Whole Latte Life (3 page)

So this is all new, this leaving behind her steady, dependable life. She quickly walks half a dozen Manhattan blocks, grips her leather satchel close and focuses ahead on the crowded sidewalks. At each busy intersection, buses and cars pass and she waits, head up, posture straight. This is what it must feel like to fly, spreading her wings and keeping balanced. But suddenly she stops, just stops, and leans up against the warm side of a stone building. Perspiration glazes her face and dampens her neck. This, well okay, this must be the crash landing. Doubts and worry and indecision hit her head-on.

She tips her head back and closes her eyes. City people and sounds move all around and she gulps long breaths of air. So what now? She walked through the restaurant door and found herself lost.

Sometimes a feeling comes over her. More like an urge. The urge to pick up her cell and dial without thought.
Mom?
Oh to say it would help, the word a soft cloud of relief. Cumulus and soothing. The sky on a perfect summer day is what the question is.
Mom?
But when you make these decisions, you can’t call Mom, no matter how badly you miss her. As a matter of fact, now would be a good time to take her off speed dial, to shed that security blanket. So she studies her phone, gets into the menu, sees the oh-so-familiar number that is dialed right into her mind, winces and deletes. It feels exactly like it did when her mother died, like stepping off a cliff, the sensation making her bend at the waist, hands on her knees, inhaling deeply, trying to find a breath.

So now there are no strings attached, no ties tugging at her conscience, no easy, familiar voice whispering in her ear. She pulls the blue silk scarf from her neck and folds it into her purse, glancing at the surroundings. It’s a way of orienting herself, to see exactly where she landed. She can’t just stand here. But her plan was only to step back from her life, to scrutinize and soul search in solitude for three short days. With another deep breath, she turns and crosses the street to keep walking away, turning down a short flight of stairs into a clothing boutique.

“Has it warmed up outside?”

The woman’s voice startles her and she tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re flushed,” the saleswoman answers from behind the counter. Pastel clutches line three shelves behind her. Pink and yellow and blue. “Is it getting hot out there?”

“Oh.” She shakes her head. “I’m in a rush.”

“You’re on your lunch hour then?”

“Well. Yes, actually.” A display of summer wear, sleeveless wrap dresses in muted patterns, hangs on a long rack. She picks one and holds it up against her front. If only it were that easy, change your clothes and Presto! New wardrobe, new life. Only in art, she supposes, sweeping new paint over old. “Can I try this on?”

The saleswoman points toward the dressing rooms. “I’ll check with you in a bit.”

She selects three dresses as though she’s seriously shopping and hurries into the dressing area at the rear, locking a stall door behind her. Turning and seeing her reflection, the past thirty minutes hit her so forcefully, she sinks onto the bench and drops the dresses in a soft heap.

Now she is just Sara Beth, unfettered. It is all that matters for these few days. She dares to consider her reflection and study the woman, who, at forty, had to walk out of her life to find her way back. The eyes are less assured than she had imagined, her skin drawn. Instead of a small thrill, now there’s this nagging doubt. Did she do the right thing? They say that in an oil painting, colors can be painted over each other, changing the nuance of light. So maybe this is what she’ll do. Change just the nuance of Sara Beth.

A small knock at the dressing room door makes her flinch.

“How are we doing in there?” the saleswoman asks.

Sara Beth stands abruptly, swiping at her eyes and straightening her top. Her handbag slips to the floor, keys jangling out of it. She runs her fingers back through her hair trying to primp, or restore order at least. This feels completely foreign; she’s usually carefully put together. Matched, color coordinated outfits hang in her walk-in closet; neutral shoes fill the shoe rack. Desperation has never been part of her appearance. “Okay,” she calls out, facing her reflection. “I’m okay.”

“How are the sizes?” comes the voice through the door.

Sizes? What is she doing here? She half expects her mother to tap at the door and hurry her along. Mom hates dawdling over clothes. Waste of time, she thinks. You should know what you like and buy it.

“Or can I bring any accessories for the dresses? A straw tote maybe?”

“Oh. The dresses.” Sara Beth grabs at two of the hangers and shakes out the rumpled fabric before opening the door enough to slip them narrowly through, as though she is undressed and desiring privacy. “Can I have the next smaller size?” While waiting, she pulls the blue scarf from her handbag and dries her face, neck, shoulders, then her face again.

“Anything else, dear?” the saleswoman asks when she returns.

Again she inches the door open and pulls the smaller dresses through. “No. Thank you, these are fine.” She hangs the dresses and searches for her compact and lipstick deep in her bag, needing to freshen up.

Freshen up. That’s what she told Rachel she needed to do in the restaurant. A little lipstick, a little bronzer, and she’d be back in a flash. Her whole body sinks slowly down, wondering what she has done besides leaving her dear friend deserted back at the restaurant, solo at the cabaret, standing alone with a fashion consultant, turning in front of a mirror, the silky fabric of a long summer dress catching up with the spin.
Holy moly,
Rachel might say, oh she could just hear her.
I love these threads!

But if she turns back, there will be no other chance to take this breather, not plum in the middle of suburban life. Rachel will want to talk this out over a pot of coffee, or with lattes at a window table, or bring her home sitting close on the train, or call Tom to New York, none of which will work. For the first time in a long time, she has to do something for herself. It’s too important to put off any longer.

Until now, she’s only dreamt of the possibility. Her own little antique shop, with lace curtains in the windows. Mom said she’d sew them; they found beautiful hand-stitched lace at a tag sale, deep inside an old trunk. She picked it up and it unfolded like a butterfly’s wing, and they talked about how the sun would shine through, throwing tatted shadows on the furniture, the brass handles. It made her think of how Monet studied the way light changed and moved on his subjects, creating fleeting colors. Sunlight shining through lace would do the same on her antiques. It would be the light shining on her own canvas, on her children, her home, her marriage, and the responsibilities that came with it all, Jenny planning her high school schedule and Katherine in braces and a new baby, and commitment. And love. Piece by piece, the illumination of her dream brightened it all as she’d built an antique inventory from the classifieds, tag sales, estate auctions. Mom would’ve been there more often than not, dusting the inventory, lighting scented candles, keeping coffee going for the customers.

Yes, it was all supposed to be painted onto her canvas at forty with the perfect antique shop, a place that would belong to her and her mother.

Now her mother was gone and Rachel takes her place on the canvas, no doubt worried about her. Sara Beth’s hand trembles when she freshens her lipstick, so much that she blots it all off and tosses the lipstick back in her bag. The thought of hurting Rachel bothers her enough to go back. Leaving the dresses behind, she rushes through the store, straight to the doorway.

“Oh miss!” the salesclerk calls out. The voice comes to her as she opens the door and runs up the stairs. “Have a good day now?”

The restaurant is only a few blocks away. Turning the corner on the long window filled with a row of finely set tables, Sara Beth nearly stops. Pedestrians brush past, irritated at the way she suddenly slows up. She searches for their table and as though the whole lunch thing had never happened, it has been cleared, set with new silverware and crystal, the linen napkins folded in place.

At first it is a gift, that cleared table. She has done what she set out to do, erase herself from the picture with no harm done. There, you see? The table linens are still lovely, the glasses still sparkle. She turns from the empty table to the right, toward The Plaza, then glances left, the direction she could walk to pursue three empty days of time.

Enough time to leave her best friend devastated, imagining the worst. Rachel made the reservations ages ago, wanting to stay in the refurbished landmark on their landmark birthday. She’ll tell Rachel everything. How life got in the way of her dreams and she has to find a way to reach for them soon. They’re forty already! Coffee cups will sit between them, there’ll be a mess of those. Lattes or cappuccinos or straight up, whatever. They’ll talk it out.

Heading back to The Plaza, she passes two huge concrete planters in front of a bank, planters exploding with purple and yellow pansies. Mom’s favorite flowers. Until now, she tried not to think of her mother, not wanting to imagine her frown, her questions, mostly her worry. But now there’s this: happy pansies with smiling faces tipping and nodding in the breeze, exactly like the ones she planted last month. She makes them what she needs them to be, an image of Mom nodding in agreement with her decision. If she could only call her to know for sure. At the very least, her phone number’s going back into speed dial, just in case she needs her fast.

Stepping off the curb, Sara Beth looks down at the menu on her cell and walks straight into a mounted police officer, making his horse sidestep. Okay, so now she can’t help it, really. Hopefully her mother will laugh about this, a big, happy pansy smile: It’s like she turned Sara Beth around as she untangles from the horse, does an about-face and walks away in the opposite direction.

“Her name?”

“Sara Beth Riley.”

“Does she have a history of disappearing and returning?”

“No.”

“Any chemical dependency issues?”

“No, none.”

“Were you aware that she was leaving, but disagreed with her going?”

“No. No. No. This is completely out of character and unexpected. That’s why I’m here.”

Here. At the 18
^th
Precinct in Manhattan, and no one in the entire world knows it. Okay, so these moments have come few and far between in her life, the times when she can’t see through her tears. But she sees enough to realize how dire this situation is: Nicknames. Does
Mom
count? Physical appearance. Does it happen this fast, this not being able to picture her friend’s face? Last conversation. Should she have known?
Is everything all right hon?
With her hand pressed over her mouth, she tries to focus through those tears, when a formidable blue shadow of calm in this crazy city, in her suddenly crazy life, takes a seat beside her. He speaks in a slow, composed voice. “Mrs. DeMartino. You haven’t found your friend then?”

Rachel looks at the man, feeling like she knows him but not sure how. He looks tired, and yet familiar. He must see the confusion, or despair, or whatever her panicked eyes are communicating, and helps her out.

“I’m Officer Micelli. You stopped me earlier on Fifth Avenue? On the horse.”

“Yes, right. And the most you could do was send me here.”

“With all due respect, I didn’t mean to be unsympathetic. But she kind of screwed you with that note. Since she left of her own free will, technically there was nothing I could do. I thought you understood.”

“Sorry. I’m having a hard time understanding people today. And this form too. I mean, our last conversation? What we talked about? How can that help?”

“Something she said might lead us to her. It’s useful to create a rough timeline of the last twenty-four hours so we can eliminate certain factors.”

“Well she was with me during the past day. And she was fine. That’s why I’m thrown by this. I guess something might’ve been on her mind, but I never imagined this.”

“Okay, listen. Let’s start with the basics. Her appearance, her clothes. That sort of thing.”

Rachel rummages through her handbag for a photograph, pulling out her wallet, then dropping it as she opens it. When she reaches to catch it, her entire purse spills to the floor and she bends, randomly scooping the contents back inside. “I’m sorry,” she says, swiping at more tears. “I can’t think straight, can’t see straight. I’ll take this with me.” She grabs at the Report and starts to fold it in half.