A Window Opens: A Novel (10 page)

“Will? Don’t be a dick.”

“Alice, no need to get vulgar.” (See?)

“Anyway. What are you guys up to this weekend?”

Will and his kids were going paddling in Casco Bay while Mary volunteered at a pop-up eye clinic in a disadvantaged neighborhood of Portland. My family and I were going to see
The Lorax
at the Willowbrook Mall, with Cinnabon on the agenda for dessert. I told Will we were
running a 5K to raise money for a literacy program in Newark; in fact, I had only donated to the cause on behalf of a neighbor—and not very generously, either.

Me:
My Visa was just declined at the gas station. I paid in cash but what’s up with that?

Nicholas:
No worries. I charged my office stuff on there, and I guess the amount was high enough to trigger a fraud alert. Just sorting it out now.

Me:
I thought you were renting the office furnished?

Nicholas:
I am! Just incidental things. An Aeron chair—got a good deal on eBay. And I splurged on a bar cart to give the place that
Mad Men
vibe.

Me:
Um. Wish you’d consulted me before making these purchases. Calling you now.

I was on my way home from dropping Margot at an art class on a Thursday afternoon when a number with a Cleveland area code popped up on my phone. Judy and Elliott happened to be visiting for a few days, and I knew they were on the other side of Filament, retrieving Oliver from a friend’s house. Assuming they were lost, I steered my Honda Odyssey minivan (eighteen cup holders, no rear-seat entertainment) to the side of Essex Avenue and answered. Cornelius sat in the passenger’s seat, panting, his tongue hanging out of one side of his mouth. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Hello, may I please speak to Ms. Alice Pearse of 14 Flower Street, Filament, New Jersey?”

“Oh! Um, this is Alice.”

“Alice, my name is Chris Pawlowski, and I’m a recruiter from MainStreet. Do you have a few moments?”

“Of course.” Cornelius’s panting was now a low-grade whine, so I grabbed his collar and pushed him into the backseat.

“It’s my pleasure to extend an offer to you for a position of”—a brief pause, papers shuffling—“Content Manager–slash–Industry Liaison.
Salary commensurate with experience.” While Chris prattled on, I frantically scribbled notes on the back of an Exxon receipt using a Yo Gabba Gabba pen grabbed from the floor: vesting schedules (stocks!), signing bonuses (two!), starting date (as soon as possible), time-off balance (ten days—seriously? In the whole
year
?).

“Chris, thank you! I’m so happy to hear this news! You made my weekend.” There I was in my Gap Body pants and purple Under Armour sweatshirt, receiving an offer for a position with punctuation in its title. I had arrived.

“I’ll tell you, I’m breaking protocol by sharing this, but I set up a shit ton of Chains for candidates for this very position, and Genevieve Andrews nixed every one.” Chris lowered his voice. “Alice, you charmed the pants off everyone. They loved you.”

“Thanks, Chris. That’s nice of you to say. So, is it okay if I check back in with you on Monday? I’d like to take the weekend to think about . . . everything.” There was nothing to think about, really—but I sensed Scroll would respect scrappy negotiating and I didn’t want to let them down.

It was time for Alice Pearse to step up to the plate. I remembered my dad and Will cheering for Ron Darling when he pitched at Shea Stadium: “Hey batta batta,
swing
!” I was already winding up my arm.

•  •  •

I poured wine for Judy and Elliott in the living room and gestured for Nicholas to come into the kitchen. “I got the job!” I whispered. His eyes lit up when I showed him the numbers on the Exxon receipt.

“Alice, are you
serious
? This is big money.”

“Of course I’m serious! I’m so excited, I can’t
believe
it!”

He lifted me into a hug that would have turned into a graceful spin if we were sitcom stars. Instead, we collapsed into the side of the refrigerator.

“Nicholas, we’re going to be
fine
! My job will keep us afloat.”

Nicholas looked momentarily taken aback, even mildly insulted. “Of course we’re going to be okay. I’m not worried! Why are
you
so worried?”

“I don’t know, maybe because our kitchen cabinets are falling off the walls and college tuition is expensive and we like to buy artisanal yogurt at Whole Foods? Seriously, why
aren’t
you worried?”

“Forget it, we should be celebrating. Yes, we’re heading into a lean phase—but less so now, thanks to Scroll. I’m proud of you.”

He leaned down and kissed me—a long, slow kiss. Margot walked into the kitchen and said “Yuck” before turning on her heel and walking out of the room.

Me:
Dad, I GOT THE JOB!!!

Dad:
That’s my girl. LOL.

Me:
Wait, why are you laughing?

Dad:
I’m not.

Me:
LOL means Laughing Out Loud.

Dad:
Oh. Well, in my book, it means Lots of Love.

I
was sitting on my front porch when I noticed Ollie standing next to a bench across the street, on the side of the school lawn furthest from our house.

Now that Oliver and Margot were in second and fifth grades, I’d implemented a plan whereby they met each other at the bench and walked home together. This raised eyebrows among other parents, even when I pointed out to concerned parties that our house is literally a stone’s throw from the school, and the crosswalk is manned by a crossing guard who could have been a bouncer in another life. Still, the principal requested a letter absolving the school district of responsibility.

On the days I was at work, Jessie continued to retrieve the kids herself instead of letting them walk home. She said she was hoping to catch a glimpse of Filament’s very own celebrity meteorologist, who sometimes came to school to pick up his daughters. When I asked if she thought Margot and Oliver were still too young to make their way alone, Jessie said breezily, “Not my call! You’re the mom.” (Which, of course, gently meant
yes
.)

On this particular Friday, I was home alone waiting for Margot and Ollie. Georgie went directly to a friend’s house from preschool. Now Margot appeared to be taking her time collecting her brother, and so Oliver stood by the bench—slightly hunched, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his too-small navy windbreaker. Even from down the block and across the street, I could tell by the set of his narrow shoulders that he had a defeated, exhausted look about him. He needed a haircut. I made a mental note to put him to bed early.

Did I walk over and escort Ollie across the street? No. I went inside to grab a can of seltzer, certain that Margot would eventually catch up and bring her brother home.

•  •  •

On Monday, after spending the morning on a middle school tour with Margot, I called Genevieve from my dining room table. Once Chris told me I’d need to raise this particular issue with my immediate team members, I wrote out my spiel and rehearsed it with all my trusted advisors. I said, “Your offer is incredibly generous. I’m thrilled about it. But I do have one logistical issue I wanted to raise.”

“Of course, go ahead!” Genevieve’s cheerful voice trilled through the phone.

“My deal is, I’d like to work from home on Fridays.” The request sounded naked and unadorned, but I resisted the urge to explain or embellish. Instead I drew little question marks on the cover of Margot’s social studies textbook—an infraction that later earned her a demerit for defacing school property.

Genevieve said she heard my concerns but she needed to “run them up the flagpole.”

The next day, I was on the train into the city when Genevieve called back. We were tearing through Secaucus, moving full throttle past the Meadowlands and the turnpike view made famous by the opening scene in
The Sopranos
. In an instant, we would head into the tunnel under the Hudson and I’d lose the signal.

“Alice? We shared your ask with Cleveland. Unfortunately, they weren’t receptive. It’s a real butt-in-the-chair operation out there, but of course we’re a satellite office, so we can be flexible on an à la carte basis.” There was a pause. We sped through the Secaucus station, which has a deep track so I glimpsed a blur of ankles belonging to people waiting for another train. Genevieve continued, “Let’s leave it like this: you’ll be in the office five days, but you can work from home as needed. As long as I know where to find you.”

My seatmate shifted, elbowing me in the side. I winced. “Well, thanks for trying. Also, I forgot to ask: is there any wiggle room on the vacation time? Ten days seems . . . stingy, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I admire your candor, actually. I had the same concern before accepting my job, and I’m sorry to report, the vacation policy is ironclad. It’s MainStreet policy for executives and managers to receive the same packages as people on the retail side. Leadership doesn’t get preferential treatment.”

I swallowed my disappointment and focused on the unfamiliar experience of being pegged as a leader. “In that case, Genevieve, it’s my pleasure to officially accept this job.”

“Fabulous! Welcome to the team. Would you mind holding for just a moment?”

I heard the sound of a button being pressed, but the phone wasn’t on mute, as Genevieve must have intended it to be. So I heard her bellow, loud and clear: “Alice Pearse is in! Tell Chris to hold off on making an offer to the greeting card chick!”

Greeting card chick? Was she a tastemaker, too?

“Alice? I’m back. Let’s be in touch when you’ve given notice and we can talk start dates and all that good stuff. But in the meantime, I’m absolutely thrilled to have a chance to work with you.” The way she said
aPsolutely
reminded me of Susanna; I wondered if Genevieve and I would also end up being kindred spirits.

“Thanks. I feel the same way.” By now, my seatmate was getting
antsy, muttering under his breath about people who think they’re so important.

But Genevieve wasn’t finished. “Before we hang up, I have one more question.”

“Yes?”

“Alice Pearse, what is
your
dream book?”

I smiled out the window. This was an easy question to answer. “I’d love
A Room of One’s Own.
”

“Consider it done.”

We hung up.

I thought of a line that was underlined and circled in my old Penguin paperback of the Virginia Woolf classic: “The beauty of the world . . . has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.” This pretty much summed up how I felt about my new job: overjoyed and petrified.

Then I concentrated on a simple mantra from a less-complicated book:
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

•  •  •

The No Guilt Book Club was thinning out after a night of revelry at the Blue Owl. We’d depleted almost two cases of wine, and the tables at the front of the Blue Owl were stripped of the hardcovers we’d piled on them earlier in the evening. The cookbook shelves looked like a mouth with many teeth missing, and the memoirs were so pillaged, I pitied the employees who would have to re-shelve them in the morning.

As I bustled around grabbing empty cups and cocktail napkins, I caught snippets of conversation: “If you love Anne Rivers Siddons, you must read Elin Hilderbrand,” and “No, Jonathan
Tropper
. Trust me, he’s a lot more fun than Jonathan Franzen.”

Susanna and I headed to the back of the store to grab cardboard boxes and tote bags for friends who needed extra reinforcement to haul their bounty home. She threw an arm around my neck and leaned her cheek on
my shoulder. “Another successful night. What would I do without you, my friend?”

I inhaled her familiar scent of cloves and Kiss My Face shampoo and placed my red-lettered Scholastic box carefully on the floor. “Susanna, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“OMG, please don’t tell me you’re switching Margot to the Piranhas.” This was the rival of our girls’ swim team, the Panthers. Margot and Susanna’s older daughter, Audrey, were part of the same undefeated relay team; we joked that our families’ longstanding friendship would be the subject of a personal interest segment when they made it to the Olympics together.

“No, not that. It’s a little more serious.” Now Susanna started to twist the detachable bottom of her plastic wineglass. I worried that she was going to spill it on an attractively spiraled stack of
Tiny Beautiful Things
. “I accepted the job at Scroll.”

I didn’t embellish or elaborate. I owed Susanna honesty, not an apology.

Her hazel eyes flicked around at her own floor-to-ceiling shelves, then down to the blue owl inlaid in the blond-wood floor in glazed tile. There wasn’t a swiveling armchair in sight, but this was still my gold standard of bookstores; she knew that. She had to. “Thanks for letting me know, Al. You understand my concerns, right?”

“I do.”

“I get it that you need to do this for your family, but you’ll be working for a major competitor of mine.”

“I know. Susanna—”

“They could put me out of business.”

“Honestly, I don’t think that will ever—”

“You know what, Alice? It’s a job. We’re bigger than this.” She grabbed my hand and I held on, even though my engagement ring was twisted in such a way that it wedged painfully into the side of my pinky.

•  •  •

Even with Nicholas’s dramatic pay cut looming, I was a little dazzled by my new salary.

One morning I dashed off a handful of checks for summer camps—two weeks of acting, $650; one week of lacrosse, $280; two weeks of fashion design, $900, not including a sewing machine.

“She better be the next Gloria Vanderbilt when she’s done with that one,” grumbled Nicholas. Gloria Vanderbilt? And he teased
me
for suggesting Mary Lou Retton as a subject for Oliver’s report for Women’s History Month (#stuckinthe80s).