Page 61 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
I glare at the paper. The day after Gramps’s birthday is available. But what kind of surprise birthday party would that be? And then I realize that each row has a space for the person to put their phone number. Susan Goodwin’s phone number is right there, in her neat penmanship. The idea of cold-calling a stranger sends uncomfortable prickles down my neck. But it’s for Gramps’s birthday.
Phone pressed to my ear, I stand at the window overlooking the path to the beach where sea oats sway in the light breeze. Susan answers on the second ring.
“Hello?”
I clear my throat. “Hi, is this Susan Goodwin?”
“Yes, who’s calling?”
“My name is Mallory Rosen, I was just, ah—” I really should have planned what I was going to say ahead of time. I try for some authority. “I was hoping to book the party room for June tenth, but I see you beat me to it. Is there any chance you might be able to change the date of your party? See, we were hoping to throw a surprise birthday party for my grandpa, and—”
“Who’s your grandpa?” Susan interrupts brusquely. I get the sense she’s wondering how much cachet my grandfather holds in their community. I consider lying and saying the name of the condo president, Arnold Engelhorn.
“Leonard Gilberstein.”
“Leonard!” she says happily, and my heart lifts with hope. “Send him birthday wishes from me! But no, dear, there’s nothing I can do. It’s the twentieth anniversary of my book club’s inception, and we have an author coming to talk with us about her book. It’s all set.”
“Could…” I try, knowing it’s pointless, “could you have it in the morning instead?”
“Wine, dear. Book clubs are about the wine first, gossip second, books third. It has to be in the evening. I’m sorry. Have a nice day, now.” She hangs up.
Well, crap.
I sit heavily on the nearest couch. If only Mom had had this idea sooner. Now I feel like I’m the one ruining Gramps’s birthday party—a party that was only conceived of a day or two ago. Could we have it in Gramps’s condo? No, that place can’t comfortably hold more than eight people at a time. What about Trish’s house? It’s abit out of the way, and she has two huge Dobermans, but I could ask her. Or I could research community parks, local restaurants with party rooms to rent.
Or…
I sit up straight, struck with sudden inspiration. Or I could host the party at Pebble Cottage. Outside, obviously, and in the sunroom. There’s literally no way the inside of the house will be ready before then. But if it’s a dinner party, that means we’ll be there at dusk—I could make the garden extra magical with twinkly lights hidden in all the bushes, patio lights strung above an outdoor table.
This could work.
I text Mom impulsively:Party location secured.
Once I’m back at my computer, with meetings droning on in the background, I start a list of all the things I’m going to need for the party.
It also occurs to me to text my neighbor, Sam, that I won’t be home for at least another week or two.
Your package count continues to grow, Sam replies.
I laugh guiltily.I’m sorry! You can open them if you want. To get rid of the boxes. Or to see if you want anything. They’re mostly skin-care products, I think.
All I get back is a thumbs-up emoji.
But a little while later, Sam texts again:Oh my God, this blue candle smells amazing.
Keep it!I reply.As a thank-you gift!
They send a thank-you emoji, but I can see they’re still typing.
Why do you buy all this stuff?
It makes me happy, I send. And then I add,Or it did. For a long time. I guess I should cancel my auto orders.
Please do. I’m running out of space here.
I laugh again and try to focus on work. A few minutes later, Sam sends one last text. It’s a picture of a Bath & Body Works foaming hand soap.
Holy shit, this stuff is nice. Remind me to package-sit for you anytime!
