A month ago I was begging my soul for some relief, to take a breath, to have a minute just to slow down and ignore the lawyer’s text messages, the emails from work, everything. I was praying for time to process.
Now, that’s all I do, and I have come to realize that, in spite of having that space, I’ve made little to no progress.
A great example … Last night, two young women come into the Riverside. They’re chatting, checking their nails, both well under 30. Each orders a whiskey sour (were they born in the ‘50s?) and immediately my mind goes back to Election Night and Daniel’s win. Celebrating at Daddy’s bar, Mr. Stuart Enderle, a key donor (who had been born in the ‘50s) bought a round of whiskey sours, because that’s his drink, toasts the victory, then dies the next day.
It has since become Daniel’s drink, too.
So, it is with great relief that I see Bitsy sitting in the parlor when I walk in from work this evening.
I smile in her direction. “No cards with Miller tonight?” I ask her, realizing I’m a bit jealous of her social calendar. Mine was never empty in New York between Daniel’s events and my own dinners with media and potential clients.
She shakes her head. “He’s with the kids,” she says. “Come, have a drink with me. Sit.”
I hang up my coat and do as I’m told. Her beverage cart is arranged the same way Cassie keeps things behind the bar at the Riverside – clear spirits clustered to the left, brown to the right, red wines in the rack on the floor, whites in the short refrigerator alongside the seltzer in the event someone needs to mix.
“What’s your drink?” Bitsy asks.
“I think I’m just going to have a glass of wine, if that’s alright.” I point tentatively to the refrigerator. “Mind if I open one?”
“Of course not,” she says. “I recommend the Gran Villarini Pinot Grigio. The case is fresh, help yourself.”
The scent of pear and apple floats up as I pour. Funny how wine smells so different at home.
“This looks lovely.” I tell her. “Do we get this at the bar?”
“No,” Bitsy says, “but it’s a staple at the Golden Pillar. Probably a little too posh for the lunchtime crowd at the Riverside.”
“Makes sense,” I say, nodding. I park myself on the chaise across the room from her. “How was your day?”
She shakes her head. “Good points, bad points. All in all, another orbit. Oh … wait!”
Bitsy sets her cocktail glass on the table in front of her and jumps up, pulling a folder from her briefcase.
“Book club!” she says, shaking the folder and sitting back down. “Let’s chat.”
She pulls a printout from her folder and thrusts it in my direction.
“Partita!” she says. “It’s the latest by Barbara Kingsolver, and I think this should be your first read! Rave reviews all around … it’s simply flying off the shelves! What do you think?”
I glance at the printout … it’s true, all raves.
“Should we start a little … more slowly? Maybe a simple cozy mystery?”
“Oh no, dear,” she says, sipping. “I don’t think you’re thinking big enough … these are some very important people here in town that come to my book club. And with your savvy? I’m sure you can handle it. Dive in!”
I nod in her direction, unsure that I have much of a choice at this point.