Dear Manolo

By Linda Jamison

Amanda West moved to Chicago to figure out her life. It's what you do after college—go out into the world and pursue your dreams. Immediately, she takes a job at Elle magazine, but when the pressure gets to her, she bails. The problem is it's been several years now, and she's stuck in a rut. Currently, she works as a home health care assistant to some exceptional patients on Chicago's Gold Coast. It's a great job that gives her satisfaction in helping people; it's in her nature. But what is also in her character is a fondness for fashion—it's buried, but it's there. Now she feels a void in her life. Amanda is searching for something, and although she can't quite put her finger on it, she feels it every day. But in a striking twist of fate Amanda finds her mundane life fueled with passion and magic when a dear patient bequeaths her a parting gift. One pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes "magically" spins her world from glum to glam. No one could predict the adventure about to unfold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098380502

Book preview

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dear Manolo Copyright © 2021 Linda D. Jamison All rights reserved.

Cover Illustration © 2021 Iryna Kornat

No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address [e-mail]

ISBN (Print): 978-1-09838-049-6 ISBN (eBook): 978-1-09838-050-23

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

A hot flush came over my entire body, and I flung my leg out from under the covers. Desperate for the coolness of the air conditioning, I tossed the duvet off completely, making a rustling sound.

UGH! I sat upright, looking down on the other body taking up space in my bed. Brian, wake up, I whispered.

Yeah, I’m awake. What’s going on? He mumbled, half asleep.

I can’t sleep, I said, exhaling deeply.

Brian backed up to his pillows, fluffing them for support. What’s wrong?

I’m having racing thoughts.

About?

I think you probably know what they’re about, I said flatly. Brian rolled over to press the home key on his phone. Really, this now? It’s 5 am.

Uh, huh. And I’ve had a one-on-one conversation in my head since 3 am.

Amanda, I thought we were past that. I made a mistake, I apologized, and I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since. Brian offered, sounding as sincere as he could.

Yeah, I thought we were too. And you have been excellent at trying to help me recover. But over the last few weeks, it just keeps bubbling up in my head. It’s not that I can’t forgive you, Brian. I don’t find the relationship worth fighting for. I’m sorry, but I’m kind of not that sorry. Yes, I delivered that corny line.

It sounds a lot like you can’t forgive me.

I promise you; I did try. I just can’t hold on anymore.

Amanda, are you breaking up with me? Brian’s voice was weak and trembling.

I guess, sort of, I said, knowing full well what my intentions were.

What do you mean, you guess? Either you are, or you’re not. He was fully awake now.

Alright, well then, yes I am. It’s over, Brian. I leaped out of bed and went to stand by the dresser. There—I had said it. A chill rose through the center of my spine. It was a signal that I had set myself free, and as such, I felt free.

Seriously, I can’t believe it’s just that easy for you to let go. Six months down the drain, just like that?

Who says it’s easy? I would be lying if I said it was all your fault. It’s not. I just don’t think we have that much in common. I don’t think whatever we have left is enough to outweigh the damage of the past.

And you’ve decided this because you can’t sleep?

"No, Brian, I can’t sleep because of the weight of your wrongdoing. I’ve been late for work twice this week because I’ve overslept. I’ve had constant headaches, and I haven’t had the energy to run in two weeks. So no, it’s not easy. I’m miserable."

Okay, if this is how you feel, he said, crawling out from the covers.

It is. I’m sorry.

Yeah, so am I. He reached for his clothes and dressed. He pulled out a few remaining objects he’d left at the apartment from time to time, stuffed them in his weekender bag, and made for the door. I stood near the window, just staring. There is a bluish peach glow insinuating the impending sunrise. I could see Brian emerge from the lobby. He kept walking and never looked back. I crawl back in bed and fixate on the ceiling. I want to cry, not because I’d lost a boyfriend but because I feel like the bad guy.

I’m not too fond of breakups, whether I’m the one who’s getting dumped or I’m the one calling it quits. And I know what you’re thinking—that was harsh! Yes, it was. But very necessary. Seriously, how can you tell a person that you’re just not that into them without there being some kind of fallout? No one takes rejection well. No matter what people say, it hurts, and it’s hard to accept. But here’s the upside, pretending to love someone or pretending to want to love someone is just cruel. So being honest (sometimes brutally) when you realize there’s an issue, is the best recourse. It’s best for all parties involved. No, it isn’t stress-free, but it is inevitable. Change is good. Although some may agonize and dread having to adapt to a new situation, I’ve been able to jump right in and start over most times. It doesn’t mean the task is easy but knowing I possess the capacity makes getting over the hurdle doable. I don’t overanalyze, and I don’t make plans. I just let change happen and grow from it.

I had drifted back to sleep, but now I’m being awakened by my iPhone alarm—my morning anthem plays in the background. I half-heartedly chime in with Sara Bareilles’ Love Song, which is a striking contradiction to my real life because aside from my caring family and good friends, there isn’t any love in my life worth singing about. Failing relationships don’t count. And it’s not that I haven’t had any decent relationships to speak of; I have. But I’m looking for better than decent. My best friend Josie would probably say, "Amanda has a checklist so long that no one could ever fill her list of requirements." It’s not true, you know. Not entirely anyway. I sense an incompatibility vibe, and then I start giving off signals unconsciously. The whole scenario breeds tension, which leaves the guy feeling inadequate and ill-prepared to meet my standards. And it leaves me feeling like I’m asking for too much.

Not that I’m searching for the Prince Charming in gleaming armor, but specific characteristics often appeal to me, and when they don’t come out as expected, I feel a sense of disappointment. It’s not the guy’s fault; they’re not bad choices, just the wrong choices for me. They usually sense my dismay and begin to distance themselves accordingly; I do little to dissuade them otherwise. In all honesty, I came hopefully close to letting Brian move in with me. He’s a dentist, well-traveled, an avid book reader even. I liked him, maybe even wanted to love him, but there was something that was off. The having an affair with a patient—kind of off. I thought I could see past his little fling. I couldn’t—call me crazy. However, I managed to let him keep a toothbrush in my apartment for the last two weeks. An absolute miracle, all things considered. Again, we all know how that went.

I complete my simple morning to do list—put my hair in a ponytail, shower, a little SPF moisturizer, deodorant, thorough teeth brushing, and floss. I briefly study my face. I trace the hairs of my dark coarse eyebrows and admire the honey hue of my skin. I like what I see. Then I pull on my most creative clothing ensemble; Hanes Her Way undies, a grey loose fit cashmere-like sweater, track pants, favorite Nike running shoes, and a comfy light blanket scarf. I grab my quick champion breakfast— read a cup of almond milk and an organic protein bar, and it’s the beginning of a new day.

I love this city. There’s an allure about Chicago that no one can deny, starting with the Chicago skyline view. And Lakeshore Drive goes for miles, stretching across the sandy beaches of Lake Michigan’s waters. I enjoy my immediate surroundings as I often notice the old-style elegance of Lincoln Park, filled with brownstones on tree-lined streets, the neighborhood bustles with a genuinely urban flair. With a vast mixture of ethnic cultures and amenities, it’s a Mecca for exploring and developing. And I’m particularly in awe of this truly diverse area that the fine restaurants, shops, and galleries call their home. Even if I’ve only been to a few, it’s a privilege to have so many options. However, with weather temperaments significantly inconsistent, planning out one’s day-to-day activities could prove a daunting task; I’d never been surprised to see snow in May or a 60-degree day in January. And beware of those March winds; there’s a reason they call it the Windy City! Even so, I knew right out of college that I would make it my home, and the moment I found a one-bedroom one bath in the heart of the urban jungle, I was set—that was six years ago. When I was fresh out of college and free to dream—so that you know, I did have dreams. But our reality is often not the desired result of our expectations.

I walk to my job assignment as a home health care assistant for a wealthy older woman named Suzanne Kramer. As I pass neighbors and exchange friendly hellos, I arrive at a corner bakery shop to pick up Suzanne’s favorite apple turnovers. The Upper Crust has been a fixture in Lincoln Park for the last sixty years, serving everything from homemade loaves of bread to gourmet French macaroons. Whenever I walk in, I’m always warmly greeted by smiling faces, but one, in particular, is especially pleased to see me. Good morning, Amanda. Here you go, says Pete cheerily. Pete, the owner, hands me a blue and gold box, just as he always does on my many mornings to work

Thanks, Pete. You’re my hero,

Oh... he says, almost blushing. He puts a hand to his heart and smiles at me. I take the box and start on my way to the Kramer residence.

But then what happens is what always happens on my path. I stop in front of my favorite luxe shoe boutique to admire, from afar, the Manolo Blahnik Carolyne sling-backs that often haunt me. They are black patent leather, three-inch stilettos, with a pointed toe. And although I drool uncontrollably when I stop here, I would consider myself a practical girl who never indulges in a splurge moment. At least my bank account can corroborate that, so far. But apparently, I’m an outlier. Josie says most women in my age bracket (and in my metropolitan surroundings, for that matter) think fashion is everything. She’s in marketing—I suppose she has the statistics to back it up. To be honest, I don’t go all out. It’s more like my admiration is left on the pages of the fashion magazines I glance through from time to time. However, the irony is—growing up, my mom emphasized styling me. She would pick out similar dresses for both of us to wear. She took me to the hairdresser, where they would straighten my tight curls and finish the look with delicate ribbons. I even got to wear lip gloss when I was eleven. My mom made an effort to make me feel pretty, and she reminded me every chance she could. And as I got older, my mom still encouraged me to express my individuality through fashion and clothing, although now she suggests I choose my outfits.

Still, even I know a fantastic shoe, and no one does a shoe better than the Spanish designer Manolo! I can’t help but stand frozen—staring at the inanimate object as if it would somehow begin a dialog with me. Then the typical self conversation begins. "You wish, I speak out loud, clearly aware that I’m talking to myself. You will never own those. Yes, I know, I answer back. You have nowhere to wear them, and they cost a fortune! I exclaim. But they’re exquisite!" I whine, now at full pitch, oblivious to any onlookers.

It is early yet, so I am lucky the street is empty. I stare for a bit longer before forcing myself back to reality and move on. God forbid anyone caught wind of that little exchange; they would have thought I was insane. Or maybe not; they are Manolos after all—it probably happens all the time. As I start making my way closer to Suzanne’s Lincoln Park brownstone, I have one more fleeting thought of my dream shoe, and then it’s back to reality.

I arrive at Suzanne’s spacious three-level townhome; letting myself in, I put the bags down and call out to Suzanne, who is in the master bedroom, keeping company with her nurse, Shirley. Hello! I call out to the lady of the house—this master creation of a home, I might add. With every visit, I’m amazed by its opulent beauty and appeal. The Kramer brownstone interior is an eccentric blend of mid-century modern meets contemporary with a palette of neutral beiges and wood tones and surprises of color due to the strategically hanging art pieces. A striking pair of antique bohemian hand-carved teak chairs sit with a red batik charmeuse draped across, as are many other furniture pieces accented with her handiwork. Suzanne was socially and entrepreneurially active in the ’70s. She made a living as a former textiles designer, and Andy Warhol was a personal friend who gave a great deal of inspiration to her current residence. I make my way down a long corridor of picture-ornamented walls. Each frame tells a story of her past and not too long ago profession, her many trips abroad, and her various friendships and collaborations. Finally, I walk into the bedroom and find Suzanne at her dressing table. A large horn-rimmed mirror hangs on the wall above it. Suzanne turns to meet my gaze. Hello, darling good morning. How was your walk over? she asks curiously, her voice ripe with maturity but still clear as a bell.

It was fine. The weather is beautiful,

Even in her old age, Suzanne has a very playful sense of humor; at that moment, she feels compelled to ask me about the habits of birds when they answer the call of nature. Did those pigeons poop on you? I hate it when they do that.

Suzanne’s giddiness humors me. No, they didn’t get me this time. I’m too fast for ’em. These are for you. She spots the blue box subtly hiding in my clutch; its contents release the sweet aroma of apples, cinnamon, and a freshly buttered crust that wafts into the room. The scent triggers Suzanne’s pool-green eyes to brighten, setting off a radiant contrast against the natural platinum grey in her hair and her skin’s olive warmth. Shirley is busy tidying up the room before she leaves. She too lays eyes on the box, and familiar with its contents, pretends to have not seen it. I’ll close my eyes, Shirley says. She leaves the room, wary of Suzanne’s eating habits as her doctor would prefer her to abstain from too much sugar. But the truth was that Suzanne never finished even one of her turnovers— she usually left them for the night care, or I would give them away to someone on my way home. I think that she admires the pretty boxes and the smell.

Let’s take these to the kitchen. I’ll make us some tea, Suzanne states confidently as she unsuccessfully attempts to stand from her dressing table. I immediately come over to assist her. We walk to the kitchen, taking our time. Years before, Suzanne was an active senior. Of late, her rheumatoid arthritis had been taking a severe toll on her joints, forcing her to refrain from most of her daily activities. Her hands were failing her, but not her mind, not her ideas, and her spirits were fully intact. She’d even insisted on continuing her work from home, which was still in great demand from many design houses and independent artisans. Her husband Milton had passed on six years ago, and if anything, it only served to push her further into her life’s work. If there was one thing Suzanne Kramer could do, it was to change with the times. No, I’ll make the tea. I’ll let you watch. How’s that? I try to bargain. She could sometimes be stubborn, that was for sure. But as strong as her will was to control a situation, it was never a competition among friends. Suzanne was as flexible as they come. Alright, you win, she relents happily.

After a treat of tea and sampling the apple turnovers, we retreat to Suzanne’s bedroom once again. The wind is rustling noisily outside the window as it’s approaching springtime; we are on the cusp of April. It’s what I’d expect. As I help Suzanne back to bed, we continue sharing our warm conversation about life matters, love, family, whatever touches the heart. Our discussions are seldom the basic worker/client repartee and undeniably more family-centered from day-to-day. It’s understandable when I’ve guided Suzanne dutifully for the last four years. We have built a working relationship into more of a friendship, even a kinship. Coming to meet with Suzanne isn’t even work for me anymore; it’s just spending precious time with a friend. Sitting at the edge of Suzanne’s bed, we finished a book I had been reading to her.

Looking out of the window, I glance at a passerby when I hear Suzanne speak to me. Do you know what makes life special to me?

Tell me.

I think it’s the curiosity of that next thing to do; the next person you’ll meet, the next adventure, then waiting to turn the corner. I’ve had some pretty good adventures. Don’t you think, Amanda?

I do. I think you’ve had incredible moments in your life. No one can argue that.

I’ve lived such a long, fruitful life. And it makes sense now, but no matter how you try to fight it, fate will find you. Do you believe that too?

With a serious thought, I ponder my answer. Yes. I believe that—mostly. I think I understand what you’re saying—unless there’s something else? Is there some hidden message I’m supposed to decode?

No, there’s no hidden message.

So it’s just as simple as the words; that life has treasures to find if only we go about looking for them, I respond as authentically as I can.

"I think you get it. So what would you suppose is the next thing for you?"

I’m not sure that I’ve given it that much thought. I always assumed the idea was to let life figure it out for me, and I would just know the moment when it showed up. Except for college and working here, I don’t think I’m that great at planning things, I say, embarrassed.

"Oh, I don’t think that’s true at all, Amanda. I think you should give yourself more credit than you do. Let me share something with you, my dear. We only have control over what we do in our lives, not the time we get to spend living in it, and I don’t mean to alarm you, but how often have we looked back at what-could-have-been and seen opportunities that have gone astray? There’s a fire in your eyes, Amanda; let it burn." She is pressing now. Not in a condescending way but just enough to allow me to react. It’s something Suzanne hadn’t probed me on before. It seems odd.

I hear you, I offer.

Suzanne isn’t convinced. I’m not sure you do dear, you have to stop spending your time with us old fogies. You’re too young! Why did you study art? Tell me. Her tone is sharp, unusual for Suzanne, whose demeanor is usually mild-mannered around me.

I studied… it… because… I had an interest in it. I guess that would be the simple answer.

And where is that interest now, Amanda? Has it blown in the wind? Just disappeared? Suzanne is becoming confrontational.

"I don’t know. No, no, it hasn’t disappeared. I channel it in different ways, I guess. I feel my voice tremble. I’m happy taking care of you, Suzanne. I’ll know when it’s time to leave."

"Oh ‘time’, yes indeed, time will choose for you. But what do I know? I’m just an old lady. I love you, kiddo; that’s all. I want the best things to happen for you. She is relenting, and I can tell that Suzanne knows that any further confrontation with me will do no good, so she let things end on a peaceful note. She had never pushed me so hard, but it was obvious she wanted me to contemplate a more meaningful future. I’m sure she knows deep down that I will find that path for myself. Suzanne started to nod off. I checked the time. It was getting late into the evening and time for me to leave. I take one last peek at Suzanne. I love you too, Suzanne." I kissed her on the cheek and walked out of the room. When I landed downstairs, I alerted the night nurse that I was leaving. I had a good day with Suzanne, as always.

It’s nearly 2 am, and I was sleeping soundly until the rhythmic buzzing of my phone under my pillow awakens me. Tucking my phone under my head is probably not the best idea, but that’s what happens when you fall asleep listening to The Lost Girls of Paris on Audible. I turn over to answer. My voice is gruff and hoarse, which is expected when one is jarred out of deep sleep. Hel‒lo. At first, I didn’t recognize the voice on the receiving end, and then it became clear that it was Emelda, the night nurse. Yes, this is Amanda. Excuse me—what? There is a long pause as I listen intently to the voice on the adjacent line and try to process the information.

I’m sorry, but that can’t be! I was just there. I sit up, alarmed by the unexpected news on the other end. When did she go? Oh, Mel. I know—I know. Thank you—for—call—ing, is all I can manage while choking back tears. I let go of the phone as it falls helplessly into my open lap. Suzanne’s passing