10
Ellen came over again later that week, and then early the following week. It was December 22. Her classic pass was noticeably improving, and I was glad to learn that despite her long experience and remarkable talent as a poker cheat, she was willing to do her homework.
I was doing mine. Although I couldn’t resist working on the Greek deal and the Charlie Miller table pass, my card controlling took center stage. It had always been good, but I knew that good wasn’t good enough.
We gave each other pointers—shifting a finger to reduce friction, tilting the deck to improve angles—the type of nuanced criticism that can be given and received only by those who already have a high level of mastery.
I was about to suggest Chinese takeout again when Ellen said, “No way. I have a better idea, Nora.”
“Huh?”
“Exactly,” she said, frowning. “You need to practice being Nora. Get your coat.”
The festive atmosphere of the holidays was on full display in the Gladewood Mall. We weaved through crowds and came upon a junior high school band performing in front of a huge Christmas tree. They were trudging through a horn-cracking, reed-squeaking version of “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” The band’s conductor, brave woman, waved her arms in increasingly frantic circles.
Parents sat, rapt, on lawn chairs they must have brought with them. Others stood, tapping their toes, sucking on sodas, and snacking on Auntie Anne’s pretzels while the band played on. When the song came to a stuttering, tentative conclusion, the audience, after waiting a moment to make sure it was truly over, erupted in cheers, conclusive proof that no creature on Earth has duller perception than a parent.
“They’re so good!” Ellen said to the woman standing beside her.
“I know!” The woman beamed. “Is one of them yours?”
“Actually, no. I just couldn’t help stopping to listen.”
And suddenly the two of them were best friends, chatting about kids and music and last-minute shopping and the happy burden of the season.
“Tiffany, this is my friend Nora,” Ellen said, drawing me in. “She’s an event planner at some fancy hotels.” She touched my shoulder. “Nora, maybe the kids could play at one of your hotels!”
“Wow,” I said. “Yeah, that’s such a great idea.” The mother’s eyes widened. “The thing is, our holidays are super busy. Our December calendar gets booked up by July.”
“Oh.” The mother’s face fell. “But maybe next year?” She dug in her pocketbook for paper and a pen and wrote down Tiffany Wall, a phone number, and the name of the school. “Do you have a business card?” she asked.
“That’s so funny—I just ran out,” I said, taking the paper from her. “I’m heading over to Copy Lizard now to restock. But I’ll call you.” And then the band started playing “Jingle Bell Rock” and Ellen and I slipped away.
We really were headed to Copy Lizard in case Victor or any of the other men asked for my card. After all, what better potential clients would there be for an event planner than the rich men at the poker game?
As we walked, we practiced being Nora Thompson and Emily Ross some more, amid the lights and decorations, amid the shoppers in their bulky coats dragging along complaining kids, amid the teenagers shouting and showing off and hanging on to each other. I felt all of my years of entering this very mall during the holidays knocking against one another.
At Copy Lizard we mocked up a simple business card on parchment stock with Nora Thompson and Professional Party/Event Planning and a Gmail address we’d secured before leaving the house. For a contact phone number, Ellen told me to use the number she owned specifically so she could give it out when a weirdo at a card game asked for it. The outgoing message was a generic, “Please leave a message after the tone.” We printed out a single sheet of twelve business cards.
I handed Ellen a card. “Should you ever find yourself throwing a big party, I hope you’ll consider my services.”
“Why, thank you, Nora.” She narrowed her eyes. “You have experience, I hope?”
“I do,” I said. “My family actually owns a couple of hotels, so you could say I grew up in the industry.”
“Is that right? Which hotels?”
I rattled off the name of one actual, boutique Philadelphia hotel and two other names I had invented. “And you said you’re a descendant of Smith? The gun maker?”
“That’s right,” Ellen said.
“You know, I hosted an event once for a group of mystery novelists, where a police officer demonstrated all sorts of weapons—guns and rifles and tasers. I can’t remember if there were any Smith and Wessons. I’m not a gun person. But it was fascinating.”
“It sounds it.” We were approaching the center of the mall again, where the junior high musicians played on. “In fact, I sort of wish I had a taser right now.” She grinned. “Want to get a drink?”
Champions, a sports bar, was overflowing with champions deeply in need of a break from shopping. The TVs over the bar and on the walls were tuned to various games, and the customers’ loud conversations competed with the piped-in music—mercifully ’90s hip-hop and not Christmas songs. We waited until two seats opened at the bar and wedged ourselves in. We ordered beer and a plate of nachos from a woman who had mastered the art of graceful multitasking. The beers were soon in front of us in frosted mugs.
“I actually watched a guy get tased once,” I said.
“Are you still being Nora?”
“No,” I said.
“Okay. Tell me.”
I hadn’t told this story in a long time. “A guy shoved his hand down my pants at a bachelor party. I told him he was an asshole and he hit me in the face. So I called the cops, and the guy got belligerent with the officer and ended up on the ground.”
“Serves him right,” Ellen said with more than a hint of bitterness, and I wondered if
