Beau and I have been in Winter Park for five years now, splashing out our new money on a mansion at the end of an exclusive private drive known to locals as the Isle of Sicily. But we didn’t pick Winter Park for its two country clubs. We picked it because it’s as far away from California as possible without leaving the continental United States.
All part of our glass-boat lifestyle.
Restlessness crept in, though. And that’s about the time I started looking for underdogs to rehabilitate—people like Polly and Nora. Maybe it’s because my parents died when I was a teenager, and I know what truly being alone in the world can feel like. Or because I felt orphaned a second time when life in California blew up in my face. Maybe I envy the way people like Nora and Polly still have a stubborn faith in the world. I’m a sucker for anyone who wears their heart on their sleeve. It’s probably all of those things mixed in with a side of unlimited free time.
Whatever the pathology, I’ve been helping Gemma with her job hunt all summer, reviewing her résumé, making calls to what few connections I have, and practicing interview strategies with her. She’sthisclose to landing on the next stepping-stone. I remember what it’s like to stand at the bottom of the career ladder, dreaming of reaching the top.
“This is for you,” I say, holding up the garment bag, swallowing another pinch of survivor’s guilt.
My lucky work dress. I used to wear it like a suit of armor. Now, I hand her the bag with the dress inside—steamed and waiting to work its magic one more time.
“It’s vintage Chanel,” I say solemnly. “It’s the last thing I have from my chief of staff days in California, so it’s something of a collector’s item. I’m going to need it back. But”—I proffer the Neiman Marcus bag next—“there’s something in there for you to keep.”
Gemma’s face ticks with curiosity. “Este, you’ve already done so much. You didn’t have to—” Amidst her protests, she’s lifting the shoebox out, removing the lid, and tearing through the tissue paper. “Jimmy Choo?” She squeals and her face lights, looking between me and the brand-new designer shoes.
I had seen her admiring my Jimmy Choo pumps at a dinner a few weeks ago, and when she landed the interview, I knew she needed a pair of her own.
“They’re not exactly sensible for Lemon & Fig,” I say, nodding at her black work mules. She solemnly pulls out the new heel to admire the point of the three-inch stiletto. “But in the right setting, they’ll make you feel ten feet tall.”
There’s an awed expression on her face as she examines the shoes, like they’re enchanted—or the gateway to a version of herself she’s only dreamed of until now. I know what she’s thinking, because I’ve been where she is.
This is the beginning of everything.
Beginnings are rare—electric and intoxicating. Alight with the promise of anything being possible. I’ve always found them preferable to endings.
“Thank you.” She hugs the shoes to her chest, adding, “I promise I’ll have the dress dry-cleaned and back in your closet the second the interview is over.”
“It’s not like I’ll need it that quickly, but it’s important to me.”
I was wearing it the night I met Beau.
She nods, like it’s a promise.
“Oh, I almost forgot! Check your email,” I say. “I made you a cheat sheet. It’s a rundown of answers to McKinsey-style interview questions. Things people like to ask to throw you off-balance. LikeHow would you explain blockchain to a Martian?orHow many golf balls would it take to fill a Boeing 737?Curveballs designed to make you sweat.”
The kinds of questions I used to ace.
Gemma opens her phone and scans the document. “You annotated this.”
“It’s color-coded, too,” I say. “I might be retired, but I’m still me.”
Someone’s going to reach the top of their career track. There was a time when I thought it would be me. I had big dreams of sealing myself off in some well-appointed executive wing—aloof and in control. But now, it feels like it should be Gemma.
“I better get going,” she says. “My shift starts in about an hour and I still have errands to run. But I’ll see you there?”
“You will.” I walk her to the door. “I’ll be the one hoarding Marcus’s passed hors d’oeuvres.”
Instead of her laughing at my joke, though, Gemma’s face softens into something earnest. “I really mean it. I don’t think I would have gotten through this job search without your support. I won’t forget it.” She throws her arms around me, squeezing as if she could transfer gratitude through force. “Thank you so much, Este.”
“You’re welcome,” I whisper into her hair. She releases me.
The knowledge that my lucky work dress is off for a new adventure sparks the flicker of a memory, faint but unmistakable.
There’s a whole world still running on ambition and hustle and the fight to reach some top. And I’m here, in a house half the size of a Los Angeles city block.
I found the power and control I was after in the bubble Beau and I made together, and don’t tellThe Feminine Mystique,but it’s just as good.
My career went from being my entire life to something I can only barely remember the shape and size of—some vague sketch of a thing. My lucky dress and Beau are the only proof it ever happened at all. And after how spectacularly badly things went toward the end, that’s the way I like it.
