Chapter 21 #2
“Mom,” I snap, pressing my fingers to the bridge of my nose. An elderly couple a few tables away looks up at me in alarm. I lower my voice. “I can handle it.”
“Of course you can, darling. So, the family guest list will be Trish and co., your father and me, Lenore, and Eddy. Make sure you invite Gramps’s friends from Sandy Shores, too—you know, Angela and whoever else he’s spending time with these days.”
“You want me to invite his friends?”
“Yes! You live there now, don’t you? Text me after you’ve secured the party room. I have to run. Love to you and Gramps!”
So now I have this on my to-do list on top of everything else.
I wish my mom hadn’t surprised me with this on a Monday morning.
My Mondays are always packed full of meetings, and I’m finding it hard to concentrate.
What did she mean by decorations? Balloons and streamers?
What would Lottie have done? Probably something sophisticated, but I can’t for the life of me think what that might be.
Sometime after lunch, as I’m listening to a drip-voiced co-worker drone on about the “learnings” from an all-hands last week and then something about “solidifying the asks that we’re bringing to leadership,” a tidal wave of resentment crashes over me.
Do I resent that I have a steady, decently paying job?
No way. But I do resent that I’m sitting here right now, bored to numbness, when I have so many other things that need my attention.
Things that, frankly, I would much rather be doing.
Active, tangible things, like running around town to organize a party, and using my own two hands to beautify a house.
Things that seem a lot more interesting and rewarding than sitting through meetings full of corporate jargon, tapping out notes so I don’t instantly forget what people say.
I have a break from meetings at three o’clock.
(I have my calendar permanently blocked for lunch at noon Seattle time, and people occasionally respect that.) The rest of the afternoon is full of meetings that I only have to listen to.
Sitting cross-legged on my seashell-covered bed, I wish I could work on the house while listening to these meetings, but there’s no internet at Pebble Cottage.
Maybe I should fix that. I mean, it is my house. I could get it hooked up to the internet, and then my future tenants could pay me for the internet instead of having to set it up themselves.
Two hours later, I’ve gone down a rabbit hole of internet service providers in the Tampa area.
Somehow, I haven’t absorbed a word of the meetings I’ve been in, nor have I made any progress toward planning Gramps’s party.
Nice. But I did manage to make an appointment with the internet guys, so at least I have that.
It’s almost five, so I decide to try to figure out the party room situation.
If only I could ask Gramps where the party room is—but he’s not supposed to know about the party.
I vaguely remember where it is from family reunions past, so, after setting my Slack status to “brB,” I take the elevator to the ground floor and wander toward the building that contains the gym and the library.
My sandals slap against the cold tile floor as I walk through the empty lobby.
It’s sumptuously—and thematically—decorated with watercolor paintings of egrets and whales, huge mirrors framed with borders of milky-green sea glass, and aquamarine floor vases overflowing with tufts of dried ornamental grass.
At the end of one hallway is a door with a helpful placard that reads, PARTY ROOM .
The room is empty. I half expected there to be some sort of party room receptionist manning a desk.
But there is no desk, just a large room full of couches, a TV, a pool table, some scattered tables, and a kitchenette.
I sigh. Why didn’t my mom tell me how to book the party room?
That detail would have been helpful. I’m just thinking that I could ask Angela next time I see her, when I spot it: a bulletin board in the kitchen.
It contains a few flyers and notices, and right in the middle is a sign-up sheet titled PARTY ROOM RESERVATIONS .
Perfect —so I don’t even have to talk to anyone. I can just add my name.
I scan the sheet to see how it’s done. At the top, the short instructions say that the room can be reserved up to twice a day, for a minimum of two hours and a maximum of four hours.
The cleaners come by once at the end of each night, so morning parties are responsible for their own cleanup. Works for me.
Running one finger down the list, I find the date of Gramps’s birthday, June 10.
My heart sinks. In small, cursive handwriting, someone has written, “Susan Goodwin, 5–9 P.M. ” So that means either we can have the party in the morning or we have to choose a different date.
Why didn’t Mom tell me about this sooner?
Would she and Trish be opposed to a brunch party instead of a dinner party?
I glare at the paper. The day after Gramps’s birthday is available.
But what kind of surprise birthday party would that be?
And then I realize that each row has a space for the person to put their phone number.
Susan Goodwin’s phone number is right there, in her neat penmanship.
The idea of cold-calling a stranger sends uncomfortable prickles down my neck. But it’s for Gramps’s birthday.
Phone pressed to my ear, I stand at the window overlooking the path to the beach where sea oats sway in the light breeze. Susan answers on the second ring.
“Hello?”
I clear my throat. “Hi, is this Susan Goodwin?”
“Yes, who’s calling?”
“My name is Mallory Rosen, I was just, ah—” I really should have planned what I was going to say ahead of time.
I try for some authority. “I was hoping to book the party room for June tenth, but I see you beat me to it. Is there any chance you might be able to change the date of your party? See, we were hoping to throw a surprise birthday party for my grandpa, and—”
“Who’s your grandpa?” Susan interrupts brusquely. I get the sense she’s wondering how much cachet my grandfather holds in their community. I consider lying and saying the name of the condo president, Arnold Engelhorn.
“Leonard Gilberstein.”
“Leonard!” she says happily, and my heart lifts with hope. “Send him birthday wishes from me! But no, dear, there’s nothing I can do. It’s the twentieth anniversary of my book club’s inception, and we have an author coming to talk with us about her book. It’s all set.”
“Could…” I try, knowing it’s pointless, “could you have it in the morning instead?”
“Wine, dear. Book clubs are about the wine first, gossip second, books third. It has to be in the evening. I’m sorry. Have a nice day, now.” She hangs up.
Well, crap.
I sit heavily on the nearest couch. If only Mom had had this idea sooner.
Now I feel like I’m the one ruining Gramps’s birthday party—a party that was only conceived of a day or two ago.
Could we have it in Gramps’s condo? No, that place can’t comfortably hold more than eight people at a time.
What about Trish’s house? It’s a bit out of the way, and she has two huge Dobermans, but I could ask her.
Or I could research community parks, local restaurants with party rooms to rent.
Or…
I sit up straight, struck with sudden inspiration.
Or I could host the party at Pebble Cottage.
Outside, obviously, and in the sunroom. There’s literally no way the inside of the house will be ready before then.
But if it’s a dinner party, that means we’ll be there at dusk—I could make the garden extra magical with twinkly lights hidden in all the bushes, patio lights strung above an outdoor table.
This could work.
I text Mom impulsively: Party location secured.
Once I’m back at my computer, with meetings droning on in the background, I start a list of all the things I’m going to need for the party.
It also occurs to me to text my neighbor, Sam, that I won’t be home for at least another week or two.
Your package count continues to grow , Sam replies.
I laugh guiltily. I’m sorry! You can open them if you want. To get rid of the boxes. Or to see if you want anything. They’re mostly skin-care products, I think.
All I get back is a thumbs-up emoji.
But a little while later, Sam texts again: Oh my God, this blue candle smells amazing.
Keep it! I reply. As a thank-you gift!
They send a thank-you emoji, but I can see they’re still typing.
Why do you buy all this stuff?
It makes me happy , I send. And then I add, Or it did. For a long time. I guess I should cancel my auto orders .
Please do. I’m running out of space here.
I laugh again and try to focus on work. A few minutes later, Sam sends one last text. It’s a picture of a Bath & Body Works foaming hand soap.
Holy shit, this stuff is nice. Remind me to package-sit for you anytime!
I heart the message, and then I cancel all my auto shipments.