#61 TROUBLE AND PARADISE

PART I

My husband and I are friends with a neighboring couple, a famous couple, and lately we have been seeing more of them than usual. What I mean is that everywhere you turn, there they are. In decorating and fashion magazines, in people profiles, at gallery openings, in bookstores, cafes and lately she has been seen around the gourmet world having just published a book on organic gardening and vegan cooking. Their names are Edward and Patricia. Occasionally they invite us to dinner, nothing too grand and we invite them and try to be somewhat grand knowing they are used to more lavish attention than we might offer.

They are your typical boomers, as are my husband, Lanning and myself. I own a bookshop that specializes in art and military history. I have many discussions on the incompatibility of the two subjects but I have long decided there is nothing I can do about it. I started what was a bookstore dedicated to the visual arts. Over time, my husband kept musing that a store specializing in military history would do well. According to his theory and that of a few military buffs he has coffee with on Tuesdays, since the 1950s, anything related to the military has gone out of fashion. That the types who buy books--elites, academics, intellectuals, hippies and spinsters are decidedly anti-war and there is a dearth of books on this topic in most bookstores; true for both Europe and America. I began to take note and there was definitely something to be said for this observation. I gave in and together we started buying books on all aspects of military history and the store more than doubled its business and its size. Then my husband talked me into selling war memorabilia as a side because we uncover a lot of that stuff in our book search. You wouldn’t believe what old helmets, badges, ribbons sell for. Maybe you would.

I’m somewhat eclectic with my sections. At times art history and military history coincide but not often. I place ads in the printed media or online--one for military history, one for art. I never try to combine them in an ad; it’s too confusing. I pretend I am two different stores and in fact my husband handles the military history section. At first I thought we would not work well together in the store but things have been stable since he got the hang of the money. He tended to think of the store as a library and was adverse to the cash part of the exchange. Now he has developed an interest in business and is especially proud that his part of the store competes easily with mine, often surpassing it in cold hard cash flow.

I don’t know why I’m going on about my bookstore when this story is about the famous couple, our neighbors. Edward is a mega star, a singer-songwriter. He’s had many albums, many hits, a few movies and I suspect is very, very rich. I know his is a household name because it shows up in crossword puzzles. His wife is famous through him though she is a talented person herself. They are both glamorous, extremely well-dressed and well-preserved, part of the international set of the rich and famous with that extra cachet creative members of that milieu enjoy. They have three children, one still at home, one grandchild, numerous homes and have been married since in their twenties and by some miracle, pushing sixty and still married. Everyone admires them for this and many women envy Patricia the same way Linda McCartney was admired while still envied. Marrying a rock star is not supposed to turn out so well. But it is no different than any marriage if drugs and alcohol do not take over and this is the case with Edward and Patricia; a clean, elegant couple who practice yoga, Karma Sutra sexual positions and concern themselves with environmental issues. When they are pictured in magazines, which as I mentioned they frequently are, they look besotted with each other, unable to keep apart and you suspect they are having sex in the loo or in the guest bedroom amongst the coats immediately after the photo-op.

I’m thinking of Edward and Patricia today because I am lolling around the house drinking numerous cups of coffee looking at a spread in a house and garden magazine of their villa in the south of France, the Languedoc region, where they have a small vineyard and a terrific old house that has been painstakingly restored. There they are posed in the garden, a lovely pond behind them, she is barefoot, so earthy, wearing a Louis Vuitton sundress while he is in casual Buddhist-type wear. She has her arms draped around him from behind and he looks like the solemn landowner, put out having had to stop his planting for such puffery. She is posing for the cameras with that cheeky grin she’s known for that says, I’m playful, sexy and rich, don’t you just love me and hate me all at once? He feigns a more stolid look that says, Yes, I’m filthy rich but I am a musician, an artist and if it should all blow away tomorrow I would still be cool--I practice detachment.

If I sound envious, possibly I am. I am a fan of Edward’s music and find him more attractive than a married woman should and yes, I sometimes envy their lifestyle. We live in Hampstead; I inherited our first-floor garden flat from my aunt who was a playwright or we would still be living in the outskirts of London in a poky little house. Edward and Patricia live in the elegant ten-bedroom Georgian mansion next door. Though they are often traveling, one or the other is always popping in on their way to the next project, a recording session or celebrity fete. For some reason they have been in residence more than usual this winter and I see them in the café on the corner or buying flowers in the stall next to it. Sometimes they come into my shop--she buys expensive art books for gifts and collects books on fashion illustration. They told me they like to gad about the neighborhood because they are left alone in a way they very rarely are in America. He told me that though they have a spacious apartment in New York, it does not have the homey English charm of their house in Hampstead, something they both miss while away. Their youngest daughter is still in school in the U.K. and that too keeps them in the neighborhood. They spend Christmas here in town and decorate their house beautifully, inside and out. During this time they invite us to a cocktail party or sometimes brunch. They spend summers in France.

My husband is also a musician though without the success of Edward. He mostly plays small jazz venues or hotel lounges. He knew when he became a jazz musician this is the way it would be--small change. He is a drummer and has played on the albums of well-known artists and writes a bi-weekly column for a music magazine. He could have just as easily chose to be a rock musician with a better shot at fame and fortune but he loves jazz and maintains an obdurate purity in regards the form.

As I began this story of our neighbors, Edward and Patricia, I did so because they are more in our lives than before. My husband is playing on Edward’s next album of standard jazz compositions. This is a great opportunity for Lanning and he and Edward spend hours discussing such things as melodic minor harmony, eight-to-the-bar, moving inner voice, bebop, hard-bop and the positives and negatives of fusion. Both men are in agreement that “Time Out,“ by The Dave Brubeck Quartet is the most flawless recording ever made.

They are in the recording studio all day and often have dinner afterward. This has brought Patricia and myself together more than usual. We discuss Victorian furniture, Edwardian interiors, designer clothing, art and theatre. She says I am a fount of wisdom on these topics and she never tires of hearing me talk. She wishes she had a better education but married young--albeit, no misgivings there.

She also likes to talk about men, sex and the who’s who of the tabloid spectacle. I suspect I bore her a little with my tales of eccentric customers and try to make them amusing for her though they are of little use in her world of superstars. She politely laughs at my little bits of neighborhood gossip and then regales me with much finer dirt. She is really up on all the misbehavior in her set and seems to get a particular charge from measuring who has fallen from grace, how far and who is about to. She is quite proud of her ability to keep the image of herself and her husband intact and says she works at it more than you might think. “Oh yes, my dear, they are just waiting for our fall. Our marriage has gone on too long for the tabloids and they are always looking for the muck. Well, they can wait forever, they’ll never get anything on us, we’re too clever.”

I notice she used the word clever instead of something like faithful, solid, in love, everlasting. It’s a small thing but coupled with the strange furtive look in her eye, I had an intuition of something I could not name nor impart here, but something that spoke of hidden implication.

As I spent more time with her, I noticed she flirted excessively with men everywhere we went; in restaurants, bars, on the street and even in my store. She seemed intent on building up a portfolio of admirers, spellbound by her sex appeal, her allure. She would tell me of this or that man at a party who tried to get her in an out-of-the-way spot, put his hands on her ass or pretend to touch her cheek and abstractly let his hand brush her breasts. If all the things she said were true, she must have quite a collection at this time. She also told me that sometimes she tries to make Edward jealous and purposely starts things herself. “I just have to keep him on his toes,” she says. “I don’t want him for a minute to take me for granted. He has so many women after him, he has only to blink at women and they’re on him like flies. I have to make sure he knows I’m still just as desirable because I am”

I had no doubt. Her figure is fantastic, she knows it and dresses accordingly. No, she isn’t at all trashy looking--her wardrobe is much too expensive for that. But she is provocative, I’ll say that. Her skin is luminous. Last week she even put a subtle move on Lanning who was quite taken aback. She noted it and quickly retreated. Edward apparently also noted it. I saw nothing but heard about it later from my poor confused husband. He said, “If looks could kill, Edward’s toward her would.” Interesting, I thought. What could be up with these two indissoluble stars?

Patricia asked me to attend a luncheon with her on a Friday and I reluctantly agreed. Friday was my busiest day and I never leave the shop in the hands of my assistant, Jerome on that day. Jerome is more for the middle part of the week when things are slower; he’s better at shelving and cataloging online than customer service. The luncheon was a fundraiser for marshland preservation and I’m not sure why she wanted me along. She seemed aggravated at something and drove a little recklessly on the way there. The luncheon was what you would expect--rich donors and swells coughing up whatever sums of money could be extracted through tax deductions and guilt, with various speakers using whatever means necessary toward this end, Patricia being the star of the show. She made an ideological plea, heartfelt, with a dash of sex appeal thrown in for good measure. She was stunning in a vintage ivory Dior sheath with all of her assets subtly arrayed. I noticed the men swarmed about her after the speeches. I sat on the sidelines contemplating her public persona, wondering why I was there. I kept hoping Jerome would call and I could make an escape but he didn’t. Normally my husband would mind the store but as I said, he and Edward were recording and spent every day and sometimes the night in a studio in Soho.

After the luncheon, Patricia was in better spirits, having not only raised a tidy sum for her project but having added a few more admirers to her collection. “Did you see that telecommunications tycoon fawning over me?” she asked. “God, I thought he would take a bite out of my neck. And the mayor! What a leach although he is not bad looking for his age. I did think Mr. Sullivan, the magistrate was a dish. I took his number to placate him. Of course I’ll never call him. I’ll tell Edward the man has wandering hands giving my dear husband something to think about.”

I was getting a little testy by this time. I don’t usually drink during the day, I was wondering about my store and the shipment I was expecting and could not imagine why I was invited to the luncheon. I told her I could manage a small donation but was only a bookseller, not a member of the aristocracy or the media. My uncle is an Earl but I’m not sure what that makes me. Lanning is American.

Once in the car I didn't hold back. “Why do you feel the need to entice so many men?” I asked her. “I mean, forgive me dear, but it seems to me you can raise money without all the subtext. After all, you are married, a mother…” I was about to say grandmother but thought better of it. “I don’t understand your motives if you are not looking for any sort of…” I couldn’t quite think of the word I was looking for, my head was beginning to ache and the sun was beating down through the sunroof of the car, unusual for a January day. Her perfume was also a little strong for afternoon, a designer brand I had tried once myself and gave away. I have a variety of disturbances from perfume.

Patricia turned into a small side street, shut off the engine of the car and sat there for a moment, waiting, no doubt, to form her answer. We sat in silence until I broke it by asking, “Patricia, is something bothering you? I really don’t mean to judge you. Would you like me to drive? Are you ill?”

She dropped her head onto the steering wheel and blurted out, “Edward has someone else.” Then she sobbed for a bit and I was dumbstruck, not sure I was ready for a full-on confession of this sort. “Oh, Patricia, are you sure? He’s so devoted to you, I can’t believe…” She stopped me by raising her head, looking me straight in the eye and said, “Believe it! It’s not new. It’s old, it’s ongoing and he refuses to talk about it though he does not insult me by denying it.”

I sat mute in the leather bucket seat of her Italian sports car and dimly pondered this information, but the fact is, I had little desire to receive this sort of declaration and regretted coming out with her. I was very satisfied with our marginal status in the lives of our neighbors. They were too rich for my blood; more than just monetarily. Their lives were too expansive, too worldly, and yes, too indulgent. Lanning and I are not poor, but we are still solidly middle-class. We only live in Hampstead in a highly desirable block because my aunt’s flat had been willed to me. She had no children and my parents are dead. If I was said to have family, it was my aunt. We had only each other. Now Lanning and I have quite a nice three-bedroom flat, rather spacious though outdated. We often talk of redoing the kitchen but never get around to it. We did add a second bathroom.

But back to Patricia and her unwelcome confession. As I didn’t have much to say and had a full-grown headache at this point, she seemed befuddled and started crying again. “I only told you Marianne, because I have no one else I can tell. The tabloids will skewer us if they know. I’ve been carrying this around for almost a year now, sucking up to the media…oh, you see me in those photos, hanging on my husband, the loving wife. Well, it’s a farce. He loves someone else and has for some time. I’ve never met her and he won’t tell me anything about her. I found out in a completely unoriginal way; I saw an American Express bill for a bracelet that I did not receive, engraved. Once I began to suspect, was on my guard, sure enough, more evidence shows up. I haven’t even had to have him followed so blithely does he go about his business. You wondered why we are in town so much, now you know. I even know where she lives. Notting fucking Hill, but have not yet staked her home, hoping to catch a glimpse. I’m not that desperate. Truthfully Marianne, I’m afraid of her. Imagine me, afraid of some nobody. I just wish he would end it. I confronted him, to be sure, right away. Do you know what his reaction was?”

“No, I don’t,” I replied. Tears were falling onto her lovely dress and I offered tissue hoping she would gain some control and not ruin such a costly dress in the meantime. But crying was probably good for her. I understood that she had been bottled up; unable to seek advice or comfort. I didn’t feel I was up to it but understood why she chose me: I wouldn’t be likely to run to the gossip mongers.

“He said, Leave it Pat, just bloody leave it alone. It is not about you and I do not want to discuss it with you. You have whatever you want, leave me this one thing, I beg you or there will be trouble. Trouble! What the hell am I supposed to do with something like that? Oh, I fumed and fussed for days but he all but ignored me. I threatened him, said he would be the one with trouble but he just left the room. Marianne, what can I do?”

I had absolutely no idea. “What do you want to do, dear? What are your options. Perhaps if you talked things out with a counselor you might find some peace. Have you considered that?”

“I don’t dare go to anyone. It would be in the press before the week was out and I can’t bear that. I couldn't bear it if everyone knows our marriage is in trouble. But it’s more than that. My ego is deflated. That’s why all the men. It’s just a game to keep my self-esteem up. I don’t want anyone but my husband. Who is even half so good-looking, sexy? I could never replace him? He’s so fucking perfect, I almost hate him. Looks, intelligence, money, art, he’s supportive, caring…he’s the father of my children, goddamn it!” She slammed the steering wheel and seemed to find his good points a joke all of a sudden and almost choked. “But he’s in love with someone else,” she said in a lowered voice, matter-of-factly.

“Are you sure, my dear. Maybe it’s just something he’s going through, something that will pass. Maybe you should just let it play itself out. He hasn’t said he wants a separation, has he?” I was speaking unforgivable banalities. I heard myself saying things you would hear in a soap opera. I was at a loss. “Why not let me drive us home. We’ll have tea and you can change into something comfortable and we’ll have a good old chat. We’ll try to figure this out. You need to clear your head. I really recommend seeing someone. Psychologists are bound to confidentiality. Maybe Edward will go with you.”

She just shook her head, started the car and merged into the traffic. She let me out in front of my store, a welcoming sight, I can tell you, and said she would be in touch. She thanked me for coming with her, for listening to her “blubbering” and off she sped in her racy car. I felt very sorry for her but did not know how I could help her except to hear her secrets and keep them. Perhaps she wouldn’t want to talk any more, maybe she already regretted it.

PART II

I received yellow roses the next day from Patricia with a note saying, Thanks for everything. You’re a welcome relief, a friend. A week later she e-mailed me and said she would be out of town for a few weeks, she was going to New York. She didn’t say Edward was going with her but I knew he was not because he was still recording. One night Lanning said in the off-hand way men do, “Something is up with Edward. He’s preoccupied and always checking his cell phone, stopping to make calls, whispering in private, I don’t know, something is going on with him. I can’t pry; we’re after all only professional mates but he seems edgy. Said he might take the tapes to New York and finish up there. First we heard of this plan. Nothing to me really, my part is finished, I just hang around as a advisor at this point. He wants an authentic jazz sound, not some jazz-like crossover claptrap. He knows I won’t let anything cheesy slide in. The other guys don’t fully appreciate the genuine sound we’re after. They’re young, pop musicians for the most part.”

I had my own thoughts but kept mum. I would not reveal anything Patricia told me, not even to my husband. Later in the week he told me while in a pub Edward confessed to him that he was in love. Lanning said exactly what I would expect him to say with this pronouncement: “Yeah, well, man, your wife is one fine lady,” or some Americanism like that. Edward hung his head and didn’t say anymore. A few fans came up to him and he had to autograph napkins and coasters and the like and the conversation stopped. Just as they were getting ready to leave, Edward said, “It’s not my wife.”

Well, to tell Lanning something of this nature was to cause confusion. He is not equipped to handle this sort of emotional admission but he tried. “Oh man, that shit happens. You just have to wait until it passes. It will. Don’t be too hasty, someone in your position can’t let this kind of thing veer out of control. The press will be all over you, man. Be very cool.”

Not bad. Typical man advice but I suspected Edward was miles above my husband in sensibility. Edward was a man of deep feelings, strong passions. That comes across in his songs, it corresponds with his public image, but knowing him personally, I think I may be right in my assessment. I also sensed he may really be smitten, that it wasn't just an affair to blow over. I felt terrible for them both but it wasn’t our business. They would have to work it out, I hoped they would.

Patricia stayed in New York for longer than anticipated; I’d get a message from her every other week saying she was having a ball, going to parties, promoting her book, her causes and being treated like visiting royalty. “You know the way Americans love celebrity,” she wrote. “They seem to like me even without Edward.” She said she would be back in London at least by Easter when the kids come home. Edward was still hanging out in the studio though the recording was finished.

On a warm day in late March, the first overt signs of winter’s demise, I was walking our new dog, Nellie, in Hampstead Heath, Lanning was back to minding the store on Mondays and Wednesdays and I was enjoying the air, the longed for sunshine, the greenery, when I spotted Edward with someone on a bench in a little clearing, out of the way, but not entirely invisible. I realized immediately who he was with. You can spot a love affair from miles away. His arm was around her, he spoke close to her ear, they both had an air of other-worldliness. Her hand was in his. I jumped off the path I was treading, hoping he hadn’t seen me but Nellie pulled on her leash and I ended up clomping toward them, embarrassed and ungainly. I wanted to pretend his disguise, a knit hat pulled over his head, cheap shades and ratty clothing worked. I might not have recognized him but he was my neighbor, I’d seen him around a lot in those particular duds. They were having a very private moment and my untrained mutt had spoiled it. I could do nothing but wave, comment on the overdue sunshine and race off.

Later that afternoon, as I was at home having a cup of tea, answering emails and looking for deals online, my doorbell rang. I was surprised to see it was Edward. He was not in the habit of visiting me when Lanning wasn’t at home but maybe he thought he was at home. “Oh, Edward, Lanny is at the shop, I’m afraid. He has to earn his keep you know.” A lame joke. Edward took off his hat and shades and asked if he could come in. “Well, sure, I said, I just put the kettle on for tea. Would you like some?” I didn’t really think this superstar was going to sit in my drab parlor and drink tea but he said, “Thank you, Marianne, I could use a cup of tea. I understand from your husband your tea surpasses all others. He frequently brings it up in the studio while disparaging our use of tea bags and I say, ‘What, you’re a bleeding American, what do you know?’ Then he’d tell us about your excellent tea.”

Edward was making small talk, a little self-consciousness, ill-at-ease. I was glad I had the tea to fuss with and could cover my own awkwardness. When it was served, and Edward had played with the dog for a bit, he sat in a chair opposite me and smiled the smile that would melt the reserve of any woman, of any age or distinction. I said nothing, but offered him a slice of lemon pound cake, glad I had shopped earlier. He complimented me on my tea, said it lived up to all the hype as few things do and that yes, maybe he would take a very small slice of cake, was actually off sugar, his wife’s idea.

“Speaking of your lovely wife,” I said, “when is she due back?” I knew but had to come up with small talk too. He replied that she would be back within the week. Then he said, halting at first, “Marianne, I know you saw me in the park with Gaye. I want to explain so you don’t think I’m a complete horse’s ass.

“Please Edward, it’s not necessary. I’m sorry I interrupted your meeting. I would never presume…”

“Marianne, it’s okay. I happen to know my wife confided in you. She broke down before she left and said she had to talk to someone and you were the only one who would keep a secret. At least she thought you would but said that if word got out, it would be entirely my fault, she would not be to blame. You probably know I tried to talk to Lanny but men aren’t much good with that sort of thing. I embarrassed him. But his genuine concern touched me. He’s a good man, I don’t have to tell you. This new album is my best in years and it’s because of him. He’s a fantastic musician. He should be a multimillionaire if talent were the measure of such things but you know it rarely is these days. I plan to see he gets his fair share this time. You know, drummers are really the band. They’re always in the background in service to the guitars or horns but every musician will tell you, without a good drummer, nothing happens. I had a great one on this album.”


"Thank you Edward. I appreciate it, for Lanny. Jazz musicians aren’t exactly household names nor top the pay scale. We’ve long accepted that. We do okay with the shop and a small inheritance I received. We get to live on this grand block with the swells. But yes, Patricia did confide in me, I didn’t ask to be her confessor but she really needed someone to talk to, she was about to come apart. I advised she see a marriage counselor, you both should if it comes to that but it is really not my business. Please don’t think I’m a mediator. I know very little about your life. When I tried talking to Patricia, it was one platitude after another. She should talk to her sister or someone close to her.”

“She can’t. She has too much pride. And she’s just horrified that the press learn anything. I tell her, it’s just the press, they aren’t important. So what if they report something? This crap happens to everyone in the public eye day after day. Look at Prince Charles. He survived excruciating public exposure. We will too. But she has a point: and I can't let Gaye suffer the kind of mess that would follow.”

“Edward, I can’t talk about the press, it isn’t my world but what about this this woman? It may not be a big deal in media terms but in terms of your marriage, it’s very big. Have you thought of that? “

“I’ve thought of nothing else for months. I’m exhausted with the bloody topic.”

“Well, do you have a plan? You can’t do nothing, you know. You will have to act or react some day. You don’t seem to be rushing to divorce court but what I saw in the park today was not nothing. You are in trouble.”

“You don’t have to tell me, Marianne. I don’t know where to turn. You know what I thought in the beginning? I thought I could have her to myself. Her name is Gaye Reynolds by the way, she is a member of the choir at St. Martin-in-the Fields. A little tiny non-pressurized warm escape from my life. Just mine. No one else need bother themselves about it. Something set aside from all the crap, and I do mean crap, Marianne, you’ve no idea. It’s said fame is not all it’s cracked up to be but I can deal with it, I’d be a fool to shun it. But it’s separate from the music--playing is everything to me and fame helps. I don’t have to play dives. I’m on the greatest stages with the best musicians in the world regularly. I can make albums whenever and with whomever I choose. What I am having a problem with lately is the affluence factor. Don’t laugh, it gets more complicated each day. You don’t know how many hours are spent maintaining four homes, a vineyard, private school…maintaining a fucking fleet of cars. The constant keeping up appearances, people after you for donations, help with this bullshit cause, that benefit. Then there’s Patricia: decorators, designers, plastic surgery, don’t say I said anything, retreats, endless clothes shopping, diets, last year she had us both on some half-assed diet where you only eat plants…shit like that all the time. Then there is the fitness crusade followed by a fitness fucking guru living in our home, then yoga and a couple of yoga instructors on hand, computers, gadgets, I don’t even have time to learn them before they’re obsolete or lost. All I want is to make music like it was made in the 1940s and ‘50s. I could give a rap about Google except I’m supposed to be investing in it. Oh, that’s another thing--investing: Stockbrokers, accountants, lawyers, financial planners, tax bastards. You’ve no idea how time-consuming it all becomes after awhile. Oh, I’m going on to you about bullshit…forgive me Marianne, and pardon my language. I’m overwrought. Patricia says she’s not coming back until I do something about “that woman” but the kids will be home next week, she has to be here.”

“Edward, your tea is cold. Should I fix us more? I don’t have any answers for you, I don’t have your problems although running a business can be drudgery when it comes to finances and investing. But let’s concentrate on your personal life for now.” I got up to heat the water again and heard myself speaking these quasi-psychological lines that sounded ridiculous to my ears but he seemed to relax for the first time since arriving and even delicately ate his cake. I poured more tea into his cup. That is what we English do when in doubt.

“Marianne, I don’t want to give up Gaye. I don’t think I should have to. Patricia lives a full life. We have children, money, more than enough projects to focus on. The world is our home, she is provided with everything she wants. Is it so much to ask that I have someone who helps keep me grounded? Someone who is not at all rich or worldly or interested in my fame, or my usefulness. She asks nothing of me, could care less about my little pop albums. Can you understand how refreshing that is when everyone else wants something? She’s a small thing in her little corner, satisfied with her life, living contentedly in two rooms and finds pleasure in things my wife does not even notice. I don’t mean to knock Patricia, Marianne. She’s great, always has been. She colors my life. But she’s so focused on image, worldly crap, what people think, what we can buy all the time. She’s never satisfied. Five years ago she said she would be happy if she just had a retreat in Italy or the south of France, where she could garden, live an earthy existence away from the glitz. I agreed with her, that would be nice. So we buy a vineyard, I look forward to spending time in a rustic retreat, no pressure, no appearances to keep up and how do you think that has ended? The most fucking famous decorator in Europe arrives with an entourage to do up the place en residence, when that’s finished, a team of landscapers show up with the most well-known garden designer in tow. Okay, now that’s finished. Do we get to enjoy the place yet? Not yet, sorry old chap. Now the magazines have to come and photograph it so Patricia can gloat to the world. Oh look, see how swell Edward and Patricia live. Don’t they have exquisite taste, such a glorious marriage?”

He drank his tea, gazed out the window and we were both silent for a bit. He put down his cup and said so softly, “Gaye is teaching me how to sing Schubert lieder and I’m teaching her Billie Holiday. Can you believe she, a singer, has never listened to her? I can’t give her up yet! Not until she gets tired of me hanging around her door like a lost dog,” he added wearily.

So my little hunch was right. There was something awfully disingenuous in those magazine spreads. I’m not rejoicing, mind you. But I get it. Oh, I could chastise him, take Patricia’s side, tell him what an ungrateful bloke he is, unappreciative, ridiculous actually. But I don’t. I find I want him to have his little sanctuary in Notting Hill. I don’t know who this Miss Reynolds is but I’m for her. But I’m also for Patricia. I’ve grown to like her immensely. I’ve always wondered if fame and fortune would somehow disrupt the flow of living. Lanning never envied the rich and famous. He said, You would sell out, you could do nothing else. If your lifestyle didn’t demand it, your obligations would. And you’re fair game: No abuse is too much to heap on someone rich.”

I planned to tell him of this visit; it was too portent to hide. I could not be having secret meetings with Edward. Edward understood this. He made no mention of protecting secrets. When he left, he held my hand for a moment in the foyer. "Say hello to Lanny and don't worry about me or Patricia, we'll get on." He looked sad, but less wired up.

Patricia returned on schedule, the kids arrived, their eldest with a darling grandchild and I could see them all playing in their backyard. Their youngest offered to walk Nellie while home; she said her dog was in France at the villa. Edward’s record was released to great fanfare and decent sales though not his usual triple platinum status. “What do you expect?” said Lanning. “No one cares about jazz any more.” He was given a generous bonus and we were invited to France this summer to stay with Edward, Patricia and family. Nellie is to come too, the kids insisted.

I don’t know what became of Miss Reynolds but I did see her once on the street and was surprised she had a limp. Patricia never confided in me again and I saw little of her. She seems to like America more these days. Edward is in and out and last week showed up at a gig of Lanning’s, a Charles Mingus tribute, and the crowd went wild.

He waves to me whenever he sees me and stops in my store now and again. He teases me and calls me a war monger. They are still seemingly the happy couple everyone admires. They sold the Malibu beach house and have a new farmhouse in Tuscany that she says will be only moderately renovated, that they want to keep the rustic feel. “Yes, we’ve adopted the simple life and couldn’t be happier,” she told a talk-show host. “I guard our privacy, life can get so chaotic when you’re in the public eye.” When asked if the rumor is true that she is having an affair with a prominent American businessman, her eyes roll, her grin widens and she says, “Please, I am married to the most adorable man in the world. Why would I?”

THE END

Edward and Lanny are entirely fictional characters but The Dave Brubeck Quartet, in all of its perfection, is not.

#60 MY FIRST CHRISTMAS

Jenna keeps turning up. This story continues from #45 JENNA'S CONSTANT SORROW. We first met her in #14 IN DEFAULT.

On Christmas day I was en route to San Rafael to be with my mother, driving along in a rental car, the sun shining intermittently at first, blazing brightly by the time I was crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. My mother said she had a Christmas surprise for me. Having found Jesus in the past year and recognizing him as her savior, she wants to honor his birth, his message and announce her own devotion, especially this year. The surprise could be anything. My mother, these days, could be described as madcap though I wouldn’t go so far as to call her wacky.

In the spring, my father was murdered in Zimbabwe by militants. My mother escaped with others in the group and promptly had a breakdown. My parents had been on a peace mission with a medical organization though they were not medical professionals themselves. They were activist do-gooders, you might say, and since my father retired last year, they had been to some of the world’s “hellholes,” his term for some of their travel destinations.

I have been raised on activism and secular giving but wondered why they had to go so far a field to do good. When my father announced that they would be going to Africa shortly after they returned from Kurdistan Iraq, I said, “There is plenty to do here in the Bay Area. Why do you have to travel to other countries, dangerous countries?” I knew just by asking I was in for a tirade and could have predicted its tenor and time perfectly. It goes like this:

“Affluent blood suckers pretending to concern themselves with the homeless when in fact, they are the problem with their precious rapidly increasing equity and their foul stock market voraciously eating up the middle-class having already chewed up and spit out the poor. The hypocrisy is astounding,” said my father, never one to mince words. “Why don’t I work for the homeless? I’ll tell you. Despite the fact that most third world countries are mountainous masses of cynicism and corruption, that their politicians make Nixon look like a saint and there is no end of the stupid, senseless violence leaving no good side to root for, I would rather help women and children survive--eat, learn, heal and possibly prosper any day than help alcoholic drug users have a meal and a place to sleep between fixes. Besides, San Francisco’s homeless situation was self-made during the Willie Brown years. Now that times have changed and they are no longer as amusing to the nouveau riche of the tech world and the hopelessly ineffective yuppie mayor, they wring their hands and appeal to everyone to practice charity, feel for the homeless, worry about the environment as they prance from one party to the next, one over-priced gluttonous restaurant to the next all the while hoping some brain-dead addict doesn’t decide to camp out on the sidewalk in front of their building making them look uncaring when they call the police to sweep him away. Let the bastards clean up their own streets.” This is my father in a nutshell.

My father, whose name was Benjamin Golding, was a professor at UC Berkeley during the '90s and a Marxist since the late '50s. Although his world view was somewhat shaken after communism fell, he believed capitalism won by default, that it would come crumbling down soon enough. He loathed all politicians, all parties including the Greens and believed fervently America is finished. “Our so-called ‘exceptionalism’ has long ceased to be the reality on the ground,” he would say.

I offer you another one of my father’s diatribes not in mockery but because it is Christmas, he was a Jew and my mother and I are about to celebrate a holiday he could never abide. I feel a little guilty, more so because he was an avowed atheist. Here is my father on America’s decline:

“Our population is getting dumber by the day and proud of it because they’ve been told since their first history or civics class, if they were awake for them, that we are the greatest country. No matter that Hitler preached the same thing. No matter the Vichy Government of France had similar views; that their wealth, arrogance, fine manners and elegant treaties would save them from the rabble. Pride. Their insufferable pride left them whimpering in their gilded rooms eating escargot and truffles off delicate porcelain plates, sipping champagne while scurrilously plotting who they could sell out first. America is on the same morbid path.”

This I typed verbatim from a letter to the editor published just before he left for Africa. My mother cut it out without any identification as to the newspaper it appeared in. He read several each day and they varied.

I arrived at our small house with the over-grown yard, neither of my parents taking time for anything as mundane as yard work or for that matter house cleaning. For many years we had a nice lady named Gwen McCall who came in once a week while I still lived at home. When my father retired he didn’t want her around while he wrote during the day but I suspected he didn’t want to pay her. The house was never the same. The windows are foggy with dust, the carpets need airing, the curtains are beginning to shred from the sun and I wish the kitchen could be a little more welcoming. My mother, Mavis Golding, never quite got the hang of housework though she is always ready to lend a hand to others. Any cause, benefit or project, she is there. I can’t tell you how many trips we made to protest this, ladle soup here, hand out leaflets there, donate blankets, sweep, clean, console, commiserate, plead, pledge and agree to do more. I used to long for a mother who would take me to the mall and help me with my school clothes, my nails, tell me about growing up, marriage, anything but the poor, the needy, the downtrodden. I don’t mean to sound heartless, I was not raised to be but when you know in your heart that you are not all that saintly, it becomes a weary round of duty and guilt. My guilt knows no bounds.

As I entered the creaking gate, maneuvered my feet over the cracking sidewalk to the front door I was immediately struck by something unusual: There was a nativity scene on the porch. With lights. I can’t tell you how strange this appeared to me. We never decorated a tree in my life, sang a Christmas carol, hung a stocking or wrote to Santa. I have no idea what mincemeat is. Likewise, we never lit candles for Hanukkah.

“Mother, I’m home,” I called. Holy Mother of Jesus…I thought. There was a tree completely decorated, wrapped gifts with ornate bows underneath it, “Silent Night” being sung by a choir coming from Dad’s radio, red and green cookies in a dish, candy canes hung everywhere, a rotund angel in a white net dress with sparkles on it glowing on the console and a gold star on top of the tree. My father would have had a stroke if he had to live with this. “Mother, I see you've discovered Christmas.” She came sauntering in from the kitchen where I could smell, of all things, turkey.

“My dear, you know that I have embraced my Christian roots after Africa, that the Christian organization possibly saved my life, if not your father’s… well, that is not for me to judge, they tried. They helped many people and are still over there helping. I went to a very moving midnight service last night. I prayed for his soul though I don't think he'd appreciate it. You know I was born Episcopalian, but I let it lapse. The '60s, you know, we dropped every tradition in the spirit of revolution. I often wanted you to know something of the church but never quite knew how to revive it. Your father wouldn’t have liked it if I brought you to church. He wouldn’t even allow you to learn about Judaism. I said to him, "I don’t think it's right to let Jen grow up without some teaching if only to reject it later," but he just scoffed. I should have been stronger. Now you are lost, without belief and it’s my fault. It’s a parent’s duty to teach these things. I’m sorry, Jenna. I’m sorry I let you down.”

“Mother, you have not let me down. I’m fine. I had a hard time after Father’s death but I’m getting better. And if I want to learn something, I will find a way. Don’t worry about me. I worry about you. Let’s drink some wine, why don’t we? Do you need help with dinner?”

“Oh Jenna. You are such a good daughter and we left you alone to fend for yourself. Yes, let’s have some wine. One thing about your father, he knew good wine. There’s a case of it in the cellar. And then let’s open some gifts. I bought you some really nice things to make up for all the years you didn't get anything much.”

“Okay, Mom. I’ll go downstairs and look around. I brought you a present too. We can celebrate Jesus if that is what you believe in. I don’t think I can sing carols though. I’m still not a singer. I hope you won’t expect it.” I was teasing. My father tried to get me to sing to the Mamas and the Papas when I was young. He thought because I was a little plump, Mama Cass could be my role model. I was so embarrassed but he thought it was funny. My voice was a rasp. Flat as a 45 rpm of "California Dreaming."

“Here’s to you, darling. Merry Christmas,” said my mother as we drank our wine. Somewhere I could hear my father choking so we made a toast to him too. “Here’s to you dearest Dad," I said. "We miss you very much.” Then we both cried for a moment until “Frosty the Snowman” came on and we burst out laughing. “Father is rolling his eyes and thinking we have surely lost it, just like America,” I giggled.

“God bless America,” said my now tipsy mother. Meanwhile, the turkey smelled like it was burning.

I think we will eventually get the hang of this Christmas thing. God bless you Dad, wherever you are.

# 59 I CALL YOUR NAME

I called him today. It was his birthday. I wanted to say something, though I did not have much in the way of news, wanted only to hear his voice. Wanted to know if I would love the sound of his voice or if he would set me off in some way. We haven’t seen each other for five months, I haven’t really missed him but missed something about him. We are separated by an entire country and have no way to be together to find out anything.

When we were last together, it was good. We pulled our old intimacy out of the bag and applied it to ourselves once again. Circumstances have unsettled me and he bides his time not worrying about things not in the here and now. I can’t stand the here and now so think constantly of both the past and possible futures. I am told that neither of these are real and I should spend my time in the present which I try to do but because this present is a colossal bore, painful and fear-filled, I try to escape it--that is the goal for each hour of my day.

I knew I would miss him; I thought it might not be for so long but is five months really that long in the big scheme? I can’t say, it seems so to me but if I could wake up tomorrow in another present, I would be grateful and those five months would be relegated to the past. Only a blip.

So he sounded good. He seemed happy to hear from me. He is always happy to hear from his people on his birthday. It is unfortunate that his birthday falls on the same day as the death of John Lennon, the murder I should say--let’s not soft-soap it. We are both huge fans and so it is unfortunate he has to share his birthday with this shattering event that will never be forgotten or forgiven in our lifetime.

I write stories about him; he has been my muse. I like to remember all the little battles we’ve shared but I also like to remember the things that brought us together as well. We are both of a strong temperament and there’s no getting around the need to dominate. We are a good match in that way although it does not make for an easy time of it. For now we are separated; I say for now but it may be forever. That thought gives me a pain in my lower abdomen, a roiling anxiety that I can’t shake. I try not to think of the future but when the present is the pits, what else can you do? I do dwell in the past an inordinate amount of time and some of it hurts, some of it makes me angry and much of it makes me like myself a little less. I have immobilized my life: I do not put the blame on anyone else.

Some times I blast God for not caring for me, for not taking my part, for not being the loving father I have always been told he is. If he loved me he would lend a hand now and again, wouldn’t he? But then again, I am a pain in the ass, if God has an ass, and I can see his wanting to let me stew in my own bilious juices. I do not take instruction well.

I heard someone on TV once say, God works if you know how to work it. I don’t obviously, even though I have read enough books on the topic. I remain trapped in my own will, my own troubled trajectory. I wish it were otherwise but I have not yet learned my lessons.

So today I called his number, heard his voice. I was thinking maybe I never would again, that I would never call nor would he. I gave in and called and I’m glad I did. He said he was glad too. I hope he meant it. He insisted he did.

For now I will have to spin my tales from memory or from some make-believe strata; he is not with me to give me material. I miss the constant inspiration I have when he is around. I’m lackluster without him, perhaps too barren to consider myself an artist of any sort but I won’t give it up. I’d like to save myself, I’d like to save him, I’d like to save us but he says there’s nothing we can do.

After the call I think to myself, Is there really nothing we can do? Isn’t that just a bit defeatist? Then I get irritated all over again. I’m big on fixing things or at least dreaming of fixing things. I wish he felt the same; as a team we could be formidable. My horoscope today said to be patient, not my strongest suit. I have no choice. But it was good to hear his voice.

#58 ANOTHER SAD ROMANCE

There once was a lovely girl named Florence whose father was a well-known author and taught a university course called Philosophical Deference Its Meanings and Its Manifestations. It was a popular course and the professor was considered to be erudite, wise and on rare occasions, humorous. He was also known for being overbearing, arrogant and unwilling to listen to another opinion or give way on any topic whether it be the choice of car he drove or the platitudes of Plato--the professor did not capitulate.

Florence, as a young girl she was enthralled by her famous father and never denied for a moment he was right on all things, she never questioned him or disobeyed and thus they carried on a life of circumscribed domesticity with nights spent reading by the fire when her father was not out or working on his books.

Florence had no call for concern and enjoyed her childhood although she was mostly alone as her father thought other children a bad influence on his demur daughter and hoped to avoid the complications a teenager could bring into a peaceful home. He taught her all she needed to know, he would often point out, though hired a tutor for subjects he was not as knowledgeable or as interested in. As such, Florence had not seen much of the world nor had she many friends but she was very well-read, informed on subjects beyond her age and eager to placate those who visited the house.

Florence was growing up but the professor did not seem to notice. He did not give Florence her due, and hampered her freedom, her very autonomy at every turn. She was dying to get away and try some things on her own. She wanted to shop for her own clothes, have her hair cut, ride a motor scooter or go to a dance. Florence had a lively imagination. Her father thought her helpless and would not let her go out alone or even with other girls.

What the professor could not stand was any man leering at his daughter, or even get close to her on a bus or in trains. He knew what men were about and he was fearful for his daughter. There are terrible men in the world and they would be attracted to a lovely girl like his Florence, named after her parent's honeymoon site, a child born of romance no longer in evidence, Florence’s mother long gone, unable to live in a cocoon without freedom of movement or thought and soon tired of the professor’s commanding control.

Florence had no complaints in general and wanted to reassure her father that she did not care for the men she saw, she was much more fond of dogs and wanted to run with them to the faraway woods. But the father only saw the mother and remembered how far she had fallen. He had to protect Florence even though she was only ten when she asked to take the dogs to the woods.

Florence grew up and was enrolled in the university and the professor hoped his daughter would become a writer and stay at home with him always. One day a young man named Vincent came to call on Florence. He met her in the class she least liked, the one the professor insisted his daughter take, assuring her she would need to know something of medieval history to be a good writer. Vincent was instantly smitten with the professor’s daughter and wondered why such a beautiful girl was always alone but recognized that it gave him an advantage. They took long walks along the river between classes and Vincent kissed Florence, at first surreptitiously, later with more latitude. They visited the Victoria and Albert Museum, finding stimulation and romance in its gracious rooms. They vowed to marry after graduation.

The professor was a little put out at admitting a stranger into his home; decided the intruder unworthy of his esteem. Vincent was a business major, a course the professor considered one of low calling. After that first meeting, Vincent left the imposing home of his beloved not certain if he’d had any success but still undaunted. Girls, he knew, went their own way in time; he would wait until graduation and then ask for Florence’s hand in marriage. Meanwhile he would get his degree, go for his master’s and be able to provide well for Florence. Her father would have to respect that.

Florence continued taking classes, all approved by the professor, and eventually graduated with a degree in English literature. Vincent graduated with a degree in business and planned to go for his MBA starting with summer courses. He was on a fast-track, anxious to begin his life. He and Florence decided to wait until he had gotten this degree before approaching her father but he hoped she would move out of her father’s house and live on her own before settling down. He had never known anyone quite so hampered in her movements. They had only been on one date; when her father was away at a seminar last winter. Other than that, Florence seemed unable to ask him for so much as a night out with a curfew. What a strange family, he thought. He asked Florence where her mother was and Florence told him she died when she was two years old and that was why her father was so protective.

Vincent would on occasion, drop in on the professor’s home, his only way to be with Florence. The professor was all but indifferent and Vincent began to dislike him. He felt he had been judged and had not stood up to the test. Vincent considered himself an amiable fellow, he had principles, no bad habits, respected women, drove within the speed limits and was dedicated to his studies. What more could the professor hope for in a suitor for his daughter? Vincent knew full well what other boys were about; did the professor want one of those cads visiting his daughter?

One evening Vincent worked up enough nerve to ask the professor some of what was on his mind and the professor sat starring at Vincent for a time, then turned his back on him, swiveled in his chair and began looking out the window that overlooked a small courtyard with a row of cedar trees on the far end. There was a wooden bench underneath them that Vincent and Florence sometimes sat on when the professor was not at home. It was a very pleasant place to sit in the spring, feeling the first warmth of the sun after the long winter.

The professor was peeved being put on the spot by this young man who meant nothing at all to him and had the idea of telling him to get lost, he owed no explanation. If he didn’t want his presence in his own home he had a right to that proclivity, didn’t he? The idea that he had to explain himself to this student, not one of his own students but one from another department altogether, was unheard of. He looked at Vincent and replied, “I do not know you, I do not wish to know you, I don’t know what you want from me, from my daughter and have nothing to say to any of your inquiries.”

Vincent was so put off by this arrogance he reacted badly and said in a hissing voice, “I want to marry your daughter, that is what I want.” He had not meant to broach the subject at this time or in this way but the old man had a way of bringing out the belligerence in young men. He was well-known for this also.

The professor was stunned, the blood was rushing to his head. The nerve! To come in here and let it be known that he wanted to hustle his beloved daughter from him was too much. He could barely think of a thing to say. He could not imagine where this upstart got the idea that he could marry Florence. Surely she did not let him think there was a possibility? Florence was not meant for marriage. Florence was a jeune fille. Not some party girl willing to run away with the first jackass to come along. His daughter was made of much finer material. He should have stopped these visits when they started. What was he thinking? He continued to stare at Vincent unable to imagine how he would address such an impertinence. “My good man, surely you don’t think my daughter is ready to marry, why she has a career to think of, she will be a writer, she has a gift?”

“That may be, Professor, but that does not preclude her marrying. In fact, she has already agreed to marry me but we will wait until I have my degree and am settled in a position. I plan to go into banking. I will be able to provide for her and I suspect we will settle in London.”

The professor gaped at Vincent unable to believe what he was hearing. Settled? Why, Florence had no need to settle, she had a home, a very fine home. He couldn’t imagine her conjuring up these radical plans without his knowledge. When had it happened? “I don’t know what you have planned, my boy, but I am sure Florence has not agreed to them. Florence has a home, she is not looking for another. I don’t know what has got into your head but you need to know that you are delusional. My Florence would not want to leave her home and settle anywhere. She is only a child.”

“With all due respect, sir, she is soon to be twenty-one. That is not a child at all. It is young to marry, perhaps, but Florence has no desire to live as a single girl. She is not that type. She needs someone to care for her and provide for her.” He was more brash than he intended but now he would not back down.

The professor almost choked on this retort and poured himself a glass of water from a decanter on his desk. “ Provided for? Cared for? What has been my role for these twenty years do you suppose? She is very well cared for, if you don’t mind. You have a lot of nerve to come in here imply that my daughter needs caring for. I have never for a day not cared for her or provided for her. That has been my life since my wife ran away shortly after she was born. A trollop.” He was turning red and slammed his glass of water on the desk, it splashed out onto a stack of papers but the professor did not notice so agitated was he.

Vincent, too was agitated and began to run his hands through his hair, black hair that had a tendency to fall over his left eye. He thought the professor’s position absurd, as if a girl would stay at home forever. It was perverse to think he owned his daughter and could dictate her life. And he did not like the implication that he was somehow suspect, that he was wanting in some way, that was enough of an insult, but Vincent was appalled that the old man thought his daughter was his property, that she was pledged to him, a prisoner.

The room began to feel overly heated, stifling, and Vincent could have used a glass of water himself but dared not make any sort of request. Should he continue this discussion that had taken on an odious dimension? It was reprehensible. This was not the seventeenth century. It was not the Victorian age. It was 1957, for God’s sake. It was positively medieval. He began to speak calmly, to conceal his vehemence. “Sir, I understand you love your daughter, you want what’s best for her, but you can’t expect her to live under your roof forever. Girls grow up. They marry and establish their own home. They have children.”
The professor, not at all calm said, “Not Florence. She is a child, I tell you. I should have you arrested for corrupting the morals of a young girl!”

Vincent was pacing in front of the massive desk. His nettle was up. How do you reason with such unreason? “If you have something against me, sir, you should come out with it. I will listen to what you might have to say about me. If you know or suspect something disreputable concerning me, speak now. Let me defend myself.”

“I know nothing of you, I care nothing about you, I do not wish to know anything more of you, do you understand me? Furthermore, I do not wish my daughter to know you. Kindly leave my home and do not return. My door is not open to you. It should never have been. In good faith I let you escort my daughter from school, return her to her proper home. I thought you would understand that she is not available to you, you seemed like a bright boy. I was certain she would let you know that herself. I had faith in her. You have broken my faith. I did not think her capable of such treachery.” The professor took another gulp of water and spilled some on his shirt. His hands were shaking. “I cannot bear what you are thinking of in regards my daughter. Your filthy thoughts, your grasping hands…I cannot, will not allow you to so much as touch her hair, do you understand? He was now shrieking and spittle had formed on his beard. His eyes blazed and for a moment Vincent thought he may attack him but he only again slammed his water glass on the table and they both noted briefly that there was a diagonal crack the length of the glass.

Vincent could only stare in disbelief. It came over him that the man did not have anything against himself but instead had a bit of madness about him. He was deranged; Vincent could see it in his eyes. And he was quick to note what he said about his wife: she was not dead, she bolted. She was probably alive somewhere. What a cruel thing to have told Florence that her mother was dead if she wasn’t. No matter how disreputable she might be, she was a mother to a beautiful girl who had a right to know her mother existed. The treachery is in that lie.

Vincent shook his head and tried to quiet his mind. The professor continued looking at him but his eyes no longer connected. He was somewhere else and Vincent thought this might be the point to end this futile conversation. He had not gained anything by it. It never should have happened. He promised Florence he would not speak of it until he had his MBA and they were ready to marry. But why? What was so wrong with announcing that they were engaged? They were, weren’t they?

He left the professor’s house without seeing Florence but he planned to call her as soon as he got to a telephone. He had to think about what he’d heard, how much to tell her. He wondered what her father would say to her. Florence mentioned that they would be having dinner and even implied that maybe he could join them. He’d never been invited to dinner by Florence and he had been looking forward to it. He hoped she would understand his hasty departure. He would have been unable to sit down with the professor after what had taken place. All he wanted to do was make sure Florence was not upset with him.

He was sweating violently by the time he exited the trolley and made his way to the small apartment he shared with another student. He was choked up and thought he might need a drink though he rarely drank. He wanted someone to talk to, someone who could advise him. He wanted Florence to know he did not mean to start something so hateful with her father. And he really wanted to tell her about her mother but dare he? He was a mass of confusion and laid down on his bed to think for a bit, to compose himself before he called Florence. He wanted to take her from that house, get her away before...before he lost her altogether. Surely she must be aware, have some inkling of her father’s warped views. Oh, how could he tell her any of it? For the first time in Vincent’s life he was at a complete loss. The equation did not make sense and he did not have the mind for abstraction or psychological analysis. His columns always added up. He had no knowledge of philosophical deference its meanings or its manifestations.

Florence, alone in her room, upset, shaken had heard the abject words of her father and Vincent. She did not know why Vincent should visit her father in his study. She and Vincent were going to sit in the front parlor and talk and when her father appeared she was going to ask if Vincent could stay for dinner. She had never done this before but felt it was time. She only wanted a sociable meal with Vincent and her father, surely no confrontations or demands. She was terrified by what she had heard. Her father was so cross but Vincent should not have spoken; should not have entered his private room. It was the tutor’s fault for detaining her. Vincent should not have been kept waiting for her. Now everything was spoiled. She had so hoped they could keep their engagement secret for a while longer. She had no problem seeing Vincent in strictly prescribed circumstances. She was not used to freedom. She was now graduated and had less freedom than before but she was going to suggest a study program at the library, approved by her father. There she could meet Vincent every day. They could eat lunch together when he was free. Now she was not sure she could confront her father at all; he was so angry.

The tidbit of information about her mother was not entirely unforeseen, that she was probably not dead, but had instead left them. Though it had never been spoken of before, Florence suspected this all along but kept with the notion that her mother was dead because that was the way her father wanted it. She played along with this fiction for his sake and had, for many years believed it. But when she was fourteen years old a woman had come to the house driving a sports car. Florence was intrigued by this visitor. The woman was very pretty, dressed in an elaborate coat with ostrich plumes and a fanciful hat. Florence wanted at once to go to the door, to greet such a woman but she heard her father’s valet tell the woman that the professor was not in, nor the young lady. Florence wanted to run down and say she was most certainly in, but something held her back. Her father would hear of it and she would have a lecture, her beloved father would speak to her in his stern voice, the voice that filled her with dread. It was not that she was afraid of him, but that she did not like to be spoken to in a voice that held such acrimony. She was timid, she knew. Her father rarely spoke harshly to her but on the few occasions he had, over some misdeed, she had sunk into a ball of shame in her bedroom and could barely bring herself to come down to dinner. When she did, her father was kindness itself, pouring her water for her, cutting up her meat, allowing her a taste of wine. His voice was sweet and deferential and Florence thought she would need to keep him like this, could never do anything to bring out his ire, she could not bear it. That had been years ago and she thought twice before doing anything that might annoy him.

No, she did not go to the woman in the car but only watched from the window. The woman looked up and caught her face in the glass, looking down. The woman waved to her; Florence did not know how she recognized it, how that small discreet wave made her aware, but she knew somehow by osmosis that the woman was her mother. Perhaps she had seen a picture though she could not exactly remember any pictures. She once asked if she could visit her mother’s grave but her father was so taken aback and flustered by the request she dropped it. He said it was too cold this winter and quickly changed the subject. She once thought of asking her tutor if it were possible to know of the whereabouts of a grave if one had no information but a name but she didn’t for some reason. After the woman in the hat waved to her, she suspected she had no reason to look for a gravestone. That was seven years ago. She hoped the woman would come back; the next time Florence thought she would go to the door no matter what the outcome might be but the woman had never returned.

And now she knew for certain that her mother was not dead. What this information meant to her daily life she wasn’t sure. And Vincent now knew also. Would they talk about it? Should they? She wasn’t certain of anything and began to weep. Her father was unreasonable, she felt but what could she do? He did not brook disobedience, she could not disobey him. She did not want to lose Vincent, had made a promise to him but could see no future for their luncheons, their walks in the park and along the river bank. Her father was on his guard. He would prevent it now. She stood by the window as if looking for a answer, for a fairy godmother to save her. She stood there for an hour, getting colder, feeling weak. She changed for dinner and with a desultory look in the mirror, she went to the dining room.

Her father had not yet arrived and she stood looking out on the courtyard waiting for him. Waiting for what, she did not know but wished he would not come in at all. She did not know what to say to him now, she had not formulated her thoughts to a coherent pattern. She wished Vincent would be dining with them, that the last hour could be erased and he would be joining them as she had planned. She had Mrs. Haldon, their housekeeper, prepare his favorite food, now they would eat it without him. Her father would not know he was eating a meal prepared for Vincent with whom he was so irked. She would have to get through the dinner without crying, he would not like tears at the dinner table, would frown and gulp his wine. This is how he behaved when she was a child and she became petulant over some restriction he placed on her. Later she learned never to display this petulance, it only made matters worse and for years, father and daughter lived in harmony by Florence’s discretionary measures. She was always happy when he invited his colleagues or favorite students to dinner and he had someone to focus on other than her. She grew weary of his focus as she got older but hadn’t realized until tonight how weary.

She often thought of her mother at these times. Once she knew her mother was not dead, a certain distance crept into her relationship with her father. He never noticed, she made certain but it was there in her heart. When she met Vincent, her heart felt lighter, her future seemed more open to possibility. Now that was in all probability, ruined. She would be a captive. No one would want to save her so much they would expose themselves to her father’s demeaning interrogations, to his utter disregard. That is what it amounted to. She would be having dinner with her father forever, in this cold dining room with only the occasional guest for company. He would not invite anyone younger to look at his daughter, indeed, had already stopped.

Her father entered the dining room and Florence tried to smile but was quite unable. The professor, still unsettled by his argument with Vincent, did not notice. Both sat down to eat with little conversation or eye contact. A brooding mood permeated the dining room and Mrs. Haldon sensed all was not well. She too had overheard the arguing and noted the pale, listless demeanor of Florence, usually so cheerful, so bright. Poor girl, cooped up with her father, no friends and finally a nice young man ready and able to give her a future. She doubted Florence would stand up to her father. She wished she could advise the girl but would not feel it her place. She also knew the girl’s mother was still alive and had always thought Florence should be told but that too, was not her decision. She left the room--she had her own problems these days and needed to keep her spirit up.

After much dishing out from the various platters and bowls, the professor broke the ice by saying, “What do you think of going abroad this summer, Florence? You’ve never been to France or Italy, maybe Vienna or Berlin? We’ve never taken a trip like that together, perhaps we should before you continue your studies further. A writer needs experience not always found in books, I reckon. Why don’t you send for some brochures and we can begin making plans? You look a little pale. The sunshine in Rome would perk you up and I could use some movement myself. What do you say?”

Florence, who had always hoped to see more of Europe had nothing to say. She was thinking of Vincent and how he was feeling. Was he thinking of her? He left so abruptly, probably annoyed with her, maybe he would not even want to see her again. At that thought her heart sank and she had to keep from showing tears. “I’m…I…well…” She was stalling for time, she had no words for her father, she wanted to leave the table and think. She did not even have Vincent’s phone number. She chastised herself for such unworldliness. That’s what she was; a hopeless child who could not even conduct a relationship with a man, a man she loved, could not call him on the telephone. She did not know where he lived except that it was on Piccadilly near the park. She would have to find the address. If he did not call her, she would have to go to him and beg him not to let her father’s harsh words spoil his feelings for her. She would plead. But what then could she do? If her father forbid her to marry, what would she do. She had never considered doing anything without her father’s approval. How could she remain so ignorant, so useless?

She excused herself immediately after dinner and her father’s only reaction was “See you get those brochures from the travel agent, dear. We’ll have to make reservations quickly.” Florence left the room though not before the tears began to flow. All she could do tonight was wait and worry. What if he never called again?

Vincent did not call that night; he meant to but his flat mate, Harry, arrived home and they had a few drinks while Vincent spewed on about the professor. After a time, they felt hungry so they went out to a cafe to eat. Vincent did not get home until past ten and thought it too late to call Florence. He would call her first thing in the morning or go to her house. He hardly slept, not used to alcohol or emotional turmoil. He vowed he would right things in the morning and eventually fell asleep. He dreamed the professor took over the business school and ordered Vincent to leave, he would be given no degrees or honors. He awoke in a state of nerves. He had a bath and dressed and once the morning air hit him, he felt some renewal. He walked through Hyde Park and stopped for breakfast in a café where he ordered coffee, something else he rarely drank. He felt flushed and nervous and did not know it was a simple hangover. He thought he was coming down with the flu. It was Saturday so he decided he could not risk a visit to Florence; the professor would be home. He called but was told Florence was walking her dog and would be in shortly. Mrs. Haldon was adamant that he call back within the hour. She implied Florence would be expecting his call.

He was walking back to his flat when a group of friends from school approached him. They were on their way to Kent for a house party. They insisted he join them. He tried to beg off but they would not let him and forced him into a car, teasing and cajoling him for his unsociable nature. Before he knew it he was in a large country house with dogs, children, tennis, swimming and numerous cocktails. Vincent fell in with it all, happy to escape his ominous dream and his dread of ever meeting the professor again--he was spooked by him. In between sets of tennis, he thought of Florence, imprisoned in that gloomy house with a dotty old father. He thought of who her mother could be and wondered if it would be possible to contact her. He felt guilty for having fun without her. All of these thoughts rambled around in his head and the weekend continued on in a hilarious romp with scads of people coming and going, bent on frivolous pleasure. Vincent did not know if he approved or disapproved. He did not understand his own position.

Florence, upon hearing Vincent had called could only lament that she had been out. So foolish, she thought, to be waiting for a call and then miss it. Mrs. Haldon could feel her anxiety but was unaware of a way to assure the girl. She could only offer tea and scones, Florence’s favorite, and hoped she would not have to wait for long. “I’m certain he will call right back, dear, I told him you would be in shortly. He promised to call back.” Florence drank her tea but could not eat anything. She sat near the phone and waited impatiently. She had dark thoughts; she was sure something had gone terribly wrong. Her father asked her again about the travel brochures and in a consolatory voice asked what country she might wish to visit. She had no reply. She did not care to visit any country but thought she might be waiting by the phone for the rest of her life. The phone that did not ring that morning, or for the rest of the day.

She was fortunate that her father had a dinner engagement and she did not have to endure another meal in his presence. She went to her room at six and stayed for the evening. The house was silent except for a wind that began to rattle the panes about half past ten. Somewhere she heard a faint sound of music, probably Mrs. Haldon’s radio, she thought, though she had never heard it before. The night was long, she slept intermittently and by morning, was exhausted with the gravity of her thoughts.

Vincent also slept intermittently but it was not due to the gravity of his thinking but because a girl, Maude, who had been paying him special attention all day came scampering into his room at half past ten. Vincent was startled by this aggressive move but she was a playful type and would not leave him alone. She kissed him in a teasing way that caused his blood to stir. She put his hand under his shirt and blew in his ear. Vincent did not have much experience with women. They carried on in this playful fashion throughout the night. By morning, she acted as if Vincent were her betrothed and he had no strength to shun her even though he did not really like her that much. He was unaccustomed to this sort of girl and it was all too much for his untried sensibilities. The next day she never left his side nor would she let him catch the train to London as he begged to be allowed. No excuse he came up with worked. He now knew for certain what a hangover was; from alcohol and shame. Maude appeared to possess him and since the others went along with her, he had no way out.

Florence did not receive a call all weekend and by Monday she went about her routine as usual, albeit, without enthusiasm. She thought she might have the flu. As she passed the travel agent she went in with no real interest but at least she would be able to show her father the brochures. She looked at them without curiosity. That evening when her father asked about the planning, she handed him the brochures and said nothing. “Why so glum? I should think you would be excited. There is so much to see, so much history to explore. What do you think about Italy? You must see the Renaissance works first I think. Let’s plan the trip around that period, shall we? I’ve been thinking of it all day and that is what we should do. We’ll go to Rome, Florence and Venice and maybe even the Tuscan hill towns. Oh what a time we’ll have.” Florence did not say anything but nodded her head to appease her father. She went to bed early in case she was coming down with something.

Vincent never made the call and Florence and her father left for Italy at the end of the month. When they returned, Florence was almost back to her old self, placating her father, entertaining a menagerie of guests he regularly invited to dinner. Florence did not go to the library much but stayed at home. She did not become a writer nor pursue any career. She never rode on a motor scooter or went to a dance.

When she was thirty, her father died and she was left alone in the large house although a cousin came to live with her while attending school. Florence then began to tutor students who were having difficulty. She never socialized or dated but sometimes went to the movies with her cousin and some of her friends. Shortly after her father’s death, her mother made an appearance: smoking one cigarette after another, rattling her bangle bracelets, she pleaded for understanding but she and Florence had little in common and nothing to talk about. She was living in America and had been married three times.

Vincent married Maude when she announced she was pregnant. She led him around like a puppy dog, everyone said with a chortle. They had a daughter and later, a son. Vincent worked in her father’s insurance company. He could not be said to be happy nor especially unhappy. He lived his life placating his wife, her family and his children. Sometimes he didn’t really know who he was but had no talent for self-analysis. Maude accused him of being a brooder.

One day he happened to see Florence in a coffee shop. She was more than a decade older and he almost did not recognize her. She was quiet, composed and pale. Her hair was long and pulled into a tight knot at her neck. Her clothing was plain, without embellishment or style. She did not look like the fashionable women he and Maude socialized with. He approached her with an excited air; very glad to see her. “Why look who I should happen into,” he said boisterously. “Florence, it’s so good to see you.” She looked startled when he said her name. He tried to talk to her in the old way; lighthearted, congenial, filled with hope, but she remained unavailable to him. “I heard about your father’s death, terribly sorry…” was all he could mutter.
She answered politely and only said, "I heard about your marriage." She averted her eyes and he could do nothing but shake her hand and walk away.

How beautiful she still was, he thought. Such grace. How unlike Maude with her jangled nerves, artifice and cackling modernism. He wondered what his life would be like if he had married Florence and felt an irrevocable loss somewhere in his chest. He left the coffee shop slightly bereft and remained moody and unresponsive to his family for the rest of the weekend. Florence slept badly that night and never visited the coffee shop again.

#57 SEEKING HAPPY

It is the first day of my latest writing workshop, Put Some Happiness In Your Writing. It immediately followed Put Some Funny In Your Writing. I just spent five days in that workshop scribbling desperately to find my funny bone that I was certain was lodged somewhere deep inside in a region so obscured it could no longer be retrieved for reasons I shall not go into. But I learned humor can be a useful tool for expressing anger. I consider the workshop a success and wrote five stories based on the various modes of funny-making.

This workshop is a conundrum because happiness is the opposite of conflict, absolutely necessary, I have always been told in any piece of fiction. You can have happiness but only at the end. Maybe a little in the beginning to show the characters have the ability to be happy but it must very soon be curtailed by some conflict or you do not have a story. The bigger and nastier the conflict, the better the story.

I put the theory to the test on some of my favorite books and sure enough, always the conflict, even if the conflict is only Mr. Darcy having too much money and position to marry the wily, tempestuous but poor Elizabeth Bennett. Most of us wouldn’t mind his conflict but a brazen young woman can always cause trouble for a man, even the most tempered.

I was quite surprised to see the advertisement for a happiness writing workshop. Looking around this conference room that is about as happy as day-old bread, I notice that only the older woman has even the slightest hint of it. The two thirty-something women look positively vicious with dissatisfaction, the two younger men oblivious and the fifty-something man like he’d rip your face off if you got near him. I am somewhere in the middle, not old enough to be happily retired with time for writing workshops and the younger age group who perhaps are just finding out how unhappy life can be. A late arrival brought a young Japanese girl who looked well-adjusted and expressed sincere sorrow over her tardiness; the street car had broken down. She was flushed and embarrassed even though the teacher assured her it was fine she hadn’t missed anything.

This workshop has far fewer students than the funny workshop and a fraction of those signed up for the Put Some Sexy In Your Writing that begins next week. It is also only two and a half days instead of five and is really just something they sandwiched between funny and sexy. What does that tell you? Sex sells, funny has a chance but happiness, what is that except a paragraph at the end of some trauma which more than ever is forsaken?

There are only eight of us and at least three will drop out leaving five of us. How do I know this? A certain percentage always do and I see three people right away who are too troubled to even begin searching for happiness. The other four, including myself, look like seekers--willing to suspend disbelief.

The introductions began and the young Japanese girl named Suki said she was happy all the time but wanted to be a fiction writer despite having a happy life with happy parents and had been told by an English teacher that she was too happy and contented to write fiction. Happiness, he told her was not the stuff of novels. No conflict, you see. She said she cultivated a romance with a troubled boy who used drugs and hated his mother. She thought she could savor misery second-hand through him and then have dark tales to tell. He dumped her she said, for someone he had more in common with: a forty-year-old druggie who hangs out on Haight Street and sells fake pot to tourists. She said she experienced a sort of unhappiness for a week but then her parents took her on an adventure vacation to Yosemite and she went right back to happy. She couldn’t help it. Now she wants to know how to use it in her writing since she doubts she can shake it.

The fifty-something guy named Daryl with a surplus of angry energy guffawed and spit water into his hand. “Oh please, please make this happiness stop,” he said a little too sarcastically, I thought. Suki looked embarrassed and bowed her head as she took her seat. I couldn’t resist my own comment: “Hang around this guy and your problem is solved.” The others laughed. Daryl glared at me and said, “You don’t look all that happy yourself, lady, not hard to figure out why.” He gave a snort and it occurred to me he looked like a pig with a snoot and pointy ears, pale pink skin and a fat middle. I ignored the comment but was on my guard. He could say what he wanted about me but he was not going to get away with rattling an innocent young girl with exquisite manners and small feet in blue suede shoes.

When it was my turn to introduce myself and state my reasons for being in this workshop, I said I’m tired of reading about the conflicts of our age: AIDs, child abuse, illness as metaphor, family nightmares of every conceivable malfunction, aging, loneliness, greed, envy and jealousy run amok, and of course alcohol and drug use. I ask, "Is it possible to become too saturated with all that is painful? How much can we absorb?" The question then needs to be asked, what do we have to write about without these topics? I added that I believed a happy spirit should be cultivated and encouraged if at all possible. At that moment I had an urge to quote from the Bible, Be of good cheer for I have overcome the world, but the mention of Jesus would have me labeled a Jesus freak when in fact I’ve never actually read the Bible, only authors who have read it so my quote is second-hand and I cannot even tell you which book in the Bible it is from. Things just float in and out of my mind because I read too much. I made a note to look it up later.

A seventy-something woman, Marilyn, said she had always been happy for the most part and preferred books and movies that portrayed happy people. She said she wrote a story about a trip to Italy with her husband because it was so happy with so much local color but her writing group told her it was fine as a travel piece but nothing going on otherwise. She put it away but kept it in her mind and wanted to salvage it because it meant something special to her. The pig snorted but I gave him a threatening look and he recoiled fast.

He was last, said he was unemployed, happy at first, later unhappy when he had to move in with his mother. Got a few laughs with that. Said he didn’t have a clue how to write about happiness, didn’t think it was possible if you had a crappy childhood but got a special price; if you signed up for two workshops you got this one free and was just waiting for the sex workshop to start next week, the only one sold out. Said his mother was paying to get him out of the house. At least he was honest. We all snickered. I asked him why he hadn’t been in the humor workshop and he said forced humor made him nervous and he dropped out though didn’t get a refund so he would try to endure this hopeless happiness workshop to get his money’s worth. Don’t do us any favors, I thought but did not say.

A thirty-something woman, Carmen, said she had also signed up with the special deal on all three and she didn’t understand the concept: All the books she liked had unhappy people from horrible families because they made her feel better. She said she was open to the idea but didn’t see how you could write a good story about it but she did like happy endings. She too, was waiting for the sex workshop.

Everyone else said the same thing: Three workshops for the price of two and had no idea what to do with happiness or why bother since they’d pretty much all been told happiness does not make for a compelling story: It has to be won though conflict. I must say everyone seemed bored to death by the concept.

After the introductions we were told to write a short story in four or five paragraphs where happiness reigns and bring in either conflict, action or psychological consciousness. This exercise stumped most of us. Except for Suki--she got right on it. Daryl was peevishly chewing on the end of a pencil and tapping his right foot on the chair in front of him. Brendon, a nervous twenty-something with a web of tattoos on his young arms kept flicking his Bic and running his hands through his hair.

This is what Brendon wrote:

Last Saturday I went to the medical marijuana clinic to get my weekly supply. I was up for trying something new so the clerk, Rain, recommended “Rocket to Russia.” Cool. A bud named after a Ramones album. Many of the samplings have names that correspond to rock groups or songs. Marijuana is first and foremost a rock and roll drug. I used to buy my stuff from a friend who lives in the outer Mission but when medical marijuana was legalized in California I got my card. Now I only walk a couple blocks down Polk Street. Way more convenient. I’ve tried the brownies and even the hard candy they make with weed but I still prefer to smoke, especially with a water pipe. I invented a water pipe in my spare time and am going to patent it. It’s way cool. A smooth, refreshing hit that staggers the mind and body. That’s what you want. When I got back to my apartment my dog, Tracker, had gotten into the garbage and the kitchen was a disaster. I put a little “Rocket to Russia” in a bowl and took a monster hit. Then I blasted the Ramones (on vinyl) and thought about the garbage in the kitchen but was too stoned to deal with it. Would I rocket to Russia? Who knows? Who cares? My own domain may be a far as I get today but in my mind, I’m all over the place. That’s my trip. I’m happy with it.

Here’s what Suki wrote:

My father taught me to drive on a Sunday morning in the Sunset District when traffic was light and we had plenty of time. My mother stayed at home. She said her little daughter behind the wheel of a car on busy streets did not give her any ease but she packed us a snack of fruit, tea, rice cakes and peanut butter. She said we should stop at the ocean and have a picnic. I was so excited to start driving; it would mean independence from my parents who treat me like a child. They say they always will.

I was a little nervous but soon relaxed and drove with the feeling I had been doing it forever. I longed to drive over the entire city and begged my father to let me but he said the traffic would be too heavy in certain areas and didn’t think it a good idea but that I could drive along Pacific Highway for a few miles and stop wherever I wanted to have our picnic.

I had a wonderful time with my father that day and when we arrived home Mother had our favorite sushi rolls prepared for us. Father told Mother about my driving lesson and they both laughed when he told her how I slammed on the brakes by mistake and caused the car behind me to swerve into the other lane, how the driver shook is fist at me as he passed us and all the other cars moved far away from me. Father said his hair turned white and tried to convince us of this. We said it was still black but he said, “No, it’s white, I’m sure.” Mother laughed and brought out a hand mirror but Father said he was afraid to look.

We watched television together that night and Father laughed more than usual during The Simpsons. He said next Sunday I could drive to the Mission District. Mother sighed as she worked on her embroidery happy to have us safe at home: She never learned to drive and could only admire my courage.

Daryl wrote:

Saturday my mother went shopping with her friend Beaula so I knew I would have the house to myself for most of the day. My mother is a shopoholic. She jokes about this but if you saw her house, you’d know it’s true. Stuff everywhere, most of it shit but I think it makes her happy.

I’m happy when she leaves and I can pour myself an extra large vodka and tonic and watch football in peace. I pretty much only drink when she’s not at home because my father was an alcoholic and died from it. That’s not happy for her so I refrain, but when she’s away, the big rat will play. Sometimes if the game gets boring, and face it, the 49ers can piss you off, I watch a little porn. Not a lot. It’s not really my thing but sometimes I like to check things out. My mother definitely won’t be down with that so I never do it in her presence. I respect my mother.

When she comes home, I pretend I’m asleep so she won’t know how much I’ve had to drink. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her. If I’m awake she’ll want to show me what she bought and I will have to feign some sort of interest in yet another teapot, towel rack or toaster oven. I’m just not up to it. Sometimes she buys me clothes and that’s really a problem. She has taste for shit. It hurts her feelings I suppose that I won’t wear what she buys but she is good about it and returns them. I wish she’d just give me the cash.

I love Saturday when she goes out shopping. It’s the only day I’m really happy anymore. I’ll get my own place again, I‘m sure. Then I’ll be happy more often but for now, once a week will have to do. Sunday she goes to church but I usually have a hangover and sleep through it.

Carmen wrote:

My boyfriend surprised me with a special treat on Valentine’s Day. He bought me a designer handbag I had my eye on for a really long time. It wasn’t a complete surprise because I had taken him to Saks to show it to him. It was really expensive and he was sort of shocked when he looked at the price tag but he really loves me so he had to do it.

My sister’s boyfriend gave her a silver necklace in the shape of a heart. Big deal. It probably cost $9.99 in Marshalls. She was jealous, I could tell and that made me a little bit happier than I suppose it should have. She’s always so obnoxious because she has a much better job than I do. She’s always showing me the clothes she buys trying to make me feel bad but I’ve decided not to let her get to me. The new handbag surpasses all of her junk so I’m ahead.

When I carry my new handbag I’m usually pretty happy. I can tell when other women look at it with envy. This makes me proud. I tell my boyfriend he should be proud to be walking with a woman carrying this bag. He looks confused. I don’t think he gets the importance of a good bag. He said to me, “Carmen, what in the world difference does it make what purse you carry?” Duh. I didn’t have time to explain to him the difference between Prada and Nine West but someday I must. He should know these things if he expects to run around with a classy babe like me. For now, it’s enough that he wanted to make me happy. If I’m happy, so is the world. He’s learning.

These were the highlights. I won’t bother with what I wrote. It wasn’t as good as the above stories. Marilyn’s wasn’t great either and we went for coffee afterwards to discuss the workshop. I‘ll be curious to see who shows up tomorrow.