To be fair, John has every reason to hold a grudge. I’ll admit it now. I set him up for his fall. He was once my mentor at the advertising agency, as I explained. He hired me during one of the most trying times of my life, when I’d just arrived back in town from Nashville. He believed in me, all those years ago. And I respected him, too. He was also the one who introduced me to Mia.
I smile at the memory of our first meeting, Mia Pilmer sitting at the glass-topped conference room table, her blond hair shining, her eyes bright and smart. Her long legs accentuated by a tight short black skirt. You could appreciate everything through that glass top, and there was a lot to appreciate with Mia back then. John had told me Mia was the best copywriter on the creative team, surprisingly one of the best he’d ever read, even though she was just out of college and so very young. Eventual creative director and perhaps even partner material, he had said. Thompson Payne and Pilmer it would be someday, John predicted. She was a product of New York University, at least a decade my junior, and from a wealthy New York City family. She was smart, beautiful, pure. The minute I took the chair next to hers, accidentally on purpose bumping my thigh against her leg under the conference table, I knew she was the one. I could feel the electricity zipping between us, drawing us together for all time.
Mia felt the physical attraction, too. I saw her blush as she shyly turned away from me at the conference table. Her mind, on the other hand, took some convincing. It was a sales job, one might say.
John, though, he and I hit it off right from the start. I guess the problem was simply this: at some point, we both knew I was the right man for his job. But he wasn’t going anywhere. The partners weren’t going to make him a partner, there would be no & Larson stenciled on the glass wall, they told him. So he was stuck, poor John. Eventually, I needed to help him move on. I was happy to be of service.
“Claudia says the credit card doesn’t work,” Mia says now, shaking her head at me and covering the phone. “What is she supposed to use to buy groceries? She had to leave the bags at the customer service desk at Kroger. Told them she’d be back to pay. This is embarrassing, Paul.”
“Just tell her to use her credit card and I’ll pay her when we get back,” I say. I am a logical problem solver.
“Paul, she’s a college student. We can’t ask her to do that.” The muscles on the side of her neck are taut, like rubber bands about to snap. I am wearing my calm, reasonable poker face again. Of course I knew the card wouldn’t work, but Mia is understandably surprised. I hope she keeps her head on. I cannot stand it when Mia starts whining and worrying. It’s beneath her, beneath us.
“When we get to the lake, I’ll transfer money to the card. It will work by this afternoon. Okay?” It is my turn to pat her leg. She ignores the gesture and conveys the message to the overtired Claudia. I watch as she presses End on her phone with an overt display of melodramatic disgust. Really? She’s acting like a child. It’s only groceries. Big deal. It’s not like the boys will starve. Our pantry is full of perfectly fine food. We have frozen organic macaroni and cheese lining the freezer. This is ridiculous. Neither the boys nor Mia understand what it feels like to be hungry, to be deprived: to open the door to an empty refrigerator, an empty pantry. So what if they don’t have their first choice of snacks for the weekend?
“Paul, honestly. That’s the only thing I asked you to do to get ready for the whole weekend. Leave enough cash, or enough credit at least, for the weekend. This is unacceptable,” she says. She is rubbing the back of her neck, trying to loosen the rubber bands, I presume. I imagine her shoulders knotted with worry. It’s sad, really, how the little things can get to her so easily. It’s not uncommon lately. She’s filled with anxiety these days, it seems. She’s worried about the boys, about her health, the gutters getting cleaned, the recycling being taken out, about, well everything. Wouldn’t it be ironic if all this worry is the cause of the weight loss? I’ve told her that’s my theory.
Nothing I can say will make the situation better, so instead I turn up the music as Amy Winehouse belts out “You Know I’m No Good.” I love this song, this whole playlist, and I know Mia does, too. Next up, Dinah Washington’s “Cold, Cold Heart.”
“Can we switch to the radio?” Mia asks. And then before I can answer, a static-ridden local station bursts into my ears, a country crooner hurting my psyche. No matter how often I explain to Mia that jazz is the highest musical form and country the lowest, still she tortures me.
The hairs on the back of my neck bristle as this stupid hick song fills the car. I’ll bear it, though. We’re in the middle of nowhere, about thirty minutes from the bakery where we’ll stop and check for croissants. It would be so wonderful if the universe leaves me some croissants today. It doesn’t seem that much to ask. I need Mia to relax and back off on the questioning. Perhaps baked goods will help. I’ll suggest she eat a croissant or two rather than saving them all for breakfast. There’s something to be said for instant gratification every once in a while. And then if she’s happy, she’ll turn my music back on.
I can’t stop myself. I reach for the radio, punch some buttons; this whining country music is all I can tune in. This will please Mia as she is a country music fan. I had my fill of it when I lived in Nashville, thank you very much. Right about now I’m wondering why I discontinued the Sirius radio subscription in the Flex, a bad move when it comes to the middle of nowhere. Now I’m at the mercy of whatever station comes into range unless Mia switches back to my lovingly made playlist. A shame, really.
The country singer is the only one making a sound. The silence between us is thudding in my head. I didn’t want today to be like this. It occurs to me that now would be a good time to apologize. The road is clear ahead, and I haven’t had to pass anyone for miles.
“Hey, Mia. I’m sorry,” I say. “That was my fault. I’ll fix it, pay off the card as soon as we get to the cottage. Claudia will be able to use it this afternoon, pick up the groceries. All’s well. In the meantime, relax. Enjoy the music. Everything is going to be fine.”
Mia has pushed her sunglasses up on her head. She looks over at me with squinted eyes, probably a defense against the bright sunlight. She is staring at me like you would a spider making a web at your doorway, with both amazement and fear.