The Spinster Sisters (3 page)

“They took me at my word when I promised to work very hard, not just for them but also true to the spirit that the company was started with. They have supported me, encouraged me, and inspired me.”

This sort of loyalty seems par for the course. Everyone one encounters with even the smallest professional connection to the Spinster Sisters has shown a fierce respect for both women. Their primary business philosophy, to hire strong, intelligent women and then let them do their jobs without micromanagement, seems to be paying off. The fact that they pay at the high end of the industry scale for all positions, offer full benefits to all employees, tuition reimbursement for continuing education, and a healthy bonus structure doesn’t hurt their reputation as good employers.

For Jodi and Jill, it seems that they are taking the whole thing in stride.

“We are so blessed,” Jill says. “We do what we love, there are constantly new challenges to keep things interesting, and we get to do it as a team.”

“We wonder sometimes if we’d have ended up here if the accident hadn’t happened,” Jodi says, “but we like to think that we would have! As it stands, we know we have pretty powerful guardian angels, and we just hope we’re doing them proud.”

I think there’s little doubt of that.

For information on their speaking engagements, to read excerpts from the books, or to check in on the Spinster blog, log on to their website,
www.spinstersistersinc.com
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How many times have you suppressed your own will in the beginning of a relationship, just to find that down the road it has rendered you powerless to change the pattern? It is essential from the beginning of a relationship to be clear about what is important to you. If you want sleepovers, buy him a spare toothbrush and make your wants known. If you need your space, don’t respond to every phone call and e-mail in the beginning; he’ll think you’re pulling away when you stop in a few weeks. Human behaviorists say it only takes three weeks to establish a habit. Use the first three weeks of any new relationship, romantic or platonic, to create habits that won’t need to be undone later.

—From
The Thirty Commandments
by Jill and Jodi Spingold

 
 
 
The alarm on my cell phone sounds a shrill beeping, which wakes me with a start. I roll over to shut it off and look at the time: 4:30. Crap. I roll back over and nudge the snoring gentleman next to me.

“Abbot. Wake up. You gotta go.”

He grunts and throws an arm over his head.

I poke him in the ribs. “Abbot, I mean it. I have to get ready.”

He bolts up, rolls over quickly, and traps me beneath him. Then he kisses me deeply. “You’re delicious, you know that? I have half a mind to make you my prisoner.” He kisses the side of my neck, below my ear. Sigh. He’s pretty delicious himself. I poke him again.

“I’d credit you with less than half a mind at the moment. You know the rules, mister. If I’m going to let you drag me away from work in the middle of the afternoon, then I have to be able to keep my evening free to catch up. Besides, I have to be downstairs for cocktail hour in thirty minutes, and with what you’ve just done to my hair, I need primp time.” I push him off me and throw back the covers.

“Yikes!” He yelps, snatching at the blankets. “No fair!”

“Up you get, lover. No fooling.” I grin at him and then get out of the bed, stretching.

“Fine, fine. I give up.” He gets out of bed. “First dibs on your bathroom.”

“Of course.” On his way by, he kisses the side of my neck and smacks me on the ass.

I throw the blankets back over the bed and put on my bathrobe. I have to admit, there is something so wonderfully decadent about a midafternoon romp, I feel perfectly wicked. The fact that Abbot is a skilled lover doesn’t hurt matters. Never underestimate those banker types, ladies, they may seem stuffy and conservative, but I find they can be shockingly delightful in the bedroom. But despite his numerous charms, I do have to make sure Abbot knows that my rules aren’t made to be broken. Not even by someone who knows where my G-spot is.

I hear the toilet flush and the sink running. Moments later, he reappears, salt-and-pepper hair slightly damp, face pink, grin as wide as all get-out. Boys, even forty-eight-year-old boys, always get that cat-that-swallowed-the-canary look after sex. It is at once adorable and infuriating.

“Where are my briefs?” he asks, wandering around my bedroom.

“Psst,” I say. He turns to see me dangling them off one finger.

“Thanks, darling.” He dresses while I watch. Abbot Elling IV is a classic mergers and acquisitions guy. Conservative in dress, moderate in politics, sort of pasty from spending all his time in boardrooms, fit enough but not overly muscled. He looks like Anderson Cooper’s older brother. Well, maybe cousin. He doesn’t have Anderson’s chiseled handsomeness; he’s more like a Xerox of a Xerox, a little fuzzy around the edges. Not bad-looking, just not striking. But smart as anything, quick-witted, and excellent company. He shares my passions for theater, old movies, Impressionist art, and Sunday crossword puzzles. He makes a perfect martini. He’s more devoted to my orgasm than his own. The only thing he can cook is an amazing spaghetti Bolognese, which is about the best thing I ever ate postfling at midnight or for a hangover-cure breakfast. Plus he spoils me rotten.

I’ve been seeing him for four months, ever since he ran into me in the lobby of my bank. Literally. Came around a corner like a bat out of hell, juggling a briefcase and a BlackBerry, and slammed into me. Lucky for me, I’m only five three and far from a lightweight, so my center of gravity is close to the ground. This makes me something like a Weeble, and Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down. They do, however, shriek like a banshee and lose control of their overstuffed purse-cum-briefcases. The shrieking echoes off the bank walls with a decibel level somewhere in the U2 concert range, and the bags send their contents skittering across the marble floors with astonishing speed. Abbot, to his enormous credit, made sure I was all right and then assisted me in collecting my personal items, including fetching my tampon case from under the chair of a bemused security guard.

I liked his efficiency and his warm hazel eyes, and when he offered coffee to make it up to me, I suggested that it was at least worth a dinner. He agreed and took me to Kiki’s Bistro the next night, and over Dijon stewed rabbit and a perfectly chilled Côtes de Provence, we began. So far he has been lovely. A little pushy at times, and with a tendency to be unknowingly condescending, but I always call him on both, and he’s quick to apologize. Plus, he sends flowers the next day every time we sleep together, which, tough broad though I may be, makes me all gooey. I think he’s got Robert Daniel’s florist on retainer.

He finishes dressing, folds his tie and puts it in his pocket, then looks at me. “Tell me again why I can’t come to the sacred, super-secret cocktail hour? I’m dying to meet these aunts of yours.”

“Sorry, family only. Besides, you know the aunts are off-limits. I’m not interested in sharing you.” It’s my standard reply. I learned early on in my reentry into dating that bringing boys home to meet Ruth and Shirley was not a good plan. My aunts are the kind of older women whose laughter is so infectious, stories so entertaining, cooking so delicious, that they seduce everyone who meets them, and that makes giving a guy the boot that much more difficult. Guys always tried to win over the aunts in order to more firmly ensconce themselves in my life, and that makes things messy when you tire of their attentions. I hate messy.

I made the rule hard and fast after I came home one afternoon to find a recently exed boy sitting in my aunts’ parlor, playing three-handed gin and scarfing down vanilla tea cakes with Ruth smirking and Shirley beaming. I think, though they would never tell me so, that they are split on their hopes for my romantic future. Ruth, I believe, is thrilled that I am following in her stilletoed footsteps, never without a decent bit of male companionship but not attempting to secure a permanent future for anyone but myself. Shirley was sadder to see my marriage end and would like to have me find someone the way Jill has, someone she can cook for. I think deep down she may be somewhat regretful that after breaking off her engagement to Mr. Not Right Enough, that the one she was saving herself for never showed.

“Fine, fine,” Abbot says, resigned. “You make the rules.” He smirks at me, as if he knows that someday he will break me down.

“Yep, I do.” I smirk back at him, knowing that he won’t ever succeed. “C’mon lover, I’ll walk you out.”

I escort him to the back door off my kitchen. He shakes his head.

“Really, darling, this back door business bothers me. Why on earth can’t I leave from the front like a normal human being? It makes the whole thing feel so illicit.”

“First, because the last thing I need is Jill bumping into you when she gets home from work or the aunts catching you on your way out. And for your information, sex at three o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday is reasonably illicit for those of us running businesses. Walk it off.” I kiss him and open the door. Then I put my tough-girl persona aside for a moment. “Thanks for a lovely afternoon, Abbot, really. You are the best abductor ever.” I turn my face up to him.

He leans over and kisses my lips softly. “Thank you back. I rely heavily on the Stockholm syndrome for your complicity. Dinner Saturday?”

I mentally look at my BlackBerry screen for Saturday. Full up. “Can’t. How about Tuesday?”

He shakes his head, assuming appropriately that I have another date, but with the good taste not to pry. “Done. I’ll make us a reservation at MK.”

“My favorite. I’ll speak with you over the weekend sometime.” I hold the door open for him.

“Okay. Have a good cocktail hour.”

“Will do.” He cups my face in his hands, kisses me deeply, then turns away. I watch his silvery hair disappear down the back stairs and then head back inside.

My own hair, a mop of brown curls, has not fared nearly so well from the afternoon’s attentions. It looks very much as if I have attempted to comb it with an electric mixer. I check the clock: 4:42. Gotta boogie. I jump in the shower, wet my hair down, and give myself a thorough scrub. I have that slightly bruised postsex feeling that makes me feel so alive. As if every inch of my skin is attuned to some mild electric charge in the air. After a quick towel-dry, the hair goes up in a ponytail, I jump into a pair of lounging pants and a sweater, throw on my slippers, and head downstairs. On the second-floor landing, I knock on Jill’s door.

“It’s open . . . ,” she calls out. I open the door.

“Cocktail time, let’s go,” I say. She appears from out of her bedroom. She is wearing a cute outfit: little gray tweed skirt, lavender blouse, fabulous bronzed leather boots. Her hair, which unlike mine is just sort of gently and perfectly wavy and never, damn her eyes, frizzy, is tucked behind her ears as usual. Simple makeup, our mom’s diamond studs. It makes me feel very frumpy. Actually, Jill frequently makes me feel a little frumpy. She is built like Dad was, tall, long legs. She has the most amazing clavicle I’ve ever seen and never struggles with her weight. I, on the other hand, seem to most favor Grandma Spingold, short, round, heavy of hip and breast, like a Russian farmwife, and just sniffing too deeply as I walk by a bakery can add a pound to my ample frame. The fact that Jill also got the good hair seems like insult to injury. It’s a good thing she is my favorite person and best friend, or I might have to hate her.

“You and Hunter going out tonight?” I ask her, faking innocence. Hunter is her boyfriend of almost one year. He’s a really great guy, definitely the best boyfriend she’s ever had, and the only one I’ve ever approved of without reservations or caveats. The aunts are madly in love with him.

“Yep. He’s picking me up in an hour.” She grabs her purse and jacket. “Shall we?”

We leave her apartment and head down the stairs to the first floor. I love this building. Buying it was Jill’s genius idea. It’s a great old three-flat brownstone in Palmer Square, just a few blocks from where we grew up. And while the aunts were sad to leave the old family place, having grown up in it themselves, the idea of us all living in the same building again was too tempting. The fact that the old family place garnered nearly two million dollars, allowing them both a tidy annual income and securing their golden years, didn’t hurt.

I have the third-floor apartment, Jill has the second floor, and the aunts are on the first floor. We have laundry and storage in the basement. All the benefits of living together, but with plenty of privacy. Even if it does mean having to sneak boys out the back door for the sake of decorum.

Aunt Ruth opens the door in a haze of Shalimar, her spiky burgundy-colored hair pushed off her forehead with a pair of black-rimmed glasses. “Hello, darlings,” she says, kissing us on both cheeks. “Shirley is just pulling the nibbles out of the oven, and I’m manning the bar.”