You know how it is: The plane lands and the world expects you to hit the ground running. I wasn’t running but I was going at a good clip for a woman in heels, pulling her carry-on and carrying on a conversation on her phone. That woman so caught up in her own life that she whisks right by you without a glance or a smile. I don’t much care for her either, but that was suddenly the mode I felt I just had to be in, given the flurry of messages I’d received once I switched out of airplane mode.
The flight from SFO to Philly was typical. But atypically I avoided using the onboard internet to stay in touch with the office, feeling I deserved a little time out, having spent twelve to sixteen hours a day working during my week in San Francisco. I thought I’d be able to meditate on the plane, as my schedule over the last week hadn’t allowed for my delicious and oh-so-necessary morning ritual, but I found I was too wired from the coffee served at the morning meeting before rushing to catch my flight. My work outfit for the meeting was binding my belly, overfilled with foods I’d had no control over during the week. I wished I’d had time to change into my comfy gear. I did kick off my heels at least. I had thought I was such a good traveler, packing everything in my carry-on and dressing in layers for the cold fog of San Francisco in the summer. But, wouldn’t you know it? That week the whole West Coast was roasting, and I was glad to be spending most of my time in air-conditioned spaces. Still I wish I’d packed my summer sandals and lighter weight clothes.
To top it off a rambunctious kid behind me kept flapping his seat table and occasionally kicking my seat-back. If I had a child… Agh, don’t go there, I told myself, and decided to read the snack food industry articles my assistant Trevor had downloaded and highlighted for me. What would I do without him? He protects me from the low-level aggravations of life as a marketing executive, clearing the way for me to handle the high-level aggravations. Which came up the minute we landed on the tarmac. Crisis mode on Broad Street!
The ad campaign that seemed so brilliant when presented by the youngbloods and launched with great success, was suddenly taking major flak. Who knew that there would be a parallel news story breaking that made this feel like political commentary rather than a light-hearted ad with a boisterous bag of orange chips? You’ve eaten them, don’t say you haven’t.
Not that many years back, this sort of problem would have an easy fix. We would pull the plug on the campaign and it would disappear off the air, quickly forgotten by all but the CFO. But now campaigns take on lives of their own, if you’re lucky. This one had gone viral with over three million hits since I’d boarded at SFO. Normally I would be thrilled, but this was not the kind of publicity the company wanted, even if it sold more chips to some. The product might just as easily be boycotted by others.
Even though it was already 6:30 PM, I would have to go into the office and make sure a game plan was in place before the powers that be… well, let’s not even think about that, although how could I think about anything else?
I made a beeline past baggage claim, heading for the curb to grab a taxi (Yes, a taxi! Call me old fashioned, but I care about those cabbies. My uncle was a Philadelphia cabbie, in fact, and in the summers, I would sometimes ride around town with him, stopping for shaved ice or a cheese steak. So, when Trevor offers to call for the company car, I tell him I’ll just grab a cab. He rolls his eyes, as if I’m not making the most of the perks of my position. So be it.)
Anything getting between me and that cab stand was just an obstacle that had to be dodged. But then I saw right in front of me a sign with my last name on it: ‘Hendricks’. And holding that sign was the most beautiful man I have ever seen. I pulled up short and gasped. I suddenly knew what the old-fashioned word ‘swoon’ meant. I felt weak in the knees and a little dizzy at the sight of him. Those warm brown eyes, that tender smile. My husband. Aw.
“Jeff, sweetheart, what are you doing here?” As we hugged, I rejoiced in the familiar sturdy feel of him, the fresh scent of having just showered after a long day in summer heat. I’d been missing the essence of him for a very long week. Daily calls and sporadic texts just didn’t cut it. I felt touched that he made this extra effort to come pick me up at the airport. No staleness in this fifteen-year marriage! Then I panicked and pulled back. “Has something happened to my mother?” I worried about her living on her own but knew how important her independence was to her.
“No, no, nothing like that. Don’t worry. Can’t a man pick up his wife at the airport and sweep her off to a romantic dinner?”
I felt all my weariness lift. I hugged him again in delight, anticipating a chilled glass of Prosecco on a fairy lit patio at our favorite bistro. But then I remembered about the crisis mode at work. I took his arm to hurry us out the door.
“That sounds like pure heaven, honey. Absolutely nothing I’d rather do… but… I have to go to the office.”
“But it’s almost 7.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ve been out of contact for five hours, and all hell has broken loose. Raincheck?” This was the way our life was, with schedules that dictated our precious time together. And usually it worked out. Though after a week away, it didn’t seem fair, but what could I do?
“Michelle, please let it wait until morning. I have a surprise for you.”
“Mmm? A surprise? I like the sound of that.” I could see this was important to him. I do not want to be that career-obsessed woman who doesn’t read the signals her husband sends out. “Okay, let me see what I can do by phone. But head toward the office just in case.”
All the way into town, I had my phone glued to my ear trying to fix things from afar. Blah, blah, blah, back and forth — not exactly the romantic reunion ride my poor husband was hoping for. But I had to stay on the phone long enough to be sure those cocky upstarts understood the gravity of the situation. Some of them seemed to be ecstatic about their efforts going viral, not realizing how this would go down with the upper echelons who would take flak from the shareholders. I have to straddle two disparate worlds in my job. Explaining one to the other is the most difficult part, especially since, to be honest I don’t totally understand either. But let’s just keep that between you and me. I am good at my job and enjoy most of it, but sometimes it seems less about creating ad campaigns and more about putting out fires. So, I just had to get my staff on board with putting out the bonfire we’d created, even as they danced around it.
Jeff understood about needing to stay on the phone. He should. He’s an architect with so many clients changing their minds at all hours of the day and night that sometimes I think of him as a nursemaid. Which is totally unfair, because he’s so talented. He can do anything. And he does. He does everything! Pretty much whatever his clients can imagine he can make happen, as long as it’s to building code. But, again, just between you and me, because he’s so amenable, he hasn’t developed his own distinct style. An architect should want to get written up in Architectural Digest, right? He says he doesn’t want to be ‘branded’, like it’s a bad thing, like it would be burned into his hide. Oh well. Who can complain about a husband who loves his work? Not me, for sure.
Just then Jeff looked over, his eyebrows raised in a question. Ah, decision time. I had to let him know if we could head home or if we had to enter the thick brick-baked air of Center City. I took the cue. “Okay, okay, you guys, it sounds like you have it covered for now. I’m trusting you to follow through on this. I’ll come in later if I have to but I’ve got a commitment until at least nine. I’ll keep my phone on, but don’t call if you can help it, okay?” I slipped the phone back into my bag and tried to get into the spirit of Jeff’s lovely gesture. ‘All right, I’m all yours.”
“Great!” He took the next left and headed northwest up the Expressway. Home! I couldn’t wait. I shut my eyes and let the tension drain from my body, imagining it all floating down the river below and into the ocean. Ahhh.
“Shelley? Did I mention I have a surprise?”
I opened my left eye and looked over at him. “What have you been up to while I’ve been away?”
“Well, it’s complicated. A bit of a show and tell. Maybe more show…Anyway, I…”
And then my phone rang. Ignore it, I told myself. My husband is talking to me. But now it was the upper echelon, in an uproar no doubt as word got to them about the fallout from the ad campaign. I realized I should have called first. My gut clinched up. “Oh, honey, I can’t wait for your show and tell! But I HAVE to take this call.” I punched the phone and dove back into the fray. “Jared, I just landed, and I’ve been getting up to speed from the team. We’re on it, I assure you.”
Jared was not calmed by my assurances. He needed a head on a platter. ‘God damn it, Michelle, how did you let this get away from you like this? Whoever thought this up is an idiot and I want him fired.’ Blame is Jared’s go to problem-solving bludgeon of choice. He doesn’t understand the nature of the creative process, how we brainstorm and work collectively to come up with ideas for campaigns. Sure, in this case I remember exactly whose idea it was, but I’m not offering any names, especially since it was a brilliant idea at the time and everyone agreed, even Jared and his cronies. It’s not anyone’s fault that the world has gotten this wacky! Well, not anyone in our company anyway. So, no head on a platter for Jared, which meant I had to hang in there and just let him rant a while.
“…No, of course not, J. No one on the team had a political agenda. It’s not our fault that our product happens to be orange. And cartoon characters have sold more snack foods and cereals than…” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jeff’s smirk, and I had to keep myself from smiling, as Jared would hear it in my voice. But the absurdity of it all was getting to me as I continued saying that our choice was solidly backed by years of advertising successes with just such a campaign. And then as he went off on a different tangent, I had to say that no, it was not a mistake to take the advertising in-house. Especially since he had fired in a fury the last agency we’d had. I remembered how I apologized to them while handing their heads on a platter. They didn’t take it well, and my name is mud in the agency world, should I end up in a position of needing to apply.
So I hung in there, saying uh huh, uh huh, no, no, that’s right, uh huh, uh huh, but my mind was going numb. I was so exhausted, so sick of this, so wanting to just be with my husband.
Just then I noticed that our car had pulled into a driveway that was definitely not ours, a glorious winding tree-lined drive filled with dappled light. I realized that I still had no idea what Jeff’s surprise was. I knew it couldn’t be a party as my birthday and our anniversary were both months away. What on earth?
We parked in front of a big stone house. Huh, okay, maybe he had to stop off here to pick something up for work. But then he opened up the trunk and was taking my carry-on luggage inside. Wha..? Clearly it wasn’t a hotel – no signage and this area isn’t zoned for it, but maybe an Airbnb? Why would we need a vacation rental? Jeff knows all I ever want to do when I get back from a business trip is to crawl into my own cozy bed, soak in my own tub and eat in my own kitchen. But what could I do? Blustery Jared still jawing in my aching ear, I followed my husband into the house.
Now let me describe this place. The massive front door — reclaimed from some old-world cathedral perhaps? — opened into an atrium with stacked stone walls studded with ferns and tropical plants. One whole wall had a waterfall trickling down into a koi pond. The air inside didn’t have that typical Philly-summer air-conditioned chill but felt verdant-forest fresh and cool. Hanging from the vaulted ceiling was a cantilever glass catwalk reached by a set of glass stairs, so nothing could interrupt the sense of spaciousness. Well, that was a surprise indeed. But I still couldn’t understand, because the place, as amazing as it is was, seemed mostly unfurnished and some parts were still under construction. What kind of vacation rental was this?
Jeff clearly wanted and deserved my attention here as he did his big reveal, so I muted the phone to apologize and to ask where we were. “It’s our…” he said. And then Jared was demanding an answer and I had to unmute. I had to. My head on a platter is not a good look.
But when Jared went back on his ramped-up monologue, I pondered what Jeff had said. Did he say it was ours? Oh no! Suddenly it all clicked into place. He had been uncharacteristically secretive lately about what he’d been working. And we have daydreamed together for years about his designing a home for us. They say the cobbler’s children wear no shoes. Well, the architect’s family lives in the most ho hum house on the Main Line.
It was a house we bought when we thought we would be having a family, and when that dream fell by the wayside, those extra bedrooms were haunting reminders of what might have been but was never to be, thanks to my lackadaisical gynecology. We used to fantasize about what our dream house would be like, and I thought I was clear that home for me means comfy and cozy. He could not think that something like this eighth wonder of the world would be my idea of a home, could he? I had to get off this phone. Now!
“Jared, everything that can be done is being done. We can talk in the morning. Go to your dinner party. I’ll take care of the rest.” I turned to say, ‘‘Jeff, what…?” but he was already up the stairs, heading across the bridge and entering a carved wooden door with my bag in tow. What could I do but follow? My heels clicked on the glass, echoing in that huge cavern, as I tried not to look down.
Inside an expansive room with high beamed ceilings and a balcony overlooking a rolling meadow, there sat, looking oddly out of proportion, a futon bed, an old drafting table and an office chair — pieces I recognized as being stored in our basement after we upgraded our guest room. I was so confused, and annoyed, because that was not the homecoming I had been craving. If this was our new home, at least give me my own bed, and my comforter that I’m embarrassed to say I crave as much as any two-year-old who cries for her blankie.
“Jeff, honey, please tell me what we’re doing here.” And believe it or not, just then his phone rang. He’s a busy man. This, of course, is not unusual. And I could hardly complain, but right then I needed answers, so I prayed he wouldn’t answer that phone. But he did, holding up his finger to me to indicate he would be just a minute.
So I collapsed on the lumpy futon and closed my eyes. Then I realized I needed the bathroom, so I went on a little expedition in that cliff dwelling. The ensuite, not surprisingly, had a huge cave of a shower made of more stone, more ferns, more waterfall, more of what I do not want in any home I’m ever going to live in, and how could he not know this? Had we drifted apart without my realizing it? So much so that he’d forgotten who I am? Some surprise indeed.
But a bigger surprise awaited me on the way back from the bathroom. As I passed the walk-in closet, I saw some clothes hanging inside. Huh. They were not Jeff’s. Not mine. In fact, so completely not mine that I started freaking out. My mostly black and gray slacks, skirts and jackets and white tailored shirts seemed suddenly unbearably drab and unwomanly. Here were colorful silk swirly skirts and dresses alive with patterns and whimsy. On closer inspection I could see they were designer originals! OMG! Was this too part of the surprise? Was Jeff trying to give me a very expensive makeover? He’d never cared about my clothing before. Or so I thought. Then I noticed that these clothes were all size 4 and would not begin to fit me. Now I felt not only drab but bulky.
But whose clothes were those? And why were they in our new bedroom? My heart pounded. My mind raced, putting one and one together: Some slender gorgeous fashionable younger woman had her clothes hanging in our closet in a dream house that was a nightmare to me. And suddenly a week of endless conference rooms and convention floors, lonely nights in the hotel, flying for hours in a confined space with a bratty kid, then getting hit with that disaster of a campaign and taking the brunt of Jared’s anger, overwhelmed me. My wonderful husband, my one resting place, had been in the arms of little miss perfection while I was away…and who knows for how long this had been going on or what would happen to us, the heretofore perfect couple. Tears welled up with the sense of some horrendous plot twist about to ruin my life.
Jeff pocketed his phone and turned to me, no doubt to tell me his “surprise.” But I did not want to hear it! I had heard enough! I had seen enough! But apparently, I hadn’t said enough, because before he could tell me anything, I was all “How could you?” and “Who is she?” and “Is she young and fertile?” and then I began to spew out words I hadn’t used since I was a foul-mouthed teenager, as all my insecurities were unleashed. I can’t bear to repeat them, and you wouldn’t want me to, trust me.
The look on my husband’s face went from concern to shock to horror to anger, and I registered it all and heard him saying, “Shelley, don’t be crazy…Shell, where is this coming from? …Wow, I can’t believe this! Could you just let me…” but I just kept yelling like I had been wound up and up and up and I couldn’t stop until the spring wound down.
But I should have. Oh, how I wish I had. Because there was a point, about a sentence or two in, when if I’d stopped, he could have laughed and explained. But it wasn’t until I did finally wind down and sank onto the futon like a limp rag, that he was able to actually answer me.
“Are you done?”
“Totally, I am so very done.”
“Good.”
“No, it’s not good. How can you say it is good?” I could feel myself getting a second wind, but before I could he spoke very firmly, standing as far from me as he could.
“This isn’t our house. It’s a client’s. It’s been a major job, a dream project, no holds barred.”
“You told me this was ‘our…something’.”
“Our guest room for the night, that’s all. I wasn’t able to finish my sentence as you’ll recall.”
“You never talked about this project.”
“No, because it’s part of the surprise.”
“Jeff, I don’t get…”
“Shh, just let me tell you.”
“Why are we here? And why is our furniture here?”
“I’ve been using this room as my office for the project. The futon is for power naps. This furniture will all be out of here within the week.”
“So those dresses, they belong to your client?”
“Yes, they were shipped here and she didn’t want them to stay in boxes, so she hung them in the closet. And by the way she is almost seventy years old.”
“Huh, well that’s a relief. But why are we here? Why can’t we just go home.”
“If I’d had even two minutes since the airport to tell you…”
“Tell me now!”
“It’s not how I wanted to tell you. And I can’t show you now. We’re both too upset.”
“I’m so sorry. I feel terrible. I don’t know where all that came from. You know I love you and trust you. I’m just exhausted.”
“Okay, just rest here, take a little nap.”
“On this?”
“Yes, here, but hang on.”
He ran out of the room, across the bridge, down the stairs and out the door. My heart leaped into my throat. He’s leaving, I thought. Our whole wonderful life smashed to smithereens by me and my outrageous rant. But he came back and in his arms is my comforter and two pillows. And suddenly every ounce of upset drained from me. This man loves me, he knows me deeply and I can trust him completely. And with that, and my blankie, I drifted off to sleep.
When I woke I don’t know how much later, he was lying by my side, just looking at me with that loving amused expression. How long had he been staring at my smeared makeup and messy hair and seeing whatever it is he sees in me that puts that look on his face, even after all I said?
“Are you ready for your surprise?”
“Uh, huh. But let me clean up a bit.”
“Okay and be sure to use the bathroom so you don’t have to pee in the woods.”
What? That sounded crazy, but I wasn’t going to second guess him again. I used the opportunity in front of that fern-shrouded mirror to splash my face with water and comb my hair. Hardly perfection, but better.
We headed downstairs and, relieved to know it wasn’t our house, I was able to express admiration for Jeff’s accomplishment.
He beamed at my praise. “We can take the grand tour later, but the surprise is down the drive a way.”
We strolled in the warm summer evening’s last glow, fireflies darting about in the woods and meadow of this estate that had been wisely left au natural. We turned a corner and there in an open glade was a smaller sensibly-proportioned wooden house with shutters and gables. My heart quickened. I looked over at Jeff. He smiled and said, “Welcome home.”
“What? Are you serious? I can’t believe it. What have you been up to?”
As we headed towards the twinkling lights of the house, he said, “This was the carriage house for the estate. My clients gave it and two acres to me instead of my normal fee. I’ve been remodeling it as I’ve been overseeing their project.”
“Oh sweetheart, this is the most wonderful surprise ever! I am blown away. But why on earth didn’t we just come here?”
“That’s what I had wanted to do, but this morning the plumber told me that the water’s not on until tomorrow, and that’s why I needed to explain that we’d be spending one night in the big house.”
“We couldn’t have just gone home and come here tomorrow?”
“Uh, no, that would not have worked, as you can see…” He opened the door and inside were all our furnishings, arranged in a way that made them look like they were always meant to be there. It felt like home, only better, with a fireplace insert and a window seat for me to read, as well as a kitchen big enough for two to cook in at the same time, and outside a meandering garden down to a natural stream. I could imagine my mornings there, sitting surrounding by trees that had been there for longer than I’d been alive.
Back inside Jeff showed me the master suite with French doors open to a patio with pots full of summer blooms. Down the hall was a guest room with its own bath. That’s it. No haunting reminders of a life that could never be, just a celebration of our life as it is.
Then the doorbell rang. What now? Some interruption to break this magic spell?
Jeff went to answer it and came back with a box emitting a tantalizing aroma — a meal from our favorite Italian restaurant. He placed the feast on the table already set for two. These romantic gestures were making me woozy, so I sat down, filled with gratitude. For absolutely no reason, given the monstrous way I had behaved just an hour earlier, I felt like the luckiest woman in the world. Wouldn’t you?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stephanie Noble’s poems have been published in many journals including the Atlanta Review, IthacaLit, Pilgrimage Magazine, DoveTales–Writing for Peace, and the Marin Poetry Center Anthology 2010-2016. She was a 2014 Pushcart Prize nominee. Stephanie teaches insight meditation in San Rafael, California and is the author of Tapping the Wisdom Within, A Guide to Joyous Living. This is her first short story. She is married to the artist Will Noble. They have four children and five grandchildren. You can follow her meditation blog at stephanienoble.com.