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My afternoon at the club working with the outgoing vendor manager has been majorly illuminating. He explained to me all the ins and outs of managing the club:the alcohol we stock, the food we serve, even down to the details of what paper towels are stocked in the bathrooms.
We got to talking a bit.
“Why are you leaving? It’s clear you love this job.”
He smiles. “I do. But there’s too much traveling.”
“How is that a bad thing?” Sounds just perfect to me.
He laughs. “It wasn’t when I started. I loved going to new places and meeting new people, but I have a wife and a new baby at home, and I need something that me keeps closer to New York more consistently. Otherwise, I’m off every other week, checking out a new winery or sampling innovations in agriculture to see what big gun offerings I can bring back to the Lyons Club.”
“I can see how a baby and a wife would make you want to stick around. I smile at him.
“Of course, it’s not all travels and wineries and vineyards and the good life. But it’s not all bad either. Yes, there are some Excel spreadsheets and sitting at a desk. But I get to roam the floor, talk to clients, ask about how they like that new pinot grigio on the menu.”
After my talk with him, I start thinking if maybe this isn’t a good opportunity for me.
For the rest of the day, I introduce myself to some of the newer club members, catch up with the old, many of whom are shocked to see me working there. Not a bad shocked, though. I can tell that my presence brings a brightness to their eyes.
Maybe they realize that the Lyons Club will continue to be a family affair if I have anything to do with it.
If I have kids, they won’t be forced to be a part of the club, not by a longshot.
Despite all the baggage my dad and I share, though, I have to admit this place is a home away from home.
Shuffling between my mom and dad, changing apartments and penthouses all through my childhood, the club always remained as a place I could retreat.
A piece of my heart is here. I’d be stupid not to acknowledge it.
So, yes, if that had been the only part of my day, it could have been considered a good one.
It was how the day started. How Laney barely said anything to me, though her smile was placid as we did my exercises, her head filled to the brim with thoughts that she wouldn’t share.
I’ve been planning all day what I’m going to say to her when I get home. How I’m going to smooth things out.
All the way until Dad, Sonia, and I walk up to the penthouse door, my mind is whirring with ways I can crack her shell, get her to spill her guts to me. Without outright kissing her or rambling about my feelings. Which is more difficult not to do than you’d think.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Dad claps his hand on my shoulder as Sonia unlocks the front door.
I smile at him. “It was actually good. But don’t let it go to your head.”
He grins at me.
Sonia looks over her shoulder at us as the door swings open. “Told you so.”
“Watch it, you,” Dad’s playful tone to Sonia suggests a lot more than I need to be present for. These two are complete and utter horndogs.
Sonia giggles and flits into the front hall before us. “What’s this?” She heads toward the credenza against the wall opposite the door above which hangs a family portrait of Dad, Abigail, Jack, and me from when we were all in our adolescence, all of us looking dower and glum.
I follow her. “What’s what?”
Sonia picks up a folded piece of paper. Her lips part, and her eyes widen. She holds the paper out toward me. “It’s got your name on it.”
I furrow my brow and take the folded paper.
Sure enough, there’s my name written in black ink. In Laney’s writing.
I’ve learned her writing from all the times she’s taken notes during our sessions together. It’s a combination of cursive and print, a scribble that dances across the page. Emblematic of doctor handwriting to its core.
