not stalking you. I would just really like to talk to you. I-"
Chloe took the phone from me. "Time to retire the number, sweetie."
Defeated, we made our way back home listening to my Playlist entitled, "My Life is Over," the playlist I had made before I moved into the summer home: Damien Rice, Coldplay, Sarah McLachlan, and other melancholy music. It even rained on the way home.
When "Angel" came on, I started crying. I said, "You know, Chloe. I wish an angel would just come and give him my message! Ugh! I need divine intervention. I-"
That was when she unplugged my iPod, and said, "Sweetie, no more sad music." She put on her playlist of Black Eyed Peas, Justin Timberlake, and Beyoncé as she attempted to get me to dance.
When "Single Ladies" came on, she rolled down the windows and started singing at the top of her lungs. And, of course, I couldn't help but to join her and start feeling an teensy-weensy bit better.
When we got home, there was a big surprise. Maycee was home. We could see her through the glass, sitting on the couch reading a magazine.
"She's here. Oh, my gosh" We rushed out of the Rover and ran into the house like schoolgirls for recess.
"Maycee!" My jaw hung open. I was tongue-tied. What could I say to her? I had so many things to tell her.
"I've been calling you like a gazillion times. You're not in the Bahamas."
"No, I was there. Now I'm home." She tossed the magazine aside.
"Go ahead, ask the gazillion questions. But first, did you hear?"
Chloe and I sat down on the opposite couch. We both looked at her left hand. No ring.
"Yeah, mom said you were getting engaged and-"
"No, I mean, I got laid off from teaching." She reached for a letter on the coffee table next to her coffee and handed it to me. "It's all in the letter."
Before I could even look at the letter, console her, do anything, she held up her hands and sighed. "You know, it's for the best. I've saved a lot of money, and I need to pursue writing fulltime again. In the Bahamas, I wrote a novella in just two days. Two days! And it's actually a comedy of my life and relationship with Josh, fictionalized a bit, but based off this outlandish ploy. And-"
"Oh my gosh, you did it? I'm so proud of you! I wish I could be brave enough to write my story!" I shook my head, then went for the most obvious question. "So what happened? You had two full days to write, which probably meant-"
"I broke it off with him. You were right all along. But to make him pay, I went to the Bahamas alone and upgraded to the best suite they had, beachfront, of course, costing him a pretty penny." She smiled mischievously.
"Maycee! You should have called me. I would have been by your side in a heartbeat."
"I know, I just wanted to be by myself."
"How did you find out?"
"Well, we were checking our bags in, and he needed to go to the men's room. He left his phone, which a man with lies should never do. Naturally, curious person that I am, like any normal woman would, I started scrolling through his texts. I found out about it all right then and there. Funny how much one can learn in three minutes about someone via their text messages."
We hung on every word, eyebrows lifted. We didn't dare interrupt because it was such a juicy story.
"So when he came back, he knew. He just knew I knew everything from the look on my face. I told him he had better get as far away from me as possible. He tried to quiet me, like, 'Let's move out of the way and talk about it. It's not what you think,' to keep me from making a scene.
"No, I made sure to make a scene, embarrass him. I told him, 'Oh, I know what this is. And you're paying for this.'
"So, I told the airline ticket agent to upgrade me to first class and cancel the other ticket. You should have seen his face! White as a ghost. I told him that after all he had put me through, he better not object, or I would tell Dad. I'm going to tell him anyway, but---"
"I hope he loses his spot," I said, in sisterly defense.
"I know what you mean. Trust me. I'll tell Dad. Honestly, I don't think anything can be done legally. I'm just not a vengeful person. Deep down, I still care for him. My feelings, believe it or not, were real. But, I do have something I'm good at, and it's writing! This book is funny, trust me. I already started a blog, and people love it. They can't believe the guts the guy had! I'm hoping it goes viral."
I laughed and slouched down in the couch a little. "Gosh, that's great, Maycee. I can't wait to read it, and I can't believe you were in the beautiful Bahamas all by yourself."
"I know. We'll go on a girls' trip, I promise."
"Well, we already are, as a matter of fact, and you're already coming. And since, well, the whole layoff thing happened, sorry, well, even more reason for you to come with us!"
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Venezuela. We're going to go work in an orphanage. September. Three weeks. You just need shots, and you're good," Chloe interjected.
"Miss Adventure, are you in?" I asked.
"Don't you need to ask and make sure there's a spot for me, you know paperwork, applications?" Maycee asked.
"Okay, I normally don't play this card, but girl, what's my last name? Besides, Vivian took care of it. I had already signed you up to go with us." Chloe folded her arms and shrugged.
"You mean my application was forged? My interview?"
"Well, your application wasn't forged; it was just taken care of for you. You'll have your interview on the phone. I have the date in my day planner. Don't worry. We're a trio now. I guess I'm catching on to this sisterly wave you have going on here." She smiled.
"I would love to go." Maycee held up her hands in her animated way. She sighed. "Just, I must ask, will there be internet? And electrical outlets?"
We both stared at her like deer caught in headlights.
"We're going to Venezuela to work in an orphanage," I said, slowly enunciating every word.
"Right, I'm not deaf. I have a YouTube channel, and I have to keep up my online presence and appearance. I have to look like a million bucks. The tan I can do, and I guess the extra fullness in my hair will work from the humidity. I mean, I guess I can rock the wavy do, but now I need to plan what to wear."
"Maycee! You're going! You'll look great! You'll gain more readers this way," I interrupted in sisterly annoyance.
I watched her ponder it. "Yeah, I bet you're right."
"I am right. Do a segment about 'How to dress in an orphanage,' and you're sure to lose a few followers for swimming in the shallow pool!"
"True," she admitted. "Okay, you're right. I guess that is a little shallow of me. But the scenery will work!" She got up and walked toward the kitchen. I could tell the idea danced in her mind.
"Yes, this is brilliant! Just what I need. Out of the country."
"Yeah, tell me about it. Me, too," I commented honestly. "So what are you going to do about your book?"
"Well, it's in the hands of a freelance editor right now, a designer is working on the cover, and then I'm uploading that baby to Amazon!"
"Wow, that's great, Maycee! I'm so excited for you, and truly just proud. I wonder what your publishers will think."
"Who cares, they're missing out majorly on not signing me, and they'll see soon enough."
There was a knock at the door. Who could that be? Please let it be Orien and not Truett. Please let it be Orien and not Truett.
As I made my way past the hallway, the glass wall gave me a head start to who our visitor was. It was Chris. He was smoking a cigarette, and I watched as he put it out with the heel of his five-hundred-dollar shoes.
What does he want? I groaned.
As I walked to the door, I talked myself into having a good attitude. Things hadn't gone very well in our last meeting, so why was he here?
I opened the door.
"Hi, darling," he said as he let himself in as if he were family. I kind of admired the way he lived his life that way. It definitely came across as confident.
I shut the door behind him and watched him take in the view. "Well, it's true. This house holds up to its reputation."
"I didn't know you would be in the neighborhood." I shut the door with my back.
"Well, I was visiting a friend, and I knew you lived nearby, so I wanted to swing by and not only see the most talked about glass house on the strand but, well..."
Well what?
But as his ADD nature would have it, his eyes went to the kitchen table covered with tape measures, invoices, copies of checks, cash, and little doggie couture creations midway through their inception.
He took the liberty of picking one up. "Norah, is this for little people? Have you gone mental?"
Before I could respond, he helped himself to my finances like an investigator. "Two thousand dollars?" His eyes opened wide. "Norah, do you have crack hidden in these clothes or something?"
I had to laugh. Before I could even try to explain, he continued, "What on earth?" He looked at the pile of cash and another check for three thousand dollars. Apparently, he felt he had enough evidence, as he sat on the edge of the table. I hoped he wasn't wrinkling any of the silk fabric.
He folded his arms. "Do you have something you'd like to tell me?"
I could play that game. "Do you have something you would like me to tell you?"
"Is this what you've been doing with your time?"
I couldn't lie. "Yes, it's-"
"Well, clearly, whatever this is, it's profitable! Your entire set of pieces from your current line wouldn't have sold for more than five grand."
"Doggie Couture." I smiled.
"Doggie Couture. I love it. I like the sound of it," he said, as he got off the table and ran over to put his hands on my arms.
"This is brilliant, Norah!" He squeezed just a little too hard.
"Well, thanks," I said. "I didn't mean for this to be created; it just happened naturally."
"Let me be your partner."
"Oh, well, it's just for a handful of-"
"I don't care. We'll outsource patterns. It will blow up. Trust me. We'll call Susan in Marketing. She's just perfect at branding. We could get you on QVC. You could become a lifestyle brand, like Jessica Simpson or Martha Stewart. Just think."
He put his right hand on his hip, as his left hand went to the sky. "Doggie Couture."
Coco ran down the hallway. Chloe had let her out of my room, where she had been held for the past few hours while we were gone.
"Would you look at her!" He went to pick Coco up, but then stopped, probably because he didn't want dog hair on his jacket. "Love the coral on her."
She was sporting a coral number---yes, that's right-coral, the color his whack friend had been dying to see.
"Yes, this is the way of the future. And I like being on the cutting edge."
What about my line? I wanted to ask.
"Will you at least think about it, Norah? You can make some serious cash and still work on your line. Just think about it; this is what you're producing now. Naturally," he said, saying the right thing, dangling the right goods. Hoping I'd take the bait.
I thought about Orien and how all my inspiration stemmed from him. He had suggested the business with the ladies in the first place. Had I not gone on a walk with him that night, I would have never met them. I had him to thank.
"Well, sewing each outfit takes a lot of time. I simply don't have time to make each order couture, uniquely made. I-"
"Outsource, honey. We'll make patterns. Hire seamstresses, that only you approve, of course, and be on our way. That's how business is done."
Chloe couldn't hold her excitement. "Norah, that's great. I love it!" She jumped up and down.
We both looked at her, forgetting a third party was taking part in our business discussion.
"Oh, this is Chloe." I motioned.
He finished her last name for her. "I hear your dad's running for president."
Taken aback, she asked, "Oh really?"
I wondered how he knew that. No one was supposed to know.
"Yeah, he might do a fine job. He has some pretty tough competition, if you ask me, but Texas's economy has stayed pretty solid, so maybe he's just what this country needs to balance the budget."
"Or Norah can create her doggie couture and make so much revenue that other countries are just dying to be a part of it, thus, they cash their bonds in for a doggie couture stock."
I knew what she was doing. She was trying to play down her intelligence in hope that he wouldn't pry and would just leave her alone. It worked every time for her. I decided I would help her.
"Well, Chris, thanks for stopping by. I have these orders that I promised these ladies I would have ready for them by their precious doggie and mom luncheon."
Taking the hint, he said, "Well, at least think about it and get back to me. Preferably by, say, no more than forty-eight hours. Then, we'll talk a business plan."
He turned and left.
We watched him leave through the glass windows. He got into his black Mercedes, lit another cigarette, called his next boy toy, and drove away.
"Norah! This is so exciting!" Chloe jumped up and down. "Think about it, this could give you national exposure! This is a brilliant idea! In this single month alone, you brought in ten grand. That was just you and me working together, word of mouth. Think about the potential with a national, even world-level with an actual marketer, branding, PR! You could even be on, like, Good Morning, America or something. And when you are, not if, but when, you can wear one of your designs. When they say, 'Oh, my, what a lovely dress you have on.' You can say in full confidence in your savvy way, 'Oh, it's my own design.'"
I let her excitement sink in. She brought a smile to my face. Good Morning, America? Regis and Kelly? Could that happen? Would that happen? There was so much potential. All I could think about was Orien, and how all of this was because of him. I owed him my gratitude.
"Norah! I know! This will be perfect. A doggie couture fashion show!" Her eyes lit up.
My friend was brilliant. "You're brilliant!"
She shrugged. "I do what I can do."
Even with all the newfound excitement, I felt a tinge of longing, wishing I could share this moment with Orien.
But I hadn't heard a word from him yet. No returned calls or texts. What had happened to him?
I guessed God was trying to give me the hint. The signs were clear. He had come into my life for a brief moment, given me a good business idea, and helped me through two emotional breakdowns. I just wish he would have stayed around a little longer.
As usual, Chloe, living on the same wavelength, read my face. "Everything happens for a reason. If it's meant to be, it will be. He will be."
A week later, I sat in Doctor Hood's office.
"So, how do you know when you're in love, then?" I asked.
"That's easy."
"That's easy? But I thought love was so complex."
"Love is complex." He held up his finger. "But knowing you're in love isn't. Get it?"
I thought about that statement for a few moments. Umm, nope. Didn't get it.
"No, I don't get it."
"It's the bridge between the two that catches people. People either maximize and confuse the complexity of it altogether, or they minimize love and make being in love the complex part. When in fact, to be scared of love is completely normal. There is no fear in perfect love."
My brain hurt!
He could tell. So he moved on. "I have a request. I'd like for you to go on a date with my grandson."
"You're ordering me to go on a date?" I laughed. "Isn't that, like, illegal?"
"Well, good thing I'm retiring tomorrow."
"You're retiring tomorrow? This is my last session?"
I sat there feeling sadness creep over me. I was going to miss Doctor Hood. He had begun to feel like family to me.
"I wish I could throw you a party or something, but I know that's completely inappropriate. Will I still have a therapist?"
"Well, my practice is going to go to my grand-" He stopped.
"Your grand what?"
"My grand partner from California is taking over the practice since he completed his dis-" And then he stopped again.
"His dissertation?" I asked, since the word was fresh in my brain.
"Oh, did I say dis? I meant disembodiment research paper on social interaction."
"Huh?"
"Yes. He's a social expert. So anyway, you seemed just so, well, sad, and I wanted to remind you of the other fish in the sea."
"You seriously want me to go on a date with your grandson?"
What if this didn't work out?
"Look, I think the signs have clearly shown and pointed that God is trying to hint for me to be single."
"Well, could you maybe just accompany him for a nice dinner? His, uh, dog died while he was away, and his girlfriend cheated on him."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"So, when is this date?"
"Tonight."
"Tonight?"
"This is so unethical."
"Well, like I said, good thing I'm retiring tomorrow."
"How will I know it's him?"
"What's your favorite flower?"
"Sunflowers."
"He'll be at a table with a sunflower." He smiled and folded his hands, closing the deal, like a good businessman. After all, he was a trained therapist. He knew how to push the right buttons to make someone do what he wanted. I felt tears come to my eyes. I liked Doctor Hood, truly.
"You've done great, Norah. You will forever and always be known as my last patient. Look how far you've come this summer. Record-breaking strides."
Ignoring his compliments, I sat with my arms crossed. He was like Robin Williams, completely adorable, likeable, but something was cooking. Something was up his sleeve. He seemed to have taken on Robin Williams's real life persona, his mischievous side.
I smirked. "Pretty confident I would go, huh?"
"Well, I've gotten to know you, and I know you have a heart filled with compassion."
My emotions kept somersaulting. One, I wanted to throw him a party. Two, I was going to miss him. Three, I just didn't know what to say.
"I'm going to miss you, Doctor Hood."
"Well, you always have a friend in me, Norah. I don't tell most clients that, but you will always have a friend in me. I better get an invite to your fashion show."
\*
Hours later, I stood in my bathroom completing a fabulous smoky-eye on my left eye while Chloe and Maycee stood in the doorway.
"Whatcha' got going on, there? You look hot," Maycee said.
"You smell divine, too! What perfume is that?" Chloe asked.
"It's actually named after you! It's Chloe."
"Sounds about right. They know how to build a brand," she said.
"I'm going on a date with my therapist's grandson tonight."
Maycee opened her mouth to speak but stopped. Then, she decided to ask, "Oh, really?"
"Yeah, I know. Pathetic, huh? Pretty lame, but I got suckered into it. I just can't stop thinking about Orien." I placed the eyeliner down on the counter and shook my head. "I just don't think this a good idea."
"It's not a good idea? Well it sounds like a great idea to me." Maycee tried to convince me with much passion.
I immediately cocked my head, furrowed my brows, and gave her the "what's gotten into you" look.
But before I could let the flood of inquisitions rise, Chloe interjected, "What she means is, it will help your mind."
They exchanged a glance.
Okay.
"Well, how about I drive you then? Drop you off?" Maycee offered, with the same heavy persistence.
"How would I get home? What if he's awful? What if he's horrible? What if he's a psychopath, and I end up in a ditch somewhere?" I waved my bandage-free arm. "Absolutely not! I don't want him to know where I live!"
"Let your date bring you home," Maycee continued.
"No. Why are you being so insistent? Are you insane? I'd never let you do that!"
Chloe pinched Maycee's arm.
"Just let me drive you. I want to. I'll even pick you up if I have to. I just want you to not drive, is all. I had a bad dream about you being in this accident, and I don't know what I would do if I lost you," Maycee continued.
They exchanged another look.
"Why do you two keep looking at each other like that?"
"No reason," Chloe quickly defended.
"Well, we'll be waiting in the living room. Let us know when you're ready for us to take you," Maycee said.
A half an hour later, after I let them convince me to be dropped off, which I thought was a horrible idea, but they kept insisting.
I walked into the restaurant wearing my prize-winning dress, the one I had worn the night I confronted Truett-my black, strapless, fabulous-looking dress that made eyes and heads turn everywhere. I looked better than I ever had. I had a nice tan, but I was also truly radiating peace from within. They say your face radiates what lies within your heart. And my heart was free from the dross; I was actually happy once again.
As I approached the hostess at the desk, out of the corner of my eye, I saw, of all people, Orien! Immediately, I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled so he wouldn't see me. My stomach flipped with nausea. He looked so good. I felt like I might cry because he was probably there with someone. Why hadn't he returned my calls?
"Miss, are you okay?" the hostess bent down to ask me.
She really shouldn't have bent down in such a tight outfit. I could practically hear the stitching pop. I peered up to see if Orien could see me. It appeared that he couldn't.
What a close one. I had to get out of there. He couldn't see me, not after all that had happened. He couldn't see me with another guy. I had to leave, get out of there and call everything off with Dr. Hood's grandson.
"Miss?" the eager-to-have-everything-in-order-to-please-her-attractive-manager-she-was-secretly-in-love-with hostess continued. She had that look written all over her.
"Oh, I just lost my mother's diamond earrings. Worth a fortune. Been in the family, type of thing"
"Oh, no. Everyone, she lost her diamond earring that's worth a fortune and been in the family. Help her look!" she practically shouted, calling all who were nearby with eager hands, charismatically directing the way.
Crap.
At her sudden urging, everyone crouched down around me and began looking for my non-existent diamond earring.
Yeah, you're never going to find it. Because it doesn't exist!
I continued to fake look for my non-existent earrings, but then a nice pair of shiny shoes greeted me. I looked up and saw the very person I was trying to hide from, Orien.
"Norah, what on earth are you doing down there?" he asked with his arms behind his back.
Trying to hide from you.
"Oh, hi. I..." I sat on my knees, hopeless.
And then suddenly, he touched my nose with a yellow sunflower that had been behind his back. "Hi, I'm Orien Jones, Doctor Hood's grandson."
It was him all along?
"It's you? You're Doctor Hood's grandson?"
My mind went back to all the memories that should have hinted, maybe. The day my wrist was sprained, my dad had asked if I was in the hood or at the Hoods. The way Doctor Hood had stumbled over his words earlier about grand and dis. Grandson. Dissertation. The fact that Doctor Hood was at that concert and Orien's dissertation defense. The evidence was all there for me to have put two and two together, but I guess his obvious skin color difference, his gorgeous tan skin, and Doctor Hood's pasty white skin, had made it kind of hard for me to naturally do so. I didn't care, and I was glad I didn't know then.
My heart melted. I couldn't help but find tears in my eyes. I knew it was lame, but I was so happy to see him.
I felt so connected. So relieved. So happy. No wonder Maycee and Chloe had been so insistent on driving me; they must have known.
Before I could even ask him anything, he lifted me up into his arms, and we kissed.
I laughed between my sniffles and tears. "You're Doctor Hood's grandson? You knew?"
"I'm sorry, Nor. I wanted it to be a surprise. I'll admit, I was little jealous when Truett showed up at your house. So, I turned off my phone to stay focused for my dissertation. And then right after my dissertation, I was so excited about my accomplishment. I placed my phone on top of my SUV to take pictures with my family. Then, in excitement my brother and I left for Chile. I completely forgot about my phone being on top of my car, and I lost it somewhere along the way to the airport. I didn't even realize it was missing until the security check. I had no way of contacting you. Besides, you're not on Facebook or Twitter. I don't know your email. So, by the time I got home, I realized everything that had happened and had about seven missed calls from my grandfather, not to mention the twenty you left." He teased me incredibly cutely.
"But what matters is now and here." He leaned forward, and his forehead touched mine.
"Excuse me, Miss, did you find your diamond earring?" the I-have-to-do-my-job-right-I-don't-care-that-you-are-having-an-obviously-romantic-moment hostess interrupted.
"No, but I found something so much better." I smiled and hugged Orien.
She looked at me with a very confused look on her face. "Well, okay?" She smirked, finally letting her annoyance show.
Orien led me back to our table in the corner. He handed me a rustic wooden journal wrapped in a turquoise ribbon. On top were instructions to go the last page and read the entry.
Norah,
I want the ending of this chapter to end with me and you, and the start of a new chapter to begin with me and you. You walked into my world, and I never want you to leave.
I couldn't believe my luck.
\*
Two months later
The lights turned on, and walking down the runway were the best-dressed dogs on the East Coast. I would never have guessed two months prior that the grand fashion show I would have would be showcasing the best-dressed pups in town. Ladies raved about my designs and impatiently wanted to know when I was opening my pup boutique. I called it, of course, Coco Couture.
Chloe was prophetic, after all. The media caught wind of the buzz, and I actually did a summer fun segment on Good Morning, America. What dress did I wear? My prize-winning dress, of course! From then on, my inbox was flooded every day with boutiques around the nation requesting information about my upcoming line and when it would be available.
I really couldn't believe my luck. Things had certainly turned around. I did dodge a question at first about being Truett's ex-girlfriend, but that was okay. It was to be expected. I was later able to answer a question in my favor when asked about the inspiration behind Coco Couture.
"Well, it's actually my current boyfriend who found me because of my lost journal. He is the inspiration behind it all," I said proudly.
"Well, you heard it here. And it looks like that other guy's having the last laugh!" Robin Roberts said.
Oh, and I even got on The View! I was able to put all pleasantries aside with those ladies and really tell them how I felt, in a respectable way, of course.
I decided to continue to live in the summer home that had brought so much healing, down the shore from my boyfriend. Yes, I was doing well. So much so, I had enough funding to bring three trunks filled with brand new clothes and shoes to donate at my next adventure, going to the orphanage with Chloe and Maycee. Speaking of them, both had known Orien was Doctor Hood's grandson all along, as did my mom and dad. Everyone had decided to keep it a nice little secret.
I practically had to twist Chris's arm to let me jet out of the country for three weeks but, after the entire media press tour, he knew I had earned it.
I had my summer to heal; now it was my season to give, and I couldn't wait to go. Orien, who I promised I would email every day while I was gone, was taking care of my precious little Coco. If I didn't have internet access, I would use snail mail, of course.
As a going away present, he gave me another new journal with instructions to read it each day while I was gone, down to the last page. He had written a letter to me for every day I was scheduled to be gone. A true Romeo!
I was the luckiest girl in the world. Yes, lemons had been thrown my way, but I made lemonade and the sugar in my life tasted sweeter than I could have ever imagined.
With the wind on my back, and a new horizon in front of me, I was on my way to Venezuela with my sister and best friend. Things were certainly looking up.
About Lacy Camey
Lacy Camey is a fiction writer and lives in Houston, Texas with her musician/producer/songwriter husband, Joel, and has a cat that acts like a dog, named Blue. When she isn't writing, or collaborating with her husband, she enjoys being outside, running, working out, reading, learning, cooking, is a huge movie buff and loves watching reality shows on Bravo, especially The Real Housewives franchise. She loves having fun, enjoying the life God has given her and loves to encourage others to follow their bliss. She secretly dreams of going on the Amazing Race with her husband on CBS but is still trying to convince him to audition. Lacy and Joel are currently writing a classic love story set to be released December 2011, tentatively entitled, "The Grape Picker". Every book written by Lacy Camey purchased by others, a portion of proceeds goes to supporting an orphanage in Southern America. Lacy has plans to build an orphanage very soon with proceeds from her books. You can stay updated on the process at her blog:
Lacy would love to stay in contact with her readers. Feel free to visit her blog and website or follow her on Twitter:@lacycamey
or e-mail:lacycameywrites@gmail.com
They say it takes a village to raise a child. In the publishing world, it takes a lot of great, talented people to help a manuscript become a book. Thank you Kim Van Meter for making my cover look so much fun, and giving it that perfect chick-lit touch! Thank you Lynn O'Dell at Red Adept Reviews for your wonderful editorial services and for enduring my chick lit lingo (OMG! Like, um, seriously, thank you! Just kidding. :-) I appreciate all of your input and suggestions. You helped make my book solid. Thank you for your lovely proofers Beverly Tackitt and Jim Chambers who caught many vital catches. I'm so thankful. Thank you Michael Campbell for your top-notch eBook/ePub formatting services. Thank you everyone at the Writer's Café on KindleBoards for your advice, comments and encouragement. I want to thank Joe Konrath for your incredibly honest, transparent, and revolutionary blog. Your blog is the light bulb that went off in my mind to pursue publishing now. Without your blog, I would not have been so educated in the field. Thank you Sidney Brimhall and Becky Marquez for reading my manuscript before anyone else and offering so much encouragement and excitement! You made me feel so excited! Thank you Mom and David, for raising me with such a solid foundation and belief system. Mom, thank for framing my first official "published" work four years ago and for always taking the time to do special things to make me feel just that, special. You've always encouraged me and supported me in my writing career. You've taught me that with God, the sky is the limit. Thank you Dad and Amy for always asking about "Eliza May". I'm not sure if we'll ever read Eliza's story, but thanks for always fanning the flame and being interested and supportive in my stories and writing career. I thank all of my brothers and sisters and brothers and sisters-in-law for your great support and love-Cody, Michelle, Sara, Sidney, Caleb, Noah, Junior, Becky, Vanessa, Jonathan, Lauren C., Lauren M., and Jace, - y'all are the best! Thank you, Joel, for your understanding of all the PayPal payments periodically popping up in our bank account! :-) Without your support, this book could not have been created. You're the best! Thank you to all my family and friends for your support, encouragement and love. I love you all! Thank you God for the gift to create and for letting me live in this Era of technology! I'm continually amazed at the doors You open. Thank you for the gift of faith. Matthew 9:23 --- "Anything is possible for him (her) who believes."
Coming Soon:
Coming Fall 2011
Book 2 in the romantic comedy trilogy of living, loving and laughing again; a Chloe Banks Story.
The Man She Thought She'd Never Love
Chloe Banks has always been known for her famous political last name and for her money. Now she's ready to show the world she is more than the prim, debutante from a privileged background. Groomed from infancy to be the perfect politician's wife, she would no longer be! Shocking her family and her social circle, Chloe moves temporarily with her two friends to Venezuela and serves in an Orphanage as a nurse, alongside other nurses and doctors from a philanthropic organization. It is there she meets a man her parents would never approve, but is just the type of man she needs. But she's not the type he wants. Chloe has been known her whole life to pull a few strings or two. Will she depend on her famous last name or win this cutie on her own accord?
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