The Gift Bag Chronicles (3 page)

“I knew they’d come in handy,” he says.

“Yeah, but other than Helen, I don’t see a lot of disasters waiting to happen in Bryn Mawr.”

“Well, it only takes one and Helen will do.”

“Hey, I’m the only one allowed to make cracks about my parents,” I say. “Besides, I have nine holes with Jack in my future, so things are looking up. By the way, did Jennifer reach you? She’s having a fit about the gift bag and the media confirmations.”

“Yes, she’s messengering the garters to me even though I told her I had the same samples, which were, not so coincidentally,
exactly
what she’d approved.”

“Why do we even go through the whole client approval process if they just forget what they’ve approved?”

“What, and take all the fun out of changing their minds
and
blaming us for it? She doesn’t remember what she approved. None of them do. I swear all the memos we send them — media contacts, corporate sponsors, gift bag participants, the materials board — they’re just toys to shove in the baby’s hand. Like a rattle or a mobile. ‘Look at all the pretty colors, Jennifer.’”

I laugh so hard I spill my coffee on the bedspread. Oh,
shit
. A nice black stain on the toile Amy picked to match the curtains. Oh well, that’s what she gets for tossing out my stuff. “Yeah, but she’s still not supposed to call
me
about it,” I say, trying to wipe up the spill with the hem of my robe. “I mean, what’s the point of this elaborate hierarchy if she just jumps the chain of command?”

Steven sighs. “That
is
the point. Otherwise how would we know she’s really upset?”

“Okay, okay,” I say, bored now with the Kabuki dance of Hollywood power plays. Not that it really mattered. The entire town was infected with celebrityitis. The divalike behavior that had once been the province of only A-listers had become the industry’s default mechanism all the way down the food chain. And not just the B- and C-listers, but any star’s entire entourage, their
posses
, just come armed with way too much attitude. Now, if you are Charlize’s stylist or Jennifer Lopez’s hairdresser or the DJ Leonardo DiCaprio hired to reorganize his CD collection, you expect,
demand
, to be treated like a star. Which means handling the Jennifer Schwartzbaums of the world is now no different than handling the Jennifer Anistons.

“Okay, let’s just deal with this when I get back on Tuesday,” I say. “I mean, we are trying to have personal lives.”

“Speaking of that, is Chuck there yet? Has Helen met her future son-in-law?”

“Charles
will be here by dinner, and as you well know, he is not her future son-in-law, although God knows you’re probably right about Helen thinking that. I’m still trying to figure out exactly where Charles and I are right now, and she’s probably thinking we’re picking out rings. God knows, she’s already giving me shit about working too much.”

“And the baby you forgot to have?”

“I’m sure that’s coming, but so far Bevan’s distracting her.”

“See, I knew the heifer would come in handy.”

“Yeah, well, he’s due here this afternoon. Right now, I have to go play golf.”

“Well, break a leg or whatever they say,” Steven says. “If you need me, I’ll be at the beach all weekend.”

I hang up and am just debating about whether to call Caitlin and yell at her for giving out my parents’ number — there’s a reason everyone at the office calls her Princess behind her back — when my cell burbles. “Lara’s Theme” from
Doctor Zhivago
. Charles.

“Hey, big guy, I was just going to call you,” I say.

“Alex” comes crackling down the line. It may be Charles’s phone, but it is definitely not Charles. Taryn, Charles’s assistant, and with what sounds like midtown roaring in the background.

“Taryn?” I say, shouting over the noise. I’ve gotten messages from her before, but never on his cell phone.

“Alex,” she shouts back. “Charles wanted me to call you and say he’s catching the —” The rest of her sentence is drowned out by static and traffic noise.

“What?” I say. “Where’s Charles?”

More static and then Taryn’s voice. “— okay, so he’ll call you from the station before —”

This is pointless. But unfortunately typical of how he’s been lately. Going in a million directions at once and where I feel like
I’m another one of the items on his to-do list. I don’t even bother saying I’ll call back but click off and dial the office. The service picks up. Shit. Everyone’s already gone. I try Charles’s apartment and get the machine. I don’t want to talk to Taryn again, but I redial his cell. Voice mail. I’m about to leave a message and move on to Caitlin and the Mount Everest of messages I know she’ll have for me, holiday or no holiday — God knows, we’re already in the thick of the annual Sundance–People’s Choice–Golden Globe–Oscar party–planning cycle that starts every July and won’t finish until the last envelope is opened in February — when there’s a knock at the door.

“Yeah,” I say, sounding more irritated than I mean to, the phone still pressed to my ear.

“Honey, I found these downstairs.” I turn. Jack, holding my old golf shoes.

I look at him. My dad. Or he was once. Now, I see a gray-haired man in a cardigan sweater holding out a pair of scuffed golf shoes like a peace offering.

“Hey,” I say, clicking off without leaving a message. “Let’s go play golf.”

“You look happy. Didn’t you shoot well?”

Amy. Without breaking stride from spooning what looks like green slime — excuse me,
organic
green slime — into her son’s mouth.

Jack and I are just back from the course, clattering into the kitchen in that noisy, flushed way you get after nine holes and lunch at the club with the rest of the silver-haired retirees. My tee shots stank — I shot so badly, I quit keeping score after the fifth hole—but the Bryn Mawr Country Club never fails to leave me with a God’s-in-his-heaven-all’s-right-with-the-world feeling. A feeling
that lasted until I spied Amy’s Volvo SUV — preppy piety on steroids — parked in the drive. She and I have never been close. We’re sisters, but it’s like we were from two different gene pools. Or generations. Now that we are officially the Career Divorcée and Stay-at-Home Mom, well, anyone can do that math.

“Actually, we both shot
great,”
I say, ignoring Amy to plant a kiss on Bevan’s slightly sweaty head, my hands on his tiny shoulders.

“Careful, Alex, he’s eating, and watch out for that watch,” Amy says, wiping Bevan’s mouth. “That could hurt him.”

Gee, really?
I’m about to say something equally stupid back —
Yeah, I was really hoping to bean my nephew with my Dick Tracy two-way wrist TV
— when Helen bustles in with her purse and suede jacket.

“Oh, good, you two are back,” she says. “Amy and I were just trying to decide how to get these errands done, but now we can go and leave Bevan here with you.”

“Consider yourself saved,” Jack says, bending down to kiss Bevan, and I wonder, briefly, given all the affection they get as kids, why men turn out to be so difficult in adult relationships.

“What errands?” I say, heading for the refrigerator in search of the bottled water I know Helen won’t have. “I hope you’re not going to a lot of trouble just because Charles and I are here, because we don’t—”

“We’re not,” Helen says. “I just have to pick up some things for the party.”

Party?
I haven’t heard that word for two years without knowing it’s only a euphemism for months of mind-numbing, grinding work followed by hours of harried hand-holding, troubleshooting, nose-wiping, all of it frantically masquerading as “fun.” Now, on one of my only weekends off, there’s a party I’m expected to attend?

“Okay, stop right there,” I say, backing out of the refrigerator.
“What
party?”

“The cocktail party we’re throwing tomorrow night,” Helen says, rummaging in her handbag for her keys.

“Aw, Mom, why are you doing that?” All my hard-won equanimity after nine holes and lunch with a nice glass of pinot grigio is totally out the window.

“Honey, it’s just a Labor Day get-together,” she says, looking up in that pained way she gets when someone, usually me, isn’t going along with her plans. “Some of the neighbors and our friends from the club. We thought it would be nice since you’re hardly ever home and what with Charles coming in and all.”

Oh, God. I should have guessed she’d pull a stunt like this. Ever since I upended my life, divorced my stockbroker husband, Josh, and bolted from Manhattan and my job in publishing for life in L.A. as a Hollywood publicist, I’d been suspect in her eyes. Even if half my clients wound up on the covers of the magazines my mother leafed through at the checkout stand, I’d still given up a perfectly respectable life, emphasis on the
respectable
, to run away to Hollywood with the rest of the misfits, dropouts, and other assorted weirdos. Now that I was returning to the fold with a guy in tow, Helen was wasting no time in trumpeting the news. Just when I’m starting to seriously wonder where Charles and I are actually going, Helen’s probably hoping we’re going to announce our engagement or something.

“Well, I only meant that my time here was so limited it seems a shame to spend it talking to the Schmidts from next door,” I say, futilely trying another tactic.

“It’s not just the Schmidts. The Atwaters are coming. And the McIlleneys. They’re all looking forward to seeing you.”

The Atwaters and the McIlleneys. And I had thought getting through the weekend with Charles and my parents was going to take all my concentration. Now I have Charles, my parents, and half of Bryn Mawr to deal with.

“Look, you two go shop, and Alex and I’ll babysit,” Jack says, stepping once more into the breach.

“Yeah, Dad and I’ll stay with Bevan,” I say, still annoyed about Helen’s impending party, but brightening at the idea of an Amy-free afternoon. I check my watch. Just about 2:30. If I’m lucky, by the time they get back, Charles will be here and I’ll have my buffer in place. Speaking of that, I need to check my messages and find out what train he’s catching.

“Well, he’s going down for his nap, so there’s really nothing to do,” Amy says, spooning the last of the slime.

“Well, if that’s the case, I can man the fort myself if all you gals want to go,” Jack says.

“No!” I say a little too quickly. “I mean, I’m a little tired from golf, and after the flight last night, I wouldn’t mind cleaning up before I go pick up Charles.”

“Doesn’t jet lag work the other way? I mean, if you’re flying west to east,” Amy says, unstrapping Bevan and lifting him out of the high chair. “I thought you’d be waking up right about now.”

I shoot her a look, but, typically, her face is unreadable.

“Well, Jack, if you’re sure you’ll be okay on your own, we could get more done if we all went,” Helen says, still rattling around in her handbag for her keys.

“More done?” I say, eyeing her. “Where are you planning on going?”

“Alex,” she says, looking up with a mixture of surprise and fatigue. “Even with Maria coming over tomorrow to help with the hors d’oeuvres, there’s still all the shopping to do. And I thought you might have some ideas about the favors we could hand out.”

“You’re doing
a gift bag?
At a cocktail party?” I can’t believe this.

“Not a
bag
. Just a little something. Give it some thought,” she says, pulling her keys from her purse. “I gather you’re the expert at these things.”

“Mom,” I say, sighing. “You don’t need to do this.”

“I know I don’t
need
to do it, honey,” she says. “We want to do
it. We want our friends to meet Charles and see you after all these years.”

“It’s your coming home party,” Amy says, her tone equally unreadable, as she heads for the stairs with Bevan. “I think it will be fun.”

My definition of
fun
has topped out with golf with Jack and lunch with wine. From here on out, whatever transpires this weekend falls under the heading of family obligations and nothing else. God knows, I wish it was otherwise. I mean, there are families where they actually get along. Maybe if I’d stayed in New York, it would have been different. Or if I’d stayed married to Josh. We might even have a kid by now, a little Josh Jr. running around in a yarmulke. Like that would warm the cockles of Helen’s WASPy heart.

Or maybe I’m just fooling myself. Maybe time ends up fracturing the tightest of families. Maybe we never even had a chance.

“Okay, I’ll go,” I say, opting for the high road and praying it’s worth it. “I just want to be back in time to pick up Charles.”

As it turns out, I don’t have to be back to pick up Charles
because Charles never catches the train out of New York. A meeting that ran late and what with the rush-hour crowds at Penn Station, Saturday noon is now his ETA. So much for my buffer. So much for my boyfriend.

“I’m sorry, I told Taryn to give you the message,” he says when we finally connect while I’m standing in the produce aisle helping Helen pick tomatoes for the tart she’s having Maria make.