Left to Chance Read online

  “What’s wrong?”

  Right at this moment, everything. I inhaled and exhaled. “Why does something have to be wrong?”

  “You’re on vacation, remember?”

  “Oh, right. I just wanted to say hi.”

  “You are not a ‘hi’ person.”

  “Maybe I am now.”

  “And this metamorphosis happened because…”

  “Fine, I need your advice.” What should I do about Simon? “What do I wear to a book club?”

  “You’re going to a book club?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since when do you read?”

  “An old friend invited me and I want to make a good impression. And I’ll have you know I used to read all the time. And I’m going to start again.”

  “Wear your blue dress.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You always make a good impression.”

  “You’re no help.”

  “Always glad to be of service!” Annie said. I rifled through the dresses and chose three, put back two, chose another one. “I read your e-mail about Mr. Thomas but I didn’t reply because, you know, you’re on vacation. I knew you could close that deal. I’ll tell Simon tomorrow. If he has any questions he’ll call you and—”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I don’t want him to call me.”

  “Okay, I’ll tell him to text you. Or e-mail you.”

  “I need time away, Annie. From everything.” I hadn’t realized how much.

  “He’s your boss. I mean, I know he’s more than that but—”

  “Can’t I have a break?”

  “Yes, I suppose you can. And this one sounds exotic, let me tell you! You’re going to a book club. A book club! What’s tomorrow? A trip to the mall or a game of canasta?”

  If she only knew.

  “Everything else going okay?” I asked. How well the work hat fit when I was avoiding the real-life hat. “The Halsted-Tyler wedding? The Pierson retreat? The Bella Dolce photo shoot? What about the—”

  “Make up your mind. Do you want to talk about work or not? Because I can go over twenty minutes’ worth of notes from this morning’s staff meeting if you want.”

  “I do,” I said. Then I shivered.

  * * *

  If I didn’t pick a dress and head out for Josie’s in five minutes, I’d be late for book club. I shimmied into my turquoise and coral Lilly Pulitzer sheath, then dropped it and stepped out, leaving it on the floor. I settled on an indigo silk shirtdress with a subtle stamped lemon print that I’d bought in Miami at a trunk show. I pulled my hair into a ponytail and added a faux-tortoiseshell headband, but left the heart necklaces on the dresser. I didn’t want to answer any questions. The bottle of wine winked at me as if asking to come along.

  That’s right! I should bring something to Josie’s besides myself. My mother was a stickler for manners and all things socially acceptable. Hostess gifts were at the top of my mother’s must-do list. Had anyone ever invited us over, they’d likely have been wowed.

  What did I have, what did I have, what did I have? I twirled with each inquest and fell back on the bed.

  Wrinkled silk be damned.

  “What did I have to show you” had been a game Celia and I played since the first time she came home from overnight camp the summer we were nine. Camp Shamash was somewhere I never wanted to go and my mother never would have agreed to anyway. Celia and I walked around my bedroom that August day, and I showed her every and any bit that I’d accumulated in the three weeks she’d been gone. Later we’d done this in our dorm rooms, our apartments, and her house, simply finding things to share that the other hadn’t seen, holding them out, describing them as if willing the other into its origin. We knew each other’s life by heart and by tchotchke.

  What did I have to take to Josie’s tonight? A half sleeve of Ritz. Cinnamon Altoids. Half a bottle of Ohio Pinot.

  My camera.

  And good intentions.

  * * *

  I closed the door and locked it. I jiggled and twisted the brass embossed doorknob twice, even though I knew I’d done it right from a lifetime ago of practice. I traced the swirl of the banister and looked at my finger for dust, but there was none. I heard movement upstairs—not footsteps exactly, but someone was on the second floor. I wasn’t alone. It was as comforting as it was disconcerting. I turned back to yell hello, but I was already pushing my book club luck.

  I stepped out onto the porch and a horn beeped. I headed down the steps and the passenger-side window of a black SUV disappeared down into its crevice.

  Josie waved. “I figured you’d want a ride but wouldn’t ask. Get in!”

  I opened my mouth in protest, but the truth was, I didn’t want to walk. I also didn’t want to be a burden, or burden myself with expectations.

  “You didn’t have to.” I buckled my seat belt and set my camera bag at my feet.

  “No big deal. Just figured you could use a little help getting where you needed to go.”

  * * *

  Josie’s house stood like a castle at the end of a solar lamp runway. It was bright white brick with black shutters and a second-story Palladian window revealing a chandelier that I knew loomed over the foyer, Phantom of the Opera style. Josie style. The other houses on Rose Court were either two-story colonials rehabbed in the seventies, or 1940s bungalows that had never been face-lifted. There was one modest folk Victorian on the corner. The wannabe, my mother had called it. If there was ever a kettle-calling pot, it was Joyce Lerner. She also said you shouldn’t have the biggest house on the block (likely because ours was not). Josie needed hers to be. As we parked in the three-car garage I pictured Josie’s childhood home not far from mine, nor far from here, with its sagging-roof carport and gray-painted siding. I hadn’t wanted Josie’s house but I had wanted her sisters, the two younger ones with whom she shared a bedroom.

  “I always loved your house,” I said.

  “I love it too, thanks. It’s a work in progress.”

  “I mean the one you grew up in.”

  “Really?” Josie turned to me as the SUV hatch opened. “I always wanted your house. That’s why I went with white brick for this house. It always looks so clean and uncomplicated. Of course with a husband and three boys what’s inside is neither clean nor uncomplicated, but what are you going to do?” Josie chuckled and motioned to the door with her chin. That door led to the mudroom, something I’d never heard of until one was on Celia’s must-have list when she was house shopping with Miles. Must-haves could be moot in Chance, but Celia had gotten what she’d wanted. Josie had built what she wanted. “I have something in the back of the car,” she said. “Go ahead in.”

  I turned the knob and pushed open the door, letting go and waiting, almost counting to three before stepping inside.

  The laundry room looked like a newfangled Maytag commercial, bright and uncluttered with glistening stainless steel appliances, but no evidence dirty laundry had ever been there. The boot racks had been abandoned for summer and the cubbies were bare, save for some dangling goggles and headphones. To the right, the family room was neutral and calm with a sectional sofa that looked like a chunky toddler puzzle. Warmth emanated from the room, with its decorative pillows and chenille throws, its oversized chair and nearby stacks of books. The outside of the house was stark, yet alluring. The inside was pristine yet cozy.

  Just a few steps up and to the left and I knew I’d land in Josie’s kitchen. Voices and footsteps drifted toward me and kept me at bay. I’d expected an empty house, and to help Josie set up whatever one sets up for a book club—unread books, themed snacks, kitschy cocktails. I thought I’d help her greet the guests, and ease myself into a comfortable spot within the group.

  Josie bounded in with a swish of shopping bags and slipped her hand into mine. She swung our arms back and forth as if we were grade-school chums again.

  “It’s like riding a bike,
” she said. “Let’s go.”

  “Everybody might not be as excited to see me as you were.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re Teddi Lerner.”

  Josie tugged me right into the kitchen and launched me at a crowd of women I hadn’t seen in years. The women buzzed with enthusiasm, moving en masse like a hive of busy bees.

  “Look who’s here,” someone said. “It’s Teddi!”

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I said.

  “Oh, nonsense!” The voice seemed to emanate from the group. “You know how we operate … if it’s the same day, you’re not late.”

  Everyone hushed, inhaled a collective deep breath, and then broke out in a litany of Teddis and welcomes and hugs. I’d grown accustomed to crowds, but not to being the focus of their attention.

  My racing heart slowed, my shoulders eased. I released Josie’s hand to offer a hug.

  These women were the friends I’d left behind.

  I knew everyone used the word “friends” indiscriminately these days. I tried not to, always arranging people into sections in my head and roping them off. But these women were more than acquaintances. Much more. We’d grown up together. We knew the names of each other’s childhood pets and signed our high school yearbooks with secret symbols and X’s and O’s. We shared milestones (their weddings, their children) and had a common history.

  But now these were women whom I followed on social media but rarely checked in on with a phone call or personal e-mail. I liked them. I was interested in what they said when they said it, but didn’t necessarily need or want details. Was that a friend? A friendly acquaintance? An old friend? A former friend? A potential friend?

  The difference was critical to me.

  I never craved minutiae, except from Celia. With Annie everything circled around work. For me and Simon, our banter was pointed and precise.

  “You’re doing great,” Josie whispered. “It’s just us. Relax.”

  All I had to do was step in and take my place, so, I breathed deep. I helloed and hugged. I smiled and nodded. I behaved as if this was normal. Fake it till you make it. I wasn’t faking it, exactly; I was making it real. Because that’s what Celia would have done. I could only see her, feel her, know her, this way, here. In Chance. And I’d left and stayed away. Maybe the particles of healing existed here alongside pain, not separate from it, with these women and in this town. With Shay. With Miles. And with Beck, if I was being honest. Even in the dashes of memories shared with Cameron on the swing.

  Celia hadn’t thought about that when she insisted I leave, so I couldn’t blame her.

  Yet sometimes I did.

  Chapter 10

  CHANCE HAD NOT HEARD of the “small plates” culinary movement, so I loaded up: mini sandwiches piled with corned beef and coleslaw, tuna, and egg salad; kugel, sweet and firm (no raisins); apricot rugelach, flakey and firm, but soft to bite.

  Try this. Try that. Not enough. Save room for more.

  Chance residents shared a proud heritage of overfeeding. Today, these women, the Wagoneers as they were lovingly called, were upholding grand tradition. The Chance Women’s Welcome Wagon started over a hundred years ago, when its job was to welcome new Jewish families to town. Nowadays, there weren’t many new families in Chance, so the Wagoneers showed up at every shiva and simcha with appropriate amounts of food, armed with either sympathy or celebration. Thankfully, my visit seemed to fall into the joy category. But it was strange to see that the Wagoneers were now my age and not my mother’s.

  Somewhere between my greeting and dessert, I was no longer an outsider. Lydia was talking about her master’s thesis. Ellen told us about her husband’s health scare. Katie’s daughter had started medical school. Josie showed us Instagram photos of her son’s summer travels, and, slowly at first, Samantha admitted she and her husband were in counseling. We all listened.

  I had always wanted the best for these women, for their husbands and children, their careers and dreams. But I hadn’t wondered much about them. When I traveled I didn’t see tchotchkes that would make them laugh or jewelry that could make them tear up. Not the way I still did with Celia, my parents, Shay—even Beck.

  But these women were shedding my defenses faster than I could gather them.

  “When do you talk about the book?” I asked.

  Everyone laughed.

  “Next time, we’ll talk about the book,” Josie said.

  “That’s what we always say.” The words came from each person at different intervals, in different tones.

  “So, what’s it like living in fancy hotels?”

  “It’s nice,” I said. “Lots of perks.” Like not paying a mortgage or rent.

  “Like a laundry service.”

  “And room service.”

  “And cabana boys!”

  “Cabana boys call me ‘ma’am,’” I said.

  The women laughed.

  “I read the article.”

  “Is your boss as hot as he is in those pictures?”

  “He is very handsome.” I stuffed my mouth with a forkful of chopped liver, then swallowed. “He has a reputation of being a bit of a recluse, but he’s not. He’s very friendly to his staff and the guests. He’s very hands-on.” A smile pressed against the inside of my cheeks.

  “Hands-on what exactly?”

  Everyone giggled.

  “Have you spent a lot of time with him?”

  “Of course she has, she’s like, in charge of everything.”

  “Not everything. Just event photography.”

  “And Simon photography.”

  I laughed. “I suppose.”

  “So how well do you know him? My sister just got divorced,” Katie said.

  “I’ll be sure to tell him.” I left the table and helped myself to another mini tuna sandwich.

  After that, the conversation drifted away from me and on to the food, frantic summer schedules, and the latest episodes of Real Housewives of Anywhere.

  “Any more photos of him you can show us?”

  “I might have a few.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket, wanting to give my friends at least some of what they wanted. My worlds were overlapping. Right here, right now, I liked it.

  They waited as if I were about to read winning lottery numbers. I scrolled past photos I’d taken of the tulips at Butchart Gardens. I’d imagined enlarging a few, framing them, and hanging them up in my someday house. Maybe I still would.

  When I saw photos of Simon, I passed the phone to Josie.

  “There’s Simon at his desk.” As my phone was passed down the line, I hoped they wouldn’t help themselves to any more photos.

  “It’s so formal.”

  “He’s so handsome.”

  “Did I mention my sister is divorced?”

  “You did,” I said.

  “Nice smile.”

  It was. In that photo the women saw Simon seated behind his mahogany desk in an oversized leather chair, oversized smartphone to his ear. It was one of a dozen I’d taken with my phone as test shots for the company newsletter. Simon was camera shy. At first he didn’t like this one because his elbow was on his desk—but really it was because he looked relaxed. And that was exactly why I did like it.

  “Does he always look so—serious?”

  “He’s leaning on his elbow, looking out the window. That’s not serious. That’s—pensive.”

  “Okay, does he always look so pensive?”

  Fair enough. “Yes,” I said.

  “How could he not? He owns like fifty boutique hotels.”

  “Thirty-two,” I said.

  “Does he ever stay in one place?”

  “I don’t think my sister would mind traveling. He goes first class, right? I’ll text you her profile photo from JDate. You remember Marni, don’t you, Teddi? She lives in Atlanta now, and sells Shakely. She’s doing very well…” Lydia elbowed Katie and she stopped talking.

  “Good for her,” I said, and I meant it, as long as she stayed in Atlan
ta.

  “So … where does he live?”

  “He travels a lot but San Francisco is his home. It’s the only place he doesn’t live at one of the hotels. He has a condo on—” I was already saying more than Simon would have approved for public consumption. And more than I wanted anyone to know that I knew.

  “Okay, enough about Simon, let’s talk about you! Ellen, I saw your Facebook photos of your bathroom renovation. Looks luxurious.”

  Ellen opened her mouth to speak but had no such luck.

  “Ooh, it’s Simon, is it? You don’t have to call him Mr. Hester?”

  “Knock it off.” Josie stood as she said it. The mayor of Bookclubville had spoken. She nodded at me as she sat, as if she knew more than I’d already said. Gratitude filled me.

  “We all call each other by first names. It’s company policy. We also all wear name tags when we’re on property.” I hated that part of my job.

  “Why haven’t you snagged him for yourself?”

  “Teddi’s a career girl, no time for love, right, Teddi?”

  “Don’t put words in Teddi’s mouth,” Josie said.

  “I don’t know why you are all so interested in Simon Hester’s love life, you’re all married!”

  “We’re not interested in his. We’re interested in yours.”

  “Nothing to tell you at the moment,” I said.

  “Even with those fancy weddings you shoot? There must be love in the air.”

  “That’s work,” I said. “They mean nothing.” Just like the staged brunches, choreographed beach volleyball games, and precision lobby scenes. They were all creations, usually mine, with the help of willing participants and picturesque sunsets. And Photoshop. I looked at Josie.

  “I have an idea,” I said.

  * * *

  I slipped into the laundry room to get my camera. I’d forgotten what it was like to be encircled by a group of women who could whisk me off to places I wasn’t sure I wanted to go.

  I stood close to the row of cubbies near the garage door, unzipped my bag, and inhaled a momentary reprieve. I’d take a few photos of everyone together for social media posterity. I could look at the pictures and remember the present part of my past. I could show the photos to Annie. The pictures were what I could give them of myself, enough but not too much.