6. Marigold
Marigold Pim is in New York City the afternoon after Heather and Dave’s engagement at the Black Pearl. She’d left the island on a boat at dawn, getting to Destin in time for a direct flight to JFK. Now, at three o’clock, she’s been poked, prodded, primped, and prepped, and she’s standing on the set of a photo shoot for a luxury brand of purses.
“MARIGOLD PIM.” Jagger, a costume designer Marigold has known for decades, comes swooping into the cavernous space, wheeling a luggage rack covered by a white sheet. He stops dramatically, one hand on his still-narrow hip, groomed eyebrow arched in disbelief. “You have not aged a day, honey.”
Marigold grins. Jagger has always been over-the-top, and he was one of her favorite people on any photo shoot back when she was a full-time model. She walks over to him, throwing open her arms and embracing him carefully so as not to smudge her meticulous makeup or muss her wavy hair.
“Jagger,” she says, squeezing him for a long moment. “I’ve missed you.”
“Darling, we’re going by Jack now,” Jagger says, stepping back to eye her from head to toe. “Jagger clubbed all night, did too much blow, and knew all the wrong boys.”
Marigold can’t help but laugh; he’s describing the Jagger of thirty years ago, and she can see in one glance that things have changed. For one, he’s not wearing knee-high riding boots over black leggings with a matching vest as he might have in the 90s, and has instead traded all that in for a pair of tailored gabardine pants that hit fashionably above the ankle. He’s also wearing an ivory cashmere turtleneck and a pair of loafers with no socks, and—even more shockingly—a wedding ring.
Jagger/Jack holds up his left hand. “Yep. You heard it here first, darling: I’ve been cuffed.”
“Oh, Jag—“ Marigold catches herself. “Jack. Congratulations! This is so fabulous to see you. You look well.”
“I am well, darling. My husband Bill and I own a very cute place in Brooklyn, and we have a rooftop garden. And a dog.” He leans forward and puts a hand on Marigold’s arm, holding it as he shakes her like he’s breaking some sort of astonishing news. “A dog. Sweetheart, when I knew you, I couldn’t commit to a pair of socks, much less a live animal! Here, let me show you our baby.”
Jagger whips out his phone (there’s no way Marigold will stop thinking of him as Jagger—she just can’t) and scrolls through a series of photos of him with a balding man in a sweater vest, and several of a cute little rescue pup with one permanently cocked ear. “This is Viagra,” he says, showing her the dog.
The studio is prepping for the shoot around them, and lightbulbs flash and pop in the background as Marigold makes a face at Jagger. “You named your dog Viagra?”
“Darling,” Jagger says, leaning in to her conspiratorially, “Viagra saved our marriage—both the pill and the dog!” He hoots, throwing back his head and laughing at his own joke.
“Ready on the set!” the photographer calls out, interrupting them.
“Okay, okay!” Jagger shouts out as he starts wheeling the rack towards the dressing room. “Guess we better move our old, tired asses here,” he says over his shoulder, walking at a fast clip and motioning for Marigold to follow. “Let’s get you into something matronly-but-sexy, my love.”
Marigold, wrapped in a white terrycloth robe over her bra and underwear, stands in the middle of the dressing room as Jagger presents her with a variety of sedate, clean looks. They finally settle on a black turtleneck (“To soften what mother nature thinks is a necessary slackening of our entire fricking head, starting with the neck,” Jagger says with an eye roll), and a slim-fitting pair of black wool pants (“Classy, but still hot enough to snare a man half your age, doll,” Jagger deems as she zips them up). He chooses diamond stud earrings, several gold bangle bracelets, and then examines the nude manicure that the makeup artist has done on Marigold.
“You look like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct,” Jagger says as he steps back to examine her. “Like a vixen.”
“But with underwear,” Marigold adds with a wink.
Jagger howls. “God, that scene confused me so much,” he says, putting a hand to his chest. “For like, half a day, I thought I might be into women. But then I came to my senses. No offense, doll.”
“None taken.”
”How are we looking?” The photographer breezes in and scans Marigold from top to bottom. ”Very chic, Goldie. You”re looking very ”Royal Family at Balmoral,”” he says with an approving nod. ”This all-black look will be perfect with the purses and bags. Good choice.” He is efficient and all business, and after another single nod, he turns and leaves the dressing room.
”Not like the old days, huh?” Jagger asks as they exchange a look, silently thinking of all the debauchery and nonsense that went on in the fashion world back when they both got started.
”God, not at all,” Marigold says. ”Remember that shoot we were doing together--”
”With the Thierry Mugler look and the motorcycle?” Jagger interrupts. He puts a hand over his mouth like he”s still scandalized. ”Oh, lord do I remember that one! You got the phone call.”
Marigold”s smile fades a bit at the memory. ”Yes, the phone call.”
They”d been in the middle of a shoot with a photographer who was renowned for being difficult, and Marigold”s cell phone (a novelty at the time--in 1991 most people didn”t carry them or even have access to mobile phones), had rung and rung with calls from Cobb. When Jagger finally answered it and interrupted Marigold on set, it was to tell her that Cobb had overdosed and was in the hospital. That had been a particularly dark time in Marigold”s life, and in her relationship with Cobb, but over time, they”d worked through his addiction and their own problems, and had come out on this side much better for all of it.
”How is Cobb?” Jagger asks, turning to the rack and sorting through the hanging dresses and skirts.
A warm flush runs through Marigold as she thinks about her husband. ”He”s good,” she says. “He really is.” After some serious heart problems brought on by years of substance abuse, Cobb has been clean and sober and happy, and—importantly—back in the studio making music, which gives him purpose. “We actually timed this trip intentionally so that we could both work.”
“Oh?” Jagger reaches for a hanging steamer and flicks it on so that he can pull a few wrinkles from a linen shift that’s hanging on the rack. “What’s he doing while you’re here shilling luxury goods?”
Marigold picks a few flecks of lint off the arms of her black sweater as she chuckles. “Well, nothing this important. But he’s doing a little show tonight at The Django.”
“The Bar under The Roxy hotel?”
“That’s the one.” Marigold glances at the camera set-up as the photographer calls out for her to find her mark. “I think that’s my cue.”
Her heels click across the painted concrete floors of the giant space as she strolls confidently over to the lights and the camera. Modeling is almost second nature to her at this point in her life, and selling leather purses and bags puts her squarely in the category of “lifestyle model,” a term which means nothing to the rest of the world, but which means that she’s old enough that her days as a high fashion mannequin are mostly behind her. And Marigold doesn’t even mind that—not anymore.
“You look lovely,” the set stylist says, swooping in to tuck Marigold’s hair behind one ear. The woman is roughly her age, and she’s gentle as she straightens and smooths Marigold’s clothing. “I’ve always admired your work.”
“Thank you so much.” Marigold hits her mark under the lights as soft Christmas jazz plays in the studio. This is a much different environment—a much different world—than the one she knew thirty years ago.
The stylist moves in and out of the frame, exchanging one sumptuous purse for another as they discuss which angles the client really wants featured in the ads. Someone makes a joke about doing last-minute holiday shopping right there on the set, and everyone talks about their plans for Christmas in two days. It’s pleasant and easy and Marigold has completely relaxed into the moment when she hears Jagger squeal her name.
“Goldie!” Jagger calls out as he strides across the studio. He’s holding her phone aloft, and she feels a stab of anxiety in her chest. This has echoes of the last time she and Jagger worked together on that set with the motorcycle and the jerk of a photographer; the time when Cobb was in the hospital and she only found out by taking the phone call mid-shoot.
The photographer pauses to look through the digital images that are popping up on his laptop screen.
“You have a message from Cobb!” Jagger says excitedly, approaching the side of the set with her phone screen turned towards her so she can lean over and read it.
Marigold feels an anticipatory chill run through her as she squints at the message that’s displayed on her lock screen. Her heart beats wildly when she sees that it is, in fact, from Cobb:
Wear something pretty tonight,it says. I want you to come on stage with me.
Marigold smiles as her heart starts to beat normally again. Cobb is fine. This isn’t like that other photo shoot, and he’s not in the hospital somewhere, scared and alone. She thanks Jagger and walks back to her mark, turning her face up so that the hot lights hit her just right.
“You ready?” the photographer asks, aiming his lens at her.
Marigold takes a deep breath and turns on the smile that still earns her money as a model. “I’m ready,” she says calmly.
* * *
The Django is a cavernous Parisian-style jazz bar with a rounded, dome-like feel to it. The tables are small, and they’re covered in candles and small flower arrangements of red roses and holly. The bar is draped in white Christmas lights that twinkle as servers in traditional white shirts and black pants move around efficiently. They deliver seasonal martinis and heaping plates laden with juicy burgers, shrimp cocktail, oysters, and leafy green salads.
Marigold is seated right up front near the small stage, and she sips a peppermint martini with red sugar around the rim of the glass. A candy cane floats in the drink, its hook hanging over the side.
”Mind if I sit here?”
Marigold glances up and sees a woman about her age, standing there with both hands on the back of the empty chair. Recognition washes over her.
”Deanna!” Marigold shouts, setting her drink down as she stands up and wraps her old friend in a big hug. Marigold and Deanna were neighbors in the New York of the late 80s and early 90s, sharing a wall in the apartment building. They also shared many, many bottles of wine during the two years they lived next door to one another. ”Oh my god--please! Sit!”
”I got an invite tonight from a gentleman friend, and when I heard it was Cobb playing, I knew I had to come. I had to see if you”d show.” Deanna sits, and the slinky spaghetti strap of her green dress slips off one bronzed shoulder, revealing a smattering of freckles across her skin.
”I”m so happy to see you--it”s been years!” Marigold searches for a server so that she can order a drink for her old friend. ”What have you been up to?”
Deanna, a redhead with wavy hair and a body like Jessica Rabbit, lifts a shoulder casually and lets it fall. ”Little of this, little of that,” she says noncommittally. When they”d been neighbors, Deanna Andersen had been a famous yoga guru to the stars (truly: she was the private yoga teacher to nearly every supermodel, every Grammy-winning artist living in Manhattan, and every actor or actress in town). But Marigold hadn”t heard of her or thought about her in ages.
”I married a man with a lot of money and a lot of problems,” Deanna says as Marigold signals to a waiter to bring another peppermint martini to the table. She sighs deeply before going on. ”I felt like I was in prison, Goldie. He didn”t let me leave the house. I had everything I wanted, but I wasn”t allowed to have friends, a social life, or any interests outside of his interests.”
Marigold is listening intently, her hand resting on the base of her cold martini glass as she watches Deanna”s surgically enhanced face. She looks gorgeous, even after all these years, but in her eyes Marigold can see pain. Regret. Anger. And on her face she can see the distinct signs of waging an uphill battle against time. In the back of her mind, Marigold makes a mental note of this as something to consider for the book she”s writing--she”s really and truly trying to look at every side of the story when it comes to aging as a woman in the 21st century.
”One night he came home,” Deanna says, pausing to smile at the waiter as he sets down her drink, ”and told me that I had just lived my last day.”
”What?” Marigold”s jaw drops. She can”t have heard that right. ”Your last day?”
Deanna purses her lips grimly. ”He said I”d outlived my usefulness, and that I”d grown old and ugly. He didn”t want me anymore.”
Marigold is speechless. She sits there, waiting, her eyes locked on Deanna”s. This conversation has taken a turn that she never could have expected.
”We fought--or rather, I fought for my life, and he ended up bleeding. I called 911, and he was arrested. Now I”m single. People who know him think he”s a wonderful man and are still standing by him, while I”m over here, just the villainous ex-wife who drove him to madness.” She waves a manicured hand in a lazy circle and picks up her martini. She sips. ”Anyhow. I wanted to see you. I always envied your relationship with Cobb, and you have no idea how much hope it gives a girl to see an old friend still madly in love with her man after all these years.”
”Well...” Marigold feels obliged to be honest with Deanna, who has essentially just told Marigold everything. ”We were apart for a bit. Cobb struggled with some drug and health issues, and to be perfectly frank, it”s only been in the past year or two that we”ve really smoothed things out. But we”re happy now. Things are good.”
Deanna is watching her closely. “I follow your Instagram, so I feel like I’ve been in touch with you, Goldie—that’s the magic of social media, isn’t it?”
“You should have commented on something! I would have loved to chat before now, just to hear how you were,” Marigold says. She takes another sip of her martini. “Life goes by way too quickly.”
Deanna nods. “It does. But I’ve loved seeing your posts about aging and womanhood, and I was so happy to see pictures of you and Cobb pop up again on your page. I knew that meant you two were back together, and frankly, I never doubted for a minute that you two were meant to be.”
Marigold swirls the dregs of her peppermint drink around in the bottom of her glass before licking a tiny chunk of the red rock sugar from its rim. “Maybe we should have been in touch over the years; I could have used someone reminding me that Cobb and I were destined to be together. There were a lot of years when I wasn’t sure where life would take me—or him. Or us.” She stops and shakes her head, looking around as the band starts to set up on stage. It’s a small venue and an intimate crowd, and Cobb playing here is his low-key way of letting the world know that he’s ready to perform again—even on a small stage.
Deanna gives her a long, meaningful look before glancing over to a table where a distinguished man in his sixties sits alone. She reaches over and wraps her hand around Marigold’s. “Life takes us where we’re supposed to be.” Deanna lets go of Marigold and stands, picking up her drink. “And tonight, I was supposed to be here to see you. And I was supposed to be with Bernard,” she says, lifting her drink at the man sitting alone; a huge grin spreads across his face as he looks at her admiringly. “He’s been a godsend after my divorce.” Deanna looks for a moment like she might cry. “I never thought I’d find love again, and now here I am.”
Marigold is looking up at her as she stands there. “I’m so happy that you’re good, Dee,” she says, using her old nickname for her friend. “I’ve wondered about you over the years. Send me your number, will you? Just message me on Instagram.”
Deanna smiles at her as they hold one another’s gaze. They have years of wisdom, life experience, and friendship between them, and the pleasure of that knowledge feels warm to Marigold, like she’s drinking a second martini.
“I will, Goldie,” Deanna says. She takes her drink with her and makes her way over to Bernard, who stands and pulls out her chair like an old-fashioned gentleman. Marigold loves this for her old friend.
She’s still thinking about Deanna’s life when Cobb takes the stage and the lights dim slightly. A round of excited applause ripples through the restaurant, and Marigold says yes to a second drink as her waiter breezes past and offers one to her.
“Good evening, and welcome,” Cobb says into the microphone as a spotlight grazes him. He’s dressed in a black sweater, perfectly cut black pants, and shiny black shoes, and his hair is groomed and smooth. He has his favorite guitar resting on a stand next to a stool. “Happy Christmas and all that jazz,” he adds in his light British accent, clasping his hands together as he smiles at everyone smoothly. “I’m so glad you all came out tonight—I’m assuming to see me—but if you stumbled in here after dinner or if you’re staying in the hotel and the concierge sent you my way just to fill up the bar, then I’m grateful for that, too.”
There is polite laughter as the servers wind through the tables, ducking slightly to stay out of the way of the customers who are there to see Cobb.
“I flew up into this cold, wintry wonderland from a magical little place called Shipwreck Key in Florida—my wife has me tied up down there these days.” There is more laughter. “But I convinced her to escort me up to Manhattan for a couple of nights so that I could play for you and she could buy up the entire city.” The audience laughs again; they are putty in his hands, just as they’ve always been. “I’m only kidding,” Cobb says, smiling impishly. “Seriously, I actually came with her because my gorgeous bride has never stopped being a supermodel, and she got booked on an end-of-the-year job that was shooting here in New York.”
Everyone claps again and Marigold can feel eyes on her. She smiles as she leans both elbows on the table. She isn’t shy, but she’d prefer that Cobb start strumming the guitar and wowing the crowd with his songs rather than with stories about her.
“And, in addition to that,” Cobb says, his eyes glittering with pride as he seeks her out and smiles at her. “Ms. Marigold Pim is having a lunch meeting tomorrow with a publisher who is interested in a book she’s writing, and you can’t believe how proud I am.” Cobb stops and just watches his wife. A look passes between them that contains so much more than words possibly could, and just as Marigold feels tears burning her eyes, she blows him a kiss and gives him a small wave to let him know that she’s ready to hear his music.
“So, without further ado, if you’d be so kind as to indulge me, I’d like to play you the song I wrote for Marigold.” Cobb slips the strap of his guitar over his head and fixes it on his shoulder before launching into the song he’d written for her. “Our lives have been a series of ups and downs, but I know for a fact I wouldn’t be standing here today or playing for you tonight if it wasn’t for the love of this beautiful woman.”
The crowd falls silent as Cobb starts to play, his strong voice filling the cozy bar as people drink and listen.
Marigold feels the warmth of her husband’s love and the strength of their long life together—and even the years that they were apart—filling her heart with peace and contentment. The Christmas lights around the room twinkle like stars as she watches and listens to the man she’s loved for more than half of her life play his songs.
She knows that he’s playing them for everyone, but in Marigold’s heart, the music is just for her.