Writing a Wrong Page 3

  I saw a swirl of holidays. Christmas parties with the living room full of guests and the wonderful scent of pine from the decorated tree with its colorful lights. Then it was Halloween when I was dressed as a fairy ready to go out trick or treating as the leaves littered the sidewalk. I saw myself on my eighth birthday, dressed in pink, waiting for my party guests to arrive. Then there was me ready for my wedding, totally clueless about what I was about to get into. I stopped the mental pictures there before I could berate my former self for her mistake.

  After that my mind still went back to Tony, and Ben’s suggestion to let him go as a client. There was one thing I hadn’t dealt with or told anyone. Tony was behind on paying me. It was confusing because he’d started off paying more than I’d asked. But the last few times, he’d said he’d catch up the next time or, like tonight, said nothing. He’d intimated that things were coming together in the relationship and they were on the verge of making a commitment. I told myself that he probably just wanted to pay me all at once.

  THREE

  The love-letter gigs like Tony’s tended to last for a while, but most of my jobs were short-lived which meant that I was always looking for more work. I had two appointments about potential jobs and one about a job I was already working on. The nice part was they were all local, actually walking distance from my place.

  It was a walking neighborhood and there were always people on the street. There were lots of tall trees and the apartment buildings were mostly vintage, brick, three-story buildings like mine. Most of them had been turned into condominiums. There were plenty of houses in assorted styles from Victorian to the boxy town houses that were relatively new in comparison.

  I brought my coffee into the living room to check out the day before I decided how to dress. The TV weather report had been right for a change. It was the end of March and people were thinking about spring, but it was snowing so hard I could barely see across the street. The sidewalks and cars parked on the street were all covered in white. When I checked my balcony, the black wrought-iron railing of the fencing had a thick puff of white on top. The wind sent the big snowflakes into a swirl. All that white reflected light back into the living room making it seem very bright. Rocky joined me as I stood looking outside, drinking my coffee. He swirled around my ankles then jumped into the chair to get a view.

  ‘Be glad you’re an indoor cat,’ I said, giving his head a stroke. He meowed which I took as agreement. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Melissa at the pet store had said it was safest to keep him as an indoor cat and, looking down at a truck rumbling along the street below, I had to agree with her. But it still seemed sad to keep him cut off from the outdoors. There was my balcony, but I worried that he’d see the sparrows that hung out in the tree out front and try to jump at them. I shuddered to think of the consequences. ‘When the weather warms up, I’ll figure something out,’ I said to him. I’d heard that cats could walk on leashes and there were pet strollers that were enclosed. But for now, I was afraid he’d have to be content looking out the window.

  There was something hypnotic about watching the snow fall, but I pulled myself away, having decided on wearing my meeting-a-potential-client outfit of black slacks and a black bulky turtleneck with a silk scarf thrown on for color.

  It was an odd day to be dealing with ice cream. But I was meeting with the proprietor of a new place going into the small storefront tucked under the Metra train tracks.

  The weather called for the full winter treatment and I put on a black wool jacket and a rose-colored beanie that I’d crocheted. I made sure there were gloves stuffed in the pocket and pulled on the boots that sat in the hall outside my door. The final professional touch was my peacock blue messenger bag.

  I half expected Sara to open her door when I crossed the second-floor landing, but she must have been otherwise occupied. She always seemed to want to hear both Ben’s and my take on our encounters. I know she kept hoping for something exciting like the fact that we’d kissed each other, but that wasn’t going to happen. The only body contact we had was something akin to a pat on the arm as he left.

  Outside it was like a winter wonderland. There was something so magic about fresh snow, even if I was longing to see violets and budding bushes.

  As soon as I turned the corner on to 57th the scene changed. There were students with backpacks on their way to class. The coffee shop on the corner was busy. Someone was bringing a pack of laundry into the dry cleaner’s and I had to dodge a man with a dolly filled with boxes as he rolled it across the sidewalk to the small market on the ground floor of an apartment building.

  A sign that read Coming Soon: The Ice-Cream Experience hung over the small shop tucked under the viaduct. The windows were covered with white paper, making it impossible to see inside. A Metra train was just pulling in to the platform overhead and the train’s bell clanged as I opened the shop’s door. I expected it to be dim inside, but while the white paper made the windows opaque, it reflected back the light from the recessed fixtures in the ceiling. I gave the interior a quick survey. It didn’t have the vibe of a usual ice-cream shop. The walls were painted a bluish gray and the whole place had an industrial feel instead of the usual pastels that went with the frozen treat. The counter was stainless steel and sat between two freezers with angled windows. Instead of bistro tables, a long common table ran along the covered window, with a few metal stools pushed under it. Natural wood shelves were built into a back wall and a doorway led into what I imagined was a kitchen area.

  I’d just finished my appraisal when a woman came in from the back. She was younger than I’d expected and I guessed in her early twenties. Her dark hair was pulled into a ponytail and black-rimmed glasses dominated her face. There was something a little brittle about her that didn’t seem to go with being a purveyor of ice cream. She seemed deep in thought and startled when she realized I was there.

  ‘Sorry for surprising you. Maybe you should put a bell over the door,’ I said in a friendly voice. ‘I’m Veronica Blackstone. You wanted to talk to me about helping you with some copy.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, sounding none too happy. ‘I’m Haley Hess.’ She reached out her hand to shake mine.

  ‘I’m just curious, how did you find out about me?’ I asked.

  She seemed distressed. ‘They said I needed a professional and gave me your name. Just because they put up the money doesn’t mean they can tell me what to do,’ she said in a strident tone. ‘They are not going to run this place from behind the scenes.’

  ‘OK,’ I said calmly. ‘Maybe you should tell me what you’re interested in having done.’

  ‘Just so you understand. I could do it all myself, but they insisted it was a deal breaker if I didn’t have some outside help.’

  ‘So, I’m guessing you want something for your website. Sometimes it’s better when the person writing it has a little distance. I’m sure that’s what your backer meant. I’m sure you know that everything is about the story now. A business has to have a personality. Who’s the owner and how did the place come about.’

  She nodded. ‘I need that and descriptions of my products. Apparently, you can’t just list the ingredients anymore.’ She let out a frustrated sigh. ‘I don’t really have a choice about hiring you, so we might as well get to it.’ She came out from behind the counter and pulled out two stools inviting me to sit. ‘The point of this place is that the flavors are going to be different and unusual.’

  I was curious who had recommended me and considered asking her for a name, but on second thought I was sure it would set her off. What was the difference anyway? I took out my notebook and pen. She seemed surprised. I suppose she expected me to pull out a computer or at the very least a tablet. But I was old-fashioned that way; besides, a notebook and pen didn’t require a battery.

  ‘Just to reassure you, you would have the final say on anything I wrote for you. My aim is for you to be satisfied. Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself and how this place came
to be?’

  She immediately brightened. ‘I look at ice cream as a vehicle for mixing interesting flavors and textures. It is imperative that they are described in an interesting, complex way. This is not going to be the spot you go for a hot fudge sundae. If we have sundaes at all they will be original, like maybe a sauce made of smashed strawberries bathed in balsamic vinegar.’ She went on for a few minutes about wanting her place to be unique and memorable.

  I was beginning to get a picture here. This was not going to be a place hosting kids’ birthday parties. I wondered if she’d even allow kids in, thinking they didn’t have a sophisticated enough palate.

  ‘I just graduated from the UChicago,’ she said. ‘I thought the money was a graduation present. You know, came with no strings. Ha! I can’t wait until I’m paying my own way, then let them try to interfere.’ It was like she was talking to herself and then she turned back to me and abruptly pulled herself together. I could have guessed the part about graduating from the university, probably with a degree in some area of science that taught her about the molecular makeup of ice cream. Her jaw looked so tense that I was sure she had to sleep with a night guard in her mouth.

  ‘I’ve been fascinated with interesting mixtures since I was a child. And the history of ice cream,’ she said abruptly. ‘You have to put in something about that. It’s been around for centuries, well, not exactly in the form we think of, but I think there is something in people that makes them crave frozen concoctions.’ As she talked, I was beginning to understand why someone told her to hire me. She was a little all over the place. From talking about the world history of ice cream, she suddenly started talking about her own. ‘When I was a child I’d take vanilla ice cream and mix in all kind of things – like fruits, vegetable and spices. I thought they were wonderful, but not everyone agreed.’ She looked over at me scribbling some notes. ‘I want the flavors described as different and innovative.’

  ‘You mean something that would entice them to want to have a taste experience,’ I said, and she nodded. It seemed like something I could easily do. It was all about making it seem like a taste adventure. Maybe I’d put in something about where the ingredients were sourced. I always thought it was fascinating that vanilla came from an orchid.

  ‘I’ll get something I’m working on for you to taste.’ She went in the back and returned with a dish of it with a spoon stuck in. She’d brought some water to clear my palate between tastes. ‘I’m not going to tell you what I call the flavor. Let me see if you can dissect the complexity and detect all the different layers.’

  I got worried when I saw some pinkish flecks on top and noted a smoky fragrance. ‘Is that bacon?’ I asked and she nodded. I hesitated over what to say. I wanted the gig, but I also couldn’t stomach trying something with meat in it. I finally decided to be honest and told her I was a vegetarian, though I’d eaten bacon before becoming one and remembered the flavor. She pursed her lips and, though her glasses made it hard to tell, I think she furrowed her brow. I started to push back on the stool, figuring we were done.

  ‘I wouldn’t want anyone to say I discriminated. Let me get you some without the bacon. It’s actually an add-in,’ she said. She went into the back and came back with another dish of ice cream that looked about the same without the pinkish flecks. ‘Just be sure that you make the description of the bacon specific,’ and I nodded in agreement.

  ‘It’s not enough to just say bacon anymore. The one I use is pasture-raised and smoked over maple wood.’

  I took a taste of the ice cream and let it roll around in my mouth, taking in the flavor. It took a moment for it to register what I was tasting. ‘It’s breakfast ice cream,’ I said. ‘Mixed in with the creaminess, there are bits of buttermilk pancakes laced with the sweetness of real maple syrup that remind me of a Sunday breakfast.’ I looked for her reaction and she nodded. ‘Crowned with smokey sweet sprinkles of … pasture-raised, maplewood-smoked bacon.’ I put the spoon down and wrote down a shorthand version of what I’d just said.

  ‘That’s it, exactly,’ she said sounding pleased. ‘I think we can work around any ice creams with meat. Do you eat fish? I was thinking that smoked whitefish might make an interesting flavor,’ she said. I kept my smile and forced my eyes not to roll. Vegetarian meant you didn’t eat meat, fowl or fish. But people who weren’t vegetarians often seemed to think fish didn’t count. Besides, smoked whitefish ice cream? Just imagining the smell made me gag. I had to ask her what else she had in mind anyway.

  ‘I’m working on a Caesar salad ice cream,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’ll just leave the anchovies out of it. It was just a hint of their flavor anyway. Though you’ve given me an idea. I can make a vegetarian version of the breakfast ice cream and use coconut bacon instead.’

  I kept what I thought of the flavors of ice cream to myself. It was my place to write the descriptions, not judge. Even though I wondered if I was doing her a favor by not telling her what I thought. For now I just wanted to get it straight if she was indeed hiring me. She had started muttering something about vegan ice cream and started to scribble down some notes. She seemed to have drifted off into space and I understood that I was going to have to pull her back to earth to talk business.

  ‘I think I understand what you need,’ I said. ‘And you’re OK with hiring me?’

  She shrugged. ‘Sure, I guess. So, yeah, go ahead and do your thing.’ I could understand why her backer thought she needed help. I was casual with my business, but I needed more than that to start working.

  ‘How about I write up a proposal – what I’ll do and how much.’ I looked at her to see if it was registering. She seemed to be half listening. ‘If you like it, you can sign it and there’s a matter of a deposit. Then I can start.’

  ‘OK,’ she said nodding. ‘But what about the ice cream I had you taste?’ She looked at my notebook as I shut it and dropped it in the messenger bag.

  ‘Fine. I’ll write up that description and it’s yours no matter what.’

  This was going to be an interesting gig.

  FOUR

  Caesar salad ice cream? I know I said it wasn’t my job to judge, but still if she gave me an awful flavor to taste, I was going to say something. I couldn’t help getting too involved when I worked for somebody.

  Though I had managed to keep a distance with Tony, and had stuck to doing just what he asked for instead of telling him I thought the letters would be better if they were more personal, starting with using her name instead of the endearing terms he’d had me use. But what did I know? He’d said they were close to making a commitment, whatever that was supposed to mean.

  I’d been so involved with Haley and her ice-cream flavors, I’d forgotten all about the snow until I walked outside and saw that not only had the big flakes stopped falling, but the sky had cleared and the sun was out, melting all the white away.

  The sidewalk glistened, the water reflecting the sunlight, as I headed to my next appointment. I had to dodge a group of four students jogging toward the lakefront. There were others on the sidewalk going toward the campus. Student housing was spread around the whole neighborhood which meant there were always students going somewhere. There was plenty of other foot traffic as well since people in the neighborhood walked as a means to get somewhere, not just as a form of exercise.

  There was a sprinkling of businesses on 57th Street, but 53rd was the main commercial street in the neighborhood and where my next stop was located. I was pretty sure I’d get the gig with Haley even if it seemed under protest, but I wasn’t sure how the next one was going to turn out. Haley’s ice-cream concept was almost too trendy while this next place was just the opposite. It was an old-fashioned kids’ shoe store. It was where I’d gotten my Mary Janes when I was little, along with countless other neighborhood kids. But the world had changed a lot since then. It was a family-owned business and some of the younger members were interested in keeping the store going. I was there to pitch them on how I could help.

  Th
e front window featured a train set circling a display of little shoes. Walking inside the storefront brought back instant memories of coming in there holding my mother’s hand. The interior looked exactly the same all these years later – good for nostalgia, but would it be good for business?

  The store had been in the neighborhood for over sixty years, long before there was a need for personality pieces. It was enough to be local, with an occasional advertisement in the neighborhood newspaper to get more than enough customers.

  It was also before the need for clever names for shops and it was simply called Handelman’s Children’s Shoe Store. Rows of chairs with red leatherette seats flanked the side walls. Stools shaped like elephants sat ready for a salesperson to sit on while they fit shoes on a pair of little feet. In the center at the back was a cow jumping over the moon. The cow was on a track and made a trip over the moon and then returned to its starting position. A far cry from all the digital stuff that decorated shops now.

  The current Handelmans running the place were the grandchildren of the original owners. I assumed the athletic-looking, dark-haired man about my age dealing with a customer was one of them. He was sitting on one of the elephant-shaped stools helping a kid about four dressed in a Spider-Man costume try on a pair of Spider-Man boots while the little boy’s mother stared at her phone. I watched as the man had the little boy stand up and walk around. Then he did a lot of touching around the toe area. He was actually making sure the boots fit right.