Earnest (20 page)

C
HAPTER
39

A
t the end of the day, Joy arrived in Plant Parenthood with champagne and celebratory chocolate-chip cookies. Lauren followed, bearing Camembert, crackers, and pears. Joy wore black skinny jeans, a red turtleneck, and a scarf on which was printed “Hallelujah!” in ten languages. In a pale yellow dress, Lauren looked like a long-stemmed daffodil, heralding spring.

“Victory! Let's drink to those saints on the planning commission!” Joy jiggled out the champagne's cork, and with a resounding pop, it flew toward the ceiling. “Best sound known to man.” As she filled three New to You glasses, Lauren unwrapped the Camembert and crackers and set them on a flowered china plate.

The prospect of cheese roused Earnest from his lily pad. He charged, panting, across the room, his eyes shining with unbridled lust. They pinned down Lauren and made clear his sybaritic intention:
Gimme! Gimme! I want cheese! At any moment I will wilt from hunger.

Lauren cut him a sliver, which he vacuumed from her palm.
More! I will perish without nourishment. You will miss me if I'm gone.

“Earnest knows no shame.” Lauren handed him another piece. “Come over here, Anna. Protect me from your dog.”

“Your champagne's waiting for you, Anna.” Joy raised her own glass. “Here's to the commission, our kindly benefactors.” She took a hearty gulp.

“I'll be there in a minute.” Anna was wielding a plumber's friend over her sink's drain.
Cha-chook. Cha-chook.
“Leaves got plugged up in here. I've got to get them out myself. Mrs. Scroogemore isn't going to help.”

“Anybody heard from the vampire lady? I thought for sure she'd evict us by now,” Joy said.

“As long as she's making money, why would she want to get rid of us?” Lauren asked.

“Spite,” Joy said. “She looked plenty mad at that meeting.”

“Money matters more to her than pride.” Lauren sliced more Camembert and set it on crackers. She avoided Earnest's eyes, which skewered her with cheese desire.

Anna pumped the plumber's friend again, then moved the rubber dome away and squinted down the drain. The rotted leaves refused to cooperate and get unstuck. “You know, this drain could be a metaphor for our lives right now. We're blocked.”

“I don't know about you, but I'm flowing pretty well.” Joy raised her glass again.

“I mean our way forward is blocked. Our future. We have fabulous news from the planning commission, but we don't know what's going to happen,” Anna said.

“You want to try any harder to put a damper on tonight?” Joy asked.

“Sorry,” Anna said. “But it bothers me. We're in limbo. We can't make plans.”

“Who can?” Lauren moved on to slicing pears. “Nobody knows the future. We're all groping through life half blind.”

“Look at John and Penelope. What plans can they make? For all they know they'll be slaves forever,” Joy said.

“So how do they keep going if their future seems so bleak?” Anna asked.

“They have hope,” Joy said. “They'd probably die if they couldn't cling to thoughts of freedom.”

“So what hope are we supposed to cling to?” Anna asked.

“I hope Bradley Cooper is waiting in my bed,” Joy said.

“I mean about this house.”

“Easy. I hope Mrs. Scroogemore goes on a moonlit swim with a school of piranhas.” Joy shook her bag of cookies onto one of Lauren's plates.

“I hope we can stay here long enough to figure out our next step,” Lauren said.

Anna resumed her assault on the clogged vegetation.
Cha-chook! Cha-chook!
“Once Grammy said your soul turns black if you don't have hope.”

“Heaven forbid I have a black soul,” Joy said.

“Maybe we should go ahead and keep hoping this house is ours someday,” Lauren suggested.

“That's a long shot when Mrs. Scroogemore hates us,” Joy said.

“If you think your hope is a long shot, you'll kill it. We can't be negative.” Lauren turned her back on Earnest and sank her teeth into a piece of cheese.

“Okay. So I'll be positive. I'm thinking miracle. I refuse to give up hope that we get this house,” Anna said.

Cha-chook! Cha-chook!
The lump of rotting leaves loosened in the darkness. Anna turned on the water and washed them down the drain.

 

Gamble's old timers met every morning for coffee at the Chat 'n' Chew Café. Each wobbly chair and table in the large sunny room was a different style, and white curtains embroidered with a zigzag design covered the lower half of the old wavy-glass windows. On a blackboard behind the counter, Peggy LeClerc, the grandmotherly owner, wrote her daily soup and salad menu in lime-green chalk. Oilcloths—of polka dots, checks, and stripes—covered the tables, each of which held a pressed glass vase of plastic carnations and ferns.

Anna sipped her chamomile tea and asked Peggy, “Ever thought of having real flowers in here?”

“These have worked fine for years,” Peggy said.

“Fresh roses and asparagus ferns would perk things up.”

“Maybe, but they'd droop pretty quick. You can't keep flowers fresh forever.”

“You could replace them every week.”

“That'd cost an arm and a leg.”

“Not necessarily.” Anna twirled her teaspoon between her thumb and index finger. “You've got nine tables. A rose and fern on each one would cost maybe twenty-five dollars a week.”

“Whew!” Peggy whistled. “Some filthy rich Arab sheik could afford that. Not me.”

“How about twenty-two dollars? Every Monday I could put something beautiful in these vases. Your customers would like it. Let me try once and see how it goes.”

Peggy slipped her fingertips under her hairnet's elastic band to keep it from digging into her forehead. “You know I'd buy the Brooklyn Bridge from you. I've liked you since you were a child.”

“So that's a yes?”

“Well . . .” Peggy hesitated. “A trial, yes.”

“I'll bring you beautiful roses on Monday as soon as I get back from Seattle!” When Anna finished her tea, she hugged Peggy and left.

Walking back to Plant Parenthood in the chilly afternoon, Anna realized she was sweating. She'd never tried to sell Peggy anything but Girl Scout cookies in fourth grade, and soliciting business from her this afternoon had been hard. Even when a sale was small and to a good friend like her, it took courage to ask. Still, Anna had taken another step in her plan to reach out for new orders. She'd mark today a success.

Anna wanted to tell someone her good news, but Earnest, who'd normally hear it, was waiting for her in the shop. If she and Jeff were still together, she'd call him from her cell right now and talk with him. He'd accused her once of being a financial flake. Would he be glad she was expanding her business?

Why was she asking herself that question? How did he keep weaseling into her thoughts? To block Jeff from her mind, she moved on to a more worthwhile question: What color of roses should she pick up for Peggy on Monday? Malibu Pink, Yellow Stardust, Latin Lady Red? Or High and Orange Magic? Polar Star White? Maybe each table could have a different rose.
Yes. That's the answer
.

As Anna turned onto Rainier, she realized that pondering the roses' colors hadn't worked. Jeff was sneaking into her thoughts again. Today there seemed to be no keeping him out.

She wondered if she secretly
wanted
to call him. That arresting thought brought her to a stop.

Since Anna had learned of the planning commission's decision, she'd worried about Jeff. Their rejection of his work had surely distressed him. He was probably angry. Surely he was hurt. Jeff could be sensitive, and that made him good at his job. It was also one reason why Anna had loved him.

As she walked down the block toward the house, she considered whether she might have been too quick to judge Jeff. Maybe she should have heard him out. Maybe she'd been too harsh. Everything had happened so quickly on the day the kitchen caught on fire. She'd been shocked. She hadn't stopped to see his side, and then everything started changing, and there was no going back.

Would I ever want to go back?
She was asking herself that question as she opened Plant Parenthood's door and Earnest bounded over to greet her. After she told him about Peggy's order, Anna remembered that Jeff had tried to take him away from her. Just as she'd not considered his side about his project, he'd never considered
her
side about Earnest or the house. If she hadn't hired Mad Dog Horowitz, Jeff could have stopped here one day and taken Earnest, and she might never have seen him again.

No. Anna would not worry about Jeff. As far as the planning commission was concerned, he could take care of himself. He'd said that very thing about her when he'd walked off and left her at Disappointment Park. He hadn't cared about her. So why should she care about him?
Better to think about rose colors.

C
HAPTER
40

I
n March, Gamble Island seemed to waken from a long deep sleep. Fruit trees bloomed their heads off, and daffodils, planted years ago by a Johnny Appleseed of bulbs, winked yellow along the country roads. Spring was in the air, a new start, fresh and clean. The days grew longer. The gray skies seemed to get tired of irritating everyone and often gave way to blue.

Usually, Jeff liked this time of year. He took Earnest for forest romps and set him free to chase raccoons' scents and hunt blackberry bushes for future picking. But this year was different. Though Jeff continued the adventures, he was chronically distracted, waiting, waiting, waiting for Grabowski's decision. The movie of Jeff's life dragged in slow motion.

Still, every day he went to work and put on an act that all was well and “worry” did not belong in his vocabulary. But he
was
worried, and the longer he waited for news, the harder it became to fight paranoia. Grabowski might have agreed with the planning commission and perhaps was letting Jeff's file languish on his desk to torture him. At night Jeff stewed over that possibility and counted grievances like sheep. One, Grabowski's mental cruelty. Two, Grabowski's sadism. Three, Grabowski's arrogance, based on nothing. Four . . .

At work Jeff checked his mail dozens of times each day. He joked, only to himself, that he was wearing a path in the carpet from his office to the mailroom. He snatched every white business envelope from his box and devoured the return address. But always the envelope was a false alarm. That was why on March 17, St. Patrick's Day, Jeff could scarcely believe his eyes when he found a letter from the Department of Planning, City Hall, Gamble Island, Washington.

In his hands, the letter felt heavy with importance, denser than iridium. However, Jeff did not rip into the envelope in the mailroom. Whatever news Grabowski was about to lay on him Jeff wanted to receive alone. He walked back to his office, closed the door.

He'd also needed privacy in his high-school senior year when an envelope had arrived from the University of Washington. Without opening the flap, he could tell that it contained a paltry single page. If he'd been accepted, he believed, the envelope would have bulged with brochures about dorms and registration—or with confetti, which had spilled into the lap of a friend when she'd opened an acceptance letter. Jeff's envelope looked anorexic. His dreams seemed to shrivel in his hands.

Jeff took the letter to his room, stared at the sealed flap, and prepared himself for the rejection that the admission officer might be doling out:
We've had many fine applicants like yourself, and it's been difficult selecting the next class—and, sorry, pal, you won't be in it.
Finally, in a formal and civilized fashion, Jeff sliced the envelope with the letter opener his uncle had given him for Christmas, and shook open the page. He read. His clouds of worry parted, and light shone down on him. The university had accepted him—and changed his life.

Just as the letter now in Jeff's hands would change his life no matter what Grabowski had decided. Jeff had spent huge professional capital on this project, and his reputation at the firm was riding on seeing it through. It was the largest job he'd ever taken on and headed up alone. If Grabowski turned it down, cleaning up the wreckage of defeat would take months. Jeff would draw a Monopoly Chance card: “Do not collect the raise you had your heart set on. Give up thoughts of passing go.”

But then, if Grabowski approved Jeff's proposal . . .

At his desk, he studied the envelope on which his future depended—his salary, his status at the firm, and his professional reputation. Jeff was desperate to open the letter, but, if he were honest, he was also scared.

Hardly breathing, he worked his index finger between the envelope's body and its flap. He pulled out the letter, a single page, like the University of Washington's, and quickly skimmed the words. When he finished, he set his glasses on his desk and pressed his fingertips on his eyelids with relief. The sadistic bastard had not been quite so sadistic after all. Cedar Place would be built. With luck, Jeff's design might win an award from Seattle's chapter of the American Institute of Architects, as Brian Cooper hoped.

Jeff might have whooped and run to tell his colleagues the good news, but he only stared at the letter. In the past, he'd have taken off the rest of the day and hurried to tell Anna. Now he couldn't, not just because she would wither at the sight of him, but also because his victory meant her defeat. She would be devastated, and for that he was truly sorry. In a finger snap, Grabowski's letter had dissolved his anger at her.

Maybe he could call her and try to mend their frayed connection. Somehow he could find a way to make peace. He could sit her down and explain how much he'd wanted the project to mean to her, how hard he'd worked for a win-win conclusion. If only Anna had listened to reason, everything would have been different.

 

“Mrs. Blackmore, I have good news. We got the permits.” Jeff gripped the phone.

Only she could growl with glee. “We beat those people! I thought I'd have to pay lawyers hundreds of thousands to fight them. I'd never have given up.”

“You don't have to fight anymore. It's over. We can move forward.” Jeff heard a yoga video playing in the background.

“What's the next step?” she asked.

“I pick up the permits and talk with the planners. Then we tear down the house.”

“Fantastic!” Mrs. Blackmore sounded breathless, as if her feet were dangling over her head in yoga's scorpion position. “How soon can we start?”

Jeff thought for a second. “I'd say in about three weeks if your contractor can line up his demolition team that soon.”

“I'll light a fire under him. Can we pick an exact day to begin?”

Jeff flipped through his calendar. “Three weeks is April seventh. How does that sound?”

“Excellent. We've waited long enough.”

“What about your tenants?” Jeff asked.

“Don't worry about them. I'll send them an eviction letter tomorrow. I'll tell them to move out by the seventh or we'll knock down the house around them.” Mrs. Blackmore's laugh rang with the resonance of tin.

Her laugh was another sheep of grievance Jeff could count at night. One, Mrs. Blackmore's cackle. Two, Grabowski's sadistic
har-har-har
. Three, Anna's disappointment. Four, Jeff's inability to protect her from it.