Chapter 9 Interesting Job You’ve Got There
Interesting Job You’ve Got There
Darcy
June
The end of a playoff run is always so jarring. We fly back to New York, and the team walks down the gangway and into their summer vacations. Some will spend time with their families. Some have plans to hit the beach or the golf course.
But it’s different for the support staff like me: After a few days off, I go back to work part time. Simultaneously, I take two college courses that the Legends pay for. And I somehow wedge in a couple of visits with my mother.
That’s why I’m currently standing on a chair in my apartment holding one end of a piece of fabric, while she holds the other one.
My mother squints up at the window frame. “How about we raise the rod a couple of inches?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Darcy.” She cackles.
“Sorry, Mom, but you can’t spend three hundred days a year with a hockey team and not have a teenage boy’s sense of humor. Now go on. Why do we want to raise the rod?”
“It will make the windows look bigger,” she says confidently. “We’ll have to spackle over the holes and repaint that bit. But it’s really no big deal. Do you have a Phillips screwdriver?”
“Sure thing. Let me find it.” I hop off the chair and retrieve my tool kit from the closet.
“Do you want to handle the hardware or hem the curtains?”
“Hardware,” I decide.
It takes me only half an hour to reposition the curtain rod. And then I spackle the wall while she measures the white fabric we bought on Thirty-Eighth Street. We’re going for a boho look. We also bought some velvet upholstery fabric to re-cover my throw pillows.
When we spend time together, we always do a project or two. It’s our love language, established during the difficult year after my cheating father moved out.
I have to give my mother credit—she channeled her rage in some very healthy ways. Not two weeks had gone by when she drove me to Home Depot after school and announced, “I’ve always hated the upstairs bathroom. We’re going to give it a fresh look.”
Until then, I’d never seen my mother touch a toolbox or a paintbrush. But that day, we picked out a peach color that my father would have hated. She bought sandpaper and primer and brushes and rollers, and we got busy on the walls.
We watched YouTube videos to learn how to fix the leaky faucet. We also regrouted the tile and caulked the tub. Money was pretty tight, so we couldn’t just waltz into a store and choose fancy new towels. Instead, she sewed colorful trim onto some cheap white ones from the dollar store.
The next summer, we went even bigger—we replaced some rotting boards on our deck, which was a task my mother had been asking my father to do for years. And we built flower boxes to hang off the railing.
“We don’t need him,” she often said. “He was holding us back.” And even if I could hear the shrillness in her voice—as if my mother badly needed to believe it—it was empowering to see her remaking her life on her own terms. And I learned a lot about sewing and home repair.
She has a good job these days, and money isn’t so tight. But we still enjoy these projects together.
“Didn’t you say you had some work to do for school?” she asks, checking the time. “I can hem these by myself, you know.”
“It’s just some reading. But I should probably do it,” I admit. “I missed the first lecture because we were in Florida. The class is on sports management, though, so the professor was really understanding.”
“He should be! You could be teaching that class, Darcy. They’re lucky to have you.”
I appreciate her mom’s-eye view of the situation, but there’s plenty I don’t know about the business of professional sports. “Someday,” I promise. “But I’d better start by getting an A in the class.”
“Good plan.”
I sit down at the kitchen table—the one we sanded and painted last summer—and open my course syllabus. I read about accounting principles for, oh, a solid ten minutes. But then I’m distracted by a text from my father.
Pumpkin, sorry about Game 7! I’d been rooting for you guys, at least after Boston got knocked out!
It’s wild how perfectly this text encapsulates my life. My father only roots for me when his first choice isn’t available.
But the next thing he texts isn’t so on-brand:
I was hoping you’d come to the shower this weekend. Theo can’t wait for you to meet Maribel.
Also, I thought we could have lunch together afterward, before you leave town. There’s something I want to discuss with you.
Let me know if noon works on Sunday. I’ll call the country club.
The first bit makes me roll my eyes, because I doubt Theo will notice if I turn up at his shower. But the rest of it is a puzzle.
When I was a teenager, I would have given my right arm for an invitation to lunch alone with my dad. After he moved out, I never got any more alone time with him. In fact, he seemed to make it his life’s mission to force his so-called blended family to spend time together.
Like on my fourteenth birthday, when he told me he’d made a reservation for us at the Olive Garden—my guilty pleasure. So I’d put on the new sundress my mother had sewn for me—pale yellow with tiny daisies—and I’d watched from the window for the glint of his car.
But when his silver BMW pulled up, Tessa was in the passenger seat.
I remember the humiliation of having to climb into the back.
And instead of the Olive Garden, we went to some trendy bistro that Tessa picked.
I’d felt babyish in my cheerful sundress while Tessa wore designer jeans and a slouchy sweater.
That birthday still haunts my teen memories. Tessa had given me a twenty-five-dollar gift card to Abercrombie. Twenty-five bucks barely covered a T-shirt, and I’d hated myself a little when I’d shopped the sale rack the following week for something—anything that I could afford from that store.
My wariness at a lunch invitation from my dad is justified, to say the least.
I puzzle over it instead of finishing my first homework assignment. I know I should just turn him down and forget about it. Hell, I could just bail on the wedding shower, too. That would be healthier than pouting here, along with my inner fourteen-year-old.
But after a few minutes of indecision, I hit on the perfect solution.
Hey, Dad. Noon might work for lunch. Is it just the two of us? I’ll have to check with my date. He and I haven’t figured out our itinerary yet.
I hit send, feeling very satisfied with myself. And he answers almost immediately.
Dad: It was going to be just the two of us. But if your date is at loose ends, he can join us, and we’ll have a private coffee afterwards or something.
Hmm. What would he want to discuss, anyway?
Darcy: Okay, I can probably make it work, unless he needs to get back to the city early in the day. I’ll tell you by tomorrow.
Dad: Super! And let me know if I can help out with your hotel reservation. I know it’s an inconvenience to come from out of town.
It is inconvenient. But I don’t take favors from him as a point of pride, and he knows that. Luckily, my job has some serious perks.
Darcy: I used points to get a room, but thanks. Any idea what’s on Maribel’s gift registry?
Dad: Sorry, pumpkin. That’s your lovely sister’s department. See you Saturday!
My lovely sister. How nice it must be to live in a world where you get to create your own reality. Where you see everyone as lovely because it’s so much easier than acknowledging the truth—that your own selfishness brought so much confusion and pain to your family.
And I still need a fricking shower gift.
“Darcy? Are you texting with your father?”
I startle to find my mother standing over my shoulder, holding a curtain panel. “Um, yup. There’s a wedding shower for Theo next week.”
She flinches. “You’re not seriously considering going, are you?”
I put my phone face down and rise from my chair. “I think so. Dad just invited me out to lunch afterwards.”
“Oh, honey.” Her face falls. “He’ll probably cancel at the last minute. People don’t change.”
That’s exactly what I’m worried about, of course, but it still irritates me to hear her say it. “It’s just lunch. I turned down invitations for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s, but he still asks every year. It seemed like an easy thing to say yes to.”
She shrugs. “I’m sure you’re right. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I’m a big girl, Mom. Nothing he can do will surprise me.”
“Fine.” She hands me the curtain panel. “But if any part of this wedding is amusingly tacky, I expect a full report.”
“You got it.”
That evening, while my mother is watching her shows, I dive into my inbox, hoping to find the wedding registry. But I can’t find it anywhere. So I’m forced to text my sister.
Hey, Tessa! I’m about to RSVP to the shower. Can you remind me where Maribel and Theo might have a registry? Thanks!
That done, I crank up the air-conditioning in my bedroom and do fifty pages of reading on the subject of statistical performance analysis in sports.
I’m finished by the time Tessa finally responds to my text.
Tessa: Dad thinks you’re bringing a date? But you only RSVP’d for one person. Date suddenly changed his mind?
My inner fourteen-year-old lets out a shriek of irritation.
I’m not here for Tessa’s mind games. It’s so tempting to breezily reply that my date got his own invitation—and did I mention he’s six feet and three inches of pure hockey glory?
The kind of man who makes Italian suit designers weep with joy when he walks into their showroom?
But that would be petty. Besides, Eric might have already forgotten the conversation we had in the hotel lobby. Heck, he could have already driven to Massachusetts without me.
Darcy: Our plans aren’t firm yet. I’d still love some help on the gift, though!
Tessa: Maribel’s registry was super basic, and it’s filled up already. So I’m sending you a list of suggestions I’ve put together. See you Saturday.
I receive an email from her a few minutes later. And when I skim it, the list is pure Tessa. There’s a $900 Lalique crystal vase, an Hermès throw blanket ($3,500), and a Smeg stand mixer in rose gold ($700).
There’s also a “casual” champagne bucket from Baccarat ($2,100) and a set of hand-painted linen napkins from a boutique in Paris (€450).
I forward the list to Eric as a joke and then text him.
Darcy: E-Train—Hope your summer is going well. We’re too late for Maribel’s registry, but my half sister put together some amusing suggestions. I forwarded you the list. Enjoy!
I wonder if he’ll respond. Maybe he’s kicking himself for offering me a ride to the North Shore of Massachusetts.
To my surprise, my phone pings only a minute later.
Eric: Is there really a brand called Smeg?
Darcy: That’s your takeaway from this list?
Eric: Well, is there?
Darcy: Yes. They make cute retro appliances for kitchens that I’ll never be able to afford. Like pink toasters and retro refrigerators.
Eric: And what is a casual champagne bucket, anyway?
Darcy: It’s what you use when your formal one is at the dry cleaner’s.
Eric: Has Tessa MET Maribel? Maribel’s idea of luxury is like a new bicycle helmet.
Darcy: This list is pure Tessa. Have you met her?
Eric: Nope. Only Theo. He didn’t say much.
It’s weird how Eric’s limited introduction to my family is so damn accurate. Theo doesn’t say much, and Tessa is a diva.
The phone rings in my hand, and the caller says ERIC TREMAINE, and the minute I spot his name, my heart flips like an Olympian.
Sigh. “Hi,” I answer.
“Hi,” he says, and the warm sound of his voice fills my chest cavity. “I got sick of typing. So we have a couple of problems—no gift ideas.”
“Right. But if they’re moving into a new house, they’ll need something.”
“Agreed.”
“What’s our other problem?”
“This… dancing thing. The internet says we have to be creative to win. I’m not very creative.”
I let out a snicker. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it. As soon as I finish my homework, I’m on it.”
“Homework?”
“I take college classes in the summer.”
“Seriously?” he asks.
“And here you thought I was fun. But I’m trying to get through school with no debt.” At least no more debt. I have loans from my freshman year at NYU—when I was still laboring under the impression that I could afford to be a full-time college student.
“That’s really cool,” he says. “I can never figure out what to do with myself when there’s no hockey.”
Oh, Eric. “We have to get you out more,” I say, as though it were up to me. “I’ll work on the gift thing. Maybe I can ask Theo what they need for the house.”
“Could you really? I’ll also try Maribel. But she’s usually more interested in experiences than stuff.”
“Huh.” I can’t imagine not caring about presents, but maybe I’m just shallow. “How do you know her. High school?”
“Sort of. She was, um, engaged to my brother.”
Oh shit. “You mean… the one who died?”
“That’s the guy. It was eleven years ago, though. We all had some dark days then, but I’m glad she’s found someone.”
I give a low whistle. “Me too, then. I’ll call if Theo gives me any good ideas. Otherwise, I’ll just wing it. Leave it to me.”
“You’re the best,” he says. “When should we leave on Saturday?”
After Eric and I make a few plans, I dig Theo’s contact information out of my phone and call him.
I get Theo’s voicemail, which isn’t a big surprise. And, what the hell, I decide to leave a message. Eric is counting on me.
“Hi, it’s Darcy. Your, um, sister.” Ugh. I’m off to a great start. “I heard you’re moving into a new house, and I was wondering what you and Maribel might need? For a shower gift? If you can think of anything, I’d love to know. See you Saturday.”
Then I hang up, wondering why my family has to be so damn weird.