a tiny chip.
Before I can begin to apply it, Mrs. Graham bends over and peers into my case. “Oh, look at all your little pots and potions!” She points to an egg-shaped sponge. “What’s this for?”
“Blending foundation,” I say. My fingers feel itchy with the need to continue. I fight the urge to turn around and glance at the kitchen clock. “Here, let me show you.”
If I select a single shadow for her eyes rather than a trio—maybe an oatmeal hue to bring out the blue—I can finish on time. Her makeup will still look good; it won’t betray the shortcut.
I’m smoothing the last bit of concealer under her eyes when a telephone rings a few inches away from my elbow.
Mrs. Graham eases off her stool. “Excuse me, dear. Let me tell them I’ll call back.”
What can I do but smile and nod?
Maybe I should grab a cab instead of taking the subway. But it’s rush hour; a taxi could actually take longer.
I steal a glance at my phone: It’s 4:28, and I’ve missed a couple of texts. One is from Noah: Sorry I couldn’t meet you last night. How about Saturday?
“Oh, I’m doing just fine. I’ve got this nice young lady here and we’re having tea,” Mrs. Graham is saying into the receiver.
I quickly type a reply: Sounds great.
The second text is from Dr. Shields.
Could you please phone me before our appointment? Dr. Shields has written.
“Okay, sweetheart, I promise I’ll call you back as soon as we’re done,” Mrs. Graham says. But her tone contains no indication that she’s trying to wrap up the conversation.
The room is overly warm, and I can feel perspiration dampen my armpits. I fan myself with my open hand, thinking, Wrap it up!
“Yes, I visited earlier today,” Mrs. Graham says. I wonder if I should just call Dr. Shields now. Or at least send her a quick text explaining I’m with a client.
Before I can make a decision, Mrs. Graham finally hangs up and returns to her stool.
“That was my daughter,” she says. “She lives in Ohio. Cleveland. It’s such a nice area; they moved two years ago because of her husband’s job. My son—he’s my firstborn—lives in New Jersey.”
“How nice,” I say, picking up a copper eyeliner.
Mrs. Graham reaches for her tea, blowing on it before she takes a sip, and I clench the eyeliner a little tighter in my hand.
“Try the cookies,” she says, hunching her shoulders conspiratorially. “The ones with jelly in the middle are the best.”
“I really need to finish your makeup,” I say, my tone sharper than I intended. “I have a meeting right after this, and I can’t be late.”
Mrs. Graham’s expression dims and she sets down her teacup. “I’m sorry, dear. I don’t want to hold you up.”
I wonder if Dr. Shields would know how I should have handled the quandary: Be late for an important appointment, or hurt the feelings of a sweet older woman?
I look at the butter cookies, the little pink-and-white china pitcher and matching sugar bowl, the quilted cozy over the freshly made tea. The most any other client has ever offered me before is a glass of water.
Kindness is the right answer; I chose wrong.
I try to regain our merry banter, asking about her grandchildren as I dab a rose-colored cream blush onto her cheeks, but she is subdued now. Despite my efforts, her eyes appear less bright than when I entered her apartment.
When I finish, I tell her she looks great.
“Go check yourself out in the mirror,” I say, and she heads to the bathroom.
I pull out my phone, planning to try to quickly call Dr. Shields, and see she has sent me another text: I hope you receive this before you come here. I need you to pick up a package on your way to my office. It’s under my name.
All she has provided is an address in Midtown. I have no idea if it’s a store, an office, or a bank. It’ll only add ten minutes to my journey, but I don’t have them to spare.
No problem, I text.
“You did such a nice job,” Mrs. Graham calls.
I begin to take our teacups to the sink, but she comes back into the room and waves her hand at me. “Oh, I’ll take care of all that. You have to get to your meeting.”
I still feel guilty that I was impatient with her, but she has a husband and a son and a daughter, I remind myself as I pack up