The Gift Bag Chronicles (6 page)

“Thank you, Dr. King, for those inspiring words,” I say, smiling up at Charles as I slowly untangle my legs.

“Honey, are you up?”

I have no idea how much time has passed or even what time it is.

“Honey, are you awake?”

I fish my arm out from under the covers and attempt to focus on my watch. 5:30. That would be
P.M.
judging by all the shadows falling in the room.

“Honey?”

“Who’s at the door?” Charles says sleepily, rolling away from me and reaching for his BlackBerry on the bedside table.

“Alex?” The door cracks open.

Oh,
shit
.

“Mom! Mom, we’re up. I mean, I’m up. I’m up. I just dozed off, but I’m getting up. I’ll be right down. Can you just wait—”

The door flies open, and that twenty-years-out-the-window thing happens again.

“Oh,” Helen says. “I didn’t realize you were entertaining.”

“So, you really like living out there in Cal-i-forn-I-e?” he says, pronouncing it like in the theme song
of The Beverly Hillbillies
.

You mean like “swimming pools, movie stars, and movin’ to Beverlee”?
No, I can’t say that. Not to Mr. McIlleney, who’s on his second martini and wearing red corduroy pants with little embroidered blue whales on them. Besides, he’s no different from 99.9 percent of the people Helen’s gathered in the living room and on
the sunporch for this cocktail party. California’s been a member of the union since 1850, and why I know this I can’t even say, except the entire population of Bryn Mawr, or at least this cross-section of it, seems to act like it’s the joke tie hanging around the neck of the body politic.

“Oh gosh, yes,” I say, smiling into his bleary eyes. “I mean, I’ve been out there for what, five years now, and after all those Philadelphia winters, well, you can really get used to L.A.” I sound like I’m reciting the Chamber of Commerce handbook. Circa 1950. But then, I’ve had a martini or two myself.

“Oh, well, sure the weather’s good,” Mr. McIlleney says. “But don’t you find —”

“Of course, they don’t broadcast the Eagles games often enough, so yes, there’s definitely a drawback or two.”

Mr. McIlleney blinks a couple of times. Like he’s trying to focus. Oh, got it. Sports. “Oh, well, yeah, and what a tragedy that was last year when their offense was so explosive,” he says, shaking his head, happy to be back on terra firma.

“Yeah, Terrell Owens?” I say, arching my eyebrows. “Amazing.”

“Did you see that Atlanta game?” he says, clapping a hand to my shoulder. “Of course you didn’t. Well, let me tell you, that was a game to see.”

God, I’m getting good at this. Cutting them off before they get to whatever fill-in-the-blank objection and/or question they have about my having bolted the East Coast for Los Angeles. All of which are variations on (1) what’s the matter with Hollywood these days, but then that’s what you’d expect from a bunch of sex-crazed liberals, and (2) do I know any movie stars?
Real
movie stars. But then I’ve been doing this for the past two hours. I’ve had a chance to hone my technique.

“Roger, now don’t go pestering Alexandra about sports teams. She’s got better things to do than listen to you go on about the Eagles.”

I turn. Mrs. McIlleney, looking like a carbon copy of Helen in her version of the Mary Tyler Moore outfit from her
Dick Van Dyke Show
days — slim, pegged trousers, gold bracelet, flats, and perfect hairdo.

“Hey, Mrs. McIlleney,” I say, reaching out to give her a hug.

“Mary, please,” she says, sliding her arm around my shoulder. “So good to have you back home again. I know your mom is thrilled, even if you’re only here for a few days.”

“Well, I’m embarrassed at how long it’s been. I mean, seeing you all I realize … Well, anyway, it’s just great to be home.”

They both beam at me. “And your boyfriend?” she says, raising her eyebrows at me like I’ve just won the lottery. “I was just talking to him in the kitchen, and what a lovely young man. And so bright. I understand you both work at the same firm.”

“Yes, he is very—” I start.

“Yeah, but is he an Eagles fan?” Mr. McIlleney says, clapping me on the shoulder again.

“Oh, Roger.”

“No, but ask him about the Yankees and you’re good for an hour,” I say, realizing I’m quickly running out of sports talk. That my knowledge of the Yankees tops out at “Steinbrenner bad, Joe Torre good.” Even if I spent almost ten years in Manhattan after I got out of Brown, five years in L.A. on the Hollywood publicity treadmill and I can no longer recite the pinstripes’ lineup. I can name all the last five covers of
Vanity Fair, Vogue, InStyle
, and
Entertainment Weekly
, and list the release dates for all the studio films between now and Christmas, but I can’t name a single Yankees player.

“Hey, there you are. I wondered where you’d gone.”

I turn as Charles slides in next to me and plants a kiss on my cheek. “Hey,” I say, flashing him a huge smile. He looks even more fetching than I remember him at the start of this evening in his blue button-down shirt, navy blazer, and his green eyes with the crinkles around them, especially when he laughs. Or maybe
that has more to do with all the martinis and the fact that Mrs. McIlleney is smiling at him very, very intently. I’d been so dreading this party, and now here I am, belle of the ball and with Prince Charming on my arm to boot. “Charles, Mrs. McIlleney — I mean
Mary
— was just saying how much she enjoyed meeting you,” I say, grabbing his arm.

“Yes, I had the pleasure a few minutes ago,” he says, thrusting out his hand to Roger. “Excuse me, I don’t think we’ve actually met. You must be Mary’s husband. Alex’s told me a lot about you.”

“Roger, please,” he says, grasping his hand. “Alex was just telling me you’re a big Yankees fan.”

Charles doesn’t even shoot me a look. Which one might expect, given his interest in sports is even less deep than mine and pretty much tops out at alumni tailgating parties at Yale home games. “Only if they’re winning, and only if we’re not talking about Steinbrenner,” he says. “But hey, after last season’s massacre by the Red Sox, I’d rather be an Eagles fan. Talk about a season. Wasn’t that Atlanta game something?”

It’s like he’s speaking in tongues. Or maybe all publicists are blessed with silver tongues and souls of brass. Or is it balls of brass?

“Oh, you boys and your sports,” Mrs. McIlleney says, shaking her head and shooting me that commiserating women-who-love-men-who-love-sports look.

“Well, what are you going to do?” I say, smiling at her — at them —so hard my face hurts. Or it would hurt if I could feel it. But two hours of cocktails with the world’s smoothest boyfriend, at least when it comes to meeting my parents and their friends — well, a girl could die happy. Or at least put all her worries and frets about whatever it was I was worrying and fretting about on ice. On ice and with another splash of vodka, thank you very much. It’s been so long since I’ve been to a party where I wasn’t working, I’ve forgotten you can actually enjoy yourself. Eat. Drink. Talk to people without one eye on the room and the other on your watch.

Mr. McIlleney says something more. About the Eagles, I think. Or maybe he’s talking to Charles about bird-watching now. Hard to tell because another hand claps to my shoulder, accompanied by another version of “Oh my gosh, is that little Alex?” I turn. The Harrisons, or maybe the Schmidts, in matching crew-neck sweaters, beaming at me over their wineglasses.

“Oh, I was hoping to see both of you here,” I say, leaning in for another round of hugs.

I am spun off, pulled away from Charles and his new best friends, the McIlleneys, by the Harrisons — and it was the Harrisons — who are succeeded, some minutes later, by the Atwaters. After that come the Schmidts and more couples whose names I don’t recall or perhaps I never knew, given that it’s been, yes, much too long since I’ve been home and obviously Helen and Jack have made new friends whom I’ve never encountered until now.

It goes on like this for another hour or so, getting passed from couple to couple until I feel like I’m in one of those elaborately choreographed dance sequences in a
Masterpiece Theatre
episode or a Merchant-Ivory movie. I’m waltzed around by various partners, up and down Helen’s prized Oriental, the votive candles blazing away on the mantel, Jack’s Cy Coleman on the stereo. “Well, it was great meeting you,” I say, prying myself out of my latest conversational cluster — Chartman I think their name was, moved in down the street a year or so ago — and turn for the relative refuge of the kitchen. A seventh-inning stretch, to get some water or see if Helen and Maria need any help, or God forbid, run into my real date, who seems to have disappeared into the crowd.

I’m just heading down the hall, wondering if Charles is out back giving golf tips to Jack and his buddies, when Amy comes around the corner, carrying a platter of stuffed mushrooms.

“Hey, nice party,” I say.

“Yeah
. I mean, I don’t know what you were so worked up about,” she says, shoving the platter at me and turning to the hall
mirror to reclip her hair. “Mom always does a nice cocktail hour. So yes, the party’s great, and by the way, everyone totally loves Charles.”

“Yeah, they do, don’t they?” I say, smiling. Even Amy can’t irritate me now.

She turns back and eyes me over the mushrooms, which are giving off a tidal wave of garlic. “So how long have you guys been together now? Three years?”

“Yeah, about that. Why?” I say, feeling my eyes start to water from the garlic.

“No reason,” she says with a shrug. “I was just remembering that Barkley and I were engaged after we’d been going out for a year.”

Oh, here we are. The so-are-you-guys-going-to-get-married third degree, which I knew, just knew, someone was going to give me before the weekend was over.

“Really, I hadn’t remembered that,” I say, trying to wipe my eyes while still holding the tray. “Well, it’s different with us. Charles and I both really love our jobs, and so it’s complicated by …” I let my voice trail off. Over Amy’s shoulder I catch sight of Charles at the center of a knot of people, all of whom are looking at him like he’s running for office and they can’t wait to hand him their vote.

For a second, it hits me that he’s working the room. That he’s working Helen’s cocktail party like he works every event, when he turns and catches my eye. We stand there, staring at each other through the crowd for a minute, when suddenly he cocks his head and, just for an instant, crosses his eyes. I burst out laughing, partly from surprise but mostly from relief. It’s the first time I’ve seen Charles be, well, be himself again. The guy I fell for three years ago in L.A., during one of all our agency meetings in the midst of our takeover by BIG-PR, when it seemed like he and I were the only people in the room, in the world, with a sense of humor. Who didn’t take it all so seriously. Who knew the difference
between their lives and their jobs. And knew which mattered more. I’d almost forgotten about that guy. Until now.

“What’s so funny?” Amy says.

I turn to her. “Sorry, what?”

“What are you laughing at? You were saying it’s complicated.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, well, it
is
complicated. Or it was,” I say, shoving the platter of mushrooms back into her hands. “Or actually, it’s not. We’re working it out.”

“Girls, what are you doing just standing here?” Helen sails by, bracelets rattling, barely pausing. “Amy, you’re supposed to be taking those mushrooms out to everyone, and then I think Barkley could use some help with Bevan, and Alex, do you want to help me get the gift bags out? I think people are going to start to leave soon.”

“Absolutely, Mom,” I say.

Amy sighs and calls after her. “Where did you see them? I left them in the den watching the Phillies game.”

“That’s where I saw them,” Helen says over her shoulder as she pushes through the kitchen door.

I turn to follow her when I hear Amy hiss in my ear. “Well, all I’m saying is I wouldn’t wait too long. Charles is great, and you’re an idiot if you don’t see that. And see that others see it too.”