Chapter 11 Twenty-One Days till Christmas
11.
Twenty-one days till Christmas
The next day, Birdie tucked herself into the family room’s squishy sectional in a comfortable cow-print onesie, armed with a hot toddy and half a chocolate yule log, ready to spend the afternoon with The Great British Baking Show: Holidays. But she couldn’t sink into the mindless enjoyment of festive treats baked by quirky Brits.
She wanted to apologize to Jecka Jacob but didn’t know the right way how.
Birdie muted the TV and called out to Jin-soo, who was preparing Babs’s daily green tea smoothie in the kitchen, “How do you issue an apology? Like, if my mom said something really offensive?”
Jin-soo replied in their slightly deadpan voice, “Like the time she tweeted ‘ Why is West Virginia so depressing ?’?”
“Ouch.” Birdie forked some chocolate log into her mouth. “Exactly.”
“Apologize. But not an I’m-sorry-you-feel-this-way non-apology,” Jin-soo said, adding a spoonful of green powder into the blender. “An actual apology takes full accountability.”
Birdie nodded. Full accountability. Right. “What were you doing before this?” Birdie was curious. “Stuff on the assistant side? Or more in the health world?”
Jin-soo looked directly at Birdie, unblinking. “I was a children’s birthday party clown.” They switched on the blender.
Birdie couldn’t tell if Jin-soo was kidding. Did clowning pay well? Birdie still had no idea how she was going to come up with $11,000 to pay off her credit cards.
On the silent television, an ambitious gingerbread house was spectacularly collapsing. What an apt metaphor for her so-called life. Her hope of performing a new show by the end of the year was definitely not going to happen at this point, but she wanted to make some progress. But how? All Birdie could imagine was a blank page, taunting her. A paralyzing sort of fear twisted into her throat and around her heart. It wasn’t anger or sadness or regret or shame, but an unnamed combination of the four. It all seemed impossible to tackle. So, Birdie had a better idea: take a nap instead.
—
Hours later, Birdie was awoken by her mother’s three Pomeranians yapping excitedly and Rafi calling for her. “Birds! You have a guest!”
Bleary-eyed, she followed the commotion to the foyer, where Huey, Dewey, and Louie were lick-attacking Jecka Jacob.
“Hey, hi!” Birdie waved, instantly wide awake and slightly embarrassed to be caught in her cow-print onesie. “How udderly great to see you again.”
The dogs trotted off. Jecka circled her fingertip at the house in general. “This wasn’t what I was expecting.”
No doubt she was imagining something closer to Birdie’s Brooklyn hovel, not a manse full of familial erotica. “This is my mom’s place. Home for the holidays.”
Jecka nodded at Babs’s enormous seminude portrait. “Your mom really likes Babs Belvedere.”
“My mom is Babs Belvedere.”
“Oh.” Jecka’s entire face lifted—she found the association impressive, and, thankfully, she didn’t already know. “Okay.” Jecka flicked Birdie another glance, this one softer, curious, perhaps joining the dots between Birdie’s face and her mother’s.
In turn, Birdie drank in Jecka. She seemed like the sort of person who subscribed to The New Yorker, who knew how to make an old-fashioned, who was good at standing up for herself. Her boyfriend jeans and oversized sweater looked both casual and classy. The bone structure, the septum ring, the aura of being an actual artist—it was all giving off-duty Zo? Kravitz. Clearly, Jecka Jacob was so far out of Birdie’s league, she was playing a different sport.
Jecka indicated the wrapped artwork. “Where do you want this?”
The busiest areas of the house were the kitchen and family room. Birdie led Jecka in the opposite direction, to the formal living room. White lounges, antique side tables, stiff settees. A gleaming white Steinway sat in one corner. Above it hung an energetic painting of a jazz quartet, mid-show. “What a fantastic piece,” Jecka said with approval. “I can practically hear the music.”
“Mom’s something of a collector.” Birdie had never noticed the artwork. She gestured to a long white sofa. “You can put yours here.”
Jecka peeled off the brown paper wrapping and propped up the painting.
Black brushstrokes on white. And right in the center, like a Cabernet Rorschach, Birdie’s gash of red wine.
Seeing it brought back a rush of embarrassment and, more powerfully, regret. Birdie looked Jecka square in the eye. “I really am sorry. I take full responsibility for my actions. I’m obviously a ridiculous person”—the cow-print onesie—“but I’m not a mean one. I really was trying to flirt with you, as truly pathetic as that sounds.”
Jecka didn’t move her head, but a tiny smile ran across her lips. She let out a breath. “You didn’t know it was my show.”
“I did not.”
“You thought it was what I wanted to hear.”
Birdie nodded. “I did.”
Jecka considered Birdie as if she were raw material the artist wasn’t sure what to do with. Then she shrugged, softening a little. “Okay. You bought the painting. We’re cool.”
Relief winged through every cell of Birdie’s body. “Thanks dude.” Absolution never tasted so sweet. “Seriously: thank you.”
“Hello.” Babs appeared at the other end of the room. She was dressed in a pink velour tracksuit and was using her cane.
“Hey, Ma.” Birdie felt Jecka stiffen next to her.
Babs glanced at the painting, then back at Jecka. She offered her trademark bright smile. “Are you a friend of my daughter’s?”
“Not exactly,” said Jecka, at the same time Birdie said, “Yes.”
“Jecka’s an artist,” Birdie amended. “With a show in town. I just bought one of her paintings.”
Babs’s penciled-in eyebrows hiked up. “Reeeeally?” She drew the word out, sensing there was more to this story. “Is this the painting you bought?”
Birdie nodded.
“And you made this painting?” Babs asked Jecka.
Jecka nodded, obedient, even nervous. “Yes, Ms. Belvedere.”
“Oh please, call me Babs.” Babs turned her attention to the painting, slipping on the glasses that hung from her neck on a beaded chain. A minute passed as she looked from one angle. Then another. And another. “Well, I love it,” she announced. “Sophisticated but not pretentious, simple but not easy.” Babs Belvedere, instant authority on this painting. She moved closer, leaning in to examine the brushwork. “Earthy but not—” She paused. “Why do I smell red wine?”
Birdie winced. “Because this was a—”
“—collaboration,” Jecka jumped in. “Between Birdie and me.”
Birdie was going to say mistake or accident.
“How much did you pay for your collaboration ?” Babs asked her daughter.
Birdie swallowed hard. “Eleven thousand dollars.”
Babs let out a puff of disbelief. Even at the height of Birdie’s career, that kind of spending was unprecedented. Her mother’s expression settled into grim understanding, with just the faintest look of reprimand directed at her middle child. “I see. Well. I’ve been meaning to buy more art from local artists. I know you’re going to fight me on this Birdie, but I’m going to insist I buy this extraordinary painting from you. When you want it back, you can buy it back off me.”
“What?” Birdie squeaked. “No, you can’t, how dare you.”
“Oh, if you want it for your own collection, I won’t stand in your way.”
If Birdie wasn’t so embarrassingly desperate, she would’ve laughed. “My collection is, um, complete. If you insist, Ma, then you…insist.”
Babs leveled Birdie with a final look of reproach. Not that she needed any help feeling ashamed, Jecka having now witnessed both her financial struggles and being bailed out by her mom. At thirty-three. Sexy.
Babs sidled up to Jecka. “What’s your name again, sweetheart?”
“Jecka,” she replied. “Jecka Jacob.”
Jin-soo appeared so suddenly, everyone startled. “Don’t call women you don’t know sweetheart, ” they said to Babs.
“What should I call them?” Babs asked.
Jin-soo pushed their glasses up their nose. “Use their first name.”
“ Jecka. ” Babs turned back to twinkle at her. “Your work tells me you have a great eye and excellent taste. Maybe you can help me find some new pieces?”
Jecka looked wary. “What do you mean?”
Babs waved a hand, nonchalant. “Get a sense of my taste and then point me in the right direction. If you’re interested, send me your fee and we’ll make a time to chat.”
This was standard Babs behavior: Birdie’s mother was a seeker, a collector of people and things. “It’s a legit offer,” Birdie assured Jecka.
Babs waved goodbye, heading toward the kitchen. “Be fun to have you in the mix, Jecka Jacob!”
“Also,” Jin-soo said, addressing Birdie, “a pot of mulled wine will be ready in a few minutes.”
Birdie gave Jecka a rueful smile. “Yikes.”
Jecka almost smiled back.
—
The sun had already sunk behind the tree line, the cloudless dusk a wintry blue. Birdie hopped from foot to foot, arms wrapped around herself for warmth as Jecka unlocked her car, a shiny black Land Rover she clearly took good care of. The pristine vehicle looked far more at home in front of grand Belvedere Inn than rusty old Ray.
Birdie’s breath puffed white in the crisp air. “Think you’ll take the gig?”
“Not sure.” Jecka held Birdie’s gaze for a beat longer than necessary. As if really trying to see her.
Something passed between them. A flicker of something delicate. Light as a snowflake. It was no more than a flash, but Birdie felt it down to her toes.
Birdie looked away first.
Jecka got in her car, reversing, before pausing and rolling down the window. “If I don’t see you again,” she said, “Merry Christmas, Birdie Belvedere.”
This woman was obviously too cool and together to be dragged into Birdie’s messy life. But deep in Birdie’s dumb heart throbbed a desperate desire to see her again.
“Merry Christmas, Jecka Jacob.” Birdie waved, smiling, a timid swell of hope inside her cresting, then receding, as the car disappeared from view.