The Night I Got Lucky

When I slid in bed he squeezed my hand for a brief moment. “Love you,” he said absently, not taking his eyes away from his book.

“You, too,” I said, which was true. I still loved my husband. I turned over and looked at the frog one more time before I shut off the light.

chapter three

There were people in my bedroom, and they were talking. Laughing. Too much laughter.

I squeezed my eyes shut. I burrowed under the blankets. More chortling, more talking. The woman’s voice sounded vaguely familiar, then the man’s voice became more clear. I heard the words “traffic” and then “coming up.” And then I remembered who these people were—Eric and Kathy. They were DJs, and they were on my radio, which meant it was time to get up.

I have always wanted to be the kind of person who awoke refreshed and lovely at the first hint of daylight. I’d even thought I’d become such a person after years of work, but alas, I still felt like a college kid who needed to sleep until noon. Chris was worse than me. He required two alarm clocks and three snooze button hits before he’d rouse from the bed. As a result, I was usually showered and out the door before he got up.

Eric and Kathy were laughing again, talking about some reality show. I rolled over and shut off the radio. And then I flinched. What was that thing on my nightstand? I opened my eyes more fully. The frog from Blinda, that was all. It seemed bigger this morning, more green. The spherical eyes gleamed, the haunches appeared ready to leap, and that slash of a mouth was turned up at the edges. The thing was smiling.

I turned the frog around so it wasn’t looking at me and dragged myself out of bed and through the dark bedroom. I stopped at the window and pulled back the tan linen drapes. Outside, it was hazy wet and gray, the air thick with fog. The tree trunks bore a deep charcoal sheen. Chicago looked like a misty Scottish bog.

In the bathroom, the lights blazed on like a fast-food joint. I glanced in the mirror, running my hands through my dark hair, unruly now from sleep—parts curly, parts flat, parts electric and standing on end. This was my typical morning do. But I looked different somehow. I leaned closer to the mirror. Eyes still blue, lashes still long. I stepped back and surveyed the rest of myself—one shoulder was slightly higher than the other, same as always. My hips were still too broad for my taste, my breasts a little too small. Nothing had changed.

“Get going,” I muttered to myself. Enough vanity. I turned on the shower and on second thought, flicked on the steam component. When we moved in, we expanded the shower, installing four different showerheads and a steam function. It was one of my favorite spots in the house.

The steam kicked on, making the stall as misty as the weather outside. I took a deep breath and let the heat seep into my body. I soaked my hair, picking up a bottle of shampoo. And then I heard a creak. A footfall came next. Then a shuffling sound. The door of the shower was yanked open, and I yelped, clutching the shampoo bottle to my chest.

“It’s me, hon.” Chris stepped fully inside the shower, the steam parting for him.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought I’d join you.”

“Oh.” It was all I could think of to say. We’d never been in that shower together, despite the fact that I’d had a number of fantasies about how to use the tiled bench.

“Let me do that for you.” Chris took the shampoo from my hand. He turned me around and began soaping my hair, massaging my head gently with those large hands of his. He went on like this for a few minutes, then he whispered, “Close your eyes,” and he tilted my head under the water to rinse it.

When he was done, Chris drew my head back and kissed my neck. He nibbled on my earlobes. The water beat down on my belly now, and I heard myself moan softly. The steam was thick. I don’t know if I could have seen Chris if I opened my eyes, but I could feel him. He stood behind me, and I felt his broad, wet chest against my back, his lean legs behind mine. And then I could feel something else. Chris might not have been in the mood last night, but he certainly was this morning.

Afterwards, we stood nuzzling in the steamy bathroom.

“I’ve missed that,” Chris said.

“You have?”

“Yeah. Hell, yeah.”

I used a towel to dab some water from his forehead. “Me, too.”

“C’mere.” He pulled me by the hand, back to our bed, its gray-green sheets twisted and rumpled.

“We’ll get the bed all wet,” I said.

“Who cares?”

“Not me.” I hopped into bed and threw off the towel. Chris and I nestled into the still warm sheets, and, nose to nose, started talking like we hadn’t in years.

“What’s going on at work?” Chris said. “What’s the status of getting you into a VP office?”

The reminder of my failure to be promoted should have disheartened me, but I was too content and snug with my husband to be affected. I happily filled Chris in on all the work gossip and on Alexa’s condescending attitude.

“That little bitch,” Chris murmured, and I snuggled closer, pleased to have someone on my side.

“And did you and Evan get that press release done?” Chris asked.

I paused a moment. Chris had no idea about my crush on Evan, at least I didn’t think so, but the mention of Evan’s name from my husband’s lips startled me.

“Um, yeah. We did.”

“How is Evan?”

“He’s fine. Good.” I searched my mind for another topic, but finding none, I elaborated about Evan. “He’s got his promotion, and he’s bringing in business, so Roslyn loves him.”

“And is Roslyn still tough as nails?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Not like you, Treetop. You’re soft and sweet.” Treetop was Chris’s nickname for me, based on my maiden name, Tremont. I hadn’t heard him use it in a long time.

I shifted closer to him, and Chris kissed the tip of my nose. It was an intimate gesture, in some ways more intimate than what had gone on in the shower, and the sweetness of it nearly made me cry.

He grinned at me, really looking at me like he used to, and I smiled back.

“So enough about me,” I said. “What’s going on at the firm? Any news?”

“Well, you know that health care merger?”

I nodded. I didn’t remind him that when I asked about it last night he hadn’t seemed willing to talk about it.

“It’s a complete mess,” Chris said. “I’ve got to go to court this morning.” He lifted himself up and glanced over me to my alarm clock. “But I’ve got time.”

This made me flip around. The angry red lights of my clock said 9:04 a.m. And that damned frog—somehow it was turned around and facing me again. No matter, I was late. Really late.

“Shit, Chris,” I said, leaping out of bed. “I’ve got to go.”

He groaned. “Another ten minutes.”

“No!” I laughed. “You’ve got to be in court, and you know how Roslyn is about me being on time.” I’d been reprimanded more than once about my inability to get in before nine.

I tore open the closet doors and rifled through my pants. I threw on a pair of wide-legged chocolate-brown trousers, trusty old favorites. I grabbed an ivory silk blouse and buttoned it up as fast as possible. I added a chunky silver necklace and grabbed my makeup bag and my purse.

“Okay,” I said to Chris, who was still lazing in bed, “I’m out of here.”

“Give me a kiss.”

I halted my frantic scrambling. “Of course.” I leaned over the bed. Chris sat up and stroked my face with his hand. Then slowly, slowly, he kissed me.

“What’s gotten into you this morning?” I asked.

He laughed. “I don’t know. Something good.”

I had to agree.

“Sorry,” I muttered to anyone who might be listening as I hustled out of the elevator and down the beige-carpeted hall to my beige-walled cube. A look at my watch told me it was 9:39. Not good.

“Hi there, Billy,” the receptionist said as I sped past her.

“Hi, Carolyn.”

“Billy, I have messages for you!” she yelled after me.

That stopped me. Carolyn took messages for no one but the VPs and the higher-ups. The rest of us had to make do with voice mail. The only reason Carolyn might have a message for me is if Roslyn wanted to talk to me. Roslyn, who no doubt wanted to kick my ass, or my career, for being late again.

I took a few tentative steps toward her and held out my hand. There were three slips, which couldn’t be good. Possibly the owner also wanted to fire me.

“There you go,” Carolyn said. “Have a nice day.”

Was she mocking me?

I flipped through the messages as I retreated from her desk. Two were from clients. It was curious that she’d taken those. Maybe there was some kind of emergency. The last one was from Roslyn.

Please see me, was all it said.

I felt something quake inside me. Not at all good.

But what really made my stomach rattle was the sight of my cubicle. It was empty. Completely empty.

The photo of me with my mom and my sisters was gone. Odette’s cookbook, my haphazard stacks of press releases, a stage bill from a musical Chris and I saw during our first year together—all gone. I cleared my throat. I tried to think of a logical reason why this might be happening. Had I missed a memo about a move? I looked around. No, the other cubicles were still full of people and their possessions. There could be no other reason other than the obvious one—I’d been fired.

I considered simply going home. Roslyn had made her message pretty clear. Why should I now sit in her office so she could run down the list of reasons that Harper Frankwell was letting me go? But the more I stood there, gazing at the empty beige walls, the more incensed I became.

I marched up the hallway toward her office. I was clomping my feet so hard my toes began to cry for mercy in my stylishly pointed shoes; I almost welcomed the pain.

“Hey, Billy,” Alexa said, passing me, wearing another black cashmere top. Obviously she hadn’t heard the news of my firing yet, because she walked by quickly, not even bothering to gloat.

I didn’t say anything in return. I kept my focus on Roslyn’s office at the end of the hall. Then something distracted me.

I stopped and turned slightly to my left toward one of the VP offices—one of the better ones—which had been empty for a few months. I stepped closer and peered inside. Obviously someone had been promoted; the place was occupied now. Two broad windows faced Michigan Avenue, so it was warm and white with the morning sun. There was a pine credenza, left behind by the previous occupant, one with fleurs-de-lis and scrolls carved deep in its sides.

And atop the credenza sat the photo of my mom and sisters, right next to Odette’s cookbook.

I opened and closed my eyes a few times, still trying to focus on the credenza. Was this some kind of freak joke? I glanced at the desk and saw my Northwestern Wildcats cup filled with my pens. There was my orange notebook, the square leather box where I kept my CDs, the yellow mug I bought years ago at Old Town Art Fair.

Startled, I stepped back outside the office. And there, on the wall next to the door, was a gold nameplate that read Billy Rendall, Vice President.

“Oh, my…” I said, my breath coming fast. It had happened! That was why Roslyn wanted to see me—she’d finally given me the job!

“Billy.” It was Roslyn’s voice. I turned to see her head sticking out of her office. “Can I see you?”

“Absolutely!” I trotted down the hall, beaming at everyone I passed. This was the validation I’d been waiting for—the official proclamation of my worth. And how sweet of Roslyn to move all my things!

When I reached her office, she was seated and signing letters, her assistant standing near her desk. I beamed some more, ready to hear rounds of congratulations. But Roslyn barely looked up.

“Billy,” she said, sounding distracted. “Are you free for lunch with Lydia?”

“Lydia Frankwell?” I had never been invited to break bread with the firm’s owner.

“Of course.”

“Any special occasion?” Aha, I thought, they were going to officially announce my vice presidency at lunch. Again, such a thoughtful gesture!

“No, no. We just need to go over a few things, mostly the budget for the Teaken Furniture account. We’ll have salads brought to the conference room.”

“Oh…okay.” Should I raise the fact that I’d seemingly been promoted overnight?

Roslyn’s assistant gave me a benign, fleeting smile that seemed to say, Morning. Nothing new here.

“Lydia is flying in from Manhattan, so we’ll do a late lunch,” Roslyn said. “I’ll see you at 1:30, all right? I’ve got to get these letters out. You know how it is.”

“Sure, okay.”

My walk down the hallway was slower this time. I expected someone to jump out of the shadows at any minute and yell, “Surprise! Congrats!” but everyone was going about their work as if this were any other day. As if I had always been a vice president.

The leather chair behind my new desk was the color of red wine. I sank into it, but it was too low, too cushy. I spent ten minutes trying to adjust the damn thing, but even when I’d raised it, I felt like a little kid in a big La-Z-Boy. It was too deep, my feet barely touched the floor. I found a Chicago Yellow Pages, the shape and weight of an anvil, and put that under my feet. I took my camel sweater off the hook behind the door and balled it up behind my back. Now what?

I turned on my computer. Everything looked the same there. I clicked on my e-mail account, scanning a note from an old college friend who was coming to town. There was also an e-mail from Odette suggesting new ideas for how to promote her book. I made notes on a pad of paper, reading Odette’s e-mail slowly. The last line said, If you don’t have time to call, don’t worry, just have your assistant, Lizbeth, give me a buzz.

I put my pen down and sat back in my big chair. Who the hell was Lizbeth?

I looked at the phone—a sleek black model with typed speed-dial names. One of them said “Lizbeth.” I stared at that a second, then slowly lifted my index finger and brought it down on the button.

“Hiya, Billy!” A chipper voice shot through my phone. “What do you need?”

“Uh…” I considered my possible responses. A lobotomy. A clue. “Lizbeth?” I said, the word alien on my tongue.

“Yeah?”

“You’re my assistant, right?”

A peal of girlish laughter. “Of course.”

I sat back in my chair.

“Billy?” I heard through the phone.

“Yes. Uh… Lizbeth, what day is it?”

“May 5th.”

That sounded right to me. “And it’s Tuesday, right?”

“Yeah. Is something wrong?”

What could be wrong? I’d had fabulous sex with my husband that morning, and I’d been promoted overnight. The only problem was I didn’t seem to know anything about that promotion. Then I got an idea. I knew who could help me.

“No, everything is fine,” I said. “Have you seen Evan today?”

Evan looked up from his desk, his green eyes sparkling, his dimples crinkling. “Hey there! I’m glad to see you.”

He came around the desk and hugged me tight.

“Whoa,” I said, pushing him back a little. Evan and I might hug when we saw each other out at night (me being the one holding him a tad too closely) but we never embraced at work. It wasn’t that kind of office.

“God, it’s weird, but I missed you,” he said.

“You missed me since yesterday?” Wasn’t it yesterday that I’d gone to the team meeting, that I’d been humiliated by Roslyn, that he’d mentioned the Hello Dave show?

“Yeah.” His hand, still on my arm, felt almost like a caress.

“I’ve got to ask you something.” I slipped away and closed the door.

“Sure.” He gestured to one of the chairs that faced his desk and went back to his own.

“What’s going on around here?” I said, taking a seat.

“You look sexy today,” he said.

“Do I?” I took a quick look at my brown pants, my ivory blouse. I’d worn the outfit to work no less than fifty times.

“You do.” His eyes dragged down my body, then back up again. “God, what is it about you today?”

“I don’t know.” Maybe it’s the fact that I just got steamed an hour ago? “Look, Ev, focus for me, okay? What in the hell is happening around here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why do I have a VP office?”

He laughed. “Because you’re a VP, baby. Get used to it.”

“Why did it happen so quick?”

“What do you mean? You deserved it for a long time.”

“I know,” I said, irritated. “But why did they just move me in there overnight?”

“What are you talking about? You’ve been VP for a while.”

“A while? How long?”

He ran a hand through his blond hair—the kind of gesture that normally made me sigh with desire. “I can’t remember.” He scratched his head. “Huh. That’s strange. Well, anyway, it doesn’t matter. Are you tense?”

“What?”

“You seem like you’re tense. Let me give you a neck rub.” In a flash, he was around his desk and behind me, his hands massaging my neck.

My eyes drifted shut for a moment, then snapped open. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you work out the kinks.” His voice was low, thick, the kind of voice I was sure he used with his girlfriends in bed.

“Okay, okay.” I stood up and spun around. “Is this a joke? Seriously, this is unbelievably cruel if it is.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My VP office! And—” I pointed at him, unable to find the words “—you, acting like this.”

“Sorry.” A confused expression. “That was inappropriate, wasn’t it?”

“Uh…yeah.”

“Geez, what is with me?” He shook his head. “Are you all right? Is it tension in your lower back? Here, let me work on that.” He moved forward, his muscled arm slipping around my hips.

“All right, I’m out of here,” I said. With a nervous laugh I headed for the door.

“Want to get lunch?” Evan said, looking like a child left behind on the playground.

“I’ve got plans.” Odd. It was the response he usually gave me.

Back in my office, I climbed into the chair, and with my feet on the phone book, let my eyes sweep the room. All my stuff was there—no doubt about it—and everyone seemed to think I was a vice president. But it felt surreal, having it just happen like that. I wanted a party, maybe a cake with Congrats Billy! on it in pink frosting. I wanted someone to say, “You deserve it.”

I needed my mom. She would ramble and rave; she would make me believe this was real and I had earned it. I slid the phone closer and perused the speed dial buttons. There it was. Mom.

Two rings went by, then three. I knew her machine would pick up on the next ring, and I’d hear the message, “Sorry we can’t come to the phone. We’ll call you back.” My mother hadn’t changed the message since Jan died, and so it still sounded as if he were running around town with her, about to head home and check voice mail.

The answering machine clicked on, and surprisingly I heard something new. Tinkling piano music in the background, then my mother’s chipper, “Hello! I’m not here right now. I’d love to phone you back. Just leave your number. Ta ta!”

Ta-freakin’-ta? She sounded like Joan Collins on Dynasty. “Mom, it’s me,” I said. “Nice message. Give me a call as soon as you get in.”

I put the phone back on the receiver. What to do now? Work, I supposed, but it seemed I might have a different role now, one I was unclear about.

“Hello, Miss Billy.”

I looked up and saw Gerald, the elderly black man who ran the mail office at Harper Frankwell and personally delivered everyone’s mail each morning.

I greeted him, and waited to see if he commented on my new office.

“Have a lovely day now.” He handed me a stack of mail. He turned and left, whistling an aimless tune.

I flipped through the envelopes—letters from clients, one from a TV station in Dallas, where we’d been trying to get coverage for a new product. And then there was a shiny lacquered postcard. The photo on the front showed a multispired white building. I flipped it over and looked at the printed words on top. The Duomo, it said. Milan.

Below that, in my mom’s tiny, perfect penmanship, there were three lines: The collections are surprisingly tedious! The Trussardi stuff—particularly stale. Love, Mom.

I flipped it back and looked at the front. I turned it again and read the lines a few more times. It appeared that overnight my mother had transported herself, by herself, to Milan and the fashion district. My mother adored fashion. She was always decked out in the latest, and she’d always talked about going with Jan to the shows in Milan, but when he died, so did that dream. Until now. If this postcard was legit, my mother had a real life, something I’d been hoping for her for so long. And if it was true, then she’d gotten over Jan, and in a much shorter time than it took her to recover from the loss of my father.

With that thought, I noticed something different inside myself. Deep inside me, where there was usually a space for wonderings about where my father was and worries that his abandonment might somehow have been my fault—or his disappointment in me—was empty now. Those wonderings and worries were gone. I could remember the pain, the longing, the sadness that used to reside there, but I didn’t feel it any longer. Like reminiscing about a distant love affair, the emotions had vanished.

I took a breath. There seemed to be more room in my lungs now, more room in my head, too. The hours with Blinda must have taken hold. I’d broken the reverse Oedipal thing, and I was free of him.

I smiled to myself in my new office. I felt lighter, happier. Not only had I gotten over my dad, but I’d had a wonderful morning with my husband, I’d been promoted and Evan had flirted with me. Even my mother had begun her own fabulous life. I had no idea how it happened, but in one night I’d gotten incredibly lucky.

I thought of my visit with Blinda last night and the frog she’d given me. Could they have anything to do with this? Intuitively, I answered yes! but that seemed entirely illogical. Yet either way, it didn’t matter. I’d gotten everything I’d wished for. And I was going to enjoy it.

chapter four

When Evan made VP, I had pumped him for every bit of information he possessed about the perks of the promotion. He’d gotten a new computer and cell phone, ditto for new office furniture, and there were no longer limits on client lunches and entertainment, the way there were for the non-VPs.

I rubbed my hands together at my desk now. Time to spend some company money. Then it occurred to me—maybe I had already done that, somewhere in the yawning chasm between my today and my yesterday.

I hit Lizbeth’s button again.

“What’s up, Billy?” she said cheerily.

I still hadn’t seen the girl, and I supposed I’d better “meet” her now so that I didn’t run into her in the hallway and give a blank stare. “Can you stop by my office for a second?”

A moment later, a woman in her early-twenties appeared in my doorway. Her sandy brown hair was worn in artful waves about her very round face. She had wide, startled eyes and a rosebud mouth shellacked with cotton-candy pink gloss.

What’s going on?” she said, taking one of my visitor’s chairs.

“When I made vice president…well, maybe I should say, do you remember when I made vice president?”

“I got hired right after, so I don’t remember the exact day, but yeah.” She looked at me oddly.

“Sure, right. And when was that? I mean when did you get hired?”

She laughed wryly, as if this were an easy question, but then she scrunched up her shiny mouth and looked at the ceiling. “Gosh, when was that?” She looked back at me with a stumped expression. “I can’t remember.”

Just like Evan, I thought. Everyone seemed to assume I’d been in this position forever, but I knew different. It made me feel as if I were playacting. It made everything unreal.