The Restoration of Celia Fairchild - Marie Bostwick Page 0,6
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