Friendship Bread (38 page)

“Right. Us. Of course. You know that’s what I meant.” She gives an uneasy laugh. “Look, it doesn’t really matter, Mark. The point is I
have everything we need. I’m confident I can close this deal—
for us
—even if you can’t make the meeting. I have it all under control. It’s not a big deal.”

“Actually,” Mark says. “It
is
a big deal, Vivian.”

There’s a stunned silence. Then, “Mark …”

“No,” he says firmly. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Vivian, but …”

“You appreciate my enthusiasm?” She says this with disdain, her softness suddenly a hard edge.

Mark grits his teeth. He’s usually good with this sort of thing, but Vivian has a way of turning everything upside down. That night in Chicago it took four hours and a good meal before she sobered up. She’d been running on empty all day, forgoing meals and pushing herself past her limit. During dinner he heard everything, all her unhappiness, all her insecurities, but Mark was okay with that part. If anything it showed her humanity, how she was just as fragile as the rest of them. But he also realized that Vivian was hungry—for love, for success—and Mark isn’t the person who can help her get those things.

He knows it’s his own fault he let things get personal, that somehow it’s preempted their professional relationship and obscured the small detail that Vivian does, in fact, report to Mark. But things have just been taken to a whole new level now that Vivian has crossed the line in a very big way. Mark knows what Victor will say, that even though the Lemelin project was already lost, there’s no telling if she will do something like this again. Even Mark isn’t sure she wouldn’t do this again. He feels sorry for what he’s about to do, because he knows she’s just trying to find her way in the world and he wishes he could help. “Vivian …”

“Don’t ‘Vivian’ me, Mark.” Her voice is biting, caustic. “I’m not Julia—you don’t have to talk me down from the ledge. I’m sick of you being such a nice guy, Mark!”

And that’s enough. He can’t believe he’s putting up with this. His empathy has dissolved into annoyance, and it’s directed at himself more than anyone else. Mark wonders why he didn’t see it before,
why he didn’t clue in sooner, but he’s had enough of this crazy roller-coaster ride. He wants off. And lucky for Vivian, he’s not going to bother being a nice guy about it.

“Vivian …”

“What?”

“You’re fired.”

It takes Mark an hour to update Victor and Dorothy, to call the security company that codes their electronic keys and have them revoke Vivian’s access to the office immediately. He calls Lemelin to tell him the news, that Vivian no longer works for G&E and that she is not authorized to talk to him on behalf of the firm, and that they are no longer interested in pursuing the project. He speaks to their HR person who tells Mark to document everything, which he spends the next hour doing in meticulous detail.

Whether she was hoping to impress him or was looking for a way to bolster her own career and portfolio, Vivian has overstepped her bounds. She’s smart, talented, and extremely gifted, but she needs to be with a firm in the city, one that can match her drive and ambition. Or go out on her own. Mark has no doubt she’ll make her mark one way or the other. Whatever Vivian ultimately decides to do is up to her, but she can’t work for Gunther & Evarts anymore. This much is clear.

When Mark joins his family in the kitchen a few minutes later, the warmth of the oven and smell of sugary cinnamon envelops him. A few loaves are already cooling on wire racks and another set of pans is about to slide into the oven. Julia smiles at him and Gracie is sprinkling raisins into a mixing bowl. He forgets about the rain, about Vivian, about Lemelin, about being the best architect in the world. Instead, he sets his sights on his wife and daughter and holds his hands out to help.

“I have a bunch of packages for you.” Jamie Linde stands on the porch in a UPS-issued rain slicker. Water is dripping from his face but he’s smiling, and Hannah feels her heart give a little flutter as it always does when she sees him. “I can cover them in plastic so they don’t get wet. Or I can back the truck up the driveway.”

Packages, plural. Hannah tries to remember what she ordered. She’s been shopping online quite a bit, buying new appliances for her kitchen—a food processor, a juicer, a tabletop grill—plus a host of new utensils. So far her favorite is the silicone bakeware. There’s something about the soft, flexible pans that Hannah loves. Her loaves of Amish Friendship Bread just slide out with a simple twist, perfectly and evenly baked. Cleanup is a breeze, too. Why can’t everything in life be this easy?

“Whatever is simplest for you,” she tells him, feeling bad that he has to work in such bad weather. There are only a few cars out on the
street and the wind is howling, whipping rain sideways. She slips on her shoes.

He peers at her driveway. “Do you want to open your garage door? I can bring them right in.”

“How many packages are there?”

Jamie is already heading back out into the rain. “About ten.”

Hannah goes through the house and opens the garage door. Jamie is already there, the UPS truck almost touching the eaves. He brings out the first box and walks it into the garage, placing it by the door to the house. “Here’s the first one.”

Hannah looks at the addresses which have been scrawled across the top of the box with a fat permanent marker.

From: P. de Brisay, 540 North State Street, #843, Chicago, IL 60610
.

To: Hannah Wang, 11248 First Avenue, Avalon, IL 61798
.

Hannah stares at the box. She thought Philippe was going to wait until the season was over in June before sending back her things, but apparently that’s too long. Hannah shouldn’t be surprised—once Philippe makes up his mind, he’s impatient to get it over with, to move on—but she wasn’t prepared for the shock of seeing her own name again, suddenly separate and disconnected from his. It’s amazing how someone can cut you out of their life by simply taking their name back.

She hasn’t been Hannah Wang in years, not since she married Philippe. Her father had been against her changing her name, even her agent was against it, but Hannah wanted to change her name. She loved how Philippe would chant, “Hannah de Brisay, Hannah de Brisay,” with so much pride and joy. He practically sang it out to everyone in the first-class cabin when they were on their honeymoon, he was so proud.

“Are you okay?” Jamie is ferrying in boxes of different sizes and shapes, miscellaneous cardboard boxes that Philippe picked up from Costco or at the back of some warehouse.

Hannah doesn’t say anything but tugs at a single strip of flimsy
packing tape that holds the flaps together. It comes off easily, making her marvel at the fact that the box didn’t burst open during transit.

Inside is a jumble of her things from the apartment. Clothes, books, toiletries. The lid for her shampoo is loose, and it’s leaked all over everything, even the cashmere throw Philippe gave her for Christmas. Hannah tries to scoop some of the shampoo back into the bottle, but finally gives up and drops the whole thing back into the box.

Jamie wrinkles his nose. “Wow, that’s too bad. People don’t always pack things well and things can open along the way. Smells nice, though.”

Hannah smiles at him gratefully, touched that he noticed. That’s exactly why she bought the shampoo, a milk and rose variety from Fresh. But Philippe didn’t care.

“Thanks, Jamie. Do I need to sign anything?”

“Nope. Sender didn’t request confirmation.”

Hannah feels a twinge of rejection again that Philippe couldn’t even be bothered to make sure she got everything. “Oh. Well, okay.” She surveys the other boxes and dreads opening them. Maybe she shouldn’t. She can’t even remember what she had in that apartment. Maybe she should just donate everything sight unseen and move on.

“So.” Jamie casts his eyes around the almost bare garage. There aren’t any tools or lawn equipment, none of the usual things that you might find. Philippe was never one for manual labor, nor would he risk his hands, which are insured by the CSO. They have a gardener who comes twice a month. “Are you renting this place?”

“No, we bought it.” Hannah closes up the box and pushes it away.

“Oh. Right. Your husband is a musician, too?”

“He’s a violinist with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. We’re separated, though. We’re getting a divorce.” She opens up another box and sees a jumble of sweaters.

Jamie doesn’t look surprised, his face sympathetic as he points his chin to the empty spaces around them. “I figured. It doesn’t look like there’s a man around here. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. He’s sleeping with the violist.” That was totally unnecessary—Hannah wants to clap a hand over her mouth. But then she thinks,
I don’t care. I’m glad he knows
. She nudges another box with the edge of her ballet flat, wonders what’s inside.

Jamie grimaces, makes a face. “He must be mad. I’d take a cellist over a violist any day.” He says this with so much authority that Hannah smiles, charmed. There’s a flash of lightning followed almost immediately by another rumble of thunder.

Jamie glances outside. “I should go. You’re my last delivery—they want us to head back because of the weather. There’s major flooding in Laquin but Barrett is hit the worst.” Barrett and Laquin are small towns neighboring Avalon.

“Oh, wait,” Hannah says, jumping up. She hurries into the house where she wraps a couple of potato croquettes, still warm from the pan. She returns to the garage and hands them to him. “I just made them.”

Jamie accepts them gratefully. “Wow, these look amazing. Thanks—I was starving. I skipped my break because I wanted to finish my route early.” His eyes dart outside, where the sky is dark and menacing. “I know this may not be great timing for you, but would you be interested in going out sometime? Not like a date, because you’re still married, but maybe for dinner or something? Do you like Italian?”

Oh, Hannah would love to go out to dinner with him. Jamie is tall and handsome and incredibly sweet. It doesn’t hurt that he has a great body, either, which is easy to see in his trim UPS uniform. And it’s clear that he likes her. Hannah misses that part the most—having someone to dote on her, someone who thinks she’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.

“Thanks, but I probably shouldn’t …” Her voice trails off, disappointed.

“Right.” Jamie is quick to nod, embarrassed.

Hannah bites her lip, frustrated. God, she wants to. She
wants
to go out with Jamie, wants to know more about him, wants to see what they have in common. But it’s too soon, isn’t it? She should probably
finalize the divorce, have a period of aloneness, of independence. “It’s just that everything is so messy with my husband right now …” She stops.

How much more aloneness does Hannah really need? How exactly is she supposed to quantify that? Is it like a period of mourning? Because the more she thinks about it, the more she’s noticing something else entirely. She’s spent a good part of her life being alone, maybe not physically, but emotionally, and she’s not interested in living like that anymore. Her marriage is over, her professional playing career is over. And while there has been so much sorrow around these losses, there is something new in its place.

Freedom.

Freedom to make mistakes, freedom to live life messily. That’s what Madeline and Julia said, right?
Life is messy
. Their friendship, like a breath of fresh air, has swept away the cobwebs from the dark corners of her life, has shown her that while aloneness may have its place, friendship—and love—offer so much more.

“Well, I just thought I’d ask.” Jamie runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up, and Hannah loves how it makes him even more handsome. He smiles politely then turns to leave.

“Wait,” she says. She reaches out and touches his arm, lightly, and isn’t prepared for the sudden flash of heat that runs through her, causing her body to tingle.

Wow
.

“Not a date yet, but maybe we can meet for ice cream sometime,” she proposes. “How about next week?” She’s had enough of the fancy dinners and elaborate dates—she wants to do something fun for a change. Something that doesn’t require a lot of planning or coordination, or having to have her hair done or a special outfit picked out. She’s been wanting to go to the ice cream parlor near her house and she likes the idea of sitting with Jamie in a place filled with the wild cacophony of school-aged kids, sharing a sundae or ice cream float.

“Ice cream?” Jamie says this with such a look of amusement on his face that she can’t help but laugh. “Okay. But you have to stay on
your side of the booth.” He says this playfully but Hannah hears the flirtatious undertones, can see that he’s already trying to figure out how to woo her. She prays he isn’t the kind of guy who will smash her heart into a million little pieces, because she can already feel herself falling for him. Or maybe it’s too late and she already has, and she just needs to let it go.

Hannah is full to bursting, radiating a happiness she hasn’t felt in a long time. She presses her lips together to keep her smile in check. “I’ll try my best.”