Calm, Cool, and Adjusted (9 page)

Morgan shrugs. “I’m just keeping my options open, is all.”

“Jeff and I are both in the medical field, so maybe we have more in common than I’ve allowed myself to see.” Granted, a little pathetically hopeful, but I don’t think I knew how desperate I was for companionship until the possibility of this date opened up.

“But what about ‘Plastic surgery is a tool of the devil’ and all that talk? You’re telling me that you’re going to sit all night and keep your mouth shut on your opinions to show you’re not a bigot?”

“I’m not a bigot!”

“Oh, but you are. If people don’t believe in the natural way, you’re a health bigot. The worst kind—the kind that tells other people how to live.”

“Based on scientific research and centuries of study, I tell people how to live. It’s not like I’m just talking out of ignorance. I have thousands of clients who have benefited and been healed the natural way.”

“Still a bigot.”

“Will you help me find something to wear?” I ask, hoping to put an end to this conversation.

Morgan’s smile disappears. “You’re serious. You’re going to get out of that skirt for this man?” She crosses her elegant arms and leans back on her heel. “Well, I’ll be.”

“I just want to know what it’s like for a day, that’s all. You can rest assured I’ll be back in gauze come Wednesday.”

“We should start simply. Do you have a black skirt?” Morgan asks.

I shake my head.

“A pair of slacks that aren’t too colorful?”

Again, no. “What’s wrong with color, anyway?”

“I’ll call Lilly.”

I grab her cell phone. “It’s not an emergency or anything. I’ll find something.” I walk to my closet with Morgan. There has to be something in there.

“I’d say it is an emergency if your date is tomorrow night. You can say whatever you want to make yourself believe, Poppy, but don’t lie to yourself. If you’re going out with Jeff Curran, it’s because you think he’s hot and you want to get rid of that emotion. You want to prove to yourself you’re above the fray.”

I swallow hard. Her assessment is probably closer to the truth than I’d like. Jeff is indeed hot, as she calls it, but when has that ever affected me? I am living, breathing proof of the necessity of mercy dates.

“I don’t want to go overboard,” I tell Morgan. “If I suddenly change everything, he’s going to think I have feelings for him. Trust me, this guy has enough ego for the two of us. I can’t up and change my style. I just want something subtle that says I’m open to the possibility, but not that open.”

“Give me a T-shirt.” Morgan starts unbuttoning her blouse.

“What are you doing?”

“Get me a T-shirt.”

I grab her a running T from one of my races, and she puts it on, handing me her creamy button-up blouse, which I’m sure is some designer label and is probably worth more than my futon. In her job as the assistant chief of protocol for the City of San Francisco, Morgan has made dressing an art form. When she quits after her marriage and becomes a stay-at-home mom to George’s son, her clothing tastes should get interesting. She’ll still probably be one of those mothers with perfectly-pressed slacks who sits on the ground at the park.

“Put this on.”

I pull off my black Lycra shirt and put on the cream. My hair likes the cream; it doesn’t clash at all.

“Come on.” Morgan starts rifling through my closet. She pulls out a skirt with the tags still on it. It’s an aubergine/ eggplant color and Sharon bought it for me last Christmas. It fit me perfectly, but I just didn’t want to wear anything she bought me. Of course, she would want me out of my mother’s clothes. Out of the reminder of her sin. Now I’m beginning to see that life does indeed go on, and it was very thoughtful of Sharon. I must learn to appreciate the way life is in the here and now.

I pull on the skirt, not explaining its origins or the negative energy it creates in me, and it fits like a glove. “Dang, the woman really has good taste.” I twist and turn in front of the mirror.

“What woman?”

“Sharon bought this for me.”

“Of course she has good taste. She picked your father, didn’t she?”

“Touché.” Naturally, Morgan would see my father as such a catch. She’s having him as her stand-in daddy. As far as fathers go, he
is
a good daddy. I imagine to Morgan mine is the cream of the crop.

Once in the skirt, I realize that in this you can actually appreciate my 14-percent body fat. It’s not sleazy, it’s not too clingy, it just says,
I’m a woman and I have curves, but I’m not going to flaunt them freely for you
. I catch my breath at the sight of me. Not because I think I look so fabulous or anything, but just because I look so completely Silicon Valley and non-natural. If I walked out tonight to a restaurant, no one would ever know I’m Dr. Poppy Clayton, chiropractor and Chinese medicine practitioner. They wouldn’t have any idea that I could talk intelligently about immune disorders and their relation to environmental allergies.

“You look gorgeous.” Morgan takes off her long strand of pearls and starts to place them on me.

“No. No pearls. Pearls say I made too much effort. I don’t want Jeff to think I made too much effort. Any effort, really. It’s just dinner between neighbors.” I smooth the shirt a bit, still a bit taken aback by the image in the mirror. Clothes hold power if you give it to them. I immediately turn away from the mirror and my vanity.

“Fine. Then we’re having Jacob—you know the runner Max met on the beach?—we’re having him over to the house, and you two can meet and get acquainted. You don’t have to wear the pearls that night. I think the wedding would be more fun for you if you found someone to enjoy it with.”

I love how she tries to convince me this is for my benefit.

“We’re going to the spa.” I clap my hands at the thought, ignoring the talk of Jacob and the pearls, which are now clasped about my neck. I’m sure Morgan owns several strands, but their iridescence is hypnotizing.

“We can go to the spa first thing Saturday morning.”

“Regarding Jacob.” I broach the subject casually, fingering the pearls as I do so, to remind her of our unspoken deal. “I think one date this week is quite enough. I don’t want to implode or anything.” I focus on my appearance, smoothing the skirt down. “I have no shoes to match this.”

“Cinderella
must
have shoes,” Morgan says, climbing out of her shoes, which read Donald Pliner. I can only assume they cost money. They look like they cost money. I slide into them, and I have to say for heels, they are very comfortable.

“They’re a little big,” I say, looking for something negative to offer. I can’t very well say I like them. Me, who is always touting the benefits of comfort and cushioned soles. It’s heresy. But as I glimpse my calf, I have to force down a smile.

“Quality footwear that looks that good is never too big or too small. You
make
it work. Didn’t you learn anything from Cinderella’s stepsisters? They just didn’t try hard enough, I’m telling you!”

“My mother wouldn’t read me that story. She thought it was sexist and would force me to wait on Prince Charming rather than determining my own destiny.”

“Poppy, you were thirteen when she died.”

“I was six when she taught me that. My dad reiterated it all those years. Once brainwashed, always brainwashed.”

She just shakes her head. “Do you hear what I’m telling you?” She pulls off her knee-length nylons and stuffs one into the shoe I’m not wearing. “Try that.”

I nod, sliding my toes in, feeling their grip tighten. “Perfect.”

“You’re going to wear a little makeup, right?”

“No. Definitely no.”

“Just a little lipstick, nothing that makes you look like a fashion model. Just something that shows you put forth a tiny bit of effort. Every date deserves at least that much.” She starts to take out her compact. “He’s buying dinner, right? He shouldn’t have to look at any skin flaws.” Morgan looks closely at me. “Not that you have any, but still. It would even you out.” She comes towards me with the compact puff.

“No.” I move out of range. “I thought you said my date was a joke. I believe ‘deal with the devil’ were your exact words.”

“I said
you
think that about his being a plastic surgeon. No normal red-blooded American woman is going to turn down a date with a fine specimen of Christian MD. All I know is that if he’s got something that made you say yes, there has to be something there. Who am I to question? And quite frankly, it’s good to see you looking forward to something besides a 5k in town or hand-washing your skirt.

I purse my lips at her. “I have to admit, I am a little excited. I think part of it is knowing that I can’t blow it, or I won’t be able to show my face in the office. I have to learn to be nice and accept his wicked job. It’s the chance to practice my multiculturalism. Some people have a problem with racism; I have a problem with mixed-medicine marriages.”

“I guess,” Morgan says as she walks around the room, sniffing all the candles. “I don’t think you need to put that much thought into dinner, but maybe that’s me.”

“San Francisco’s assistant chief of protocol wouldn’t need to put in any effort. But I am not you, and I’m going to prove to Jeff that the natural way is best.”

“No, no. You are not going on this date to evangelize your nutty health stuff. Give me my shoes back.”

“Not on your life.” My phone rings, and I answer it, feeling like . . . well, like Morgan. “Hello!” I say silkily.

“Poppy?” It’s a man’s voice.

“Yes.” Again with the low rasp. I could make a decent living at this if I wasn’t a good girl.

“It’s Simon.”

“Simon?” I’m embarrassed to say my stomach does a complete somersault.

“I’m sorry to call you at home—”

“No, that’s fine. Is your back all right? Did you throw it out again?”

“No, nothing like that. I just wanted to apologize for my behavior today. I felt like I got off to a really bad start with your dad, and that wasn’t the impression I wanted to leave him.”

I stammer for an answer. It’s not like Simon to care what anyone thinks.

“Poppy, you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m just trying to figure out why you felt the need to call.” I look at Morgan and shrug.

“Because it’s been gnawing at me all day and I had to make it right. So you’ll apologize for me to your dad? I don’t want him to think I’m harassing his daughter.”

“You are harassing his daughter.” I laugh.

“But not in the way he thinks I’m harassing you.”

“Oh,” I pause for a minute. “You’re not?”

“You sound disappointed,” Simon accuses. “Did you want me to harass you in
that
way?”

Maybe a little.

“No, of course not.”

“Good, so I’ll see you next week and your father won’t have a heart attack at the sight of me.”

May he never get sight of Simon again. The last thing I need for business is my father standing watch. “I’ll let him know, Simon, but it’s no big deal. You didn’t have to call. I know who you are.”

“Just tell him for me, all right?”

“It’s as good as done, Simon.”

“Bye, Poppy.” Simon hangs up the phone, and I stand there with the receiver in my hand.

“Poppy, you all right?” Morgan asks me.

“Huh? Yeah . . . Yeah I’m fine.”

“Then hang up the phone.”

I do so, but not without a moment of melancholy. Simon has never made any sort of gesture to impress me before, and it wasn’t until right now that I realized how much I wanted him to.

“Ahem, earth to Poppy.” Morgan makes sure the phone is back in its cradle correctly. “Let’s get back to this.”

I stand tall, admiring how the heels make my calves look strong once again. “I’m going on a date,” I say aloud. Disaster will probably ensue, but it is moving forward. At least from the Spa Girls’ point of view. They’ve been trying to get me out of gauze for a decade.

My heart starts to pound as I think about being able to control my mouth tomorrow night. Is it actually possible for me to sit across from a plastic surgeon and not tell him he’s the devil? “You know, Morgan, I think I need to run a few miles. I didn’t get enough in today.”

“Right. Because it’s probably been a good five hours since you did a few miles.” Morgan pushes me down on the sofa. “You are not running. It’s ten o’clock at night. You’re going to bed, or reading a book, like normal people. It’s just a date. I’m spending the night on your couch so you’re not going anywhere. I’ll head back to the city in the morning.”

I light a candle, flick on the news, and try to slow my surge of adrenaline. But Morgan, unable to withstand the question, presses the answering machine button.

“Hey, nosy!” I tell her.

“Poppy? Listen, it’s Simon and I just want to talk to you for a minute. Call me. It’s 555-5414.”

“Who’s Simon?” Morgan asks. “Is that the guy who just called?”

I feel a smile develop. “Just a client. A wealthy client with more time than purpose.” Even as I say the disparaging words I know they’re not true. Simon did not get where he is by being lazy. “That’s not true; he’s a great guy. Invented some widget you and I will never understand.”

“He sounds like a nice guy,” Morgan says.

I roll my eyes. As if she’d know the difference. Until she found George, Morgan was the poster child for “Smart Women, Foolish Choices.” But I know why she said it. My friends, as wonderful and selfless as they may be at times, have one motive, and that’s to find me a husband before I get too weird to find one myself. Unfortunately, I think I’ve already passed that threshold and no one wants to admit it. My dad’s party tonight told me that much. I am merely a younger version of every oddity he invited. I still have the original, vintage skirts to prove I am a card-carrying, native Santa Cruz girl. Normal need not apply.

chapter 7

S
orry I bothered you at home last night.” Simon is lying face down on the table when I get to work, and he’s been here for awhile according to Emma. He doesn’t look up.

“How do you know I’m not Emma?” I ask.

“Emma doesn’t smell like mint. You do.”

I bite back a smile. “It’s my bath gel.”