“I couldn’t buy your store, Sabine. It’s your baby.” Casey felt a little stupid after saying that, because Sabine didn’t have children. “Besides, you’re too young to retire.”
“I need to make some plans for the future. You think about it,” Sabine said quietly, not used to such resistance. It hadn’t been her intention really to say all this today, but once she started, she saw that she preferred Casey over everyone else to run the show. A good leader had to have a great succession plan. Sabine was young enough, only forty-four years old, and in good health despite the occasional migraines, but she wanted her legacy to thrive after she was gone. She would need time to groom her successor. There had been offers to buy her store, but the idea of a Federated or some other publicly traded company running this seemed wrong to her. Elle magazine had once written up her store as “Sabine’s: Transgressive and True,” and though she had to look it up, the word made sense to her, and she thought it was accurate, this idea of being against convention, and that it was a good thing for women, because convention ruined all the women she knew. All her life, she had done things differently from the way she’d been told, and it pleased her to no end to collect the payoff on following her wishes and instincts. Casey did not see her own promise, her genius at selling, getting along with American women, at knowing what style was—this very desirable thing that Sabine could identify but could hardly articulate.
“Let me help you, Casey.”
What could she say? For three Saturdays in a row, they had eaten lunch together, and every time there had been this lecture. She had fought Sabine through evasion, deference, and sometimes direct dissent, but secretly guarding the knowledge that Sabine must have been right about absolutely everything. A part of her would not have known what to do if Sabine gave up the fight. In her life, two adults had paid attention to her in a real way, and to them, she had revealed in part some of her fears and herself. Jay’s mother was now lost to her, despite her protests otherwise. Sabine was the merger of a fairy godmother, mentor, and bad cop. It was obvious that Sabine was getting tired of her, of this battle, and Casey knew her debt of loyalty was outstanding. She had never before felt so chosen and recognized by someone so important and smart, and this feeling was near impossible to walk away from. She loved Sabine, because Sabine loved her, but this language of love was incomprehensible to them both. To them, talk was nothing and action was everything.
Sabine looked at her wristwatch. “It’s time, honey. Your break is up.”
Casey put her sandwich and water in her bag. “Thank you, Sabine.” She smiled. “I know you always mean the best for me.”
“I do.” Sabine nodded with self-assurance. Casey returned to her station.
2 BINOCULARS
BABY, THE BID WAS ACCEPTED!” Ted shouted, his voice gleeful. “Accepted! Can you believe it?”
Ella nodded. Not that he could see her. He was calling from the office. And for once, he didn’t sound rushed.
“Well?” He was annoyed by Ella’s slowness, but nothing would keep him from savoring this moment. His phone, as usual, was blinking like the white Christmas lights strung across his assistant’s desk, but Ted refused to pick up the other calls.
“Hel-lo?” He took his time exhaling. If he tried to rush her, she’d reply in her girlish voice, “Ted, I’m thinking.” In general, he liked his wife’s quiet reticence—when they’d first started to date, he had admired it as a kind of conversational tact and goodness. She seemed incapable of gossiping or saying a single mean thing. Her silence didn’t reflect her intelligence level, contrary to the American view that good talkers were smarter. Ted would never have married a dumb woman. A man who marries a dumb woman gets dumb children—everybody knew that. When Ella spoke, she was cogent, insightful. Rarely did he disagree with the precision of her logic. But sometimes he lost his patience waiting for the damn intelligence to manifest itself to everyone else and, namely, him. A week before bed rest was prescribed, they’d gone to dinner after seeing some movie she’d chosen. He’d asked her what she thought of the film, and while she was mulling it over, he’d snarled at her, “Just say it, Ella, goddammit, I don’t expect that much. Spit it out.” She’d then burst into tears at Rosa Mexicano, where they often ate. Then, like a sulking child, she had refused to eat her fish tacos. The waiters who knew them had to pretend they hadn’t seen him yelling at his very pregnant wife. He was so upset that he’d had to step out to have a smoke. But when he’d returned, he’d apologized and encouraged her to order the caramel flan, even though she was gaining far more weight than the doctor had prescribed.