I heaved a sigh. “Fine. If you say so. I’ve bigger things to worry about right now. Anyway,” I said, taking another bite of cannoli, “I’m glad you’re here.”
Monica tsked her tongue. “So Gavin honestly fired you the day after you got back from your husband’s funeral? That’s one for the Heartless Hall of Fame.”
“Technically,” I said, “Ava was the one who fired me. But she was following Gavin’s orders.”
“Wow. He didn’t even have the guts to pull the trigger himself?”
I shook my head. “Nope, I’m sure he didn’t consider it the highest and best use of his time. As you know, Gavin is very big on delegating the details to people lower in the pecking order.”
“What a sniveling little coward,” Monica snarled.
For some reason, seeing the disgusted look on her face, like she was about to scrape something unspeakable off her shoe, felt oddly vindicating. I told her about my whole day, from the moment I stepped off the elevator that morning, to the moment I stepped back on it, carrying the contents of my desk in a cardboard box.
“The worst part was that there was a security guard standing there, watching me while I cleaned out my desk. Apparently it’s standard procedure now that Spector bought the company, but it was so humiliating. What did they think I was going to do?” I asked, crunching through the cannoli crust. “Steal company secrets? Make a scene?”
“Well, I would have,” Monica said. “But you’re not the scene-making type. How about a strongly worded letter to HR instead? Or better yet, Gavin’s boss? Something starting with, ‘Dear Heartless, Soulless Corporate Flunkies . . .’ ”
Monica hopped off the stool and helped herself to another pastry.
“I actually was thinking about that,” I said. “They just brought on a new CEO, a woman. I thought I’d try writing to her. I doubt it’ll make any difference, but they might add it to his file. And, if nothing else, it’d make me feel better.”
“Good for you, Grace. I think you should. One more?” she asked, lifting a chocolate cannoli from the pan.
“No, thanks.”
I hadn’t finished even half of the first two, not because I was concerned about the calorie count—today of all days I was entitled to eat whatever I wanted—but because the turn of the conversation had killed my appetite.
I put down my fork and looked at my condo for the first time in a long time, really looked at it, seeing it the way Monica had. Like everything else in my life, it seemed confused and disjointed, a great big mess.
“You know my mom was trying to convince me to move back to Minnesota, but I told her I couldn’t because of my job. Now I don’t have a job. And look at this place. I’ve never really lived here, just occupied the space. I’m practically a squatter,” I said morosely. “What in the world am I doing here?”
“Well, being my friend for one thing,” Monica replied, turning her back to the counter and crossing her arms. “That might not be all that important to you, but it’s very important to me. And to Nan.
“But, hey, if you want to run back to Minnesota with your tail between your legs, move into your mother’s basement, and milk cows for the rest of your life, I guess that’s your business. But if you think I’m going to let you skip town before the Dogmother’s Ball, think again. I can’t throw a party for a hundred and twenty-five people and hounds by myself. I’m going to need a little help.”
“For your information,” I said, “I have never milked a cow. And I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just . . .” I blinked a few times. “It’s been a bad day, Monica. A really, really bad day.”
“I know,” Monica said gently, crossing the tiny kitchen to stand next to me. “A bad day after a bad week, and a bad month, and a bad two years. I get it. I do. You’re entitled to spend some time feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
“You’re welcome.” Monica put her arm over my shoulder and stood with me in silent solidarity.
For about ten seconds.
“Okay,” she said, removing her arm. “Time’s up.”
I shot her a look.
“I’m not kidding, Grace. It’s true, you have all kinds of very good, very real reasons to sit here and feel sorry for yourself. I’m not trying to minimize what you’ve been through. But it’s been like that for close to two years now. It’s enough.”
I tried to speak, to remind her about what Nan said, that there’s no timetable for grief, but she wasn’t having any of it.
“Maybe there isn’t,” she said, “but maybe there should be. Do you remember the night we met at the community center? All those weeping widows who’d been coming to the group for years and years without graduating? I wouldn’t want to see that happen to you. Okay, sure,” she said, countering my argument before I even had a chance to speak, “you could say it hasn’t been that long, but if you really think about it, you’ve been in this exact same spot, grieving, for almost two years.
“Jamie’s fall left him stuck halfway between one world and the next. You’ve been stuck too. But now, finally, Jamie is at peace. He’s moved on. I know it’s sad and hard. But nobody knows better than you that life is short, precarious, and precious. It’s time for you to figure out what you want to do with yours. Find the thing that makes you excited to get out of bed in the morning.”
“Everybody keeps saying that.”
“Well, maybe everybody’s right. And, I hate to pull rank, but if Jamie were here, I bet he’d say the same thing.”
I didn’t like to say so, but she was probably right.
“Did I ever tell you how I got to be
