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“I never have to pee,” Barbara protested. “I’ve got the bladder of a camel.”

  Frida unlocked the door to the apartment, placed her one pack of cheese and crackers and Barbara’s purse on the table in front of the Paris mirror, and headed into Ellie’s powder room. As she sat, she wondered when or if she would be sitting at all for a while.

  “Frida!” Barbara called out.

  This startled Frida. She finished peeing and flushed. As quickly as she could, she pulled up her control-top panty hose and then her sweatpants. Never keep Barbara waiting.

  “Frida, the elevator is here!”

  “I’m coming!” she shouted as she hurried out of the bathroom and through the apartment.

  “Frida, let’s go!”

  “I’m here!” Frida shouted as she slammed the door.

  It was then that she remembered.

  She started at Barbara, who was standing with one foot in the elevator and one foot in the hall. The door was about to close on her body so she pushed it to make it open again.

  “Please don’t tell me that you left my bag in Mother’s apartment.”

  Fear paralyzed Frida. Again.

  “Frida, please tell me you at least have Mother’s keys in your hand.”

  Frida suddenly remembered the cheese and crackers. They were in the house. With Barbara’s bag. Her blood sugar dropped another level.

  “Jesus, Frida! What the hell is the matter with you? You are so stupid sometimes!”

  Twenty floors below, Ken the doorman was standing outside the lobby elevator loading Mrs. Kristiansen’s groceries when he heard the howl of Barbara Sustamorn’s voice echo down the elevator shaft and through the lobby.

  “What was that?” a startled Mrs. Kristiansen asked as she widened her eyes and stiffened.

  Ken shrugged. “Mrs. Jerome’s daughter Barbara is up there.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Kristiansen nodded, getting the picture. “Well, thank goodness she only visits. Could you imagine if that woman lived here?”

  “There’s a silver lining to everything, isn’t there?” He chuckled.

  “You said it.” Mrs. Kristiansen agreed, handing Ken a five-dollar tip.

  business before pleasure

  Lucy and I skipped like schoolgirls down Chestnut Street. She didn’t want to, but it was my day so I made her. I swear I could hear Gershwin’s “Bronco Busters” or the melodic sound of a full orchestra playing “’S Wonderful” inside my head. Whenever I hear Gershwin in my head it means I’m having a good time. (By the way, if you’re too young to be familiar with Gershwin, please get yourself some CDs. You’ll thank me later.)

  “So what should we wear for our dates tonight?” I asked Lucy, throwing her arm up and down along with mine in excitement.

  “We’ll pick you out one of my dresses.”

  “I want that black one—you know, the one with the sexy back.”

  “Gram, we’re not going any place fancy, just a bar and to grab something to eat.”

  “Well, I don’t care,” I said as we headed up the stairs to Lucy’s studio. “A handsome boy wants to take me out for a night on the town; the least I can do is look nice for him. What am I going to do, show up looking like some schlump? And then what?”

  “You don’t want him to think it’s your first date, though. If you wear that dress it looks like you’re expecting him to take you someplace more extravagant than where he’s really taking you, which is a bar and an Italian place where you bring your own wine.”

  “Lucy, the job for the man is to show the lady a nice time. The job for the woman is to look like she appreciates it.”

  “Well, let’s just hope he doesn’t appreciate you to the point where he wants more in return,” Lucy warned me.

  “A little peck on the cheek never hurt anyone,” I replied, though I knew exactly what she meant.

  Lucy stopped me in front of her door. “Please don’t leave my side all night, Gram. Men today are different than they were when you were younger.”

  “And whose fault is that?” I asked her.

  “It’s no one’s fault. If a woman feels like having a one-night stand, she should be able to, as long as she has no regrets afterward. Men, though . . . Well, sometimes men think they’re getting away with something.”

  “Are you speaking from experience, or is this something every woman your age knows?”

  She stopped and looked at me. “Both.”

  I kept my mouth shut. This was something I didn’t need to know about. The truth is, in my entire adult life, I was considered single for maybe a month before I met Howard.

  “You don’t think this Zach person will take advantage of me, do you?” I asked as she opened the door to her studio.

  “Oh god no,” she balked. “He’s one of the nicest guys I know, next to Johnny. He’s that guy who is too nice to women. A lot of women don’t know how to handle it. A lot of them just use him.” She laughed. “Maybe he’s the one I should be warning.” She paused. “Anyway, forget about that now. For right now, I need to pick out the dresses to bring to Barneys.”

  “Definitely the blue one,” I said, pointing to an azure cocktail dress.

  “You don’t think it’s too much?” Lucy wondered.

  “Not at all.”

  “Here, try it on for me. Let me see if there’s anything else I need to do with it. You should be the sample size.”

  I climbed demurely out of my dress.

  “And after Barneys, we’re picking up the underwear and bra,” Lucy added. “Actually, here”—she reached under her dress and moved around, pulling her bra out of her sleeve—“put this on. We’re about the same size.”

  I took Lucy’s bra in my hand and turned around to put it on.

  “It’s like two coffee filters.” I laughed.

  “You’d be surprised. It gives a lot of support.”

  I slipped into the blue dress and stood on Lucy’s tailoring box in front of the mirror. No matter how many times I looked at myself in the mirror that day I would never get over how I looked.

  “I’m bringing it.” Lucy smiled, standing back. “And you’re going to be my model.”

  “Me?” I replied, shocked.

  “You look amazing in that. You’ll look amazing in everything. With your hair and makeup already done, why not?” She stood back and looked me over like an artist studying her canvas. “All I need to do is take in a little here,” she said out loud to herself as she pinched the fabric by my waist and began to pin the dress. “This should take two seconds to sew, and then we’ll get to the other ones. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before. You’re a perfect fit, Gram!”

  I started to tear up again.

  “If you keep crying like this you’ll never enjoy the day,” she joked.

  “I don’t think I want this day to end,” I said and smiled at her.

  “Me, either.” She smiled back.

  It was only a few blocks from Lucy’s studio to the Barneys buyer so it was easiest for us to just put the dresses on a wheeled rack. I walked in the front and steered and pulled while Lucy took the back and pushed. We were having a heck of a time with the thing, and more than once we lost control of the rack as we went from one block to the next. I had read an editorial in the Philadelphia Inquirer about the fact that the handicapped ramps on the streets were dilapidated and crumbly. Now I saw that they were even worse than the article said. I’d also heard Mrs. Goldfarb complain about negotiating the sidewalks while pushing her husband in his wheelchair. Since we’d had rain a couple of days before, water had collected in the potholes, and I had to lift up all the dresses so they wouldn’t get splashed.

  As we approached our destination, Lucy stopped me.

  “Now Gram, let me do all the talking.”

  “What if I have something to add?” I asked her.

  “Gram? Nothing,” she insisted.

  I shut my mouth and mimed locking it for her. The last thing I wanted to do was ruin Lucy’s day.

  As we
wheeled the rack into the elevator, Lucy took out her phone. “Maybe we should just call Mom and tell her you’re okay. She’s called about five times now.”

  “Lucy, I don’t want to hear about it. For one day I’m going to be left alone.”

  “I can just imagine how she’s feeling, though. You know Mom.”

  “Here’s the thing about your mother,” I told her. “She can be a real bully sometimes.”

  “No, Mom is a worrier. She worries so much that she turns into a bully. Kind of like Aunt Frida just shuts down. It’s funny how they’re both these big worriers, but they show it in different ways.”

  “Sometimes I wish Barbara would get some friends.”

  “She’ll never have friends,” Lucy said, sighing. “She’s just too confrontational.”

  “You know, I’ve always been afraid that one day you’ll start to really dislike your mother for the way she acts.”

  “I understand her,” Lucy answered. “I almost feel like I have to take care of her. Not the way she feels the need to take care of you, but I stick up for her when I have to.”

  For the second time that day, I realized my granddaughter was wise beyond her years.

  “What?” Lucy asked.

  “It’s just that every day I know you, I love you more. How on earth did you get so smart?”

  “Good genes.” Lucy smiled as the freight elevator door opened.

  “Okay,” I said when we reached the buyer’s office. “Let’s call your mom.”

  “She’s not at home,” Lucy told me. “I’ll call her cell.”

  She dialed and waited.

  “No answer. I’ll leave a message,” Lucy reported. “Hey, Mom, it’s Luce. I got your message . . . uh, messages.” She looked at me and shrugged, not knowing what to say. We should have planned this out. “Uh, I haven’t seen Gram today—”

  “Yes you have! Yes you have, and I’m fine!” I whispered to her.

  “Oh, come to think of it, I have seen Gram. I saw her this morning. She was going to get her hair done.” She shrugged, wondering if that was a good excuse. “So tell Aunt Frida that Gram is fine and not to worry. Love you.” She hung up the phone and put it in her bag.

  “Satisfied?” I asked her.

  “Yes.” Lucy exhaled.

  “Lucy Gorgeous!” the man shouted as he came out of his office.

  “Rodney,” Lucy greeted him with equal joy as they gave each other kisses on both cheeks. “I want you to meet my cousin and model, Ellie Jerome.”

  “What a pleasure.” He greeted me warmly, with kisses on both cheeks. I wished that I had a gay friend. They don’t have gay men in the Main Line suburbs of Philadelphia. Sure, I knew some here and there, like that nice decorator (though I never used him; I stuck with Myrna Pomerantz, who did a gorgeous job, until she developed Alzheimer’s and died, poor thing). The furrier on Montgomery Avenue was gay, too, but he closed down in the early 1990s when fur wasn’t the thing to buy anymore. When I moved downtown I hoped that I’d meet a nice gay man to become friends with. I haven’t yet, but I think I’ll start looking.

  “You can change over here,” Rodney said, taking my hand and leading me behind a curtain. “What a lovely figure she has, Lucy,” he said, “and her posture is unbelievable.”

  Lucy smiled. “I thought she would be a great model.”

  “Posture was the one thing my mother always insisted on, and I in turn instilled it in my daughter,” I shouted through the curtain. “You can say lots of things about Lucy’s mother, but you can’t say she doesn’t stand up straight.”

  “What?” I heard Rodney ask. “How are you related?”

  “It’s a long story,” Lucy answered.

  Although each dress made me feel more fabulous than the last, Rodney didn’t comment on any of them. He looked studiously at how each dress fit and had me turn around slowly. Then he’d take some notes. Lucy would say something like, “I went for the straight collar here because I thought it would lay better,” and Rodney would nod. I just did my job, like Lucy told me. I didn’t say a word and tried the best I could to show the dress by extending my arms or resting my hands on my hips. I’ve seen a lot of today’s actresses in Lucy’s magazines, and when they have pictures taken on the red carpet, some of them stand to the side and lean back, resting a hand on their hips. Some lean too far back. I told myself not to go that far.

  After the last dress was modeled, I went behind the curtain to change back into my Ellie Jerome dress.

  “I love them all!” I heard Rodney exclaim.

  “Yippee!” I shouted from behind the curtain.

  I heard Rodney and Lucy laugh, which I thought was a good thing. Lucy had looked so nervous each time I came out with a new dress, a bit like Howard used to look when he was awaiting a decision in one of his cases.

  “I want them all for spring,” Rodney said. “Let’s talk numbers. Normally,” he explained, “with an outside designer, we work on consignment. For each article we sell in the store, you’d receive, shall we say, forty percent of the pretax retail price?”

  “Well,” Lucy said nervously, “I was kind of hoping—”

  I couldn’t help myself. For all the work that Lucy had done, no one was going to cheat my granddaughter. “We want at least seventy-five percent,” I demanded.

  “Gram!” Lucy shouted.

  Rodney laughed, but I wasn’t having any of it. I lived with Howard Jerome, King of the Negotiators, for fifty years. I figured Lucy could yell at me for years afterward, but she was going to get the right price if I had anything to do with it.

  “Forty percent is fine,” Lucy insisted, with a look in her eyes that said she was about to shoot me.

  “No, it’s not fine,” I butted in. “Seventy-five percent, Rodney, or we take it all over to Bloomingdale’s.”

  “You’re serious?” he asked, looking at me. “The model also has a brain?”

  “I will take my cousin’s business elsewhere,” I told him.

  “Gram! Leave! Now!” Lucy shouted at me.

  “I’m not going anywhere until you get what’s coming to you,” I informed her calmly. “Now look, Rodney, this girl works harder than anyone I know. She’s more talented than anyone I know. She’s worth a lot more than you’re offering. I saw the look on your face each time I came out with a new dress, and you couldn’t put it past me—you were in awe.”

  “Listen,” Rodney said. “I’m not going to deny that Lucy’s designs are fabulous, but forty percent is all I’m allowed to offer.”

  “So to whom do we need to speak in order to get more?”

  “It’s fine.” Lucy clenched her teeth as she pinched my arm, then said, “Rodney, it’s fine. My cousin doesn’t know this business.”

  “I know a lot of things, Lucy. I’ve been around long enough to know that you should be getting more,” I told her.

  “I swear to God . . .” Lucy muttered at me under her breath.

  “All right, hold on, let me see what I can do,” Rodney said and left the room.

  “Gram, I swear to you, if you screw this up for me I will never speak to you again,” Lucy whispered angrily.

  “Jesus, Lucy, what are you so afraid of?” I said in my full voice. “Don’t you understand the art of negotiation? It’s all about leverage.”

  “I have no leverage!” she responded furiously, though still whispering. “This isn’t some little shop. This could be my entrée into all the big department stores. It doesn’t matter how much they’re paying me. If I can get my dresses into the Philly store and they sell out, they’ll come back with a better deal. They’ll want to put my dresses in their other stores. That’s when I negotiate, not now!”

  “This is where you’re wrong, Lucy!” I countered, just as angry. I lowered my voice and crossly told her, “If they get your dresses for bubkes, they’ll stick the dresses in the back of the store, where no one can see them. If they pay a little more for them, they’re going to have to put them in a better spot.”

&
nbsp; “You’re wrong!” Lucy grumbled at me when I knew all she wanted to do was shout.

  “I’m right!” I shot back.

  After that we sat in silence for couple of moments, until we heard Rodney coming back in.

  “Well, we never do this with new designers, but I talked to the powers that be and they’re willing to go to sixty percent. But this is highly unusual for us.”

  Lucy smiled. So did I. In my head, I thanked Howard.

  “We’ll take it!” I shouted, throwing my arms around Rodney, kissing him on both cheeks.

  “You drive a hard bargain,” he said, kissing me back.

  “And one more thing . . .” I started to add.

  “Gram?”

  “No, it’s not about this. It’s a just a thought.”

  “What is it?” Rodney asked.

  “Well, Lucy and I, we have a very hip grandmother. Why don’t your stores ever sell anything that older women can enjoy, too?”

  “Women of all ages can wear our clothing,” Rodney said, offended.

  “I think that’s a discussion for another time,” Lucy said, grabbing my hand and trying to lead me out.

  “Who knows when I’ll ever get a chance like this again?” I turned to her and said. And then I mouthed, It’s my day. She let go of my hand. “Older women are cut differently. Boobs fall to the floor, skin sags,” I began.

  Rodney started to look like he was going to gag.

  “They still want to look chic, though. How many pantsuits can a woman wear? All I’m saying is think about it.”

  “You know, I have some ideas for that,” Lucy added.

  “You do?” Rodney and I both exclaimed at the same time.

  “If you met our grandmother, you’d know why,” Lucy explained.

  “Who is this woman of the world?” Rodney asked, getting excited.

  “Maybe we’ll all have lunch sometime,” Lucy said and smiled.

  “It’s a deal,” I said, feeling all keyed-up.

  “I’m still pissed off at you,” Lucy said, laughing, as we walked the rack through the streets back to the studio.

  “Rule number . . . how many are we at today?”

  “I don’t know.” Lucy laughed again. “Between us, four thousand.”