Interstitial #5
It’s past lunchtime now, and Natalie is getting hungry. She will offer to take Kara and Scarlett to Popovers, which Scarlett
loves, and Natalie will let her pick out anything she wants from the baked-goods case, and she won’t even check with anyone
at home to see if they want anything because this is Scarlett’s special day.
Okay, fine. She’ll let Kara pick out something from the bakery case too.
She is definitely the Favorite Daughter now.
Family is too much! This is what Jordan is thinking as she power walks the beach on Thursday afternoon.
The expectations, the history, the nostalgia, the longing, the failing.
How are you supposed to keep your balance with all of these living creatures, these blood relations, pulling at you?
How are you expected to remain sane, remain calm, continue on the straight path in your own orbit that you have set out for yourself?
She must be nicer to Kara to keep her father happy.
She must keep a better eye on Mae, who’s been drowning while nobody noticed.
She must continue to grieve the loss of her mother without grieving too much or too little, and that’s a scale she’s incapable of balancing.
For Natalie—for Natalie, what? Does Jordan need to be more understanding of Natalie’s perplexing choices?
Or more strident in her beliefs to see if she can bring Natalie around to Jordan’s way of thinking?
She must be a good sister, a good aunt, a good daughter.
She must finish clearing out the garage storeroom because that will put her father’s mind at ease, and she owes him that.
And. She must figure out what to do with the other part of her life, her work life. She must decide what to do about Bernadette
and Samantha Braddock. On one side of the scale, the possibility of making partner, with its attendant respect and title change
and, yes, money. The culmination of her hard work. Her name on the company shingle! (They work in Manhattan; there’s no shingle.
But having her name on the sign near the elevator counts too.) On the other side, her integrity and . . . what else? Just
her integrity, really. How much does her integrity weigh—is it enough to tip the scale?
She wants to talk about this with someone, someone who will really listen, someone who will tell her what to do. She’d told
Natalie the outlines of it the night before, but then Mae had come in and they’d never finished. Now Natalie is reading with
Scarlett and Evangeline while Caspian naps, and Jordan doesn’t want to pull her away. Mae has gone who knows where. Anyway,
Jordan still thinks (will always think) of Mae as the baby and herself as the wise elder sister. You can’t ask a baby for
advice, especially if that baby has recently lost all of her money in a QR code scam.
Her father? They’ve already had one heart-to-heart today. Two might be pushing it. Kara?
No. Definitely not. She’ll offer an olive branch to Kara, but she’s not ready to lay bare her heart and soul to her.
She pulls up the contact info for Samantha Braddock from the Times. It would just take one call, one declarative sentence. The story would either die there, or, if it is published, Jordan’s
quote would be enough to throw the thesis out of balance.
My boss has never treated me with anything but the utmost respect. We have a perfect working relationship.
She pictures the floating staircase in Sagaponack, the in-home movie theater, Bernadette’s hand, her scornful face.
Why don’t you loosen up, Jordan? Have a little fun.
My boss has never treated me . . .
If I were you I’d think carefully about what choice you make here, Jordan. I’m about to make some big decisions.
There’s one person left. She looks back at her texts from Monday—only Monday? not ten years ago, as it feels?—and finds Simone’s
contact info.
Hey, she texts. Thanks so much for the ride home last night. Have time to grab a drink? Her fingers hesitate over the phone’s screen, but not for long. She hits send.
Immediately the reply comes, arriving with a zing. Yes! Upstairs at The Carriage House.
Okay, thinks Jordan. This is happening. When?
Now.
Whoa. Jordan has forgotten about this quality of Simone’s. It’s not impulsiveness, exactly—it’s more of a lack of hesitation.
A gung-ho-ness, if you will. And she will. She gives Simone’s text a thumbs-up.
“Where are you going?” Natalie asks from the kitchen when Jordan zips in for her sunglasses.
“Out,” says Jordan. She makes a beeline for The Carriage House.
It’s just a short walk from their home—the only sit-down restaurant in walking distance.
The Shipman family used to eat there once a summer, as a special-occasion meal, and they’ve watched it go through iterations.
At one time you might take your relatives there for cracker-crumb-covered New England cod, and now it’s a proper destination restaurant, with oysters, a wine list to die for, and creative, upscale entrées.
Downstairs, the restaurant is giving coastal grandma, with white walls, simple dark brown tables, a gorgeous stone fireplace.
Upstairs, where the bar is, there are grays and browns and more tables, plus a bar that’s big enough to feel welcoming but small enough to feel intimate.
A picture window looks across the street to the sandy beach and the ocean beyond.
And at the bar, in a white sundress that shows her tanned shoulders, laughing at something the bartender is saying, is Simone.
Jordan slides into the seat next to her.
“Hey!” says Simone, with real delight. She squeezes Jordan’s hand. “I’m so happy you texted.”
“Hey,” says Jordan. “Look at you, all in white.”
“I’m the Ghost of Summers Past.” Simone laughs and gestures toward the bartender. “This is Hector,” she tells Jordan. “He’s
a magician.”
“Like an actual magician, or really good at making cocktails?”
Simone giggles. “I’m going to have the Never Have I Ever or the I Wish There Was More Communication.” Jordan stares at her:
Is Simone speaking in code or are these actual cocktails? Simone slides her the menu. They are actual cocktails. Jordan considers
ordering the To Be Frank, because that seems most fitting, but she doesn’t like rum, so she orders the We Are All Busy Mate,
which also feels somewhat appropriate and has the advantage of gin.
It’s quiet in the bar in the late afternoon; only a couple of the tables are occupied, and one other bar seat.
Hector gets to work on the drinks, and Simone tells Hector, so casually, “Jordan and I used to date. We’re exes!
” Maybe this is what they’re going to do: they’re going to talk to Hector instead of to each other. Jordan can play that game too.
Hector glances up briefly from his magic bartending and says, “Cool.”
“From a really long time ago,” says Jordan to Hector. She thinks of Audrey as her real ex—Audrey is the one she almost built
a life with. Does a pre-college summer love count officially as an ex? Maybe, if it was your first! And Simone was Jordan’s
first.
“In fact,” Simone goes on, “Jordan broke my heart. We saw each other once during college, and then never again.”
Jordan whips her head to the side so she’s looking at Simone. “Uh,” says Jordan. “Sorry, what? I’m pretty sure it was the
other way around. I’m pretty sure you broke my heart.” Then she remembers they’re talking through Hector so she tells him,
“Simone came to visit me at college and we went to a party and the next thing I knew she was making out with a guy in an Obama
T-shirt.”
Simone shrugs and says, “It was just a kiss.” Jordan snorts. She feels the old ire rise up, the sense of betrayal, and she’s
about to say—
But then Hector is placing their drinks in front of them and saying, “Enjoy, ladies!” and the drinks are so beautiful, like
works of art, indeed like magic, that Jordan makes the executive decision to let the past be the past.
“Bygones,” says Simone, lifting her glass, as if she read Jordan’s mind.
“Bygones,” agrees Jordan. They clink. They each take a sip. Hector really is a magician; the blackberry-sage preserve and
the gin are perfect together. Jordan takes another sip and says, “I’m looking for advice from a friend.”
“I can be a friend,” says Simone. She smiles at Jordan, and she’s not this Simone, today’s Simone, with the yoga-and-smoothie business and the ex in Santa Cruz, but the Simone Jordan remembers, who excelled at beer pong and who once took Jordan’s hand at a party at a house on the beach and said, “She’s with me. ” And just like that, Jordan was.
Sometimes the past is like that. Eighteen years can be forever and it can also be no time at all.
Jordan starts talking, and she doesn’t stop until she’s finished with the whole story. She tells Simone about the party in
Sagaponack, and about Bernadette in the in-home movie theater, and about her phone call the other day. About the chance to
be partner, and the necessity of selling her soul to do it.
“Wow,” says Simone, when Jordan stops to take a breath, a sip, another breath. “Geez, Jordan.”
“So what do I do?”
Simone taps her fingers on the side of her cocktail glass and says, “The first thing you need to do is, you need to say it
out loud. What you’re describing is one hundred percent harassment.”
“I wasn’t sure—”
“One hundred percent, Jordan. You have to say, ‘My boss sexually harassed me.’ ”
“Okay.” She’ll say it later, maybe?
“Say it, Jordan. Say it now.”
Jordan takes a deep breath. “My boss sexually harassed me.”
“Good job. Perfect. Now you need to decide if you want to continue to work for someone who has sexually harassed you, and
maybe not just you.”
“I don’t.” The answer slides right out of Jordan, as though it’s been available the whole time. She’s been agonizing all week,
and the answer was right there!
“There you have it,” says Simone. “There’s your answer.”
Jordan chews her lip. “It’s not that simple.”