Lessons In Being A Flapper (4 page)

“
So, Autumn, are you working or are you going to be on the nut forever?” she said. Luckily, after my first visit I took it upon myself to research some of the Twenties slang and knew that “on the nut” meant broke. So not only would Sophia just think she was above me, now she’d know for sure that she was thanks to her over-sharing great grandmother. Great, just great.                                                                 

“I’m not ‘on the nut’
as you say, Marisol. I’m doing OK, actually. I had some freelance jobs this week which will hold me over for quite a while.”                                                                                                   

“That’s just lovely, chickadee, but don’t you want something a little more, I don’t know,
permanent
? Wouldn’t that make you feel more
secure
?” She said permanent and secure with such emphasis that I knew she was hinting at something. Just what that something was, is beyond me.                                   

“I’m fine really. Don’t you worry
about me!” I replied, a little too brightly. She probably knew I was lying but I pasted on my biggest smile possible just to make my point.                                                                     

       
“OK, then. I’ll cut right to the chase, Autumn. I know you’re not one to beat around the bush, so I won’t either. I’m not worried about you.
He
is. I’ve been told that you’re finances aren’t exactly up to par right now and its put me behind the eight ball as a result,” she said. “You see your grandfather is one pushy man. He wants me to get on the ball with you and pronto so I’ve come up with a plan that I think is the bee’s knees…” Ok, was my grandfather seriously snooping through my financial records? Good God, that was creepy! I guess all those privacy notices don’t exactly apply to the dead (although they should because the dead seem more likely to snoop than the living!) Without waiting for an answer, Marisol ploughed on with her bright idea even though neither I nor the ever-silent Sophia had said anything in response yet. I was starting to worry she was a mute.                                                                                                                                                       

  
   “You see, my darling Sophia here is a writer too. She is the editor of
San Francisco Fashion & Flare
, which I’m sure you’ve heard of. We’ve chatted and decided that you could take a vacant position there starting on Monday. The best part is that you’ll get to write about vintage clothes and trinkets! How fun is that?” she said, clapping her hands together in excitement.                                                                                     

     Seriously? Marisol had to be delirious if she wanted me to work with her ice queen of a great-granddaughter. I’d rather poke my eyes out with a fork than have I’m-wearing-Chanel-so-I’m-better-than-you Sophia as my boss.                                                                                                                                     

    
“While that’s very kind of you, Marisol, but as you can see, Sophia and I have very different style tastes. I’m not sure that I’d fit in at
Fashion & Flare
. Thank you for offering though.”                                           

    
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said an extremely posh voice (that had to have come from Sophia, even though I never saw her lips move an inch. Freaking Botox. It made her impassive and unable to move her mouth!)                                                                                                                                                           

    
“We’d love to have you on our team. We need a new and fresh perspective and you seem cool enough, in a strange sort of way, to fill the gap. Of course, you’d be clearing all your ideas with me for the first few weeks, but after that you’d have full control over your articles. Plus, I trust my granny’s judgment. She says you know your stuff and I believe her.” What the hell? I thought. Did this woman just say that? Did she seriously just say that I was “cool” even though I’m sitting here with non-designer clothes and a head of hair that looked like I’d been zapped with a million volts of electricity? (I was prone to frizz these days). My life was getting more and more curious as the days went by.                                                         

     
After much deliberation and a stern talking to from Marisol (who was 99 but said age was only in one’s head) I agreed to start working for Sophie, as she insisted I call her, next Monday. I could only hope that my new beginning turned out to be what I needed it to be in my life right now.

     
T
he next morning, I woke up too early for my liking (what was it with morning people? They were so annoyingly perky!) and headed out for a walk with Clara. We headed towards the shore and I just prayed that this time it didn’t start down pouring out of the blue. I don’t know why but I’ve always felt a connection with the ocean. That and other innate objects seemed to calm me when I was stressed; make me smile when I was sad and clear my head when I was confused. I wasn’t any of these things today. I just felt like I needed to get out and get some fresh air. It seemed like a gorgeous day in Northern California even though it was almost winter and back home it would be absolutely freezing. That’s one thing I didn’t miss! I was a New Englander through and through but being here was so much better than being there when winter reared its ugly head.                                                                                 As Clara wobbled along (she was doing better and better) I got lost in my own thoughts once again which is probably why I didn’t see that there was a car coming down the street as I was crossing it.    

     
    “Oh my God!” I screamed, as the car screeched to a halt barely inches from me.  Even though it didn’t hit me, I was knocked down by an over-excited puppy who thought that all the screaming indicated that something fun was happening. Dogs.  You can’t help but love them but sometimes they really drive you mad!                                                                                                                                                                    

    
        “Are you OK? Did you break anything? Should I call 911?” a male voice screamed as I picked myself up and dusted myself off.                                                                                                                                              

             
“I’m fine, really. You didn’t hit me,” I said as I brushed dirt – at least I thought it was dirt, I hope it wasn’t actually dog poop – off my favorite jeans.                                                                                                       

That’s when I noticed him. Standing not three feet from me and offering me his hand was the most gorgeous man I had ever seen in my entire life. Seriously. The. Most. Gorgeous. Man. Ever. I blushed as I realized how silly I must look to this Adonis of a man, standing in the middle of the road when he didn’t even hit me. He had every right to after the show I’d put on (and for jaywalking but I wouldn’t bring that up if he didn’t!)                                                                                                                                                       

“Thank God you’re OK. I was so worried that I had hit you and would be charged with manslaughter and dog-slaughter or something,” he said, obviously very relieved that the mad woman with the dog crossing in front of him had no visible injuries and therefore wouldn’t be suing the pants off of him. Oh. Scratch that. I didn’t want to think about him without pants. But I already was. Shitballs. I was blushing again. I could only hope he didn’t notice.                                                                                                                           

 
“Are you sure you’re OK? You seem a little flushed…Here, let me get you a coffee and you can have a minute to regain your composure. I think that café over there allows dogs,” he said, as I died inside. He had noticed and was now thinking my red face was down to his poor driving. If he only knew the truth!

“Really, it’s no big deal. It was my fault and I’m sorry for ruining your day by scaring the pants off of you…” I trailed off, realizing I had brought up his pants again. What was wrong with me? Had I never been in the presence of a gorgeou
s man before? He smirked at my comment (maybe he thought I was flirting with him) and then insisted that I sit in the Sticky Bun café. As if I wasn’t thinking about his buns enough already, I was now going to sit in a place with the word “buns” in its name! I did as instructed (who could say no to a good looking man?) and sat in the café while he parked up the road. As he walked back to me, I felt my heart flutter a little. It seemed my heart was betraying me already and I hadn’t even had a proper conversation with Mr.-Almost-Hit-And-Killed-Me.                                                   

“Once again, I must apologize for not seeing you sooner. I must hav
e been distracted,” he said as he sat down and started petting Clara, to her obvious delight. So, he was a dog person? That automatically gave him another checkmark in my book. I could never date a man who didn’t like dogs. Not that I was going to date this man but…well, you know what I mean.                                                                                       

            
“She’s a pit, right?” I nodded in response since my mouth seemed a lot like Sophie’s (minus the Botox) and was unable to form any words.                                                                                                                     

            “They’re such good dogs. It’s sad that people think so badly of them. I had one when I was younger and my parents have one now. I can’t have dogs in my apartment, but if they were allowed I’d definitely go down to the shelter this minute and adopt the neediest pit. What happened to her leg?”                        

         
   “Oh, well, I guess, she, uh, well, she was being abused. I, um, saw her getting kicked and I stopped them and took her to my, uh, my vet. Well, not my vet. I don’t go to the vet, obviously, I go to a very nice doctor in North Beach,” I stumbled, cringing as every word came out of my suddenly unstoppable mouth. He smiled. God, what a nice smile he had. Kind of goofy but sweet looking and sincere. You could always tell a lot by someone’s smile, I thought.                                                                                             

             
“You saved her from being killed? That’s amazing! You’re a hero…I almost hit a hero. Wow, can you imagine if I had hit you? I think I would have gone straight to hell because you’re so angelic,” he said laughing. I laughed too because he was just so charming and easy-going. I suddenly found my voice, realizing it was silly to be so dumb-struck by a man who probably had a model wife or girlfriend and ten beautiful, blue eyed children at home. Well, maybe not ten but at least one.                                                

“I doubt you’d go to hell for hitting me. I probably would’ve gone to hell for jaywalking before you’d go t
o hell for hitting me!” I said.                                                                                                                               

“True that,” he replied and we both laughed.

O
ne sticky bun and a coffee later, I had found out that my snacking partner was named Bayani, which he said meant “Hero” (oddly enough) and that he was of Asian heritage – which explained his shiny, dark hair and gorgeous exotic features. He was just so perfect that I could have sat and stared at him all day if he let me. Though that would be kind of creepy right, seeing as we’d just met? It seemed like we were getting along well and Clara simply adored him already, which was a great sign. So far there had been no mention of a wife/girlfriend or child, another good sign. Since we were getting along so well, I was surprised, but not shocked, when Bayani asked me for my number and told me he had one of the best afternoons in a long time thanks to me (go me!) He also said he’d love to meet up again. I wasn’t sure if he meant as friends or for a date but I would take what I could get and go from there. I wasn’t too surprised either, to find that Marisol already knew about my fateful meeting with Bayani when I stopped by to deliver a dozen warm and sweet sticky buns that Bayani insisted on buying me as an apology.     

“So, tell me about your new fella? What’s he like? I want details, woman!” she said as
soon I walked in the door. Obviously, gramps had been snooping again. But I couldn’t be mad at him because at that moment , as I sat down on Marisol’s vintage chaise lounge chair, I felt that my life was finally turning a corner for the better and I couldn’t wait to see what was in store for me on Monday when I began my first day at
San Francisco Fashion & Flare.

T
he rest of the week flew by in a flurry of short Flapper lessons, shopping with Marisol and phone conversations with Bayani. Apparently, he worked in some big publishing house and his editor-in-chief was extremely demanding. I couldn’t associate, having never actually worked in a big office before, but I had a feeling I might be able to understand his gripe a bit more after my first day working for Sophie.