About Face (29 page)

“Be careful you don't get breast milk on the clothes,” Vivian said.

“Get off my back, boss—or, rather, my front. It just happened that once, anyway. Besides, you didn't mind that time we ran out of milk for the coffee and I became the resident cow.”

“I still can't believe you did that. And I thought
I
was the nutty one.”

“Hah. Move over, old lady. I'm gunning for your reputation.”

Joy skipped into the room. She stopped just inside the door and looked around, then spotted her mother at one of the sewing machines. She skipped over to her.

“Guess what, mommy.”

“What, Joy?” Ruth and Vivian said at the same time as Harriet, Joy's mother.

“I got 100 on the math test. I told you I would.”

Harriet gave Joy a big hug. “That's great, sweetie. You're a genius.”

“Hey, me too,” Ruth said.

Joy skipped around the table and presented her cheek for Ruth's kiss. Then she walked over to Vivian and presented her cheek.

“You're gettin' pretty kissy, missy,” Vivian said as she complied.

Joan said, “Just in time for a little baby-sitting, if you don't mind.” She pulled Celeste away from her breast and handed her to Joy's eagerly outstretched arms.

“Wait a second,” Ruth said. “What about her homework?”

“And her snack?” Jeannie asked. Turning to Joy and smiling flirtatiously, she said, “I brought those cookies you like so much. Don't you want one? Or two?”

“Yes, I do I do I do. I'll eat them while I play with Celeste. And then I'll do my homework after.” She looked over at Harriet for approval.

“Hell-LOW, everyone,” Vivian said in a sing-song voice. “We have a deadline, remember?”

Ruth lifted her head, reached under the braid her hair had gotten barely long enough to form, and reflexively massaged her neck. It was hot and sweaty. Is this a hot flash? she wondered. Don't know. It's Indian summer and it's hot in here so maybe it's not. Or maybe it is.

She absorbed the colors of the jumbled fabric, the motion and noises of the sewing, the smells of food and even people, simultaneously, also realizing how much she enjoyed what she was doing. Not for the possibility of success, nor even for the grandiose ideas about helping women feel better. She just enjoyed it. More than enjoyed it; she couldn't wait to get to work every day.

Here it is, she thought. The present moment I've always wanted to be in. I used to think I wanted closure, but this is better. Closure is really a little taste of death.

Colleen poked her head in the room. “Ruth, you have a phone call? And guess what? It's Ann, the buyer from Bloomingdale's. Can you take it?”

“Oh thank goodness she finally called back. I'll come back to my office to take it. Thanks.”

She thought about how to sweet-talk the buyer as she went through the dark curved hallway to her office, enjoying the click of her high heels on the concrete floor. It turned out that no sweet-talk was necessary, and Ann put her on the calendar—a little sooner than Ruth would have wished, as it turned out.

Ruth called David at home and left a message on the machine. “Hi, hon, I know you're taking advantage of the weather to say hello to the golf course, but I wanted you to find this message waiting when you get back. Guess what! I'm on Ann's calendar for day after tomorrow. It was easy. Also, I spoke to Josh this morning and I haven't had a second to call until now. He's coming to dinner tonight. We're not doing anything, are we? I'll stop on the way home and get some fish. Would you make your wonderful risotto? The one with the wild mushrooms? And a salad? He's bringing dessert. And his new girlfriend. Maybe I'll see if Vivian and Carlos want to come, too. Okay? I love you. Oh, by the way, Joy got 100 on her math test. Isn't that great?”

As she hung up, she looked at the three-photo frame on her desk, a congratulations present from David. On the left was “Baby Ruth,” the very picture of her twenty-two-year-old self she'd brought to the village when she went back at thirty-six. In the middle was “Married Ruth Holding Baby Ruth,” the photo David had taken during their visit. And on the right was a photo taken last year, of her fifty-three-year old self—“Grown-Up Ruth”—holding the photo called “Married Ruth Holding Baby Ruth.” Going around the frame was Rumi's advice to “Exist as you are or be as you look.” A story within a story within a story.

She loved the way the triptych depicted the thread running from then to now. More than a thread, really. She was the same person. That was her
and
this was her. Maybe the outside had aged but the inside had grown.

She thought about how much she'd have to do to prepare for the meeting at Bloomingdale's, wondering how she'd manage to get it all done in time. She thought about Joy's math test, her pleasure magnified by Joy's own glee. The thought of Josh and his new girlfriend sent her mind galloping into the future, with warmth and its maternal companion, worry. And she also realized how much she craved David's risotto and wild mushrooms dish, redolent of the woods and the earth, at the same time she knew she'd been allowing herself caloric liberties lately because of the generous fit of her new Changing Patterns pants.

The emotional mix felt like a casserole, each ingredient heightening the others' impact. Like mixing spike heels with her hippy pants, or being an entrepreneur who does good for the world, like starting a business when it's time to retire.

She started back down the corridor to the nexus of light and activity in the Design and Sample Room. It felt like being in the subway, going around a curve between stations, and seeing the back car when you're in the front. Or maybe it was seeing the front when you're in the back. Something about time collapsing. “Well, well, well,” she thought.

Writing a novel is a long process, and so many people helped me along the way, either with feedback on drafts, technical support, and/or encouragement. I thank them all: Laura, Polly, Fran, Lou, Juli, Glenn, Jim, Richard, Marilyn, Peggy, Tony, Anne, Joby, Elizabeth, Anita, Gretchen, Gini. Much gratitude and appreciation goes to my always-supportive, honest, and generous Writers' Group.

A special category of thanks to my center of gravity, my family: Geoffrey and Lisa—and now Jason, Nina, and Ezra too—who did it all.

About the Author

Carole lives with her husband in Warwick, New York. She wrote
About Face
as a direct result of her experiences as a traveler and management consultant.

Other cultures fascinate her: She has lived in several countries in West Africa, including Senegal, for anywhere from two months to two years. As a management consultant, she came up-close-and-personal to the issues—some pretty and some not—of the corporate world, which is also another culture of a sort.

All characters and events in the book, however, are fictional.