Maggie had such high hopes for the job. And now she has nothing. Not a single employment opportunity. At least not in the news industry. Not in Richmond. She now knows with absolute certainty, she can’t trust her husband. If she turns to her family, she risks losing every ounce of respect she has for herself. She’s an adult now. She created this mess, and she will have to find a way to get herself out of it.
When the customer service rep finally comes on the line, Maggie asks for confirmation of the balance in the account.
“Three hundred forty-three dollars and fifty-two cents,” the woman says.
“That’s what I thought,” Maggie says. “Can you give me the balance on the other accounts listed in my husband’s name?”
The representative says, “I’ll need to speak with your husband before I can provide that information. Is he nearby?”
“No,” Maggie snaps. “I can give you his social security number.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ll need his permission first.”
Maggie ends the call without saying thank you or goodbye and hurls the phone across the room. It bounces off the wall onto the floor. She dives onto the bed, shimmies over the mattress, and snatches up the phone, relieved to see her screen protector prevented it from shattering.
She stuffs the phone in her back pocket, and for the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, she slowly and methodically searches not only Eric’s clothes but every drawer and cabinet in every room in the house. She finds not a single clue as to where Eric has stashed the money from the sale of her car.
When she finishes and Eric still hasn’t returned her calls, she debates whether to leave him a message or send him a text. Deciding against either, she goes to the Village Cafe for happy hour and stays through dinner.
She already knows most of the breakfast and lunch staff by name. She’s seen the freckle-faced ginger bartender, but she hasn’t yet met him. He’s distracted, filling a mug with draft beer for another customer, when he asks Maggie, “What’s it gonna be?”
“A shot of tequila,” Maggie says. “Please.”
He comes to stand in front of her as he pours her tequila into a shot glass.
She kicks it back and slams the glass on the bar. “Another one, please.”
The bartender replenishes her glass. “Bad day?”
Maggie can’t even go there. “You have no idea.”
She learns a lot about Greg. He’s older than she originally thought, thirty-five in October, happily married with his first child on the way. But she tells him little about herself, only that she’s originally from Oregon and recently moved to Richmond for her husband’s new job.
Eric calls twice while she’s at the bar, but she ignores both. By the time she leaves the cafe three hours, two glasses of pinot noir, and one bacon cheeseburger later, she has calmed down. On the walk home, she convinces herself that she’s blowing everything out of proportion. This kind of stuff only happens to women in movies.
Eva
Few customers venture into Claudia’s Closet during Eva’s first cold and lonely weeks without Annette. The shop’s dingy interior depresses her. The white paint on the walls has long since yellowed and the oak floorboards are caked with grime. And she can’t, for the life of her, comprehend Annette’s method of organizational madness.
Why not do a complete overhaul? she says to herself while eating a container of yogurt for lunch one day in late January. And winter is the perfect time when the majority of her customers are either hibernating or vacationing in their second homes.
She pores herself into the project with more gusto than she’s experienced for anything in a very long time. Pushing the circular racks of clothes to the center of the showroom, she paints the long side walls a soft french blue and covers the back one in a lattice wallpaper that’s the same shade of blue and white. She waxes and buffs her hardwood floors, and then scatters about several Orientals from her attic at home—rugs Stuart inherited from his grandparents that don’t fit any of the rooms in their house. She sorts her clothing inventory by weeding out items no one will ever buy and hanging the rest according to size on metal bars she mounts on the walls. On high-gloss white shelves above the hanging clothes, she displays hats on faceless wicker mannequin heads along with miscellaneous knickknacks for the home. Tiered racks housing their collection of shoes and boots line the baseboard, and metal stands showcasing belts and scarves occupy the back corners of the store. From the West End Antiques Mall, she purchases a pine armoire for folded clothes and an oak-and-glass display case for jewelry.
Getting rid of the clutter clears the cobwebs from her brain and the fresh interior lifts her spirits. Is it possible that, after ten years, she’s finally ready to move on with her life?
During the evening hours, Eva continues her cleaning and purging spree at home. She starts in the living room by throwing out the artificial Christmas tree, ornaments and all. She reorganizes the books on the shelves, rearranges the furniture, and paints the dark wood paneling a soft cream color—a bold move Stuart would never have approved of.
On the fourth Saturday in February, Eva receives a surprise visit from her best childhood friend.
“It’s so wonderful to see you,” she says as she presses her cheek against Helena’s. She’s often wondered if their friendship would have survived if they hadn’t grown apart in college. “How are Roger and the children?”
“Everyone’s doing well. For the moment, anyway.” Helena raises her hands, fingers crossed. “The girls are both living and working in Charlotte, and Roger retired last year from his job as corporate litigator. We just returned from a month in Italy. How about you?” She lowers her voice, even though they are alone in the shop. “Have you received any word about . . . um . . .”
“Reese? No. Nothing.” Eva takes a step back to inspect her friend, thinking how the girl she once loved like a sister has transitioned into a stunning woman, a platinum blonde with wide blue eyes who carries herself with grace. “Look at you, Helena! You’re positively elegant in faded denim and a navy pea coat. Seeing you brings back so many memories of your mother. You’re the spitting image of Claudia.”
“The coat’s Burberry, and it belonged to Mom,” Helena says, and they both laugh.
“My fondest childhood memories are the times we spent playing dress-up in her closet. I owe her a lot.”
“She was flattered you named your store after her. She loved you, you know?” Helena chuckles. “There were times when I thought she even loved you more than me.”
Eva’s heart swells. “Claudia was a source of strength for me when Mom was sick. I’ll never forget her kindness. And I would never have gotten through my teenage years without her support. I was saddened by her death. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to speak to you at the funeral. You were surrounded by your family and friends.”
“I understand.” Helena stares past her into the showroom. “I’m embarrassed I’ve never taken the time to stop in. Do you mind if I look around?”
Eva steps aside. “Please! Make yourself at home. Let me know if you have any questions.”