Perennials Page 3

  “Funny.” I drag the syllables, then smile.

  She shrugs. “I do hope some sexy firemen show up at your door today.” She has countered the comedy by placing a small pack of cosmos seeds inside the card, signing with pristine penmanship: Thanks for being the kindest soul in the cosmos. Wish big!

  I shake the seeds against their paper shell, a sound much like the flutter of wings. The gift warms my heart. “I do love flowers.”

  “I know,” Brynn boasts, and I pull her in for a hug, grateful she walked into my Arizona office seven years ago in need of an internship. Who knew this scrappy millennial would, in time, become my best friend? “We’re also getting tattoos. My treat.”

  Like many her age, Brynn has inked herself to chart the milestones of her brief thirty years. The one in view is a henna-style elephant commemorating her two-year stint in India. Noting my reluctance, she pleads her case. “Come on, you can get one that only shows up under black light. Your mother will never know.”

  “Oh, trust me. She’d know.” No matter how many years and miles we have between us, I still fear I’ll let my mother down.

  Today, I am about as far from Oxford, Mississippi, as life could take me. Fifteen hundred and thirty-six miles from the family farm and Bitsy’s lies, the smoldering shed, and Chief’s disappointed stare. From this high-rise view Arizona offers not a single magnolia. No pink-tinged azaleas or fragrant gardenias. Certainly no carpeted fields of clover. As I prepare my presentation, I am no longer the cross-my-heart-hope-to-die truth teller in pigtails. In fact, I now spend my days doing exactly what Bitsy taught me to do best. To lie. And not just to lie, but to keep everybody coming back for more.

  TWO

  “Eva, come in.” Our new chief creative officer stands near the window looking like Lisa Rinna, coffee in hand. Her mug’s inscription makes a stark statement: Deal with it.

  I grit my teeth and enter. A middle-aged powerhouse, she took the position less than a month ago and has already laid off 20 percent of our team. Known as “The Dragon,” she’s the last person I want to deal with this morning. Or ever.

  “Was on my way to the reception area,” I explain. “Meeting The Trio at ten.”

  “Thought you might like a little pep talk before they arrive.” She doesn’t offer me a seat, so I stand beneath an abstract painting with bright-orange circles stamped across darker shades of blue. As if chosen to complement the art, her navy business suit fits tapered at the waist, a fashion that feels far too serious for our creative firm where even top executives appreciate a quirky sense of style. Framed certificates, awards, and diplomas claw the wall behind her, but there are no family portraits, no vacation pictures, no handmade drawings sketched by young children. No sign of a life beyond this.

  “I like you, Eva. I do, so I’m going to tell you all you need to know to seal this deal.”

  Knowing she has threatened every employee with layoffs and benefit cuts, I doubt she cares one bit about my success, but I listen respectfully, eyeing the clock.

  “You want to stay alive? Follow two rules.” She taps her manicured nail on her mug as she lists each point. “Never admit you’re wrong. And never say you’re sorry.”

  Before I can respond, the hour hand hits ten and I am called to greet The Trio. I politely excuse myself, grateful for the rescue.

  Right on time, I lead our top-tier clients to the conference room. “Have a seat,” I invite. “Enjoy brunch.” They are counting on me to convince the masses that in order to achieve personal peace and harmony, they need to purchase a hip pair of Jansana yoga pants. Plus a mat, straps, blocks, wedges, and eco-friendly water bottles. Doesn’t matter one bit if I believe it. I have to make other people believe it. So I’ve learned to charm my way through it, despite the buzz of my own conscience.

  Brynn serves as a hospitable host, doling out pastries while asking how they prefer their coffee. I lead a round of small talk, filling chilled glasses with rose water and topping each with a delicate pink petal the way Mother taught me to do. These women may be movers and shakers in the Arizona business world, but one should never underestimate the power of good old-fashioned Southern etiquette.

  Once everyone is served, I prime them with a brief overview of Jansana’s advertising history, playing highlights of their company’s past commercials while comparing them with top competitors.

  “Here’s the thing.” I spotlight an image of an athletically fit model as she strikes crow pose. Wearing a fashionable pair of Jansana yoga pants, she presses her hands into the mat, her fingers resting just above the famous logo. “We all know nobody really needs this gear. I lead a yoga class every Saturday in Sedona. I teach old ladies in sweatpants and we do just fine.”

  The chairwoman smirks. A previous head of the Legacy Ball, she’s a society heavyweight and the idea of sweatpants seems to humor her, exactly as I hoped.

  I display a clip of our Saturday yoga session, Seniors at Sunrise. After nearly three years of intense exercise and the strenuous process to become an instructor, I have worked hard to wear Jansana’s Lycra pants without shame. So has Marian, a ninety-year-old widow in even better shape than me.

  Unlike the other seniors, Marian’s body is lean and defined as she moves through a familiar twelve-pose rotation, shifting her flexible frame from mountain pose to mountain pose with lunges, planks, and folds in between. I use the lingo, reminding The Trio I know yoga and I’m the one to sell it to the world.

  The final image shows Marian and me, our hands folded at heart center, our muscles taut beneath our unforgiving pants. “So how do we sell something nobody really needs?” I ask. “First, we acknowledge it’s not a need. It’s a want. A reward for making our personal well-being a priority. We practice yoga because we want to feel better. We wear Jansana for the same reason.”

  I display clips of women wearing the company’s products. A mother crossing the finish line of a 10K, her toddlers laughing in the jogging stroller as she propels them through the race. A grandmother tackling rapids in a bright-yellow kayak, her granddaughter rowing bravely alongside.

  “What do you think when you see these people? Better yet, what do you feel?”

  The chairwoman leans in, smiling, and I seize the moment. “Yes, that! We want to stir emotions. See? That’s key. We feel inspired. These are the kind of mindful citizens we all want to be.”

  Two heads are nodding and the third is tilted, intrigued. I keep sharing images of positive people as they practice yoga, meditate, and bike. “We don’t sell gym gear. We sell an attitude—products that foster a healthy mind, body, and spirit.” As the images rotate, the marketing slogan is tagged beneath each: “Feel good. Do good. Be the good. Jansana.”

  When the last screen is presented, the CEO lifts her glass of rose water. “Thank you, Eva.” The moments drag as she takes a sip. Swallows. Then returns the glass to the slick surface with a slight clink. “I like your approach. But is anyone else concerned this may be a little too . . . cliché? Cute grandmas? Kumbaya?”

  Silence all around. No smiles. My pulse quickens, but I don’t yet offer a defense. In the quiet I count to ten, a trick Mother taught me back in second grade, saying it would help “cool my beans when a hot head started to show itself.”

  The president thumbs through the leave-behind, examining the media buy, the timeline, the budget.

  “It’s not the most original tagline. But that’s why I’m certain it will relate.” I move closer to the CEO, who’s still with me. “There is power in the familiar. And in this case, we’re aiming to bridge current trends and root values. Combine the old with the new, which is essentially the entire purpose of yoga.”

  She eyes her partners, holding the poker face I’ve seen many times.

  “Here’s the thing.” I turn off the projection. “We can twist these figures any way we choose. But if we really want to sell yoga gear—sell anything—we have to tell a story. A story that tugs their hearts so much they’ll want to enter the narrative. They’ll
buy Jansana because they want to be Jansana. See?”

  With the slightest rise of her lip corner, the CEO finally nods. “I see.”

  Then the president breaks into a smile. “Strong work, Eva.” When she stands, the others follow her lead. “I’m ready to roll with this.” She adjusts her suit. Tailored to accentuate her Jansana-esque figure, the Chanel tweed doesn’t show a single crease. “Set a production schedule?”

  “By Monday,” I assure her, escorting the three executives back to the elevator. Their spiked steps combine to form a symphony of ticks and tocks, each thud moving us closer to deadline, closer to payday, and farther from truth.

  By the time I make it back to my desk, Brynn is already celebrating. “Nailed it.” She gives me a high five. “And on your birthday! Happy hour. Tonight. No excuses.”

  I throw a glance toward the oversize clock, a contemporary piece that fills the entire wall with its jolting ticks. Then I look north toward Sedona, eager to begin my two-hour route to my weekend home.

  Brynn senses doubt. “Come on, just an hour. Tops. I’ve already invited the others.” She looks around the room at our studio peers, all friends to some degree or another. “Here,” she adds, pulling out a pad of sticky notes and jotting with big, bold letters: HAPPY HOUR. She attaches the pastel paper to my planner with a dramatic swipe. “I’ve added it to your list. Now you have no choice.”

  Our laughter is interrupted when Brynn is summoned with a last-name-only screech. “Maxwell!” It’s a cringe-worthy howl, evoking flashbacks of fingernails on blackboards. Having never known life before cell phones and computers, it’s likely Brynn has never seen an actual chalkboard, but it puts her on edge nonetheless.

  As she eyes the cubicles left empty after last week’s layoffs, Brynn’s spirit plummets. “Time to feed The Dragon.”

  “No fear,” I say, suppressing my own worries of job loss. “We’ve got Jansana now. She won’t touch us.”

  “Yeah, but all the more reason.” Brynn grimaces. We both know our CCO would do anything to save her own neck. Especially since she was transferred with the task of increasing profits. She could play her ace—send us both packing and rake in the Jansana proceeds once we seal the deal. She’s got us dangling by strings, a puppet master of the worst kind.

  As Brynn heads into The Dragon’s den, my father’s mantra echoes: “Always have a plan.” I roll my fingers through the tabs of my planner until I reach the blue one: Annual Personal Goals.

  Every year on my birthday I reassess my life, examining my progress and drafting a new list for the coming year. But this morning I would do anything to avoid the duty. For the third year in a row, I have failed to complete my personal goals. “Failure is an F-word,” Mother always says. “And we don’t say the F-word.” She also says, “Fat is an F-word,” but it never stopped Bitsy from hurling hurtful comments my way for decades. This gets me thinking about the other F-words in my life: Finances. Fiancé. Family. Future. I hate F-words.

  I return my focus to something I’m good at. I’m already finalizing our test audience when my cell phone rings. Mother. For privacy, I move toward a sleek row of windows where I savor the view of Camelback Mountain, the highest of Phoenix’s seven summits and one that always makes me want to head for the hills. With any luck Jansana will be my golden ticket. I’ll snag a hefty bonus, retire to my house in Sedona, and live an authentic life with plenty of time outdoors. No more cubicles. No more advertising. No more lies.

  “How in the world am I old enough to have daughters nearing the fifty yard line?” Mother’s bubbly tone rolls through the phone, a perfect match to her polished Southern style.

  “Nice football analogy, Mother.”

  “Hotty Toddy!” The one and only Laurel Sutherland cheers the signature chant from our Oxford farm, where Ole Miss athletics infiltrate every part of the culture. “How are you celebrating the big 4–5?”

  “Oh goodness, Mother. I’m way too old for all that. Let’s talk about your anniversary.”

  “It’s right around the corner,” she gushes. “Fifty years! Can you believe it?” At seventy-eight, Mother looks only half her age. Bitsy lucked out and got those good genes: petite frame, Southern grace, the blonde-hair-blue-eyes flawless gift of beauty. I, on the other hand, take after our father, Chief: strong Irish arms, steady feet, and a passion for all things genuine. Who would have guessed I’d be the one creating ad campaigns, spinning ideas until they’re spit-shiny enough to sell?

  After a long-winded description of the anniversary bash, Mother finally comes up for air. “Sounds incredible,” I say, stringing off another list of F-words. “Friends, Farm, Field-to-Fork catering—what’s not to love?”

  “I keep telling her not to go all out with this thing, but you know Bitsy.” Mother buzzes with excitement.

  No doubt my sister will host a magazine-worthy bash, arriving with her picture-perfect family in tow. Handsome hubby. Bow-tied son. The ever-dainty Mary Evelyn in sundress and sandals. Nothing means more to me than being their aunt. If only Bitsy would let me be a part of their lives again. For now, I bury the pain and say, “I’d love to help.”

  “Wish you would,” Mother says, as if it’s all my fault that I haven’t been a part of the planning.

  I don’t bother defending myself. My sister has always excelled at putting up a good front, friending her way to the title of homecoming queen at Ole Miss, just as our mother had been before her. And then going on to marry the quarterback, just like Mother. My role was to serve as the chubby little sister who fumbled along in Bitsy’s shadow, invisible and unseen—the scapegoat nobody ever believed. It’s been decades since I left Oxford, and nothing has changed. Bitsy does no wrong. I do no right. And everybody seems to prefer it that way. So I keep my distance and focus on the positive, of which there’s always plenty to find in my folks.

  While Mother names the party guests, Brynn exits The Dragon’s lair and mouths, “All okay?”

  I cover the mouthpiece and whisper, “Mother.” Smiling, Brynn makes a beeline for the break room, then reappears, carrying a tray of cupcakes. One by one, our coworkers join in singing “Happy Birthday” as they head my way.

  Mother keeps talking, unaware of the impromptu party taking place in my honor. Only when the voices grow closer does she finally stop midsentence. “Is that . . . Are they singing ‘Happy Birthday’?”

  “Yep.” I am once again surprised it means so much to me. Maybe forty-five is hitting harder than I thought. I blow out the silver candle, trying to decide what I want to wish into my life this year. Sadly, only one idea rises—Reed—and he’s the last thing I need.

  Shifting my focus to something that makes me happy, I picture my mother surrounded by her plush Southern gardens, the green growth so feral and verdant it swallows all sorrow. At once, I am smiling again, so I wish for flowers, longing for the magic mood their blooms bring me. Flowers, now that’s an F-word I like.

  After swapping flame for smoke, I treat myself to a dose of icing from the candle’s waxy stem. “Sinfully sweet,” I announce, thanking my coworkers as they snap up cupcakes and scurry back to their desks.

  Like meerkats, they bob in all directions, as if we’re occupying an African plain. One looks one way, another scouts behind, while a third sits and a fourth stands. I imagine Marlin Perkins narrating the scene on my favorite childhood television show, Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. As a girl I would stretch across the living room carpet, propping my head in my hands as I learned about tigers and lemurs and all things wild. What would Marlin say about us? The thought pulls me deep into a daydream.

  “Members of this group spend most of the day working alone in little boxes. The alpha female maintains rule by dividing the tribe, inciting fear, and ousting those who dare resist. Sensing a possible coup, she is showing force. Tensions are mounting.”

  “Lovey? You still here?” Mother’s voice draws me back. A lifelong daydreamer, I’d honestly forgotten she was on the phone. I offer a sincere apology, b
ut she knows my mind and takes no offense. “Will anyone be joining you for the anniversary party?”

  “Not likely.” I end with a rise, hoping she’ll change topics before she mentions another F-word: Fallow—the worst one of all. It’s been her greatest disappointment that I have yet to deliver her a grandchild, and every birthday serves as a reminder that the odds are decreasing by the day. She’s asking if I’m bringing a date because ultimately that would mean a chance at marriage, a family, a child. Any proper Southern lady would have already acquired all of these long before her forty-fifth birthday.

  There’s nothing I want less than to show up solo in a town where everyone will assume I’m either (A) cold, (B) gay, (C) selfish, or (D) mentally ill. They can imagine no other reason a woman my age would not have a man. So there I’ll stand, pinched between Mother and Chief—the model couple who still make sweet eyes across the dinner table after fifty years of marriage—and Bitsy and Whitman—the poster family for all things classic about the South.

  No wonder I hit the road at eighteen. A misfit knows when it’s time to cut her losses and run.

  THREE

  Surrendering to Brynn’s pleas, I join her for happy hour at the downstairs hangout. “Prickly pear margaritas.” She orders the trendy Arizona drink, then turns to me. “Two-for-one! We’ll get a head start before the others even leave their desks.”

  “I’ve really got to hit the road.” I let her take both drinks for herself while I prod the barkeep to pour me water instead.

  “But it’s her birthday!” Brynn offers him the last pink cupcake from the morning office party.

  The long-haired gin spinner eyes my bare ring finger and adds a thin curl of lemon to the glass. “Twenty-five? Thirty?”

  “You guessed it.” I’m kind, but I don’t return the flirt.

  “You work upstairs?” He lifts his chin and gives me his best smile. It’s the sort of pearly-white grin I could use in a commercial. I nod and file it away for any future campaigns that highlight toothpaste or mouthwash or, heck, Viagra.