Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (30 page)

“I miss you,” she cries, when I call her cell phone.

“Me too. I want to take you for lunch.”

“Great! I actually get to eat now that I’m on
Land Divas
.”

When
Cody’s Way
went to hiatus early, Camille had no trouble landing a job on a new series. As I knew all too well, experienced props buyers were hard to come by. And fortuitously, Camille’s gig on the prime-time dramedy about four gorgeous real estate tycoons could provide me with the perfect marketing vehicle.

“How about tomorrow?” I ask. “I have a proposal for you.”

“Tomorrow’s great. What’s the proposal?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Tell me now!” Camille squeals. “You know I can’t stand the suspense.”

“Okay!” I’m too excited to wait myself. I give her a quick overview of my bag business. “They’ll be both beautiful and ecological.”

“And I can get the Land Divas to use them on the show!”

“Exactly!”

“Love it! I’ll talk to our wardrobe girl too. And I’ll call Miranda, who’s doing props for
Tight
now. You can get into the gay market.”

“That’s perfect! These bags won’t be cheap. Initially it’ll be a high-end line, and I’ll make them more affordable as they get more popular.”

“I’ve got to go,” Camille says, and I hear horns honking in the background. “But I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Lucy,” she says before she hangs up, “I’m really proud of you.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

Elated by my conversation, I forge ahead. With my laptop on the kitchen table, I research fabric choices. Obviously, I have to use something sustainable, and both hemp and bamboo present good options. Bamboo seems to offer a beautiful, satiny finish, while hemp is more sturdy and rustic. But I don’t know enough about sewing and bag construction to make a decision. I order fabric samples, and then, summoning my courage, I make the call.

My heart beats audibly as I wait for her to answer. “Hello?” Her voice is cheerful and singsongy.

“Hi Hope. It’s Lucy.”

“Oh … Hi Lucy.” Markedly less cheerful and singsongy.

“How are you?”

“Fine. You?”

“Good.” There’s no point in this idle chit-chat. Besides, my nerves can’t take it. “I need your help with a business I’m starting.”

“Oh?”

I give her the overview. She is far less excited than Camille was. “What do you need me for?”

“I need your sewing expertise,” I explain. “Sure, I could order pre-made bags and have Sam’s prints put on them, but I want to do this right. I want to offer different designs and different sizes. These bags are going to be both utilitarian and gorgeous.”

“I don’t know …” Hope says. “I’m quite busy these days.”

I refrain from commenting. I know Hope keeps herself occupied cooking, cleaning, and creating practice spelling tests for her kids, but this would be
hers
. This project would be about using her talents for something more than social studies projects and costumes for the school play. It would give her a purpose! Her own money! But how can I tell her that without insulting the last twenty years of her life? The short answer is: I can’t.

“Please,” I say, “I need you.”

There’s a long pause as Hope considers this. “Why don’t you come over this afternoon and we can talk more about it?”

“I’d love to.”

“But we’d need to set some ground rules.”

“… Okay.”

“This would be a business relationship, Lucy. I don’t want you judging my life or my marriage.”

“I wouldn’t,” I say. “I was out of line before.”

“And I don’t want to hear about your personal life.”

“Right,” I agree. “I won’t mention the fact that I’m not seeing Wynn Felker anymore.”

“You’re not?”

“No. It was a mistake that got blown out of proportion, but it’s all over now.”

I know what she’s going to ask before she says it. “Does this mean that you and Trent …?”

“No. Not now at least. I’m focusing on me and on this business and on Sam. That’s enough for me.”

There’s a moment of silence and I can hear Hope breathing. “You sound different,” she says slowly. “You sound … content.”

“Thanks,” I say, a small smile on my lips, “I am.”

Trent

I PUT A SUIT ON FOR MY MEETING.
I’ve never met with a lawyer before, so I don’t exactly know the protocol. But it never hurts to make a good impression. Standing at the bathroom mirror, I knot my tie. A muscle in my jaw is visibly throbbing, and I realize I’m clenching my teeth. With a deep breath, I make a conscious effort to relax.

Making my way back to the living room, I slip into my jacket. Okay … there’s no need to get uptight about this. It’s just an informational meeting to find out what my rights are. Since Lucy’s done a one-eighty on me, it makes sense to protect my interests. We had a deal: Sam and I were going to move back in and we were going to try to put our family back together. Suddenly, Sam’s living with Lucy four days a week, and working with her every day after school. Lucy’s turned all “I Am Woman” on me, and I’m left out in the cold.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the intercom. As usual, the loud buzz in the silent apartment scares the crap out of me. I should be used to it by now. McMillan Securities has sent a steady stream of HR forms and manuals over in preparation for my starting work next week. I press the button to let the courier in, and hunt for my car keys.

He’s at the apartment door in minutes, and I hurry to open it. If I don’t leave soon I’m going to be late for my meeting— not super late, but five minutes with a lawyer is probably about forty bucks. Pulling the door open, I’m met with a huge bouquet of flowers.

“Delivery for Mr. Vaughn,” the guy says from somewhere behind the arrangement.

“That’s me,” I say, taking the flowers and shutting the door. Sorry buddy, no tip today. I don’t have time to rummage around looking for a couple of bucks. Placing the flowers on the table, I tear open the envelope. The card features two champagne glasses clinking together. I open it.

Congratulations!

Handwritten beneath it is:

I heard the great news about your job with McMillan Securities.

I wish you all the best in your future endeavors.

Yours,

Annika

It sends a chill through me. Such innocuous words, but the message is clearly ominous. So she knows about my new job. The question is: what’s she going to do about it? She’s probably on the phone with Noel Trimble right now, telling him I’m a porn addict or something. Maybe she’s already gone into the office to alert the female staff to the chronic masturbator joining the firm. I suppose there’s a slim chance that she’s actually sincere, but I doubt it. Taking the card and the bouquet, I stuff them in the trash.

As I pull the car out of the underground garage, I think about the delivery. It’s not the first message I’ve had from Annika since I stormed out of Shandling & Wilcox. There have been phone calls, a couple of emails, all cordial if not downright apologetic. They’ve all gone unreturned and ignored. She’s got to get the message sometime, doesn’t she? If Lucy had let me move home, it would have sent Annika a clear signal: unavailable. But no—the fact that I’m still living on my own gives her some sort of misguided hope.

Half an hour later I’m sitting in a spacious office with expansive views of Chinatown and Mount Baker in the distance. Across a massive oak desk cluttered with files sits Richard Currie. He’s about my age, pale, pasty, and thankfully, to the point.

“If the issue is getting back into the house,” he says, “I’d advise you to sue for full custody of your daughter. When she’s living with you full-time, you’ll have a much stronger case to have your wife removed from the family home.”

It sounds so harsh when he puts it like that. I clear my throat. “Would I really have a chance at full custody? I mean, Lucy’s a great mom.”

Richard looks at his notepad. “You said your wife had an inappropriate relationship with a teenager?”

“No,” I retort, “he was an actor who
played
a teenager, not an actual teenager.”

“But the affair brought negative publicity into your daughter’s life, right?”

I nod.

“You could definitely use that against her,” he says.

“So I’d basically have to destroy Lucy’s reputation to get custody of Sam.”

Richard leans back in his chair. “It’s not easy to get kids away from their mothers. You said yourself that she’s a good mom.”

“She is.”

“So you’d have to play hardball if you want her evicted from the house.”

The words make me uncomfortable and I shift in my seat. “Lucy and I have agreed that it’s best if our daughter spends time with both of us. I don’t think it would be good for Sam to cut her mom out of her life.”

The lawyer leans forward. “You don’t have much of a chance then, I’m afraid.”

I lean forward too. “My wife led me to believe that I could move back home to work on our marriage. Out of the blue, she had some kind of mid-life crisis and changed her mind. Now she wants to be by herself to start some reusable bag business. Is she allowed to do that—to change her mind on a whim? To opt out of our relationship with no repercussions?”

He glances at his notes again. “You left the marriage in the first place, right?”

“So?”

“Look,” Richard says. “If you want to get back together with your wife, suing her for custody of your daughter and having her removed from her home probably aren’t the best moves.”

I shrug. He has a point.

“I think you need to take some time to identify your objectives.”

I’m paying this guy four hundred and fifty bucks an hour to tell me to figure out what I want? I already know what I want. I want Lucy to let me come home. I want her to love me again. I want that comfortable, complacent marriage that I thought was so boring and stultifying. But how do I make it happen, after everything that’s gone on between us?

I sigh heavily and run my hands down the front of my pants. “You’re right,” I say, “I don’t want to kick Lucy out of the house and take Sam away from her.”

“Then there’s not much I can do for you.”

A quick glance at my watch tells me I’ve been here for exactly thirteen minutes. No doubt I’m being charged for the full hour. I clear my throat. “On an unrelated matter … How would I go about getting a restraining order against someone?”

Lucy

IT TOOK THREE MONTHS
to get ReTotes produced and merchandised. But now, only four months later, our company has turned a profit. When I say
our
company, I mean mine and Hope’s. Once she was done sewing the prototypes and overseeing their production, I handed her a check. But she wasn’t ready to step out of the picture.

“I want to invest in the company,” she said. “I want to be a partner.”

I was happy to take her on. Originally, I’d envisioned a larger role in the business for Samantha, but she’s still just a kid. She was happy to do designs for me, but she wants to spend time with her friends and she recently joined the drama club. Besides, Hope’s technical expertise is a huge asset. With her taking care of fabric selection, design, and production, I’ve been free to focus on marketing. I’ve thrown myself into promoting our bags, using every film industry contact I have. And tonight’s event is a testament to my success.

It’s a fundraising gala at the Hotel Vancouver to support an environmental charity. It’s very posh and swanky and not something I would normally be invited to. But the evening will include a fashion show of environmental clothing. And ReTotes, coordinated with the outfits, will be featured prominently. It’s going to be such great exposure. Elvis Costello will be playing and the press is sure to be there. And while the bags have caught on with the local entertainment industry, I’m excited to bring my product to this wealthy new market.

I toss a lipstick and my credit card into my little black pocketbook as I wait for Sam. The invitations are on the counter, and I finger the silky embossed lettering. The expensive print job is evidence of the evening’s high-end flavor. That, and the fact that the event is being hosted by Goldie Hawn. Apparently she lived here for a while and still has ties to the community. And Camille said that the fashion show will even feature two of the Land Divas as models. Obviously, it was their involvement that created the opportunity to showcase ReTotes.

Reflecting on this lucky break, I realize that my years as a props buyer weren’t a complete waste. Without my connections to the entertainment business, there’s no way my bags would be selling as well as they are. They’ve been featured on television shows and have had coverage in numerous magazines. And I’ve recently had to create a website to handle out-of-town orders.

Of course, I haven’t used every contact from my television days. I haven’t spoken to Wynn Felker since his jaw-sucking goodbye seven months ago.
Cody’s Way
continues to air, but I can’t bring myself to watch it. I will admit to having googled his name a few times, though. The last time I checked he’d been attached to a movie project currently in pre-production. He’s to play the drug-addicted father of a seven-year-old girl. Obviously, this qualifies as a more mature and challenging acting role, and I’ll definitely be in the audience on opening night. Secretly, I’m hoping for some full frontal nudity—just to see what I missed out on. But it’s not like I’d ever consider resuming our relationship. That ship has sailed.

Sam walks into the room then. “How do I look?” She’s wearing a dark blue, knee-length cocktail dress with a cream-colored pashmina around her shoulders. There’s a single strand of pearls around her neck—mine—and silver, kitten-heeled sandals on her feet. My eyes mist up.

“You look beautiful,” I sniffle.

“Mom,” she admonishes, “don’t get all emotional.”

I walk toward her and take her hands. “You just look so grown-up. Where did my little girl go?”

“I’m sixteen,” she says. “Do you want me wearing polka dots and ruffles?”

I kiss her forehead. “Of course not.” Then I step back and do a twirl. “Is this dress okay?”