Chapter 18
PIP
Ipush open the heavy wooden door of Aunt Vivian’s Lower East Side pottery studio. Then delight in the wave of earthy scents wafting toward me.
The rich aroma of damp clay mingles with the delicate, lavender fragrance of Earl Grey tea. Together they create an oddly comforting blend.
“Aunt Vivian? You here?”
“Here I am, honey.”
Aunt Vivian raises a hand from behind an oversized, still-spinning vase that obscures her slender frame. As usual, her long blonde-hair, spiked with some strands of gray, is pulled back in a braid extending down her back.
She sports her favorite pair of Lululemon exercise pants—a splurge I gave her last Christmas—and a blue, yellow, and purple tie-dyed T-shirt.
“Your vase looks good.” I walk toward her in the cramped space, careful not to let wet clay glom onto my brand-new clothes.
“I left your medicine and some groceries in your apartment,” I say, wrapping my arms around her shoulders from behind and kissing her warm cheek. “Your neighbor said I’d find you here. So you’ve forsaken oil painting for pottery?”
“Forsaken is a cruel word,” she laughs. “Just a change of medium.”
“Auntie, you’re so fickle. Good thing your artistic muse isn’t the jealous sort. Otherwise, there’d be never-ending drama. Sword fights in the heavens.”
“Sword fights? Honey, my muses are young and angsty—more like East Coast, West Coast rappers. Anyway, that’s the fun of it all. Can’t get much inspiration from a tired old muse.”
Aunt Vivian stops the wheel to smile at me. Then she scowls when she looks more closely at my outfit. “What’s that you’re wearing?”
I twirl like a five-year-old. “This? It’s my new ‘corporate wife’ attire. Like it?”
“Explain, please.”
I whip through the events of the last 24 hours in record time.
“So a greeting card company has hired you to pose as the fiancée of their CEO. And you say he’s handsome and rich? Why couldn’t he get his own dang girlfriend?”
Just as I’m about to explain, Aunt Vivian bursts out in laughter. “I’m just pulling your leg.” She wipes her hands before tossing me a folded copy of the New York Herald, open to Vanessa Sinclair’s column.
“My eyes latched onto your nudie cutie’s hot bod before I even recognized you in your vintage get-up! What in the world were you doing rescuing some trust fund heir from a meltdown?”
“He wasn’t nude—just shirtless,” I say. But even as I speak, I realize he might have been nude if I hadn’t intervened.
“And why on earth did you agree to being a ‘fake fiancée’?”
“I’ll explain—come out from behind that wheel. I’ll go fetch us some tea.”
A few minutes later, we’re sitting at the round wooden community table. I hand my aunt a Styrofoam cup from the dispenser.
“The short answer is that this is a great opportunity. The company is paying me big bucks. We’ll finally have serious down payment money for that gallery of yours.”
Aunt Vivian waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t need a gallery. But tell me more about what happened. I read the column. What possessed you to ‘rescue’ a man like that?”
“Well, I…” I stammer, trying to find the reason. “I don’t know why I did it. Snickers just looked so ridiculous. He?—”
“Wait! The CEO? Why is he named Snickers? Some candy fixation? A rude way of laughing?”
I shake my head. “Officially, he’s Sheldon Woodward III. We met at the cafeteria at work yesterday...”
I trail off, realizing I’m skipping over our real first meeting. Aunt Vivian’s no prude, but she doesn’t need the toe-tingling details of my one-night stand.
“In the cafeteria, huh? Sounds like the storyline of one of those Tom Hanks / Meg Ryan rom-coms from the 1980s.”
I nod. “Especially since we almost knocked each other over fighting for the last brownie. Then, on top of that, he insulted me.”
Aunt Vivian slaps her thigh. “Now you’re talking about that other Meg Ryan film with what’s-his-name. When Harry Met Sally.”
“Yes. It does resemble that film, doesn’t it.”
Aunt Vivian cackles again. “You and that dang sugar fixation. But wait—you fell in love with him because he snatched your brownie before insulting you?”
“I didn’t say I fell in love with him!”
When Aunt Vivian eyeballs me, I cross my arms defensively.
“I only said I felt sympathy for him. I knew he was the company CEO as he started singing on that Rock Center stage. I’d also learned he was the, last living family member of his family’s two-hundred-year-old company.
I just couldn’t let him destroy himself or his firm. ”
She laughs softly and picks up my right hand, tracing the heart lines on my palm. “Ah, yes, now I can see it all. When should we start planning the wedding?”
I yank my hand away. “What are you talking about?”
“Darling, most folks wouldn’t risk their necks to save brownie-stealing billionaires, especially ones with attitude. You must like him.”
“That’s the furthest from the truth. He’s an infuriating jerk.”
“Okay. So what does the Nancy Regan-era outfit have to do with this?”
“It’s a long story,” I warn.
“I’ve got time.” Aunt Vivian opens a bag of miniature salted pretzels that had been left on the table. Lifting one to her mouth, she chomps off a section as she waits for me to continue.
I sigh. “Well, like I said, he ran up to the stage, muttering something about the pathetic way the band was handling a Prince song…”
“Your CEO already has my blessing for that,” says Aunt Vivian, nodding her approval. “Continue.”
“I suspected he was drunk. Not fully aware of the spectacle he was making of himself. So I rushed to the front just as he was whipping off his belt.”
“Man, Pollyanna, this is getting good!” she says, biting into the pretzel’s second section.
I flinch momentarily at the sound of my real name. Suddenly, it sounds odd to my ears.
“Anyway, I grabbed a belt end to tug him down from the stage. Used it like a makeshift leash to lead him away. Cops were circling, and I feared he’d be arrested.”
“Rightly so!” Aunt Vivian pops the remaining pretzel into her mouth before reaching to grab another one.
“So I get him away from the crowd, shirtless, his chest glistening with sweat?—”
“Ha!” Aunt Vivian leans forward. “Honey, this is getting better and better.”
“But then the police nabbed us, and the press caught us in this strobe light frenzy. And that’s how it ended.”
“Honey, that’s barely the beginning! What does any of this have to do with your fancy new store-bought clothes?”
I slump back in my chair. “Well, it gave Woodward and Co’s PR director this crazy idea of making me his fake girlfriend, and I need to look the part.”
Aunt Vivian narrows her eyes at me. “Just what does ‘acting the role’ of this Snicker character’s fake fiancée entail? Any hoochie-coochie involved?”
“No, no, no. Of course not.”
“Well, that’s a dang shame.”
We both laugh.
“Seriously. All I have to do is go on a bunch of dates with Snickers. Clare—his PR exec—has chosen the most romantic places in New York. Photographers will be following us, capturing the magic.”
“Got it,” Aunt Vivian says. “Lots of looking into one another’s eyes…”
“Something like that.”
“The city certainly has romantic venues,” she says, nodding, her eyes glinting with a faraway look. “Your Uncle Peter and I used to like to make out in front of the Brooklyn Bridge.”
I smile as Aunt Vivian relaxes into the memory.
“Especially on nights with a big full moon. Sometimes, we went all the way to fourth base,” she sniggers.
“Aunt Vivian!”
“Oh, I was a naughty girl in my time.”
We both chuckle at that.
I remember my Uncle Peter. He died when I was a small child, but he was a great guy.
“How often did you and Uncle Peter visit the bridge?”
“Every chance we could. It was ‘our’ place. We even carved our initials into that big old oak tree.”
“Romantic. But a little cheesy. I’m surprised. That seems a little corny for an ex-hipster like you.”
Aunt Vivian shakes her head. “We didn’t just carve our initials,” she says quietly. “I also carved a dove beside it.”
“I’m not surprised. You carve a dove into all your work. It’s your signature.”
“Yes. But the very first time I created it was on that tree. Peter was the love of my life. We were kids. Students. Not yet married. But I knew it would be forever. Everlasting. Eternal”
I nod, even more curious. “But why carve a dove symbol. Why not a heart?”
“I guess that was an option. Most folks equate romance with that symbol. But in ancient Greek mythology, love was symbolized by the dove, since it was associated with Aphrodite. The ancients used it to communicate a message of ‘eternal love.’”
“Never knew that.”
“Special knowledge,” Aunt Vivian winks, tapping at her head. “Reserved for folks who actually graduated from art school. What other romantic venues do you have scheduled?”
I take out my phone to find the itinerary Clare prepared.
“Well, let’s see. We have Central Park.”
“Nice!”
“And we have ice skating at Rockefeller Center.”
“Been there, done that,” says Aunt Vivian. “Good choice.”
I continue to read from Clare’s list. “There are a few spots that say ‘to be determined.’ Maybe Clare’s looking for more venues. I’ll be sure to mention the Brooklyn Bridge and your story.”
“Good. I’d like you to see it. Sounds like you have an exciting week ahead of you. What’s this brownie-snatching CEO like? Husband material?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Not in a million years!"
“Okay, okay,” Aunt Vivian says, rising. “Got to get back to my wheel. Love you, Pollyanna.”
That name again.
“It’s Pip,” I stutter.
“What’s Pip?”
“I’m Pip. That’s my name now. For the campaign, at least.”
“Why did they name you that?”
“Snickers named me that,” I say, heat rising to my cheeks as I remember that moment.
She laughs softly, then waves me off. “Got it. Now I understand everything. Take care, Pip. Text me all the details. With photos!”