“So what’s the plan?”
I check my phone and see that Sari Epstein has responded to my text, which I share with Gary:
We can put you up here in our incredible guest quarters. And we promise not to look at you like you have a bird on your head!
* * *
I’ve never heard anyone brag about their own guest quarters—or even call their guest room guest quarters—and it’s unclear if they’re going to put us up for free or charge us for our stay, but I’m so flattered that she references my book—that she knows who I am—that I Google “expensive florists near me” as we head toward Woodstock. It’s clear we’re going to need to show up with a very special hostess gift.
An hour later I’m leaving a place called Mattahorn, where I easily drop $150 in under ten minutes, despite Gary’s pleas to get something small. But since I don’t want to appear cheap, especially in light of these allegedly incredible guest quarters, I opt for a giant orchid, the biggest one they have, which is now even bigger wrapped for transport and gift-giving in a cellophane-pod tied at the top with green grosgrain ribbon (the salesgirl, in fact, had to jump up onto the shop’s sleek cement counters, ducking her head under the halogen lamps and plant misters, to staple the wrapping shut and tie the bow).
It’s also almost impossible to carry, now that the wind has picked up and Gary is circling for a parking space. Waiting for him on the sidewalk, I feel like I’m windsurfing and that with one more strong gust I could end up airborne. When Gary comes around the corner and spots me, he pulls up and I open the trunk, but we quickly realize that the orchid won’t fit upright in the trunk (too tall) or lie flat in the back (too delicate). The only way to get it to Sari Epstein’s is to open the sunroof and drive with the plant sticking way out of the top of the car, like a scene out of a Dr. Seuss movie.
“Seriously?” Gary says, staring at the giant orchid. He’s surprised but not surprised.
“That’s all they had,” I lie.
Gary looks at me, shakes his head. “See, this is why we’re broke.”
“No, we’re broke because I’m taking a weekend writing seminar with a creativity specialist to help me get unblocked so I can get my career back so we won’t be broke anymore.”
“Is that what Glenn says?”
“That’s what I say.”
“I’d rather know what she says.”
I hand him my phone. “Then ask her yourself.”
He snaps a picture of the plant sticking out of the sunroof and texts it to her with the caption Hostess gift.
Seconds later, Glenn replies with a string of emojis—hands clapping, hearts beating, champagne glasses, dogs, unicorns, balloons—and then another text arrives with just one emoji.
I show it to Gary before he pulls out into traffic. “It’s for you.”
The Sleepover
Sari Epstein’s house—a low-slung expansive midcentury ranch—sprawls atop a gently rolling hill, all white and glass and steel under a cloudy, gunmetal autumn sky—but the long driveway is blocked by huge shrubs, each wrapped in burlap and trussed like rib roasts. Confused, Gary slows, then parks on the side of the road. We get out of the car and stretch, then he gets our bags out while I crawl into the backseat to carefully extricate the orchid.
It’s a hike up the long driveway to the front door, and we don’t suffer it in silence—there’s eye-rolling and sighing and even a grunt or two as I struggle with the plant swaying in my arms. We would have never lasted a week at Plimoth Plantation or on the American Frontier, I think, as I shift the weight of the plant from one hip to the other. Gary looks at me and shakes his head. “If it’s not the dog, it’s a giant orchid.” He’s right. What is it with me and giant barriers to the world?
When we finally reach the door, we freeze. This has happened before to us—whenever we arrive somewhere, usually for dinner years ago, there would always be the tempting moment to forgo the knock; to back away silently from the door, to return to the car—the desire to leave before arriving has always been strong. Back when we were still in love it was because we preferred our own company to that of others; now it’s that being with others makes us feel worse than being alone.
My finger hovers over the doorbell. For the first time since I hatched this plan and we started executing it I’m realizing the full scope of the stupidity of what we’re doing.
“Whose idea was this again?” I say, with a lame little laugh. I should apologize now to get it out of the way, but I just can’t. Not yet. “What if we hate them?”
“What do you mean, ‘what if’? Of course we’ll hate them.”
I try to shake off the dread. “It’s only two nights, right?”
“Unless we leave early.”
We both try to laugh but can’t.
“What’s his name again?” Gary asks.
“I forget.”
“Hers is Sari. Sari, Sari, Sari.” He practices as his finger slowly heads for the doorbell and presses it.
“At least this absurdity will be an icebreaker,” I say, trying to get my face around the cellophane on the plant.
I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply. When the door finally opens all four of us freeze. I’m trying to get past my shock and awe at actually seeing Sari Epstein in person after only seeing her on my phone screen all this time—and trying to gauge, for Glenn, whether or not her forehead really is as prominent as it seems (it is), until finally we all awkwardly wave and start talking and shaking hands. Sari and her husband are probably trying to figure out how they got roped into housing us the night before a retreat.
“Gary,” Gary says.
“Gregory.”
“My wife, Judy,” Gary says, turning to me, and then to Sari. “And you must be Sorry.”
“‘Sari,’” Gregory corrects.
Gary stiffens. “Isn’t that what I said?”
“No. You said ‘Sorry.’”
“Sorry!” he says, without a trace of sincerity, until my elbow hits his rib and he tries again. “That must happen all the time. The Sari-Sorry thing.”
Gregory sniffs humorlessly. “Actually, it doesn’t.”
I wait for Sari to give Gregory a similar elbow to the ribs—we’re wives, after all, trying to make our dudes behave in an uncomfortable social situation—but she barely seems to register the tension. You’d think she’d pretend then. Doesn’t she want me to like her?
Gary and I look at each other, then at the birds on both our heads. I push the orchid plant on Sari, harder than I intend to. Then, too loudly, I blurt: “Thanks so much for inviting us even though you didn’t actually invite us since we invited ourselves! Sorry about that!”
Sari Epstein’s face finally registers an expression. I think she’s overwhelmed, but it might just be Botox. Whatever the cause of her placid expression, she seems to be struggling under the weight of the plant, which is understandable: it’s almost twice as big as she is. As am I. How can she be so small? Are her bones actually smaller than mine or do they just seem that way? Does she buy her clothes at Gap Kids or Janie and Jack?