Two By Two

“You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.”

“You’re such a supportive and helpful sister.”

“I try.”

The meeting with the owners of the sandwich shop went about as well as the one with the chiropractor the day before. Not because they weren’t interested. The owners, a married couple from Greece, knew that advertising would help their business; the problem was that they were barely earning enough to keep the doors open and still cover their expenses. They told me to come back in a few months, when they had a better handle on things, and offered me a sandwich as I was getting ready to leave.

“It’s delicious,” the husband said. “All our sandwiches are served in fresh pita bread that we make here.”

“It’s my grandmother’s recipe,” the wife added.

I had to admit that the bread smelled heaven-sent, and I could see the great care the husband took when making the sandwich. The wife asked if I wanted some chips and something to drink – why not? – and they handed me my lunch, both of them wearing smiles.

After that, they presented me with the bill.

I made it to the lunch gathering of the Red Hat Society at a quarter past twelve. Despite the inconvenience I’d no doubt caused my mom, I had the sense that my mom was proud to show off her granddaughter, who was something of a novelty in that group.

“Daddy!” London called out as soon as she saw me. She scooted off her chair and ran toward me. “They said I could come back to one of their lunches any time!”

My mom got up from the table and gave me a hug, away from the group.

“Thanks for watching her, Mom.”

“My pleasure,” she said. “She was a hit.”

“I could tell.”

“But tomorrow and the rest of the week…”

“I know,” I said. “Tulips. Volunteering.”

On our way out, I reached for London’s hand. It was small in mine, warm and comforting.

“Daddy?” she said.

“Yes.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Let’s go home and get you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

“We can’t,” London said.

“Why not?”

“We don’t have any bread.”

We went to the grocery store, where – for the first time – I grabbed a cart.

For the next hour, I slowly worked my way through Vivian’s list, backtracking to a previously visited aisle more than once. I have no idea what I would have done had London not been there to help me, since she had a knowledge of the brands that went well beyond her five years. I had no idea where to find spaghetti squash, nor could I tell whether an avocado was ripe by squeezing it, but somehow with her and a few store employees’ help I was able to cross everything off the list. While I was there, I saw mothers with children of all ages, most appearing as overwhelmed as I felt and I felt a fleeting kinship with them. I wondered how many of them, like me, would rather have been in an office instead of the meats section of the store, where it took me nearly five minutes to find the organic free-range chicken breasts that Vivian had specified.

Back home, after making a sandwich for London and unpacking the groceries, I spent the rest of the afternoon alternately working and cleaning while making sure London was okay, feeling the whole time like I was swimming against a never-ending current. Vivian arrived home at half past six and spent time with London for a few minutes before meeting me in the kitchen, where I’d started putting together a salad.

“How’s the chicken Marsala coming?”

“Chicken Marsala?”

“With spaghetti squash on the side?”

“Uh…”

She laughed. “I’m kidding. I’ll get it going. It won’t take long.”

“How was work today?”

“Busy,” she said. “I spent most of the day learning about the journalist I mentioned yesterday and trying to figure out the angle he wants to take for the article. And, of course, how to contain the story once it’s out and generate some positive coverage instead.”

“Do you have a guess as to the kind of story it might be?”

“I suspect it’s just the usual garbage, similar to what’s been written before. The journalist is an environmentalist nut and he’s been talking to people who claim that one of the oceanfront condo developments took a lot of shortcuts and was not only illegal, but has caused severe beach erosion on another part of the beach during the last tropical storm. Basically, it’s all about blaming the rich people whenever Mother Nature strikes.”

“You know Spannerman’s not an eco-friendly guy, right?”

By then, Vivian was pouring herself a glass of wine. “Walter’s not like that anymore. He’s changed a lot since you knew him.”

I doubt it, I thought. “It sounds like you’ve got a good handle on it,” I offered instead.

“I’m just glad the article isn’t coming out this week. Walter’s got a big fund-raiser scheduled this weekend in Atlanta. For his PAC.”

“He has a PAC now?”

“I mentioned it to you before,” she said. She placed a frying pan on the stove, added the chicken and began riffling through the spice cabinet. “He started it a couple of years ago and has been funding it himself. Now he’s decided to reach out to others for support. And that’s what I’m going to be overseeing for the next three days. He hired an event company to run the program and while they’ve done a good job, he wants it to be perfect. That’s where I come in. He knows I was in entertainment, and he wants me to see if I can find a musical act. Someone big.”