The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,3

I know you’d be a great parent, single or not. Let me talk to my client and get back to you.”

The next morning, she did. Even without Steve, I was still in the running. There were no guarantees, Ms. Dowling explained; there were two other families under consideration, as well as background checks to pass and hoops to jump through, the biggest being the home visit in the middle of August.

Still, I had a one-in-three chance, and a little over three months to get my act together. And that is why, even though the chocolate croissant was calling my name, I would order plain. A small step, perhaps, but an important one.

Starting tomorrow, I would forgo croissants entirely. I would go shopping for vegetables and join a gym. I would lose those nine pounds and six more besides. I would eat clean, possibly do a juice cleanse. I would start taking my own advice. I would become self-actualized. I would avoid cruel, selfish men and take note of flapping red flags. I would love myself, and live in the moment, and smell the roses, and seize the day.

l would wear smaller jeans and find a bigger apartment. They say it takes a village to raise a child. I needed to find one of those, and quickly. So I would join a church and the PTA and a book club. I would buy a crib and a stroller and those plastic things that you stick in wall sockets so kids can’t electrocute themselves. I would purchase life insurance and make the maximum contribution to my 401(k).

I would do all of this. And more! In the next three and a half months I would transform myself into ideal parenting material and a completely different person.

But to make it happen, I needed more money.

As if my world hadn’t been rocked enough already, Steve had been awarded significant alimony payments in the divorce settlement. I had to move out of our Upper West Side apartment with the doorman and peek-a-boo view of the park, and into a studio in Washington Heights with a shared laundry and view of the alley. It’s fine just for me, but I couldn’t raise a child there. I had to find a nice two-bedroom apartment in a safe neighborhood with good schools, preferably near a subway stop, and definitely within walking distance of the park. Apartments like that don’t come cheap in New York, and so today I would ask for a raise.

That is why I was going to order a croissant, albeit a plain one. Because, in spite of all the things I’ve written about knowing your worth and not settling for less, I was dreading the conversation. (Do as I say, not as I do.) Anxiety consumes even more calories than grief and so I needed a croissant, badly. And a latte, with whole milk.

Ramona, who works at The Good Drop, a bakery and coffee shop four blocks from my office, spotted me examining the pastry.

“Hey, Celia. What can I get for you?”

“Large latte and a plain croissant.”

“Plain? You sure?” She picked up a pair of tongs but made no move to retrieve my selection. “Guillermo tried a new filling today, pistachio with a touch of cardamom. Everybody who’s had one says they’re real good.”

“No thank you, ma’am. I’ve got—”

Ramona laughed and I rolled my eyes. Why do people find this so hilarious?

“Celia, how long have you been in New York? Fifteen years? You don’t have a Southern accent anymore, but after all this time, you’re still ma’aming people?”

“It’s a habit. It’s how I was raised.”

Ramona picked up the tongs again. My eyes drifted toward a tray of flaky, buttery pastry dusted with powdered sugar and sprinkled with pale-green pistachios, chopped fine as sand. I thought about my upcoming encounter with my boss, pictured myself sitting across from him in that desk chair, the one that always wobbles, and saying, “Dan, I want a raise.”

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