Chapter 1 : Part 4

The Frog Prince
by Jane Porter

(Page 4 of 5)

"You've got to take charge, Holly. I know you said in the interview you've just been through a rough patch- divorce, you said-but it's time to return to the land of the living. Get back in the ring. Make something happen."

"Right." And she is right. More or less. "We're going out for drinks after work. Join us. You already know some of my friends, and you'll meet some new people. It'll be good for you."

"Right." Her friends are gorgeous. And manically extroverted. A thought comes to me. "But cocktails have calories."

"A lot less than a pint of Ben and Jerry's." Enough said.

Olivia walks away. I stare at my desk. So that's where we are. I'm Holly Bishop, living the suddenly single girl life in San Francisco, which is also the turtleneck capital of the United States. Everyone here wears turtlenecks, lots and lots of black and gray turtlenecks with the inevitable leather coat, barn coat, barn leather coat. It might be the City by the Bay, but it's also the City of Cold Hands, Neck, and Feet.

Despite the need for sweaters even in July, I'm told that San Francisco is a great city to live in. You don't have to drive to get around; there's decent public transportation, but I don't know anyone who actually takes the public transportation. We drive on the West Coast.

And drive.

And drive.

We also pay huge sums to park. We pay for parking at work. We pay for parking at home. We pay for parking each time we head out to shop or see a flick or do anything remotely fun. (This is new to me. I was raised in a small town where you got free angle parking on Main Street.)

But I'm not in Kansas anymore, or in California's Central Valley, for that matter. I live in Cow Hollow, a great neighborhood not far from San Francisco's Marina district, and work South of Market, which used to be cagey but now is cool, at City Events, which, as you can tell, is far hipper than I am.

Olivia hired me because I had the good sense to talk sports during the interview (thank God for a sports-loving brother) and because I pretended my limited PR skills from Fresno translated into something bigger than they did. Olivia, showing rare sensitivity during the second interview, didn't call me on the fact that a Fresno golf tournament isn't exactly on the same swish scale as San Francisco's annual Leather & Lace Fund-Raiser Ball, and hired me despite my profound lack of interesting experience.

For three months she's let me work at my own pace, but clearly she's ready for change. She wants something more from me. And she's not the only one. I'd love more, too.

But what?

And how?

I eye my cold burrito in the creased foil wrapper. I should throw out the rest of it. Get started on my new life plan now. But I don't have a new life plan yet. I don't know what to do . . .

Correction. I don't know what to feel.

This is the part I can't talk about, because it's been so long since I felt anything, much less anything good, that I just don't know what's normal anymore. But I am trying. I left Fresno, a huge step for me since I knew next to no one in San Francisco, but I did it. I found an apartment on my own. Searched the want ads and applied for jobs. I interviewed, even though most of the time I had no idea where I was going, and once I was hired by City Events, I put on my happy face and went to work. Every day. On time. Despite the fact there's this ridiculously gaping hole in my heart.

And people who say there's no such thing as a broken heart, or pontificate on the physiological impossibility of a heart actually breaking, these people don't know hurt. Because the day Jean-Marc finally said, "I don't love you, and I will never love you that way," my heart just stopped. It stopped. It stopped because everything inside me was squeezing so hard and tight and kept squeezing until there was nothing left of me, at least not in the middle of my chest where my heart used to be.

So here I am in San Francisco, trying to start over as well as figure out what to do with the rest of my life. And that's where it gets murky because, honestly, what am I supposed to do with the rest of my life? I'm a disappointment to my mother (I hate that she'll be paying for my wedding forever). I've lost my new in-laws, although they do live in France and only met me once. And even my oldest friends have gone strangely silent.

So what do I do now? I eat what's left of my cold burrito.

Five thirty arrives, and Olivia appears at my desk with her coat and purse slung over her shoulder. I save the document I'm typing up and look at her.

"Ready?" she says, and I'm momentarily perplexed. Ready? Ready for what?

"The others are waiting at reception." Olivia taps her watch. "Drinks. Remember?"

No. I've obviously forgotten, and I open my mouth to beg off, but Olivia shakes her head. "I'm not letting you out of this. The city will never feel like home if you don't give it a chance."

She does have a point, and I could use a new home. I can't remember the last time I really felt as if I belonged somewhere. "Give me just a second," I say, pushing away from my desk and heading for the ladies' room, where I do a painful inspection.

Pale. Lumpy. Frumpy. My God, I look tired.

I rummage in my purse, search for something to help revive the face, and find an old lipstick-a brownish shade that does nothing for me-and apply some. Hmmm. Brown lipstick, a black turtleneck, lavender circles beneath the eyes. Not exactly a come-hither look.

Maybe some hair would help, so I lift my limp brown ponytail, pull on the elastic, freeing hair that becomes limp brown hair with a slight kink in it from the hair elastic.

I fluff the hair. Comb the fingers through it. The ends stick out. Doris Day crossed with Chewbacca.

Irritably I pull the hair back into a ponytail again before wiping off the brown lipstick. Just get the hell out of here, I think, particularly since I don't even know why I'm doing this. I'm not in the same league with Olivia. Olivia's friends are all city girls. Sophisticated, urban, glam. I'm one step removed from country, and it shows. I wasn't raised on a farm, but I know my farm smells. They call Highway 99 the scratch-and-sniff drive because it's all sulfur, dairy, and manure. But the 99 leads home. Or to what used to be home.

Copyright © 2005 by Jane Porter

About the Author

A UCLA grad with an MA in Writing, I am one of those original book geeks, the girl with the coke bottle glasses that sat with a novel next to the classroom door rather than play during recess. I wrote my first story in first grade, my first picture book in second grade and my first novel in 4th, and I've just continued to write from there - bad poetry, passionate essays, romance rich novels and poignant, bittersweet contemporary fiction.