The Restoration of Celia Fairchild Read online

  My palms began to sweat.

  “On second thought . . . I’ll take the pistachio. And a chocolate.” I paused, thinking about pants that wouldn’t button and the fat content of pistachios. “Make the latte nonfat.”

  “How you holding up?” Ramona asked after shouting my order to the girl who was running the espresso machine. “Calvin told me about Steve. He left you for the lady who did your wedding ceremony? What a tool.”

  “No. He left me for his orthodontist.”

  Somehow I thought that having my husband leave me for his orthodontist (whose bill for Steve’s invisible braces I was still paying) instead of a justice of the peace sounded less pathetic, but as soon as the words left my mouth, I realized that it didn’t.

  “Hey, before I forget,” Ramona said, her face lighting up with the kind of anticipation people get when preparing to share a juicy bit of gossip, “that letter you got from the guy who ran up all that credit card debt and then had his car repossessed, Poorhouse Paul?” She clucked her tongue and slipped the croissants into a bag. “That guy was a hot mess. Loved your answer to him.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  Though I should be used to it by now, I always feel uncomfortable with this type of praise. I think of my column as a private correspondence between me and the person writing to me. Sometimes I forget that thousands of other people, more like tens of thousands, are eavesdropping on our conversation, poring over the letters to and from Dear Calpurnia for entertainment, or affirmation. Sure, their lives might be a train wreck but at least not as big a train wreck as Poorhouse Paul’s.

  “No, really, Celia. I’m serious. How can you be so young and so wise?”

  I hate it when people say things like this. Calpurnia is the one with all the answers. Sometimes it feels like I’m just her scribe. Also . . .

  “I’m thirty-seven. About to turn thirty-eight. I feel ancient.”

  “You’re a spring chicken,” Ramona said, flapping her hand. “But a smart one. If Poorhouse Paul had been writing to me for advice, I’d just have told him to quit whining and find a second job.”

  “Well, that’s kind of what I did say. That and to find himself a good credit counseling company. I just said it more sympathetically.”

  Ramona shook her head. She wasn’t really listening.

  “I’ve worked hard all my life. Never took nothing from nobody. But these millennials? They’re all like that Poorhouse Paul, expecting everything to be handed to them. Think they should get a trophy just for showing up. Won’t take responsibility for their own bad choices.” Ramona turned toward the twenty-something woman who was running the espresso machine. “You got that latte ready? Then come over here and watch the register for a while. I need a smoke.”

  The Good Drop was packed. I craned my neck, trying to find Calvin. Just when I decided that he hadn’t shown up, I heard a familiar whistle, turned around, and spotted Calvin LaGuardia.

  Calvin and I had met in this very spot about six years before. After taking a seat at the counter, I’d struck up a conversation with the very tall and large but impeccably dressed man on the next stool. When I asked about the origins of his unusual name he said, “I just made it up one day, along with my entire persona.”

  I loved that. It’s such a New York story. Half the people in the city moved here in hopes of becoming somebody else, including me. The moment he said it, I knew in my bones that Calvin LaGuardia and I were destined to become friends. And we were, for close to three years. But things changed after I married Steve. It wasn’t that I ghosted Calvin or anything; we still talked but not as often, and our conversation was more guarded. There were things I felt I couldn’t tell him, mostly having to do with Steve. To start with, Steve was jealous of Calvin, which was stupid.

  “How can you possibly be jealous of Calvin? He’s the gayest man in Manhattan. If I climbed into bed with him stark naked, all he’d do is ask me to turn out the light. Which is a lot more than I can say for your friends. During our last party Joey backed me into a corner and tried to shove his tongue down my throat.”

  “He was drunk,” Steve said dismissively, missing the point. As usual.

  “Your friends are always drunk. Seriously, how can you be jealous of Calvin?”

  “Because you spend hours on the phone with him! What do you talk about?”

  “Stuff.” I shrugged. “Recipes. Politics. Life. Work. Who wore what to the Oscars. What happened on Real Housewives. That’s why I like Calvin; he talks to me.”

  Steve upped the volume on the basketball game.

  “Yeah, I know. For hours.”

  Apart from having done it in the first place, the thing I regret most about my marriage was letting my friendship with Calvin lapse. When Steve left, one of the first things I did was call Calvin to apologize.

  “I don’t know what to say. I was an idiot. You always knew it couldn’t work.”

  “Everybody knew,” Calvin replied. “It wasn’t just me.”

  “Yeah, and a bunch of them had no qualms about saying so right to my face. Just about everybody except you. Why? Because you knew I wouldn’t listen?”

  “Because I hoped I was wrong. I just want you to be happy, cupcake.”

  “Me too.”

  “Hey, do you want to come over? I just made a big batch of perogies. We can eat them and binge-watch old episodes of Dance Moms.”

  “Okay. But can we watch It’s a Wonderful Life after?”

  “Again?”

  “Christmas movies renew my faith in humanity.”

  “They renew your fantasy about humanity. Cupcake, Bedford Falls is not the real world.”

  “And The Bachelor is?”

  “Fine,” he said, groaning the groan of the defeated. “Bring on George Bailey.”

  Honestly, it was almost worth losing Steve just to get Calvin back. What am I saying? It was completely worth it. Calvin is my best friend.

  I plopped down into the chair opposite his, broke the pistachio croissant in two, and offered him half. Calvin held his hand up flat.

  “I’ve already had a brioche, a tall mocha, and three madeleines.”

  “I thought you were starting your diet this week.”

  “Shut up,” he said in a chirpy voice that made me smile, then reached across the table and took a piece of my croissant anyway, as I’d known he would. “Oh my,” he groaned. “That is beautiful. Guillermo has outdone himself.”

  Calvin trained as a chef and worked at some of the best restaurants in the city but gave it up when he married Simon, who is something of a saint. Simon travels all over the world as a physician with Doctors Beyond Borders. He can be called off to work in some disaster zone at a moment’s notice and be gone for weeks. The long hours of restaurant work made it hard for them to spend time together when Simon was home, so Calvin turned in his chef’s whites and became a cookbook editor. He says he doesn’t miss the frenetic grind of the restaurant at all, but I’m not so sure.

  I wish I liked Simon more. I mean, of course, I like him. It’s just that I don’t like him. He’s priggish and has a tendency to pontificate. Maybe he’s entitled to that. I mean, the man spends his life literally saving humanity. But I feel like he looks down on those involved in less meaningful lines of work, which, let’s face it, is pretty much everybody. Plus, he has this habit of pulling on his own nose that really skeeves me out. Shouldn’t a doctor know that’s unsanitary? Fortunately, I don’t see him very often because he’s usually off saving the world. When I do, I avoid shaking hands with him, so it’s all good. He makes Calvin happy and that’s what counts.

  “So, cupcake,” Calvin said after taking the last bite, “what are you up to today? I mean, apart from going into the office to write letters to a bunch of sad, self-absorbed—”

  “They are not sad and self-absorbed.” Calvin stared at me. “Okay, fine,” I admitted. “Some are. But most are just confused. Or lonely. They just need somebody to talk to. Is that so bad? Somebody has to care about the losers
.”

  Calvin didn’t actually call them losers but I felt like he wanted to. I feel like a lot of people do that and it always upsets me. Because even though I’ve never met most of the people who write to me, and have a tangled love/hate relationship with a lot of them, I also feel very protective of them. I can’t help it.

  “Hey, I was just joking. I’m the last person on the planet who can cast aspersions on someone else’s profession. Know what I’ll be doing today? Same thing I’ve been doing for the last six weeks,” he said. “Testing recipes for the project that never ends, The Ultimate Encyclopedia of Baking.

  “Celia, I swear this book will be the end of me. Look at me.” He pushed himself back from the table and spread his hands wide, displaying the full breadth of his custom-made, 3XLT oxford shirt, coral-striped with a blue monogram, perfectly pressed as always. “I’m enormous. I’m a zip code.”

  “Oh, you are not.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m the Hindenburg. The next cookbook I edit is going to be something healthy, and slimming. The Complete Lettuce Cookbook. Winning Ways with Kale. Something like that.”

  “You hate kale.”

  “Everybody hates kale,” he said. “They just won’t admit it.”

  “So you’ve gained a little weight,” I said with a shrug. “So what? You’ll lose it again, just as soon as you finish this project. How much more do you have to do?”

  “I’m only up to the m’s. This week I’m testing macarons. Hey,” he said brightly, “can I bring them by your apartment? Otherwise I’ll end up eating them.”

  “No. Absolutely not. Why can’t you just take a bite out of one to make sure it’s good and then throw the rest away?”

  “Because I can’t,” he moaned. “You know I can’t. Because my grandparents lived through the Depression and never let me forget it. You loved the linzer torte I brought over last week. Come on, Celia. Help me out. Please?”

  “Nope,” I said firmly. “Sorry, but I can’t.”

  Calvin leaned closer and dropped his wheedling tone, his expression slightly flat but also more open and honest. Calvin’s a born performer. I mean that almost literally: he feels obligated to entertain almost everyone he meets. But with me, he knows he doesn’t have to. That’s what makes us friends.

  “I’ve gained thirty-two pounds since Christmas,” he said. I winced, feeling his pain. I knew he’d bulked up a bit while editing the baking book, how could he not? But he’s such a big guy to begin with, towering over me by at least a foot, that I hadn’t realized it was that much. “Well,” he said, leaning back after completing his confession. “That’s my hostage. What about yours?”

  For years now, Calvin and I have played a game he calls “trading hostages.” The first person tells the second person something about themselves that they wouldn’t want everybody to know, then the second person returns the favor. I wasn’t sure about this at first, but Calvin said it was a good way to get to know someone very well, very quickly, and he was right. At this point, Calvin knew everything about me. Well, almost everything. Some things about my childhood are too complicated to explain even to myself, let alone Calvin. Normally, the “hostage” exchange involves sharing information that’s bad, even embarrassing. But today, for the first time in a long time, I had good news to report.

  “I’ve made up my mind, Calvin. I am transforming myself into a new person, a better person.”

  Calvin’s forehead creased with confusion. “Why? What’s wrong with the person you are now?”

  I grinned, took a deep breath, and blurted out the news.

  “A baby? Really? Oh, honey! A baby! I’m so happy for you!” Calvin jumped from his chair, scooped me out of mine, and wrapped me in his big arms, lifting me off the ground and into his embrace.

  “Hang on,” I said, laughing. “Nothing is sure yet. The birth mother is considering two other families.”

  “She’ll pick you,” Calvin said. “I know she will. Who better to raise a baby than Dear Calpurnia?”

  “Well, let’s not jump the gun. I don’t want to get my hopes up,” I said, though it was way too late for that. “I’ve got to find a new apartment before the home visit.”

  “Move into our building! There’s a two-bedroom coming available at the end of the month. You’d have on-site babysitters—Uncle Calvin and Uncle Simon!”

  “I can’t afford your building, not unless I can get a raise. I’m asking Dan today.” Remembering my mission made my throat go dry. I took a drink of coffee and wiped my damp palms on the paper napkin.

  “He’ll give it to you,” Calvin said confidently. “How can he not? You’re the most popular advice columnist since Dear Abby.”

  “Yeah. Well. We’ll see.” I pulled the chocolate croissant out of the bag and took a big bite.

  “I thought it was a new day,” he said. “I thought you were being transformed.”

  “Shut up,” I chirped.

  Calvin laughed.

  Chapter Three

  After finishing my latte and getting a pep talk from Calvin, I marched over to the lion’s den to demand a raise—the den being the offices of McKee Media, the lion being Dan McKee, the owner of the company and my boss.

  Dan started his online newspaper, The Daily McKee, with a handful of amateur journalists who were willing to work for donuts and a byline and built it into one of the most successful online publications in the country, not far behind HuffPost and BuzzFeed. He “discovered” me twelve years ago.

  I studied journalism in college and wrote several groundbreaking articles for my college paper. Perhaps you remember my exposé on the actual number of working hours clocked by tenured faculty? Or my series about Rush Week hazing practices that resulted in the suspension of the Kappa Sigs for a whole year?

  No? Neither did any of the managing editors in New York.

  I started waiting tables to make rent and blogging to help process my transition to life in the big city. As a title, Georgia Peach in the Big Apple was a little misleading but I figured that my attending the University of Georgia made it true enough. Besides, it wasn’t like I thought anybody was actually going to read it.

  But for some reason, they did. Georgia Peach wasn’t as popular as a lot of blogs; I never got a TV show or movie or book deal out of it, but I did develop a sort of cult following, mostly because of the comments.

  If you’re raised in the South, certain things are baked into you from birth. You say, “Yes, sir” and “Yes, ma’am.” You respect your elders. Back then when someone wrote to you, you wrote back, on proper stationery and in your very nicest handwriting, unless you were Calpurnia, who had shockingly poor penmanship for a woman of her era and got away with tapping out her correspondence on her trusty Olivetti typewriter with the wonky y, always sending some sugar when she signed off. The rest of us were supposed to pen our thanks by hand; this and many other rules of etiquette were pounded into me from an early age. I received my first set of monogrammed stationery for my fourth birthday, long before I actually could write. So, of course, I read and answered all those comments personally and at length. It would have been rude not to, especially for a blogger who was tapping into her southern sensibility.

  Before long, people started posting questions as well as comments, often asking for my advice. Why they thought I’d have any special insights to offer still baffles me but I always wrote back. That’s when I started using the pen name Calpurnia and developed my signature sign-off, “Sending you some sugar.” Doesn’t get a lot more southern than that.

  By the time Dan McKee found me, the blog was making a little money, so I turned down his initial “donuts and a byline” proposal. I was surprised when he came back with an offer of thirty-five thousand a year. It seemed an enormous sum at the time. I’ve gotten a few raises since, all hard fought. Last time, I threatened to take the column to another publication. It was a bluff that paid off. Dan made me sign a three-year contract that included a noncompete and a substantial raise.

  That was
a tough negotiation. I wasn’t looking forward to repeating the experience. So when I got to the office and found that Dan wasn’t in, I was disappointed but also a little relieved.

  After settling down at my desk, I opened my email. Dozens of messages for Dear Calpurnia popped up. It seems like writing an advice column should be the easiest job in journalism but it’s not, and when you’ve been doing it for as long as I have, avoiding repetition is hard. Lately, I feel like I’ve been recycling myself a lot. After twelve years as Calpurnia, what fresh insights do I really have to offer?

  Though only a couple of the emails that come in will appear in Daily McKee, I respond to everybody who writes to me. This isn’t a job requirement, only a personal one. Like I said, somebody has to care about these people. Most of my responses boil down to three vital nuggets of advice. Nobody is perfect, even you, so don’t be so hard on other people. Nobody is perfect, and that’s okay, so don’t be so hard on yourself. And nobody is perfect, especially you, so why don’t you look in the mirror and quit being such a jerk.

  But I say it more sympathetically.

  Reading between the lines, figuring out the stuff that people aren’t saying and might not know about themselves is the tricky part of my job. But you’ve got to be gentle. People can’t hear you if they’re feeling attacked or judged. That’s part of the reason I sprinkle my letters with little endearments—baby girl, buttercup, and the like. It helps people know that I still like them, even when I’m delivering a much-needed lecture. Also, it’s just my style.

  After reading through the day’s batch of mail, I decided to publish a letter from a widow who had moved in with her son, daughter-in-law, and three teenage grandchildren, and was very, very unhappy. She came off as a cranky old bag, the kind of person who spends the day peeping through a crack in the living room curtains so that she can run out onto the porch to scream at any damn kids that dare to step on her lawn. But when I read her letter, I could tell those were just symptoms of a deeper and more universal problem.