The Spinster Sisters (28 page)

Anger isn’t necessarily a sign of weakness. But screaming obscenities
and name-calling is! Anger can be a useful emotion. It can help us find
strength to remove ourselves from unhealthy situations. It can drive us
to succeed. It can spur us to honesty with each other. When we talk
about anger management, we don’t simply mean not to hit people. We
mean learning how to tap into that emotion and express it in ways that
help you and those around you. To use it to its best advantage. As
women, we are told in subtle, insidious ways that it is basically unattractive
to have any emotion that manifests itself in an obvious way.
We’re told it isn’t ladylike to get angry. Which poses the question,
what’s so great about being ladylike anyway?

—From an article for
Cosmopolitan
magazine about expressing emotion, April 2004, Jill and Jodi Spingold

 
 
 
 
“You off to the airport?” I ask Jill across our office.

“In about fifteen minutes,” she says, still focused on her computer. “I’m starting to wonder if we’ve done this book in the wrong format.” She’s looking puzzled at the draft of
Facing Down Forty
, which is due to our editor next week. She’s cleaning up the last two chapters, which I cranked out over the weekend, to get it ready for the one-two punch of the aunts’ edits.

“What do you mean, wrong format?” Jill always does this. She comes up with the single most brilliant idea at the single least convenient time.

“Well, right now it’s sort of haphazard. What if we organized the chapters into sections, like Romance, Career, Travel, Adventure, Finances, Friendships, Family, Personal Growth. I mean, all of the chapters seem to fall into one of those categories pretty neatly. It would help lump all the advice pertaining to them in one section, and we would just have to write a brief introduction to each section. What do you think?”

“I fucking hate you.”

“It’s not that bad an idea, Jodi, yeesh.”

“No. I fucking hate you because you’re right, and now I have to write eight fucking section headers while you gallivant off to O’Hare to fetch your clenched mother-in-law-to-be.”

Jill laughs. “So, it’s good, right? We should do it that way?”

“Yes, you insane bitch. Just once in our lives could you
please
have the genius idea at the beginning of a project instead of ten minutes before it’s due? Good grief, you’ve been doing this to me our whole lives!” This is true. Every science fair entry, history fair paper, and art project, Jill always came up with the idea that took it to the next level at the eleventh hour. I would never admit to her that those are some of my favorite memories, those long all-nighters making the suddenly necessary changes. Never once was it an option not to take her idea and implement it. Something about knowing it could have been great and letting laziness prevent the improving just isn’t in the Spingold code. But Jill was a hands-on adviser, and if she gave you a great idea, you knew she’d be helping you execute till the final minutes, Aunt Shirley coming around with sandwiches the minute you felt your energy wane, and Aunt Ruth sweeping by for five minutes of some secret Thai acupressure to make your cramping neck unclench.

“Sorry. I could do the section headers, and you could go to the airport . . .”

“No, thank you. I have to get this done and then go home to help the aunts with the shower prep.” Jill’s bridal shower is tomorrow, hence the imminent arrival of not only her future mother-in-law, Grace, but Hunter’s paternal grandmother, Grammy Ella; Grace’s sister, Aunt Bunny; and her daughter, Cousin Twish. Not Trish. Twish. I’m not exactly envious.

“It’s not going to be a nightmare, right?” she asks, imploring me with her eyes to assure her.

“Hey. You have us, your friends, there are going to be forty women there celebrating you and giving you awesome presents. The fact that Hunter’s family is likely to maintain a stoic distance from any fun should be only a blip on your shower joy.”

“They aren’t going to embarrass me, are they?”

“Oh, yeah. Be prepared. There are a couple of great games planned, a video presentation, and some really revealing toasts and roasts.” Actually this is a lie. No games, no roasts, just elegant and perfect, and I think exactly what she would have planned for herself.

Jill sighs deeply. “Oh well, it’s just an afternoon. And at least there will be booze. I’m shooting you an e-mail with my notes on these section headers. We can work on whatever you don’t finish on Sunday afternoon after everyone is gone.” She clicks away at her keyboard for a few more seconds, then shuts it down and gets up. “I’m going to head out. I’m supposed to just hang out with them at the hotel and get them settled, and then Hunter is meeting us for dinner. Are you sure you can’t come?”

“No can do. Much prep on the first floor, and then Connor is coming over for a late supper.”

“Really? That is the third time in five days. A new record.”

“I know. I actually had to blow off Abbot to accept the offer. Thank God your shower made for a perfect excuse to back out.”

Jill smiles a knowing smile. “Maybe you should blow Abbot off permanently. Since Connor has been so attentive of late, I have to assume we are reconsidering the idea of devoting ourselves to just one man.”

“We are waiting for him to broach the subject, and if he does, we are prepared to accept him.”

Jill shakes her head. “While you’re doing the section header on romance, Sis, reread your brilliant prose on ensuring one’s romantic future, would’ja?” She crosses the room and opens the door. “Have a great night. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Love to the Gentiles!” I call after her, and open her e-mail to get down to work.

 
“Honey, we’re fine.” Aunt Shirley is trying to shoo me out of her kitchen. “Go get ready for your date.”

“He’s not due for another hour. Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Of course not, kiddo,” Ruth says, gliding past with an armload of gift bags. “We just want you to know that whenever you need to go, you should go.”

We’ve been prepping all evening. Well, prepping and drinking. The sparkling pink Prosecco Aunt Ruth found for tomorrow was much in need of testing. It will be gorgeous on its own or with the blood orange juice for a decadent pink mimosa. We’ll be in a private room at the Peninsula, so most of the food is taken care of there. But Aunt Shirley has made a ridiculous number of cupcakes, Jill’s favorite, dark chocolate with vanilla buttercream icing, sprinkled with silver and lavender dragées. These aren’t the dessert but part of the gift bags. We found a company that makes a contraption called a Cup-a-Cake, a plastic container specifically designed to hold a single cupcake in perfect portable stillness so as not to mush the frosting. Each guest is receiving a single cupcake in one of these cute containers, which we’ve personalized by having them imprinted with each woman’s name. Also in the gift bags, a set of photo coasters with pictures of Jill as a kid, a small foil container of toffee, a little pot of red currant-scented Parfumeria lip balm, and a little makeup purse in brown corduroy with a pale blue ribbon detail that we designed at 1154 Lill Studio custom bags.

“You seem to be doing better these days with the whole Jill-getting-married issue, if I’m not mistaken?” Aunt Ruth asks, taking the last load of gift bags out to the living room.

I stick a finger into the bowl of icing, as Aunt Shirley tries to smack me away. “It isn’t about Jill getting married; it’s about what may happen to the business as a result of her being married. It’s about what happens to our credibility with our primary audience and how much fodder it gives our ever-growing list of detractors.”

“Things getting any better on that front?” Aunt Ruth asks.

“Not really. There have been a few small local pieces, three nationals, some Internet snarking. The volume of ick mail has neither increased nor decreased. Nothing has gotten more violent or threatening, nor less. Security is on high alert, we doubled the number of cameras in the office, and the local police have been wonderful at managing the picket crowd. And I’m trying to just not think about it and enjoy Jill’s happiness. Jill is handling the PR stuff pretty well. We’re just moving forward.”

“But your concerns are still very deep for the life of the business, not to mention your personal relationship with Jill,” Aunt Shirley says. “You should talk to her about your fears for your connection.”

“I have to put my own neuroses aside right now and let Jill focus on being a happy bride and on keeping the business moving forward. The rest will wait.” I can’t talk to Jill about the damage it might do to us; I can’t even get my own head around it right now.

“If you think that’s best, dear,” Aunt Shirley says.

“Don’t listen to the guilt, darling; I’ve thought about it, and I agree with you. Just let Jill get married, and deal with your concerns if they still remain afterward.” Ruth pours the last of the Prosecco deftly into our glasses, and Shirley finally sits down with us at the table. We clink and drink.

“Well, Ruthie, I still say they should talk it out sooner rather than later, but you’ll do what you think best. Now truly, scoot, go get ready for your date!”

I drain the last sparkling sip and stand up. “All right, I will. Good night, ladies. I’ll come down at eleven to head over to the Peninsula.” I kiss them both on the cheek and go to primp for the evening.

 
 
I nestle into Connor’s chest, feeling his arm snake around me, his hand making its lazy way from shoulder to hip and back again. For the first time, I feel irresistible with him. We’ve just made love for the first time, and the waiting was well worth it. In less than ninety minutes Connor has erased all my doubts about his physical attraction to me.

“Mmmm.” He sighs. “Nice skin.”

I lift my head and kiss his skin, slightly moist and salty from our exertions, and replace my head over the spot as if to seal the kiss between us. “Thanks. I’ve got miles of the stuff.”

He chuckles, low and deep. “And I’m fond of every square inch.” He kisses the top of my head.

“Really? Every inch?” I tilt my head up to his and receive a kiss on my lips for my effort.

“Every. Single. Inch.” Connor rolls over and begins to kiss me and stroke my body. I’m tingly everywhere.

“Mr. Duncan! You can’t possibly . . . ummm . . . oh my.” But apparently Mr. Duncan could, possibly, making me feel frankly wicked and beyond sexy.

After such a delightfully unexpected second act, we couldn’t be blamed for feeling completely starved, in spite of having had something of a Middle Eastern feast from Reza’s a mere three hours ago. Confirmed by the mutual gut rumblings that have just erupted.

“I think we’re going to need sustenance,” Connor says. “May I suggest pancakes and bacon somewhere nearby before I head home?”

“You’re not staying over?”

“Um, let’s see . . . you’re going to settle in all curled up next to me and then begin a nightlong twitchtravaganza in anticipation of tomorrow’s festivities. Then you’re going to get out of bed at some ungodly hour to begin a festival of primping and prepping, which I prefer remain a mystery.” Connor reaches over and with one finger under my chin, closes my mouth, which is apparently gaping open. “C’mon. Get up, throw on some clothes, and we’ll go have a midnight breakfast to replace the one we won’t have tomorrow.” Connor gets up and heads for my bathroom. I stretch and pull on a pair of jeans and an old sweater.

I’m very nervous that Connor’s decision to not spend the night is somehow reflective of his feelings for me. Or lack thereof. On the other hand, I’m somehow tickled by the fact that he knows me well enough to know that I’m unlikely to have a restful evening’s sleep. And I do kind of like that he’s confident enough to simply go home, as opposed to staying because it seems the thing to do. And I like that he and I have been spending so much time together of late. It was something of a revelation when he called to suggest a late dinner tonight that my first instinct was to cancel my plans with Abbot. Something about it felt good and right. I’m feeling like I am on the verge of something, and when Connor looked at me and said he really wanted us to make love, I didn’t hesitate to say yes to him. I think about what Jill was saying earlier. I think about making personal decisions for professional reasons. And I’m beginning to think maybe it is time for a paradigm shift.

“All yours,” Connor says, coming back into the bedroom and breaking me out of my reverie.

I smile and touch his cheek. “Be right back.” I head into the bathroom to tidy up so that I can go have pancakes with my guy.

 
“Thank you all so much for everything, truly. I’m just so touched!” Jill smiles at the assembled crowd, having managed to open all forty-two of her shower gifts with grace and dignity and transparent gratitude. And it was quite a haul, huge generosity from everyone, beautiful housewares and expensive kitchen appliances. Even Hunter’s family had a good time and only seemed shocked by a couple of the lingerie gifts.