I hit reply.
Bryan — The time is fine. I’ll take my coffee with a splash of cream, please.
Best,
Kat
I re-read my note. It didn’t sound like me one bit. Normally, I’d try to say something clever in reply, like I am not familiar with the concept of being perky, peppy or even awake sans those magical energy imps found in coffee or tea. But he hadn’t earned the right to banter again. Besides, if I didn’t let him in, he couldn’t hurt me. The train pulled into my stop and I exited, walking quickly up the steps and into the sunshine of a late Manhattan morning. As I waited for the light at the crosswalk, I glanced at the screen to see Bryan had already written back.
Kat — Funny, I seem to recall you were rather fond of caramel-itos and mocha-treat-os. Wondering what else I’ll learn about how your tastes have changed in the last five years. Oh wait, we’re starting over, so this is all new information to me. Black coffee with a touch of cream it is then.
No emoticon inserted here intentionally even though I would wink if you were here in person.
My best,
Bryan
I fumed and I soared at once. How could be possibly act like we were starting anything over? Had he forgotten the way he’d dumped me? And yet, I felt the tiniest zing race through me when I read his words. Because he did remember details of me. But it was time for my meeting, so as I walked into a small restaurant with crisp white tablecloths, stainless steel vases holding lilies, and waiters wearing perfectly knotted ties, I extradited Bryan and his coffee winks from my brain.
*****
Mrs. Claire Oliver ordered a Cobb salad with the dressing on the side. I followed her low-cal lead, opting for a Caesar with light dressing. She drank iced tea and I did the same. She was a pretty woman, with dark blond hair, cut in a straight and sharp bob, haunting brown eyes, and creamy white skin. She wore a sea-green blouse, designer jeans that probably cost more than my rent, and a pair of suede cutout Giuseppe Zanotti heels that were the height of haute couture. She was impeccably put together, like a Hollywood star appearing on a talk show, and she was younger than I expected. Professor Oliver had to be in his fifties, but I was betting his wife was no more than thirty-five.
“Mr. Oliver tells me you’re one of his best students,” Claire said as the waiter walked away.
“He’s very kind to say that.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t say it unless it were true. He thinks you’re going to be a superstar in your field. I wouldn’t be surprised either, because I think your designs are top-notch,” she said, and she wasn’t the warmest woman, but there was something admiring in her tone.
“Thank you, Mrs. Oliver.”
“You can call me Claire.”
“Claire.” It felt funny to call her by her first name. She was my professor’s wife, she was older and she was so perfectly high-fashion that I felt as if I should be deferential.
“Kat, the reason I wanted to have lunch with you is I have a proposition for you. Your designs have such great promise, and I absolutely see a tremendous market for them. But what you’re lacking is distribution. So I’d like to show them around to a few buyers I know, get a pulse on the market, and see if we can’t get you into more stores.”
There wasn’t a chance I’d say no to her or to anyone making such an offer. Still, I wanted to know who she was working for, or if she was a middleman for herself. “That would be amazing. May I ask which stores or which buyers?”
She waved a hand as if to say let’s not go there. “Don’t worry about that. My connections are good.”
I wanted to know more, but if she was taking a chance on me, I’d have to take a chance on her. We discussed more of the specifics, the cut she’d receive of sales, her plans for showing my line around, and her vision for how women around the country would be giving and getting these necklaces as gifts come holiday time. I mentally crossed my fingers because maybe, just maybe, this could help me help my parents.
“Now, you said I could see more of your designs.”
I opened my purse and took out my latest necklaces that showcased an array of charms.
She nodded and touched each one. “Some of your designs have a modern and sleek look. But others have a sort of European sensibility. Where do your inspirations come from?”
“Definitely from Paris. I lived there for a year.”
“Ah, the most wonderful city in the world,” she said to me in French.
“There is nothing better,” I replied in the same language, and we talked more about our favorite places in Paris. I told her I adored the shopping in the Marais, and that my heart would always be in Montmartre with its curvy, cobblestoned streets, but that the best deals were to be found at the open-air markets. “The jewelry there, the charms and trinkets, and the things you never thought could be charms, like tiny little keys, are a total steal.”
“You are a woman after my own heart. I love shopping at the open-air markets with the fruit and flower vendors and vintage jewelry sellers as much as I love the Champs-Élysées.”
Then, she excused herself for the ladies room. As I waited for her return, I noticed a sharply dressed man enter the restaurant and walk towards a woman with wavy auburn hair. She lifted her face to him. He leaned down and kissed her, a long slow hold. I started writing their backstory. This red-haired beauty and this well-dressed man must be newly in love with just a handful of dizzying dates behind them, I surmised, as he kissed her one more time. Or maybe they were each other’s first love back when they were younger. Maybe they met when she was fresh out of high school and he was a newly minted business grad. Maybe they fell in mad love five years ago, and never fell out. Maybe they were still crazy about each other to this day, and kissed every time as if it were the first time.
Ha. The whole scenario sounded implausible. Besides, those kind of kisses only happened in the movies.
Chapter Seven
Bryan’s sleek black car with tinted windows was parked outside my building at nine on the dot the next morning. Even more impressive than the punctuality was the consideration — the car wasn’t idling. The engine was off. Most drivers left the cars running while picking someone up, and, frankly, I couldn’t stand that. I’d have to compliment his driver.
Then Bryan stepped out of the car, wearing dark jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a tie with cartoonish giraffes on them.
“Oh.”
“Did the giraffes surprise you?”