“I’m not complaining.” Out loud, at least. I’d rather have my parents than an expensive bag any day. Glancing down at my newest pretty, I add, “My mom was invited to preview their private collection in Paris. Figured I’d carry it today since Hermés fits the Upper East Side.” Pulling out a barstool, I slide onto it and watch as she moves around the kitchen like a ballerina on stage—lithe and gracefully, as if she was born for the role of Mrs. Christiansen.
She’s so at ease in her own skin that sometimes it makes me uneasy in mine. I’m not jealous of her, but she has a lot to envy—a husband who adores her and would pluck the stars from the sky if she asked him to. She owns a business she loves, and she has the most awesome best friend ever if I do say so myself. Mine isn’t too shabby either. I laugh lightly to myself. But lately, there’s been a niggle, a bothersome feeling in my gut as though I’m forgetting something or missing out perhaps.
Though it sounds like it, I know it’s not jealousy. I’m fully aware we each find our destiny on our own timeline. Natalie St. James, now Christiansen, is fortunate to be smack dab in the middle of her love story. And one day, I hope to be that lucky.
“You make the Upper East Side sound like our parents—all fundraisers and no fun,” she says.
“I didn’t say you weren’t any fun. We have fun all the time. It’s just different. You’re married, and I’m still single. Painfully single. Everyone around me is pairing off like lobsters and swans, and I’m over here still hoping to meet someone, get asked out, and fall in love before your anniversary party just so I have a date.”
Her palm is pressed to the marble countertop, and I’m leveled with a look. “The party is Saturday night.”
I shrug. As a professional gift giver and experience architect, I make people’s dreams come true, from finding the perfect present to creating an unforgettable special event in their lives, or even elevating a simple date night to impress a significant other. I’m a tried-and-true people pleaser and I get paid for it. “That’s two days. I’ve accomplished greater feats in less time.”
Setting a bottle of wine on the island, she laughs. “As much as that’s true, you don’t have to bring a date. There’s no pressure. It’s not that kind of soiree. It’s friends, who are your friends too, and family. Just a small-ish celebration. Wine or water?”
“Wine. Make it a double.”
“Stop worrying. You’re witty and smart.”
“Pretty.”
She grins. “Beautiful. A great catch.”
“I’m so ready to be caught. Maybe just for the night.”
Bursting out laughing, she adds, “I’m sure you have a phone full of the right guy for tonight. As for love, it will happen when it’s supposed to for you. Don’t force something because of someone else’s timeline.” Grabbing a glass from a cabinet, she sets it in front of me and starts to pour the wine. “You’ll know when it’s right.” A gentle smile slides into place. “There will be no denying no matter how hard you try. And I know you love to deny some very good opportunities.”
She takes a deep breath, peace softening her features. When she pushes the glass toward me, I ask, “You’re not drinking?”
Tapping the counter, she perks up. “No. I have too much to get done. I still need to make sure Mr. Wriggler’s surprise for his wife gets delivered.”
“I thought that was handled?”
“Me too.” She sighs and rolls her eyes. Yep, two peas. One pod. “But the jeweler can’t deliver the necklace until tomorrow night at nine. The dessert cart is scheduled for nine fifteen. If there are any delays, the necklace won’t be served when dessert is.”
“There won’t be. It will work out perfectly,” I reassure.
I’ve worked with Natalie since she conceived the idea for her business back in college. I used to work for free, but since the company’s grown into a multimillion-dollar business, my salary is more than enough to live off in one of the most expensive cities in the world. Of course, my current lifestyle wouldn’t be possible without the monthly blank checks from my parents—money that eases the burden of their guilt for always traveling when I was growing up. I’m not going to deny them the pleasure even though I’m now twenty-six.
Without those checks, I wouldn’t be able to live in the apartment I do. “You have your party to worry about. I can make sure the necklace arrives on time,” I say.
“It will be fine. I’ll be in constant communication with the jeweler but thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Happy to help. You know me when it comes to diamonds. There can never be…” “Too many of the two main C’s—clarity and carats,” we say in unison, and break into a fit of giggles. Natalie has quite the collection of diamonds herself, so she understands my love of the sparkly gems.
“I have a surprise upstairs. Want to see?” she asks.
“Do you even need to ask?” This house is incredible and a great leg workout. The basement has a secondary living room and a home gym. The main floor is the kitchen, the living room, and the dining room. We’re already climbing the stairs to the second floor, which has the main bedroom and two spares. I glance up just as I hit the landing. The top floor has one empty room and a guest bedroom. I’ve slept up there a few times over the years when I was too tired or too drunk to go home. We’ve also had a few sleepovers when Nick is out of town. Slipping on our panda onesies and snuggling in for movies or Friends reruns. I love those nights.
With my glass in hand, I ask, “What is it?”
“It’s called a surprise for a reason, Tate.” Her laughter permeates her words.
“Guess you have a point.”
One of the rooms on the second floor is her home office. STJ, the company, which stands for St. James—her maiden name—is housed in a great space in SoHo. It’s been slow, but she’s been making headway in moving everything out of the house. Sometimes we bring our work home if it’s going to be a late night, though, preferring to be here rather than in an office. It reminds us of old times when we were roommates still building this dream, wrapping gifts on the floor of our apartment, and honestly, it brings me comfort. With so much constantly changing in our lives, it’s nice to have something consistent.
She walks into the room, stops in the middle of it, and turns around. Staring at me with wide eyes and her hands clasped in front of her chest, she whispers, “Surprise.”
Gripping tightly to the stem of the glass, I dart my eyes from the sketched wall mural to the two stuffed animals on the new chair in the corner, from the creamy color palette to the shelves with a small collection of children’s books, and from the dresser to the crib.
“What happened to the office?” I ask, swallowing so hard that a lump gets stuck in my throat.
Her hands remain clasped, hope held inside by the look in her eyes. “I thought the one in SoHo was enough. And my furniture finally came in yesterday afternoon.”
“You’re really prepared.” Still taking it in, I turn back to her just as tears glisten in her eyes. I set my glass down on the changing table and rush to my friend. “What’s wrong?”