Lynda Curnyn - Killer Summer

“Did you make that doctor’s appointment?”

“Doctor’s appointment?”

“To have those tests done?”

“Oh, right. Well, Sage, you’ll never believe it, but the pain just went away. It was like a miracle.”

What was really a miracle was that my mother had lived this long, considering she and my father had forsaken all the necessities of life—like health insurance—in the name of living the same life they had when they met in a commune in the sixties. They had left the commune shortly after I was born, even gave in to bourgeois life enough to marry some time after my second birthday and settle down—as much as two bohemians who still thought it was the sixties could settle down—in a small house in Babylon, Long Island. The house was the only thing that saved them, really. They’d bought it for a song when Babylon was more undesirable marina than valuable waterfront real estate.

I sighed, long and deep. “Mom, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have it checked out. I sent you a check over a month ago to pay for the exam.”

“Oh, Sage, I really did appreciate your gift. We put that money to good use,” she said happily. “We had the floors fixed in Charlie’s apartment. After the laundry room flooded, they were all warped, and you know Charlie’s got that bum leg.…”

I wanted to argue that Charlie, their longtime tenant who lived in the basement, should perhaps pay for his own new floors, considering that he hadn’t paid his rent in the three months since he lost his job. But it was pointless. My parents were of the belief that what goes around comes around. The problem was, it seemed there was often more going than coming.

As if she picked the thought out of my head, my mother continued, “Don’t worry, Sage. We only paid for the materials. Charlie did the work himself. He’s so handy that way. We’re lucky to have him. Do you know he’s going to repaint the living room for us with some of his friends? We’re going to have a little paint party. Barbecue. You should come out for it.”

No thanks. I generally avoided the frequent parties my parents threw, mostly because I found them stressful. The last time I had given in and attended, one of their hippie friends—after one too many bong hits—had gotten it into his head to start a bonfire in the yard and nearly set the tool shed on fire in the process. It was too much work to be around my parents and their friends because someone had to be the sane one, and in their circle of hippie artist (read: jobless) friends, somehow it always wound up being me.

“Oh, but you’ll probably be out at Fire Island,” she continued, her tone going pensive. The fact that I had, for the past three summers, foregone quality time with my parents in favor of a share with my friends at Fire Island was the only point of contention between me and my otherwise “live and let live” mother. Mostly because it made her “baby girl’s” visits less frequent during the summer months, and since I was my parents’ last remaining child, it was my duty to keep up the family front.

“Is your boss even going to open the house?” my mother asked now.

“I don’t know what Tom’s plans are,” I said. She had voiced the question that had been sitting in the back of my mind all this time. I know it was wrong to wonder about such things in light of recent events, but the truth was, the beach was all I had to look forward to in the summer. And now, I thought, eyeing the stack of work that had built up during my absence, I wondered if I had anything to look forward to this weekend.

“Look, Mom, I’ve got to go,” I said, knowing it was better at the moment to immerse myself in Edge rather than to ponder if I was going to have a life outside of it. “I’ll call you next week. And please make that appointment. I’ll send another check.”

“No, Sage, not necessary. You’ve already done enough. We’re fine.”

Since I was in no mood to argue with my mother over her definition of fine, I said my goodbyes and hung up.

I felt the fight drain right out of me. In the wake of my conversation with my mother, the idea of tackling that folder of sales orders exhausted me. And come the end of the week, there was no hope of relief from it all. I sighed, turning on my computer. Well, maybe I wasn’t missing much anyway, I consoled myself, remembering my ill-fated seduction of Chad. As the song says, you can’t always get what you want. But now I was starting to wonder if I would even get what I clearly needed. Because in my book, there is nothing like a good piece of beach and a fine piece of booty to take my mind off more serious matters.

I clicked on my in-box and was about to murmur an expletive at the seventy-five e-mails that greeted me when my eye fell upon one with a subject heading that piqued my interest almost as much as the man himself had.

Re: Announcement—Manufacturing VP Vince Trifelli relocates to Bohemia offices

Well, well, well. Clicking on the e-mail, I opened it up and read.

After the successful management of our overseas manufacturing operations in China and Italy, Vince Trifelli is returning to New York to resume his duties overseeing production. All inquiries and correspondence should be sent to Mr. Trifelli at his new office in Bohemia, New York. For further information, please contact Mr. Trifelli’s assistant, Cindy Perkins, at 631-555-1400.

I smiled, suddenly realizing I did have something to look forward to, now that our hot manufacturing VP was back in the States and a mere train ride away.

In fact, it might be time for the head sales rep at Edge to get a personal tour of the production department, by the man in charge of making sure my skins were of the finest quality.

And maybe, while I was at it, I could get a little skin myself.

A knock sounded on my door, interrupting my thoughts. I clicked the e-mail closed, as if someone might guess, by a glance at its contents, that I had set my sights on Vince Trifelli. Office romance was generally frowned upon at Edge. Or at the very least, gossiped about. And if I hoped to take over Edge someday, the last thing I needed was to be accused of sleeping my way to the top. I could do it on my own. Especially now.

“Come in,” I said.

The door opened, revealing Jamal, looking sullen in a do-rag, an oversized T-shirt and a pair of jeans hanging so low I thought they might hit the floor. “The new samples are in the first showroom,” he said without any preamble, then disappeared.

“Nice to see you, too, Jamal,” I said, biting back a smile as I got up from my desk and followed his ambling figure down the hall to the showroom.

Shari was already there, rearranging the six samples on the display hooks we had on the walls, as if by putting them in a certain order they might look better.

But nothing was going to help these samples, I thought, studying the details Maggie had added—a buckle on one model, shoulder lapels on another. And the most ridiculously gaudy buttons—ridiculous because these bodies had been designed for urban youth and those buttons looked more Madison Avenue Ladies Who Lunch—on the lot of them.

Details were everything in this business. Which was why I felt a flicker of irritation as I remembered how Maggie had insisted that very same thing, just as she added the very details that had nearly destroyed the look of these jackets.

I turned to Shari, who was regarding me anxiously now that she had finished her fiddling. “The buckle’s not bad,” she began.

Not bad? How could she even think that? I shook my head, wondering once again whether Shari was the right designer for Edge.

Then I remembered Maggie, stepping in and ordering up all these changes, though she was the last person to be making design decisions.