Page 84 of My Favorite Lost Cause
37
MAREN
Igo to my meeting with Marais & Wolfe, leaving my bags with the front desk. They take my measurements, then lead me into a conference room to discuss the concept with the ad director.
She’s accompanied by several people in suits with vague job titles, who tell me what being the face of the brand will entail. There will be the standard clauses: I can’t change my hairstyle, and my measurements must remain the same.
There’s also an additional one: they want weekly weight checks in their New York offices.
I push the paperwork away. “Weeklyweight checks?” I ask.
They glance at each other. “Well, your weight seems to have fluctuated a bit since your modeling days. We just need to make sure you’re on the right course.”
God, I hate this industry. No wonder my mother is so obsessed with her own weight and mine. She’s had an entire lifetime of this bullshit. And sure, I understand why most people would go along with it—the money’s good, and the work, once you hit a certain level, isn’t all that taxing.
But I don’t need the money, and this is bullshit.
“I live in South Carolina right now,” I tell them, rising to my feet. “So it looks like this isn’t going to work out.”
“We may be able to strike the weight thing,” says one of the women. “Let me reach out to legal and?—”
“When you’ve fixed it, let me know,” I cut in, because I’m not wasting an hour here while legal tries to come up with a new way to make sure I’m a sample size two for the rest of my life. “But I’ve got a plane to catch.”
Maybe they’ll decide I’m too uncooperative. Maybe they’ll decide that whole ten pounds I gained while trying to get pregnant is so repulsive they can’t take the risk. I really, really don’t care. I just want to get back to Charlie.
When I land in Hilton Head, he’s waiting, leaning against the rental car. I texted him the whole flight down about the meeting. He raises his sunglasses and grins as he pulls me against him, his hands palming my ass. “Have I ever told you how much I love those extra pounds?” he asks.
He shows me exactly how much he loves them when we get back to the cottage, and then he passes out, which makes sense—a full day of physical labor tends to be more tiring than a one-hour meeting and traveling by private plane.
I lie awake, hearing Kit’s voice in my head, asking if I wouldn’t rather know a hard truth than spend my whole life dreading it. I wish I could forget the question entirely.
But if Margaret and William don’t get their happy ending, it will tell me nothing I don’t already know about me and Charlie.
There are no happy endings here either.
I pick the journal up where I left off, using my phone’s flashlight to read. There are several entries that say little—the boys are gone. George Graves is writing her, and she wishes he wouldn’t because his letters are “dreadfully dull,” and she bets William would write interesting ones if he ever chose to write her, which he does not.
Over Christmas, the boys return, minus William, who’sgone to his aunt’s house. They talk of nothing but the battle of Verdun and the coming war—which all of them are inexplicably eager to be a part of.
December 25,1916
It should have been lovely with all the boys home, but truth be told, I was a bit sad. I thought William might at least send me a letter at the holidays, but Sam brought nothing home and barely mentioned him. Papa asked how William’s enjoying law school, and Sam said he doubted he’d even get to finish, with the war coming.
December 26, 1916
I turned eighteen today and Mama gave me that broach—the one William recovered for me last summer. I burst into tears and told her I was crying from joy, but I wasn’t. In truth, I’ve never been so sad. Sam announced over dinner that he’s engaged to a pretty girl from Columbia named Millie. We wondered where he got off to yesterday and it was there, to ask her! Mama and Papa are going to Columbia for the New Year to meet her family and make arrangements. Ruby Wilson got engaged this week too. It feels as if I’m being left behind.
December 27, 1916
We were all sitting around the table when Ruth came in and said William Howard was at the door and should she invite him in. Mama made a place for him, and all I could do was stare through the entire meal while he stared at me.
Mama scolded me for not eating and I told her I needed some air. I walked straight outside without my coat and only a minute later, William followed me. I meant to be very grown up and dignified, but instead I burst into tears.
“Why didn’t you write me?” I asked, and he pulled me close and kissed me.
“I could hardly write without your father’s permission, could I? And he wouldn’t grant it until you were eighteen. He’d said as much last summer.”
And that’s why he is here! To get Papa’s permission to court me. He’d driven all the way from Atlanta. It’s the most romantic thing ever.
