He hugged her right off her feet.
The surprise was not my hard scrabble family. Turns out Dad’s drinking, fishing, schmoozing buddies (more likely their wives) stocked the freezer; someone had draped a hand-knit throw on his recliner. Apparently, Mom’s ragtag friends took up a collection and hired a cleaning crew. What passed for our living-dining room had flower arrangements on the gleaming table and bookcase, with Ethan’s card still poking from his. The entire place smelled like Pledge and Murphy’s Oil Soap. My heart hurt.
By the time I arrived, O’Farrells had planned the routine for the next few days (Thank you, Ethan). I fell in line, literally, as we regrouped to receive visitors at the funeral home. Darby arrived after work from his apartment in town; Genevieve drove with her boys from her own godforsaken boondocks.
Gram and Grandpa insisted Neil join in any way he felt comfortable. For two days he held us together, Brooks Brothers to the bone. He changed subjects when tempers flared, broke up the wrestling in the funeral home lobby between his little first-cousins-twice-removed, and served as the perfect usher for the service. His ‘Danny and Neil’ BB gun reminiscences had Grandpa slapping his knee.
Dad’s cronies took it from there. Except for the secular service and no casket, it might as well have been a two-day Irish wake. Day Three we formed a caravan to the fishing spot. Mom and the biting February wind dispersed Dad’s ashes along the edge of the lake. My head ached.
Meanwhile back at the Animal Cracker ranch, the stuffing of Genevieve, her boys, and me into our childhood bedrooms, was wearing thin. Friends hovered too long and my grandparents nagged too often. My mother’s week-long consumption of lemon bars, brownies, and cold casseroles, washed down with diet soda and booze, punched up with pharmaceuticals, spun her into Mrs
Junk Yard Dog (Darby’s teenaged term for her tantrums). “Jesus. You’d think he was a fucking saint,” and, “he left me with a shit pile of nothing,” she said as often as she crumbled into tears. We were either in the way or not attentive enough. “And that damned cousin. Neil drops from his fancy schmancy sky. Always too good for us, and all of sudden he’s queen of the hop and acting like a long-lost son.”
“He’s Gram’s only family left,” Genevieve said.
“And I’m yesterday’s garbage? Jesus, you’re all clueless.”
“Mom!” came from all of us. Darby added his two cents, and we were at it like old times.
“Emma, you’re worse than the other two put together.” She turned to my siblings. “Was I right about her? Was I? Too good for us. Ethan can’t bother to give up a ball game and show up, after all we did for him. And both of them, more money than God – Not a worry on God’s green earth.”
“Damn it!” I stepped forward as Genevieve sent me a warning glance. “I’ve been out of work for six fucking weeks. Does that help?”
Chapter Twelve
“Six weeks? When, exactly were you going to tell me you got fired?”
“Well, hello to you to, Ethan.”
“I call Darby to get carburettor advice and that’s how I find out you’ve been out of work since I flew down here?”
“And what? You would have hopped a plane right back from pre-season to help me find a job? You can’t even find the time for your father-in-law’s memorial service. I’ve been back for forty-eight hours. How about asking how I’m doing?” Off we went and it wasn’t pretty.
“Look, Ethan, this isn’t getting us anywhere. I didn’t tell you because I knew you didn’t need the stress. Besides, it’s worked out. Nickolas Christopoulos of Ciao!Beauty hired me full time this morning.” Half-hearted apologies on both ends put us back on neutral ground. “I join as Executive Vice President, General Manager, with an annual salary of well over two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars. In essence I’ve been hired to show Mr Christopoulos the ropes.”
We calmed down before we hung up, but I fell into another crying jag. Whether for my marriage, my father, or the six miserable weeks, I couldn’t say. Maybe they were tears of relief and joy.
1998 spun on an unexpected axis. “Seriously, women are expected to make coffee and deliver it to their bosses. Male, of course. Mr Christopoulos calls us Doll Face and Sweetie Pie,” I explained as I shared my employment news with Neil. “He sounds like a total anachronism. No mutiny?”
“To be honest, he’s a gentlemen to his toes, kind and generous. Impeccable, old school wardrobe. He’s the first to compliment a job well done. Most important, Neil, something in my drive or determination has created chemistry. He’s got a hard-scrabble background, too. He treats me like a daughter, or at least the way I think a daughter should be treated.”
“Darling girl, this is marvellous. Promise to keep me up to speed on all things career.”
I hung up smiling. My boss had the Greek and Italian aura of a man brimming with a loving family. He often mentioned his late wife, his Greek sister who’d married into an Italian-American clan, their son, the beloved nephew Carmine, and a gaggle of Long Island in-laws-by-marriage.
I offered polite responses. After my tightrope walk with Linda Carlton, and cosy-to-collapse relationship with her, then Marsha, I worked to keep this relationship professional. In addition to my boss, I had a CFO and a board of directors to consider, all male, each old enough to be my father, if not grandfather. A raised eyebrow, a doubtful expression could flood me with doubt or self-consciousness.
At Ciao!Beauty I was more independent, more responsible, which in turn meant more visible. I focused on enhancing existing procedure that would bring results as quickly as possible. I had to up my A game with the board, our clients and the competition. From what I said to how I said it, Proceed with Caution became my mantra. Trust is not my strong suit.
By late spring I’d restructured the sales field, and added positions in our major markets drawn from people I’d worked with during the past ten years. Jennifer Rocket joined as Vice President of Sales for North America. Dustin came on as marketing manager, with an eye toward Marketing/Public Relations Director.
Atticus Baron remained in LA as my consultant on sales and events. Andrew Case left Marshall Fields to work for me in his Midwest territory. I had an inner circle; they had my back. Mr Christopoulos was so happy with our progress he added marketing department to my job description. Sales, Marketing, and Sales Administration/Analytics, Education, and Public Relations all reported to me. Together we created an inspiring environment with a waiting list of job applicants. It took working for this supportive, low-key gentleman to realise how tense I’d been with Linda and Marsha. Nothing in his temperament set me on edge which showed in my productivity. The constant hum of paper shredders, ringing phones, and buzzing employees became my symphony. I was back to driving a well-oiled machine with the largest team I’d ever managed.
There was no managing my mother, of course. “… As for your grandparents, I still do their laundry, keep up the place. I might as well be dead as your father. Not a bit of thanks, not a dime for the work. Tupperware’s saving my ass.” Representative O’Farrell sold her product line out of the station wagon, and Tupperware had gotten her to Manhattan for some sort of regional get together.
“I got time for a lunch but don’t drag me into one of those stuck up, rich people places you and Ethan go to,” put us in a hamburger joint on West Thirty-third, two blocks from my office. “Look at you, all decked out in that thousand-dollar ensemble,” opened her bitch-fest, and concluded with Darby being arrested for fencing motel televisions, and Genevieve in an emergency room for leg sutures after her ex threw an ashtray.
When I’d settled the check and we were back on the street, I slung my arm around her shoulder and had her look up. “Can you believe I work in The Empire State Building? Wait till you see the view from our offices. You’ll love Mr Christopoulos’ taste. Ciao!Beauty’s decorated right out of the Big Band era. Plus, you can meet the team I’ve put together. Dustin, my assistant, is the one who packs the boxes I send you.”
“Seems like that out-of-work stretch you fussed over didn’t make a dent. Must be nice when money and a classy life come so easy. Anyways, I killed my free time over lunch. I’m meeting the West Virginia reps for some girl time, brain storming, drinks—the whole package.” She scanned the street with her arm raised.
“Maybe your next visit.”
“Sure thing.” She hugged me as a cab pulled over. I jammed on sunglasses, swore, steamed, and stewed the entire fifteen-minute walk to my office. I shut my door, and cried my eyes out. My toxic excuse for a mother, who’d brag about me to every Tupperware seller in West Virginia, remained incapable of anything resembling emotional support.
Central Park jogging had become my stress buster. Five and a half hours later I hit my routine trail and approached ‘the nook,’ as I thought of the Brucknerfield-like stone outcropping I’d discovered with Ethan. Hated tears, closed throat tightened my chest all over again. In our own eccentric way, Ethan and I adjusted to his year-in, year-out scramble from team to team, franchise to franchise, but the schedule made sharing in-the moment despair like mine impossible.
By 1998 even that schedule was in flux. His January call back to coach and develop rookies didn’t guarantee more than current season play. Falling short of accomplishing his goals forced his insecurity and anxiety demons to the surface. I put mother issues on the back burner, doused my despair, and concentrated on Ethan.
I insisted the baseball cup was half full, not half empty. We both knew the day would come when he’d have to make major transitions. He might not play as much but his talent was needed, coaching would always be an option. My pep talks were most effective when delivered between the bed sheets.
Cousin Neil wrote us letters in impeccable script often including magazine articles from sports to the arts. A day with Neil was like a week inside an encyclopaedia. He dissolved my gloom by coming east on spring business, full of questions about Ethan’s games, as well as the fragrance industry. His success, he told me depended as much on public relations, people skills, and international networking as the antiques and collectables he sold, talents Ethan and I were to apply to our careers.
I welcomed his tutorials, from paintings as we strolled The Frick, to libretto lessons for Tosca, my first opera. He arranged my furniture ‘to lead the eye’ to the framed prints he’d helped me hang. When we finally tiptoed through family minefields, Neil play therapist, grew teary over my dad, and made sense of our shared dysfunctional dynamic. He genuinely cared about Ethan and his goals, and left me with, “Life is too damn short. Make every day divine.”
At work I met weekly with Mr Christopoulos and the CFO to review financial and wholesale reports, staffing, and brand acquisitions. Within months I regularly attended the first thirty to forty minutes of the board meetings to assure the directors and our investors allocated funds were being used as planned, and sales projections were achieved. This gave me face to-face chances to answer profit and loss— ‘P&L’ —questions for their retailers.
The Greek and Italian board members weren’t involved in daily operations so supporting Mr Christopoulos with negotiations became my priority. My team’s input improved my efficiency. By summer I regularly looked over proposals and investment requirements to assure they were the right brands for the Christopoulos portfolio, and updated progress on newly launched fragrances. The je ne sais quoi of board members’ body language and tone of voice made it clear they trusted my judgment, or at least Mr Christopoulos’ faith in it. Once we had multiple brands, we created strong structural plans for domestic and Canadian markets. Ciao!Beauty showed a profit for the first time in years. Next, we homed in on international sales, from France and Germany, to the biggest opportunity: expansion into merging markets in Middle East, China, and Dubai.
