The Jane Austen Marriage Manual (8 page)

“I’d ask if you’d like to hold him but I know better.” Marianne grinned.

I’ve got a bit of a reputation for being antibaby. It’s not that I dislike babies. They simply terrify me. Newborns are so fragile that the thought of holding one and worse, holding one incorrectly, sends me into fits of anxiety. Maybe it was because I never wanted children of my own. I had zero maternal instincts. Even as a teenager I never babysat. Instead, I walked dogs for extra cash.

When I was an adult I made an attempt to be more baby friendly by watching a colleague’s eight-month-old son at a Christmas party. She had left me with the baby to go grab herself a cocktail. While she was out of sight I noticed her son trying to pull himself up onto his feet by grabbing my fingers. He stood there, holding on lightly but steadily. He seemed really good at it. Extremely good. So good, in fact, I was convinced that some magical combination of his balance and my skill at baby-watching was the reason for his success. When his mother returned I was excited to show her his trick.

“He can stand!” I exclaimed.

She looked at me doubtfully. But before she could answer, her son had grabbed onto my fingers and was once again up on his feet.
Determined to show off his skills, I decided to pull my fingers away so that he could stand on his own. Only he didn’t. He crashed immediately to the floor and burst into tears.

“He’s too young to stand on his own!” his mother shrieked and picked him up.

No one ever asked me to watch a baby again after that. I was stuck with giving the gift of lasagna.

“I can’t wait to have a bite!” Marianne said as she dove her fork into the dish. It was steaming hot, thanks to their microwave. Frank sat down and they sank their teeth into a gooey mouthful. But then they made a face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, worried I’d poisoned them. “Is the cheese off?”

“It’s not the cheese,” Marianne said gingerly, spitting the food into a napkin. “Did you make this the regular way?”

Trick question. I tried to come up with a reasonable answer, considering I’d never made it regularly or irregularly ever before. “Yes, I think so.”

“It’s the sauce,” Frank offered. “It’s sweet.”

“Sweet? Is that bad?” I asked and went to the kitchen to try for myself.

“And spicy,” he continued. “Kind of sticky.”

I shoved a fork into the lasagna and took a bite. Right away I knew. I love Ann, but if she wanted to make a living cooking she should learn how to label things better.

“It’s barbecue sauce,” I announced grimly. “I grabbed the wrong jar.”

“That’s okay.” Marianne smiled. “I’ve never had barbecue lasagna before. Maybe it will catch on.”

“Yes, like barbecue chicken pizza,” Frank offered helpfully and bravely took another bite, then grimaced. “Or maybe not.”

E
xactly seven days and six hours after my birthday my grandmother died. She lay in her own bed, Iris, Ann, and me at her side, and she slipped away.

My grandmother and I had only argued once in our forty years together. I was twenty-two years old and we were on vacation in Los Angeles. When it came to me, my grandmother’s indulgence knew no bounds. Which is how we found ourselves in the Chanel boutique on Rodeo Drive having a little black dress hemmed. Nana had bought it for me as a graduation gift, which was how she justified the cost. The dress was demure. Sophisticated. Grown-up. Its skirt and waist were made of wool crepe that gave way to a pleated chiffon bodice. It was a classic sleeveless sheath, the very picture of tasteful chic.

The only trouble was that the length was below my knees and that just wouldn’t do. I wanted to rock it up a bit.

My grandmother had agreed to a slight adjustment, but how high the hem could go was up for debate.

The seamstress seemed to read my mind and pinned the skirt four inches above my knee. I loved it. Nana despised it.

“That’s too short!” she snapped. Now my grandmother was not a conservative woman; I had plenty of miniskirts that she encouraged me to wear. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” she liked to say, beaming with
pride at my long legs. So when she objected to the Chanel going micro, I was perplexed, but assumed she’d be won over easily.

“No it’s not,” I said with youthful confidence.

The poor seamstress, unaware of whom she was defying, came to my defense.

“It’s the fashion,” she said sweetly. “She’s young and the dress should be young.”

“You’re both wrong,” Nana said bluntly. “This is a classic dress; it’s not for going to nightclubs. It’s not meant to be sexy in
that
way. You’ll ruin its lines.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes, hoping to catch the seamstress’s sympathetic glance. But my grandmother caught my eye roll and it made her livid.

“Kate,” Nana spoke through clenched teeth. “This is a ladylike dress. You can’t have everything you wear slit up to there.”

Then she rose from the pink-and-gold–upholstered chair and marched to the dressing room door. I felt the seamstress shrink away in fear and hide behind my skirt.

“I don’t get why you’re so angry,” I said flatly, still refusing to give in.

“Fine,” Nana said icily. “You shorten it as much as you want, but you’ll look like a slut in Chanel.”

She stormed away. I was speechless, but my shock didn’t stop the tears of humiliation from running down my cheeks. I wiped them away before the seamstress could see.

“What do you want to do, miss?” she asked gently.

“Keep it short,” I said defiantly. “Right where we have it pinned.”

We never spoke about the Chanel dress again. It was easy to avoid because I never wore it; every time I slipped it on it never looked quite right. I convinced myself I was too young for it, or that it wasn’t trendy enough, or that it just wasn’t my style. I avoided the obvious: that it was too short. It hung in my closet, its garment bag with the famous logo gathering dust, untouched and unworn for more than a decade, as a symbol of my poor judgment.

It wasn’t until I was thirty-five and Marianne had made editor-in-chief at
Haute
that the dress found its place in my life. As a sort of congratulatory gesture, the House of Chanel invited Marianne to Paris to see the couture show. We were both ecstatic and spent an entire Saturday looking for the perfect outfit to sit in the front row. But somehow we came up empty-handed.

“What about the purple Marc Jacobs?” I suggested as we shared a cab back to her condo. She had bought the purple cocktail dress for an arts charity ball and had only worn it once and no one in Paris would have seen it. She didn’t respond; instead, she shuffled around on the seat and cleared her throat.

“I was wondering,” she paused. “Would you consider loaning me your Chanel dress?”

I recoiled. I didn’t answer right away, but the uncomfortable silence screamed loud and clear. I didn’t want to loan her the dress, but I didn’t really have a reason to say no. I’d never worn it. Marianne knew that I’d never worn it. Yet I felt very possessive, even jealous at the thought of someone else in my dress. It was as though she’d asked to sleep with my boyfriend. Well, maybe not quite, but close.

“Um,” I hesitated.

“I’ll take good care of it,” she pleaded.

At home, with the dress held up in front of me, I stared at my reflection in a full-length mirror. I was being silly. What difference did it make if Marianne wore the dress before I did? She was my best friend. We always swapped clothing. But the fact that Marianne realized the value of the dress more than I did caught me off guard. I had learned to dismiss it as conservative and fussy. Clearly Marianne didn’t think so. My grandmother didn’t think so. That meant I was wrong.

I stepped into the little black dress. The zipper was in the back and it took me several attempts and acrobatic moves to get it done up. Before I allowed myself even a glance, I slipped on a pair of black velvet open-toe shoes. There wasn’t a dress made that wasn’t improved with a pair of strappy heels. At last I was ready and turned to face the
mirror. The cut was perfect and hit every curve of my body at just the right angle. It didn’t pull or gape anywhere. Without a doubt it was an elegant dress. But it still didn’t suit me and that made me very angry. I practically tore the zipper in my haste to get the dress off, nearly falling over in a fit of rage as it became entangled around my heels. Marianne could have the damn thing. I was breaking up with my Chanel dress for good.

Marianne took the dress to Paris but didn’t wear it. The Chanel people loaned her something from the current collection instead. When she brought it back, neatly folded and still remarkably unworn, I was relieved to touch it again. I had missed it after all. But I didn’t hang it back in its garment bag. Instead, I made an appointment at the Chanel boutique. When I came out of the dressing room the seamstress stood at the ready, pincushion in hand, tape measure around her neck like a boa. I stepped onto the circular platform and dropped my arms to my sides.

“Let the hem down four inches,” I said determinedly.

“I have to see if there’s enough fabric …” she began, but I cut her off. “There is,” I stated with authority. I would not be swayed from my mission by doubt. “I had it taken up years ago. Now I want it restored so I can wear it like it was meant to be worn.”

This time when I stood before the mirror I didn’t avoid looking. The skirt now grazed my knee, giving the dress the sexy silhouette of the pencil skirts that I had started to wear almost as my uniform. I also couldn’t deny that in my mid-thirties I had grown into the dress. It was finally mine.

The first time I wore it my grandmother clapped her hands together and gushed, “You look beautiful!” as if it were the first time she’d ever laid eyes on the dress. There was no “I told you so.” That wasn’t her style.

“I’m finally old enough to do it justice,” I said wryly. “You were right, this is the length it should be. Just at the knee.”

Nana nodded graciously. “It really shows off your figure.”

It quickly became our favorite dress. I wore it only occasionally so that I would never tire of it. It was that special. We never spoke of the Chanel boutique incident. But that was so like my grandmother and
me; we could forgive and forget without having to blare it out on a loudspeaker.

On the morning of her funeral I zipped up the Chanel dress as though it were a suit of armor. It wasn’t a large gathering—mostly family and a smattering of neighbors and friends. All day I was terrified I’d faint, even though I’d never fainted before. Yet somehow I got through the service and the kind words from everyone that kept me on the verge of tears. Afterward, everyone came back to our house and we fed them little tea sandwiches and served sidecars. There was much laughter and plenty of “do you remember when?” but eventually the inevitable happened; the mourners went home. Even Ann had moved back to her apartment, and I was left with Iris.

“I’m going to go to bed. I’m exhausted,” I said and pulled myself up from the couch.

She nodded. I could hear her clanking dishes in the kitchen as I dragged myself up the stairs. Despite my exhaustion, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring out my window at the treetops.

I
stood in my bra and underwear and stared at my closet. Inside was an uncharted expanse of black with a few gray and chocolate brown patches scattered in the sea of darkness like deserted islands. I grabbed random pieces and pulled them on, shoving fists through armholes and stepping into a skirt, nearly falling over in the process. I was already late and I was in no mood for a meeting.

My grandmother’s lawyer had contacted me a couple of days after the funeral to discuss the will. There was the house that needed to be signed over to Ann and me, but my sister had to work, so the plan was for me to go alone and bring the documents home for her to cosign.

The law office was in a small prewar house that had recently been given a stucco face-lift. It was dove gray with black shutters. The lawyer was a woman named Nelly Lemmon, whom my grandmother had used for years. She must be ancient now.

I stepped out of the car, my heels twisting dangerously on the gravel drive, my delicate velvet shoes no match for the pebbles and small rocks that gave way under each step. Ungracefully, I stumbled to the porch, straightened my skirt, and knocked.

“Come in!” a woman’s voice shouted from inside.

I twisted the doorknob and felt the latch click open. Inside the vestibule were stacks of files mixed in with old newspapers and magazines.

“Is that you, Kate?” the same voice cracked.

“Yes it is,” I yelped and followed the voice down a narrow hallway strewn with files piled high atop battered steel filing cabinets.

“I’m back here!” came the voice again.

I turned a corner and nearly crashed into a goblin of a woman who stood five feet, if that. Her hair was a mass of red corkscrew curls with strands of white poking through like steel wool. She wore mascara and a pale pink lipstick, but otherwise she was deathly pale, as though she hadn’t stepped outdoors in decades. Her face, with chubby cheeks like an overweight cat, was remarkably unlined, no doubt due to a dearth of sunlight. She reached out a hand. “Glad you could come so soon.”

We sat down. Her desk was shockingly clutter-free except for one legal-size gray file lying centered on the smooth glossy wood with her arms folded on top of it. Nelly leaned forward, her soft fleshy arms jiggling as though boneless, her stubby legs tapping the floor beneath her desk in some imagined rhythm.

“The will is simple,” she began calmly enough. “You and your sister get the house. But I need to know how you plan to deal with the bank.”

“Bank?” I repeated blankly. “What bank?”

She sat back, practically disappearing into her armchair so I had to lean forward to maintain eye contact. “The bank that holds the mortgage,” she said, giving me an odd look.