Lauren Takes Leave by Julie Gerstenblatt Read Free Book Online

don’t know, Kitty-Kat. I really don’t. See you in an
hour or so.”
    “Where you off to now?”
    “Sophie’s.”
    “Ooh…have fun.”
    I pull up Sophie’s long, winding driveway and find a
space between the Porsche convertible and one of the handyman’s trucks. There
is always commotion at Sophie’s. Today, several workers are on the flat-topped
roof of the contemporary glass fortress that is Sophie’s home, calling out in
Portuguese as they pass tools and supplies to one another. The gardeners are
here as well, their mowers drowning out the sound of the four dogs of different
shapes and sizes barking on the other side of Sophie’s front door.
    I think I ring the bell, but actually cannot hear it, so I
wait, waving and talking to the anxious pooches pawing the other side of the
glass. “Where’s your mommy today, huh? Do you have lots of goodies to show me,
doggies? New merch?” They jump on top of one another and push one another out
of the way, nails alternatively clawing against the floor-to-ceiling windows
and tapping against the marble entryway.
    “Hold on! Hold on! I’m coming !” I hear Sophie call
as the churn of the lawn mowers die. She glides across the landing from the far
side of the house, a brown toy poodle nipping at her heels.
    Sophie is about fifty years old and very round. Because of
her amorphous size and shape, she tends to wear lots of black, flowy clothes
that carry the breeze in them and balloon up around her, so you cannot tell
where she ends and the fabric begins. On top of the outfit is always a colorful
shawl or a scarf or a wrap of some sort that adds a bit of gypsy flare. Her
hair is permanently helmeted into a stiff, glossy black bob. She wears bright
lipsticks to match the shade on her long fingernails.
    “Lauren!” she cries. She hugs me with one arm while
simultaneously using her boots to kick back the dogs and close the door behind
me. “Long time no see! What a nice surprise! It’s not even time yet for your
annual birthday purchase, is it? When you called, I was like, no way !
And then I looked at the time and wondered why you weren’t teaching. Not that
it’s any of my business.” One penciled-in eyebrow is cocked as if to add, but
of course I’m hoping you’ll tell me why anyway .
    I delay answering her by asking about her daughters, Gigi,
Bebe, and Coco, all of whom I taught at some point in middle school and none of
whom I can tell apart.
    The girls are all doing well at college, and we continue
making small talk as we head up the stairs and into Sophie’s expansive living
room. The entire thing is done in crisp white, from the couches to the brick
fireplace to the shelves lining one wall. The far wall has the same
floor-to-ceiling windows as the foyer, beyond which lies the recently manicured
lawn and a pool, not yet open for the season.
    But what makes the living room unique is not the all-white
décor or the breathtaking view beyond. It is the handbags.
    Covering every nook in every couch, covering every inch of
every shelf, lined up neatly across the glass coffee table and against the
fireplace, and propped atop, astride, and next to the Mies van der Rohe chair
and ottoman, are handbags.
    Sophie’s pristine, high-ceilinged, light-filled living
room is holy.
    Here is where rich ladies come to pray.
    Gucci, Prada, Chanel. Amen.
    Judith Leiber, Louis Vuitton, Ferragamo. Amen.
    Balenciaga, Chloe, Bottega. Amen.
    And, every once in a while…Hermès Birkins and Kellys! Can
I get a Hallelujah from the crowd? Amen.
    Sophie, who used to work in fashion, had been searching
for a way to work from home when her kids were small. She contacted some fab
friends looking to trade their bags for cash, and the next thing she knew, her
living room was open for business.
    Sophie gives an entirely new meaning to the concept of the
mom who works from home.
    “I’m the bag lady!” she boasts whenever I introduce her to
a new client. “Look at me. I have bags under my eyes