37. Annabelle
Annabelle
The car they send for me smells like citrus and leather.
I’m wearing a sleeveless top and light pants and kitten heels.
My hair behaved this morning, unbothered by hats or humidity.
I sit up straighter as we glide through Los Angeles, past trees that have never known winter and people who don’t own snow boots.
We pull up to the Western Greetings building and park behind a coffee cart that started its life as a VW bus.
It’s half green, half white, and covered in flower-power stickers.
I imagine myself getting coffee here every morning on my way into the office.
I’ll take a picture of it for my Instagram.
Or…maybe not? Western Greetings has its own corporate Insta. There are probably rules about content.
I thank my driver and step out of the car.
The building rises above me, twelve stories tall, with lots of glass.
In the lobby, there’s an installation of oversized greeting cards suspended from the ceiling like a mobile made of feelings.
A fizz of recognition flows through me. These are my people.
For the first time since Truly Penrose showed the world my card, I let myself believe this isn’t a fluke.
This is more than a viral accident. It’s the next step in my career.
A woman named Candace meets me in the lobby and introduces herself as a studio lead.
Does that mean I’ll be working for her? Or will she be working for me?
I guess I’ll find out. Candace is thin and sleek, with a smile that could be on a movie screen.
It’s distractingly white. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she says. “I hope the hotel was suitable?”
“More than suitable.” They put me up at the Four Seasons. I ordered sushi and champagne from room service.
“How was the flight from Minnesota?”
“Michigan,” I correct her.
“Oh right, right,” she says, waving it off. “All that same area.”
It’s not important, I tell myself. Geography is hard. I don’t know where Burbank is in relation to anything.
The tour is incredible. Western Greetings has open-plan offices filled with designers sketching with serious faces.
I catch snippets of conversation. They’re discussing kerning, paper stock, and whether you can still say beloved or if it’s become cringe.
My shoulders relax. This is the language I speak.
I imagine my desk here. A tiny eucalyptus plant.
A mug with a flamingo on it. Strolling down the hall to bounce an idea off a colleague. Being asked to lunch.
People’s heads pop up as we pass. A few whisper. One person openly mouths, Is that her?
In the conference room, they’ve laid out pastries that look like art objects and a place card with my name in Pacifico font.
That alone thrills me. Someone chose that font.
Someone thought about me. Candace gives me a bottle of water that came from a glacier with a brand deal.
I’m being wooed. That’s what they said in one of their emails.
We’d love to fly you out and really woo you.
We’re joined by Gavin from marketing, and Elise, who’s head of Talent Partnerships.
“We’re thrilled to finally meet you,” Gavin says. He’s wearing a dress shirt and fleece vest. I thought only tech bros dressed like that but maybe it’s spreading. “You represent such an exciting opportunity for us,” he says.
I nod eagerly. “I’ve followed Western Greetings for years. Your Mother’s Day line last year? The restrained color palette? Gorgeous.”
Candace’s eyebrows lift. “Someone’s done her homework.”
Gavin steeples his fingers. “I just want to say, and I think I speak for all of us, that we like what you’ve been doing.”
I wait. I nod. This is the part where he tells me what, specifically, he loves.
There’s a long pause while they all look at each other.
A soft clearing of the throat from Gavin.
I jump in to fill the silence. “I want my cards to delight people,” I say.
“They’re the kind of cards you put on your fireplace mantel for a week after your birthday, or you snap a picture to put on social media. Or you show your mom.”
“Sure, we could position you like that,” Gavin says. “You have high visibility right now. At least, your name does.”
“But in terms of the cards themselves?” I prompt. More silence. “I hope they speak to people?” I don’t want it to come out as a question, but it does.
“I like your look,” Elise says, pointing to my face and clothing. “We could do some branding, get you in front of the camera. You look very middle America. There’s something appealing about that.”
“I’m from middle America.”
“Exactly,” Gavin says. “Authenticity is big right now.”
“Can we talk about my cards?” I ask gently, because I want this to work.
We have a bit of a disconnect that I’m sure we can get over if we can focus on the cards themselves.
“Perhaps we could pick one or two of my designs, and discuss those? Tell me what direction you see me going in for my new line?”
“We’ve seen her cards, haven’t we?” Elise asks the others.
“I think so,” Gavin says. “Online.”
“Yes,” Candace brightens, her white smile taking over her face. “Her online footprint is a decent size.”
Gavin’s fiddling with his phone. Is he just now looking up my website?
“Your cards aren’t too complex,” he says, as if offering a compliment.
“Which our customers really respond to. They don’t want to think too hard.
They’re buying a card at the grocery store between rotisserie chicken and toilet cleaner. ”
My smile feels tight on my face. “I try to make them relatable.”
Gavin chuckles, still in his phone. “You’ve tapped into the Minneapolis crowd.”
“Michigan,” I say, more softly this time.
“And of course there was the Truly Penrose moment.” He lifts his head. “That was gold.”
Don’t say it, I tell myself. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
I say it. “Do you remember what the card looked like?”
The three of them exchange another glance. I’m starting to recognize the choreography of it. Elise laughs lightly. “Well, it’s more about the moment, isn’t it? Truly Penrose holding it up. The exposure.”
“Yes, yes,” Candace says. “We’ll call you ‘Hollywood’s most sought-after card designer.’ If we put enough PR behind that, it will be true soon enough.”
“But did you like the joke?” I should let it go, but I can’t. “About the cargo pants?”
Silence. Candace shrugs. Elise says, “It was cute.”
Cute. The word lands like a hand patting my head.
I think about how long it took me to design my website.
I think about standing at craft shows until my feet ached, and the Instagram captions I rewrote ten times to sound effortless.
I think of mornings at my kitchen table, hands wrapped around a coffee cup, trying to find the best way to say I see you in twenty words or less.
“About your new line of cards,” Elise says.
“Oh, can I tell her?” Candace asks. “We’re going to call it ‘Greetings with Kerr.’ Get it? Because your last name is Kerr and it rhymes with C-A-R-E?”
“That’s the hook,” Gavin adds. “The name is the brand.”
I take a sip of designer water. The bottle’s pretty. The water’s just water.
I remember standing in Emerald Gifts with Grant, laughing as he tried to guess the captions on my cards. He was mocking me, and he was paying more attention than these three. His words ring in my head. Western Greetings wants to buy you.
These people aren’t excited about my vision, or my creative voice, or my art. They don’t even like my cards.
I look around the table at the glossy smiles and the glacier water and the font I loved five minutes ago. Three people look back, but they don’t see me at all.
At the hotel, I pack my bag, then stand at the window and look out at a city I wanted to like. There’s blue sky here, and the ocean, and In-N-Out Burger. There are funky neighborhoods, and The Museum of Contemporary Art, and The Getty.
I can’t stay here. I can’t take the job at Western Greetings. I can’t let them buy my name like it’s a commodity.
I can’t go back to Echo Creek either. My building is a falling-down money pit, there’s not enough infrastructure to support my card business, and I can’t live across the hall from Grant.
Not anymore. If I do, I’ll get sucked right back into a situationship with him, instead of looking for my true match.
I had so much hope the first time I crossed the Mackinac Bridge. I was singing at the top of my lungs, sure I was making a fresh start. I didn’t know what I was getting into, but at least I had a place to go.
Now? I don’t have anywhere to go.
I miss my Nana. After three years, I no longer ache for her 24/7, but grief sneaks up on me at odd times. Like today, when the pain of missing her feels like it’s filling the whole room, pressing me to the floor.
I miss spending hours with her at museums. Mother’s Day was always brunch at Café Zola followed by a stroll around the University of Michigan campus, ending at the Museum of Art. I miss the way she gushed over Mary Cassatt, and laughed at Jeff Koons, and went silent when faced with a Picasso.
She had unshakable belief in me. From the day I first picked up a crayon to the week before she died, I showed her every piece of art I was proud of. And if I wasn’t proud of a piece, she always knew how to fix it.
I turn away from the window, call Delta, and change my plane ticket. Then I call Kat to ask her to pick me up at the airport. I’ll figure out my car and stuff later. Right now, all I can think about is getting back to Nana, and that means going back to Ann Arbor.