The Frog Prince

Chapter Seventeen

C hapter S eventeen

T he weeks pass, and April’s here.

I’m in the middle of hammering out the final details for Kid Fest, an annual event for disadvantaged kids and teens taking place later this month, when I’m summoned to the front by the City Events receptionist.

The only thing on my mind as I leave my desk is getting publicity for our Kid Fest sponsors. People who donate time, money, or material for charity events want their good deeds known. Not necessarily the most altruistic form of giving, but a fact of corporate American life. And I’m puzzling over how to get the media out for yet another nonprofit event when I round the corner and freeze.

No. Way.

Jean-Marc.

I very nearly turn around and run, but my legs won’t move and my chest feels tight and I just stare at him where he stands in the lobby, chatting away with our young receptionist.

I say nothing, but the smiling and blushing receptionist spots me and breaks off midsentence. Jean-Marc turns, looks toward me. I just look back.

He looks the same: tall, lean, sexy in that intense way European men have. He’s wearing old jeans that hug his narrow waist, and a dark gray cashmere V-neck sweater that hugs the hard planes of his chest, showing off taut pecs and chiseled abs, even as the deep V-neck plays up his arresting Gallic features.

He is and always has been disgustingly handsome. His hair, his pride and joy, is still a thick dark brown with that wave at the front that continues over the ears, and he has light brown eyes that in sunlight look almost golden.

I swear, the man used to stand in sunlight all the time.

“ Cherie ,” he says, moving toward me and clasping my shoulders and kissing me on each cheek. “Surprise!”

Yes, it is. And I can think of nothing to say.

“I was in the city to see friends and thought I’d stop by and say hello,” he continues, speaking in that deep voice that makes vowels and consonants sound sexy. Wicked. The French are so unfair.

“Hello,” I say shortly even as I find myself wondering when it was I last saw him, and realize it’s been close to a year. He was already bunking down at a friend’s the weekend I moved out…

Glancing past his shoulder, I see the office receptionist, a young intern from one of the local universities, craning her head, trying to listen.

“This is where you work?” he says, gesturing to the huge colorful event posters lining the enormous brick wall.

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“Mmmm.” I just don’t see any point in continuing this conversation. I mean, what are we supposed to say? Months ago I needed him, missed him… loved him. But now I feel only weariness and bits of regret. Not for him, but for the girl I used to be.

It’s been such a long, hard year. Make that a long, hard couple of years.

I’m ready for easier. I’m ready for simpler. I’m ready to get back to my desk and get my work done.

“Do you have time for a coffee?” Jean-Marc asks, breaking the silence. “I saw a Starbucks down the road. I know how much you like that place.”

He’s being conciliatory, and he knows this and I know this, because Starbucks was always a bone of contention between us. Jean-Marc likes small European-style coffeehouses, and my love for Starbucks (and my Starbucks Visa card) irritated him beyond belief.

“I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Just a half hour, Holly.”

“Why?”

He looks puzzled, and for a moment I feel almost sorry for him. He went out of his way to come by the office today, and he’s suggested Starbucks, and clearly something’s on his mind. But what?

Yet he shrugs, one of his famous Gallic shrugs. “It just seems like a nice thing to do.”

Is that what this is about, then? Being nice ?

I nearly spit in disgust. He broke my heart—crushed me just weeks after marrying me—and he wants to be nice now?

Maybe I don’t want to be nice. Maybe I want to be rude, hurtful, cruel . But nothing particularly rude, hurtful, or cruel comes to mind.

I get my purse and coat, and we take the elevator down in silence until we step out onto the street. Parked a half block down is his slate gray Citroen. I used to love that car. We pass his car, head for the Starbucks. We could have gone to Mr. J’s, but I see no point. That’s a cool, funky place, and it’s where I met Brian. I won’t ruin the memory by getting coffee with Jean-Marc there.

At the counter inside, Jean-Marc orders an espresso, and I get a white-chocolate mocha. With whipped cream. I look at Jean-Marc, daring him to remind me about the calorie content as he used to, but he doesn’t.

He takes our cups to a table, and we sit in the corner overlooking the sidewalk and parking lot. Just weeks ago the trees outside were nearly all bare, but little green tufts have begun to protrude from the branches, bright bits of spring green in tender shoots and tiny leaves.

“So what brings you here?” I ask after we’ve lapsed into silence for a second time. “You’re not getting married again, are you?”

He looks at me, surprised. “How did you know?”

He’s getting married.

I stare at him, jaw dropping, absolutely dumbfounded. Jean-Marc is getting married already?

“You didn’t know,” he says now, reading my shock.

I slowly shake my head, throat working, but no sound comes out.

He grimaces. “I know our divorce was final only a couple of months ago, but I met someone last summer, and she’s great. A really nice girl.”

There’s that “nice” again, and I’m so sick of it I could scream. But I don’t. Because I am nice, too. Even if I don’t want to be, even if I resent and resist everything the word represents.

“And she’s pregnant,” he adds, looking up at me.

“But you didn’t want kids,” I whisper, feeling strange, feeling torn. I don’t love him now, but I did. I wouldn’t marry him knowing what I know now, but two years ago I thought he was wonderful.

“I know.” He makes another face. “It wasn’t planned. Wasn’t what I wanted. Believe me.”

I do. Jean-Marc and I had some serious battles near the end, and the issue of children came up again and again. And sitting there with my white-chocolate mocha, I exhale, a short, hard breath that leaves my chest feeling hollow. Empty.

“So why marry her?” I ask carefully. “Why do what you obviously don’t want to do?”

He runs a hand through his thick hair, features tightening. “She needs me.”

And I didn’t?

“She can’t afford to raise a baby on her own, and she really wants the baby, wants a family,” So did I.

He sighs. “I can’t hurt her, Holly. She’s fragile. Delicate. I have to protect her.”

I bite my lip and look away. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, protect me, but he’ll ride in on his white stallion and rescue someone else.

“I just wanted you to know, to hear it from me,” he concludes awkwardly. “I wanted you to understand.”

Understand? He wants me to understand?

Is he insensitive or what?

I lean forward, hands wrapping tightly around my cup. “Once you loved me, Jean-Marc. You had to have loved me. What happened?”

“It’s complicated—”

“Explain it to me, then. I need to know. Where did the love go? What was it that I did?”

He lifts his head, looks up, his expression sympathetic. “It wasn’t ever you, cherie —”

“It was, because one day you loved me, and the next”—I snap my fingers—” we were over. The love was gone.”

He leans back in his chair, groans beneath his breath, shifting in his chair. “It was…”—and he looks at me and then away before plowing on—“your mother.”

My mother?

My mother , I silently repeat, staring at him, a dull pain in my middle, more of a memory of hurt than real hurt, since I don’t understand what he means, but I’m afraid anyway.

“What about my mother?” I force myself to ask, trying to sound natural, normal, despite the terrible tenderness filling me.

My mother has not had an easy life. My mother has battled alone.

I look at Jean-Marc and try to contain the rush of anger. He has no right attacking Mom, or any business criticizing her. What’s happened in my mother’s life should happen to no one, let alone a woman.

Women are just grown-up little girls, and little girls may appear delicate and fragile, but they also dream of Jedis and samurais, pirates and kings. They want adventure and excitement. They want life. But mostly, they crave happily-ever-afters.

My mother did not get a happily-ever-after.

And I see my mom in an old black-and-white portrait when she was five, and she has a big bow in her hair and dark spiral curls à la Shirley Temple and a stiff little dress on, pudgy knees, ankle socks, and black patent Mary Janes. My mother is smiling into the camera nervously, hopefully, as she waits for her big moment to come.

Her big moment.

I feel a massive lump inside my chest, huge and hot and tender.

Her big moment never came.

“She scared me.” Jean-Marc laughs a little, as if he’s making a joke.

I feel my lips stretch, and I don’t know what it looks like on the outside, but on the inside I feel as if I were twelve again, on one of those nights when Mom had a rare date and she invited her date home for Sunday night dinner, and her roast is tasty, her mashed potatoes light as air, and the table is set with an ecru lace cloth and two white taper candles and a plastic floral centerpiece that looks dusty even to me. But her date is stiff, and he can’t seem to get comfortable with the three little Bishop kids sitting around the table, staring at him. And Mom is trying so hard to make conversation, trying so hard to have a nice evening, trying so hard to be a woman and a mom, and that’s maybe the thing I remember most. She’s just trying so hard, and it’s too hard, and everyone knows it but her, and I want to go upstairs to my room. I want to go far away from the good person she is and from the mistakes she unwittingly makes.

“I know this is unfair, but I thought”—and here Jean-Marc breaks off, rubs his forehead, and smiles his charming, rueful smile—“I thought you were going to turn out like her. Become her.”

I stare at him, appalled.

Mom liked you , I want to say. She thought you were wonderful. She thought you were just what I needed. Prince Charming from a glorious French chateau.

I get to my feet, a jerky motion, and stare down at him.

Toad, I think—a big, green, horrid wart-covered toad.

I kissed him, and there was no prince in disguise, no Mr. Wonderful waiting to be freed from a witch’s evil spell.

Just a toad that will always be a toad. So much for the Frog Prince.

I grip my cup so hard, I crush the top half. “I’d love to be like my mom.” My voice trembles with fury. “Because she thinks the best about people, not the worst.”

And I walk out, quickly, not even bothering to slow down to throw my cup away.

I’m on the street, heading back to the office, when Jean-Marc races after me, catches up with me, but I don’t stop walking. I just keep going, heading for City Events and my desk and peace.

“I’m sorry,” Jean-Marc says, taking my arm, dragging me to a stop. “I’m sorry.”

“ Sorry? ” He’s attacked my mother, the one person who was always on his side, and he’s sorry ?

“I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

Thank God this is over. Thank God this empty sham of a relationship ended when it did. I can only imagine the misery if we’d been stupid enough to have a baby together.

There are small blessings, I think, as I look him in the eye. As toads go, he’s still good-looking, still handsome and charming to those who don’t know him. But I do. And he’s not charming anymore. He’s not what I want or need. And he never was supposed to be my future.

“Sure, Jean-Marc.” I drag my purse strap higher on my shoulder. “Go back to your lily pad and don’t give it a second thought.”

“My lily what?” he asks, not understanding.

“Never mind.” And I set off again, and I’m walking fast, but my step is longer, lighter, and I feel as if an enormous weight had toppled from my head.

I don’t need to kiss any more frogs. I’m done With hunting for Prince Charming. Because I don’t need a man, or a relationship, to fix me. I may not be perfect, but I’m me, and I like myself just fine.

*

Two weeks pass, and it’s Palm Sunday, and Katie, ever my good Catholic friend, goes to mass and then meets me for brunch after.

I get to the restaurant first and watch Katie enter, carrying her little bit of palm that’s been folded into a cross. We like having breakfast together because we both indulge—waffles, pancakes, eggs, whatever we want—and there’s no one here to remind us to watch our weight or waists.

“Are you going home to Visalia for Easter?” Katie asks, diving into her beautifully pan-fried country-style potatoes.

“No. I’m staying in town. What about you?”

“In town, too.”

“Then let’s do something,” I suggest. ‘Like Easter brunch at my place. I’ll make something, and we can dye our own Easter eggs. What do you think?”

Katie spears a golden-brown potato. “You want to dye eggs?”

“Yeah. I love decorating Easter eggs. Don’t you?”

“Haven’t done it in years.”

“Exactly why we should do it, then. We’ll make it a party. You and me.” I grin. “Girl power.”

Katie’s forehead wrinkles. “Do you think you might be taking this single-girl thing too far? Perhaps it’s time you started dating again.”

“I’ve thought about it.”

“And…?”

“I might if Gorgeous Guy asked me out. Or Brian Fadden. I like them both.”

“So?”

“They haven’t asked me out.”

“Why don’t you ask them?”

“Nah. Don’t need the hassle.”

“Holly, there are girls in this world, and there are guys.”

“I know, but guys are seriously overrated.”

Katie is still giving me a sharp look. “You’re not… going to start liking girls now, are you?”

“Be a lesbian, you mean?”

“This is San Francisco.”

I just crack up. “You wouldn’t want to have sex with me?”

“No.”

“Why not? I’m cute, I’m smart, I’m funny—”

“Yeah, and you have breasts.”

“Thank you.”

Katie just rolls her eyes. “And hips and a big butt…”

I frown at her. “Now, that’s kind of harsh.”

“Perhaps. But you have girl parts,” she concludes, waving her fork around, “and girl parts don’t do it for me.”

“So that’s why we have men.”

Katie grins, leans forward on the table. “What else did you think they were for?”

“I don’t know.”

“They were never meant to be nurturers, Hol. They’re cavemen. They live for food, sleep, and sex, not necessarily in that order. But face it, men are driven to procreate. That’s what they do.”

“And what do we do?” I ask, knowing I’ve gone years without sex, years without love.

Katie pops a grape from her little fruit plate into her mouth. “That’s a very good question. That’s the part I haven’t figured out. What do we do?”

I don’t know, and as I leave brunch to walk back to my’ apartment, I still haven’t a clue.

We’re raised on fairy tales and baby dolls, Barbie dolls and Modem Bride . We read Oprah books and cozy mysteries, romances, Cosmo , and People magazine. We watch soaps and dramas, romantic comedies and action thrillers with our guys. And what’s the one thing all these have in common?

Others.

We read, dream, watch, and fantasize about others . Loving others. Giving to others. Helping others. And one day being loved by others.

But do we ever learn to love ourselves?

Do we ever get to the point where we’re fine on our own? Happy, without others?

I can only hope so.

*

Katie and I do our own little Easter thing, and it’s not quite the celebration I’d planned, but it suffices. Next year I’ll do better, invite more people over, but it was a start.

Monday I’m back at work, and Kid Fest is coming up. Just six days away. It’s my project, and I’m beginning to feel the heat. It’s a high-profile event—lots of media folks cosponsor this one—and Olivia keeps asking if I’m sure I have everything handled. And I think I’m sure, until she asks yet again, implying failure. But I don’t fail; I’m not a failure. And as I leaf through my paperwork again, make last-minute calls, I know I couldn’t be any more organized than I am.

Sunday, Birch Museum at the Presidio, ten A.M. to two P.M.

Carnival theme replete with clowns, face painters, balloon artists, magicians, a game alley, and fun food (corn dogs, hot dogs, cheeseburgers, popcorn, cotton candy, snow cones, and more).

There’ll be music. Free T-shirts and treat bags for all the kids to take home, plus the requisite photographers and minor San Francisco celebrities. It’s an event. A proper event, and I’m a little stressed but mostly satisfied.

I’m still tidying up my desk when Josh stops by and invites me to join him and Tessa and a couple other people from the office for happy hour. I’m definitely in, and quickly finish putting away the Kid Fest files and shutting down my computer.

Tessa has a craving for sushi, so we head to her favorite place in the Marina called Mas Sake. Mas Sake is on Fillmore and Lombard Streets, Lombard dividing Cow Hollow from the Marina. Tonight Josh drives, and we circle the block several times with everyone shouting in his ear, giving parking pointers, before he secures a spot several blocks over.

We’re all in a good mood. It’s late April, and spring has definitely sprung; it’s staying light later, and the sky has that lovely hazy violet-blue color with tinges of pink on the horizon.

Mas Sake on weekends is a zoo, and when Josh pushes open the glass door, revealing the yellow interior with dark red beams, it’s loud. Very loud. All music, clinking glasses, and shouting voices.

The bar is packed for Mas Sake’s famous happy hour, featuring dollar wine, beer, and sake, and all-you-can-eat sushi for twenty dollars, which is what brought Tessa here tonight.

I’d like to wait for one of the booths lining the side of the narrow restaurant, but Tessa, the intrepid New Yorker, elbows through the crowd and plunks herself down at the long table running the length of the middle of the restaurant and starts commandeering spare chairs, squeezing them in next to her to create room for the rest of us.

“There,” she says, “sit.” And we do.

We order drinks next: wine, beer, and Mas Sake’s own cocktail, the sake-rita. Tessa wants sushi, but I study the appetizer menu, skirting the traditional and nontraditional sushi choices, for chicken satay. What can I say? I’m a Valley girl, landlocked, aggie based. I like meat: steak, chicken—absurdly nonthreatening, but that’s me.

We’re on our second round of drinks when my cell phone rings. I peek into my purse, look at the number. It’s Olivia. I frown, wondering if I have to answer it. It’s Friday, after six o’clock, and the workweek has officially ended. She may be my immediate supervisor, but she doesn’t own me. I snap my purse shut without answering. Olivia can leave a message. I’ll call her back later.

We hang out at Mas Sake for another hour, and then, when the other girls go and Josh and Tessa talk about heading next door to La Barca because Josh is now hungry and craving Mexican food, it’s my cue to leave. I say good night and go home and spend the rest of the evening quite comfortable in front of my TV.

But as I climb into bed, I remember that Olivia phoned, and I retrieve my cell phone from my purse, but there’s no message. Good. I didn’t want to talk to her anyway. Yawning, I stretch, snuggle contentedly into my covers, and drift off to sleep.

*

I’m up early on Sunday for Kid Fest, go for a quick run and an even quicker shower before changing into dark charcoal slacks, a tailored periwinkle blue blouse, and low-heeled but still stylish shoes. I’m going to be on my feet all day, and I’m going to need to be comfortable.

That’s when the good day ends and the bad day begins.

To put it bluntly, Kid Fest is a disaster.

Sunday, 10:45 A.M., the sun’s up, the morning fog has burned off, and I stand in the Birch Museum’s parking lot, watching hostile social workers and foster parents reloading even more hostile kids into cars.

I arrived at the Birch at nine, an hour before the event was to start, only to discover the science and technology museum dark and locked up tight, the parking lot empty except for my lone car. I couldn’t even find a security guard around.

I immediately got on the phone, but who would I even call regarding the museum? And never mind the dark museum—where was everyone else?

My caterers? My balloon artists? My clowns and magicians?

Where was my party?

And even as I was struggling to get answers, the first bus pulled up, jam-packed with kids and staff from the South San Francisco Boys and Girls Club. The guests had begun to arrive, and soon vans and cars were, filling the parking lot, emptying out parents, sponsors, and kids, and there we gathered in the parking lot in the April morning sunshine.

Before I knew it, I was under siege. A crowd gathered around me. Children started crying. Adult voices were raised.

“What the hell is going on?”

“How did this happen?”

“Where is your boss?”

“I demand an explanation.”

“I want to speak with the person in charge immediately…”

It only got worse from there. I was alone with the parents, social workers, and angry at-risk children, without even one face painter or popcorn maker to back me up, lend support, or offer assistance.

It was truly as if the event, Kid Fest, never existed. No clowns, no caterers, no carnival booths, no inflatable bounce house.

No anything.

Just the kids. Crying.

I hired a dozen different companies to be here today, and there’s no one at the Birch. No one I’ve worked with in the past. No one I paid money to, signed contracts with. Nothing.

I’m beyond baffled. I’m freaked. Panicked. Sweating away in my periwinkle blouse.

I do fruitless, desperate mental calculations. This is the 26th of April. Sunday. Kid Fest Day. This is what I’ve been working so hard on for the past few weeks. Nailing down the details, double-and triple-checking the entertainment for the kids, making sure they had more than enough to do. Arts, crafts, games, sweets, treats, goodie bags. But the phone calls, the packet of confirmations, the letters and contracts in my briefcase, might as well be nonexistent. The entire event is gone. Vanished.

Now I’m on my cell phone, running from one cluster of adults to another, pleading with them to wait a minute, let me just get someone on the phone, that there’s been a mistake and I can get this fixed, even as I begin dialing my contact list all over again, calling one vendor and then another. No one answers, but then, this is Sunday. The Lord’s day. The day of rest.

Hell and damnation.

Maybe I should have gone to church more after all.

White noise fills my head. My heart’s pounding so hard, I think it’s going to jump through my chest. I suppress the panic with everything I can.

Please, someone, have a cell phone, or call-forwarding, or something.

Something.

Cars are pulling away; one fifteen-passenger van leaves fast, the driver leaning heavily on the horn, and the bus packed with kids from South San Francisco Boys and Girls Club is now exiting from the parking lot.

Sick, I watch the departing stream of buses and cars, all the while my fingers punching in phone number after phone number. Someone has to know something. Someone has to know—

“Hello?”

Thank God! It’s Barb from Balloon Wizardry. She works from home, and she picks up the phone. “Barb, it’s Holly from City Events.”

“Hi, Holly—”

“Barb, where are you?”

There’s the faintest pause. “What do you mean?”

“Kid Fest. Today. Where are you?”

“Kid Fest was canceled.”

I go cold all over. “ No. ”

“Yes.”

“Barb, it can’t be canceled, because the kids are all here with me, and we’re standing outside the Birch Museum, wondering where everyone else is.”

“But you called—”

“I didn’t call.”

“Your assistant called.”

“I don’t have an assistant.”

“Maybe she wasn’t your assistant. I actually don’t remember her name, just that she said due to a low turnout the event had been canceled.”

“When was this?”

“Friday.”

“Friday?”

“Day before yesterday, late afternoon, early evening, something like that.” Barb cleared her throat. “And I reminded her about our cancellation policy. There’s no refund within forty-eight hours.”

And it was obviously within forty-eight hours.

Barb adds apologetically, “Most of the balloon statues were already made. They hold air for weeks, and the storybook figurines were completed.”

I do not know what to say.

Barb doesn’t either. She hesitates. Silence stretches, and I watch another car leave the parking lot, and children pile into a minivan. Soon everyone will be gone.

This has to stop. This is wrong. Kid Fest was never canceled. Kid Fest was for kids in need, and it’s a big deal to the kids, and it’s supposed to happen today.

Right now.

“I better go,” I say.

“Okay,” Barb answers uncertainly. “But call me if there’s anything I can do.”

I hang up and race toward the vans and the adults trying to corral kids who’ve begun to go berserk. Some of the adults are ballistic.

Do I have any idea what this has done to the kids? Do I know how this looks? How it feels? These are children already unloved, unwanted… these are children isolated, alienated—and to treat them this way, it’s just a slap. A slap, and I should be ashamed…

I am ashamed. I’ve no idea what happened, although there’s a sick knot in my stomach that says I kind of do know, but there’s got to be a way to salvage something today.

I stare at my phone, wanting it to speak to me, to give advice, to tell me who to call.

I punch in Olivia’s number. She’s on speed dial, number1—ironic, isn’t it?—and get her voice mail. I try again three more times and finally leave a slightly hysterical message, begging her to call me.

I try Josh. Nothing, just voice mail, and I leave another, more hysterical message.

Tessa next. Her phone is off.

My God. I’m alone in this, completely, horribly alone, and the disaster is complete when I see a reporter and a photographer from the Chronicle step out of a car across the street and head toward me.

The event’s canceled, but the press still comes? Irony number2.