Chapter 27 I’M ALREADY TORN
I’M ALREADY TORN
The pumpkin carving had devolved into lots of giggles and some increasingly structurally unsound gourds that threatened to collapse any second.
Cheerful on cocktails and worried about the imminent pumpkin implosions, we’d left our completed designs lined up on the tables outside the Hammer and Thistle for passers-by to rank according to their favourites.
(A pumpkin stamp had been provided for this.) The winners would be announced in a week or so, with the logistics of the giant pumpkin to be sorted out accordingly.
We hadn’t stayed out particularly long after.
Jack had stopped by to see Lara, who’d given her pumpkin one final stab, then promptly made her goodbyes and dragged him off to the Camellia.
Soraya had left to relieve Nicola and give Ernie a goodnight hug, while Keiko had excused herself, having been ‘all peopled out’, as she put it.
Soon it was just Tiff and me left, and after popping our pumpkins on display, we’d walked home via the boardwalk, snapping blurry photos of the moon glimmering on the waves and trying to catch the whisperwinds as they zipped past us, murmuring truths and dreams about the town’s residents and visitors.
‘I’m pretty sure I just heard one about Lara’s King Richard,’ I said, laughing.
The wind gusted again, strong enough that I pulled my cardigan tight around me. Tiff froze.
‘Yikes,’ I said. ‘Did that one confess to a murder or something?’
The worst whisperwind I’d ever heard was about a blocked toilet. Although the particularly chagrined one about someone forgetting their keys and having to sleep outside had also been memorable.
‘Just something about embracing love somewhere else,’ said Tiff. ‘I just rolled my ankle a bit. Hence the double take.’
Hmm. Once again, I was getting the feeling that Tiff wasn’t telling me the whole story.
The house was quiet when we got back. Rosie had gone to bed early to read her book, and the boys were locked in their studio and music room respectively.
Honestly, right now I preferred it that way: I had some thinking to do.
Making myself a cup of herbal tea, I settled into one of the cushy armchairs, gasping as I always did when the giant piece of furniture threatened to gobble me up.
Then, stealing one of Rosie’s enamel pens from the holder on the coffee table, I set to work.
‘Working on a bucket list?’ came Mom’s voice, slightly louder than usual thanks to the wine she was holding, which I guessed probably wasn’t her first. Mom generally stayed buttoned up while at home in the city – unless she was courting a new client – but, like the rest of us, tended to cut loose while we were on Summerween vacation.
What happened at Whisperwind Cove stayed at Whisperwind Cove.
Or so said the tote bag I’d bought the last time we were here.
I glanced up from the pros and cons list I was working on in a blank page of Josephine’s journal. Josephine had left me to my devices, at least, which was a relief. She could chime in with her thoughts later.
I hid the side that contained, at length, my pros and cons for each of the Tucker boys, folding the book back so that Mom could only see the side that related to the job. Although sharing this side with Mom was almost as fraught.
‘I’m trying to figure out whether to take the job at WildLife,’ I said. ‘It would mean a pay bump, and benefits.’
‘Benefits, hmm?’ Mom considered as she rubbed at the bridge of her nose, the way she did when she had a headache. ‘Well, you only have another year before you’ll be ineligible for the family health plan. Does it come with a retirement plan as well?’
I nodded, although I hadn’t really looked too far into it. ‘With a company match.’
‘Well, that’s free money right there.’
I nodded slowly, thinking of the cons: no poring over esoteric game stats with Eddie while snacking on dark coffee and cinnamon doughnuts.
No getting to interview starry-eyed athletes who’d just had their first big win or who’d just been scouted.
No listening to the ancient printing press rattle away, spitting out fresh, warm copies for our delivery guy to pick up.
‘I don’t see what’s so difficult about it,’ Mom said, reaching into her purse for an Ibuprofen tablet – she was prone to headaches, a side effect of basically being surgically attached to her phone screen.
‘It’s a promotion, isn’t it? With more money, more responsibilities? You always take the promotion.’
Mom would always take the promotion. That was how she’d ended up as creative director of a mid-size ad agency in her early thirties, then, when there was nowhere else to climb, had opened her own agency, bringing Dad with her.
There was no promoting yourself when you were the CEO, but she’d still managed to chase down ever-bigger contracts, clients, campaigns.
Her personal point of pride was the entire brownstone neighbourhood she’d branded – a job she’d landed after a networking event at her local coven chapter.
The branding hadn’t been overtly witchy, but had perfectly targeted those in the know.
But I wasn’t sure that I wanted the glossy, flashy option, even if it made sense on paper. And in my bank account.
‘It’s a copywriting job,’ I pointed out, sipping my tea. ‘For a PR firm.’
Mom washed the painkiller down with a sip of wine. ‘Well, PR is mostly what you’re currently doing anyway, isn’t it? Really, if you think about it, you’re just promoting those teams and athletes.’
My fingers tightened around my notebook. Josephine’s ring dug into my skin.
‘And it wouldn’t just be me writing,’ I added. ‘I’d have a team under me.’
‘Isn’t that good?’ Mom drank her wine as though there were answers in the glass. ‘If you wanted to move up in your current job, things wouldn’t be much different. But you’d just be in sports, not PR. And honestly, your little paper …’
I sighed. We’d had this discussion before.
Yes, Easterly Sports was a tiny newspaper that limped along thanks to its robust classifieds section and a small legacy fund from one of its founders.
Its largely freelance staff consisted mostly of grad students, with a few old-timers who’d been in their rent-controlled apartments since the nineties and could therefore handle the low pay.
And me, of course, who’d been one of those grad students, but who hadn’t had the heart or wherewithal to fly the coop when the rest of my cohort had.
Every time I’d pulled up a job-search site or gone to a mixer, I’d frozen.
What was next for me? What if I made the wrong move?
Was it worth changing just for the sake of making a change?
‘I know, Mom. It’s not Sports Illustrated. And it’s not fun and flashy like WildLife would be. But I like my work there. I like working under Eddie, and I like the matches I get to cover.’
Even if I had phoned in my last article, I thought. But I was revising it, wasn’t I?
‘It’s chill, and friendly, and close to home,’ I went on. ‘All the stuff I like.’
Mom shook her head, the way she often did when I spoke truthfully with her.
As though sometimes she couldn’t believe that she’d given birth to me.
That in the case of their youngest daughter, her and Dad’s combined ambition had somehow ricocheted off each other and created someone who was terrified of chasing anything new, anything big.
‘Well, it sounds like you’ve made your choice,’ said Mom. ‘Even if you’re not quite ready to disappoint Lara by telling her. Which is why you’re hesitating, isn’t it?’
My ring fizzed.
Mom had spoken a truth. Yes, the idea of hurting Lara was a big part of why I hadn’t said anything yet. Because by choosing to stay where I was, I was rejecting her, wasn’t I?
‘The longer you wait,’ she said, with a gentleness I wasn’t used to, ‘the more it’s going to hurt.’
Wow, I thought. Spoken just like Josephine.
It wasn’t until she reached over to pick up her laptop case – Mom’s capacity for late-night emails knew no limits – that I realized I was no longer covering the column that read Noah vs Finn.