: auburn and ivory

[seven elisabeth harper]

It’s never ending. It’s all she can reply to Lydia on the other end of the line, who’s going on about how she hardly needs other clients with one who gives her as much cleaning up to do as Nate Woolfe. She may have thought the woman was dramatic six months ago, but not now. Even she was having trouble coming up with a beneficial spin to put on this one. Mulled over it all day, in her own words, since she’d received Violet’s phone call earlier this morning. And still, the best publicist in New York had no idea what to do about this one. Bare feet anxiously pace the black maple floors of the Manhattan penthouse. She can’t sit still, she hasn’t since the second she’s signed off on her fiancé. The table arrangements have been swapped in and out, reorganized and laid out in a million different ways, the kitchen impeccably clean. But the cleaning she’s foreign to is only a momentary distraction from the rest of the thoughts running through her mind. It’s a bad feeling, wondering what to do, not knowing which way to go. She wanted to marry him with every ounce of her being. But despite the two prior failed marriages, she didn’t need or want to make it until six for it to be the right one. And over the past two months, 99% of signs pointed to this one not being right. She’s spacing out, the voice on the other end of the line completely drawn out as her eyes fix on the sun setting over the Manhattan Bridge. The door opens behind her, and she looks over her shoulder, lifting a finger to her lips in Nate’s direction. Right, she agrees, though she’s not sure what Lydia’s said, or what she’s said the past ten minutes. The rolling racks flood in behind him, with the help of the doorman, and she pulls the lavender silk robe shut. No it’s ok, it was so last minute, tomorrow morning is fine. And if you come up with anything, don’t hesitate to call, I’ll be up all night, and with a thank you and goodbye, she’s tapping at the end button. The doorman awkwardly sneaks out behind Nate, and she sits down on the couch, lifting her legs up and beside her. Lydia can’t come tonight, we have to meet her tomorrow morning, she says in his general direction, still unable to acknowledge the gifts that came with him. If that didn’t spell problem, she didn’t know what did. music naaadaaaa. notes sucksss, sorryyy. tagged nate peterson