40. Wonderland

My stay in Wonderland doesn’t end after breakfast. 

Like the good houseguest my mom raised me to be, I offer to help with dishes when we’re done. I expect Miranda to let me deal with them while she goes off and does whatever she does on a normal Sunday morning. 

Instead, I catch the sound of her footsteps following me to the kitchen sink. With a hopefully subtle glance behind me, I see she’s carrying our coffee mugs. 

I guess my glance isn’t subtle enough, because we lock eyes. My cheeks immediately start to burn, and I whip my head to face forward again. But not before I catch the corner of her mouth quirking upward. 

I reach for the faucet, but Miranda’s hand on my arm stills me. Without a word, she shuffles me to the side and takes the spot in from of the sink. Her perfume settles softly over me, a spiced citrus and something expensive I can’t name but would absolutely chase across a department store to smell again. 

I hate doing the dishes. The leftover food scraps mixing with running water before swirling down the drain always makes me want to gag. But this time, standing next to Miranda as she washes the plates and mugs before handing them to me to dry and set aside, the task is calming. Maybe even a little domestic. 

There’s a quiet rhythm to it: rinse, pass, dry, stack. And every so often, our hands brush. Not enough to call attention to it. Just enough to set my pulse jumping. 

I’m not sure why we didn’t just use the dishwasher. But I’m also not complaining. 

For the first time I can remember, the dishes are done too soon. I stare down at the gleaming plates and upside-down mugs, trying to push some inevitable, appropriate goodbye past my lips. My brain doesn’t even want to come up with the words. 

But it seems that fate has other plans. 

Or maybe it’s just Miranda. 

“The vet called while you were getting ready.”

I turn, taking in the sight of Miranda drying her hands on a midnight blue dishtowel. She’s looking down at her hands, but she keeps going. 

“She’ll be ready for us to pick up in half an hour. Roy will be here in fifteen minutes.”

She neatly folds the dishtowel, returns it to its place, and walks out of the kitchen—leaving me staring after her.

For us to pick up. 

I guess I’ll be joining her on this errand. 

I follow my usual pattern when dealing with unexpected Miranda behavior: a beat of panic, a breath, and acceptance. With a shrug, I follow in Miranda’s wake. 

***

Half an hour later, I’m grinning as a very excited Patricia, tail wagging at least thirty times a second, races toward Miranda. I take a small step back and lift a hand, ready to steady Miranda’s lower back if Patricia barrels into her—but she doesn’t. 

Patricia skids to a stop in front of Miranda and sits. Her tail is still wagging, and she’s looking up at Miranda with the biggest eyes I’ve ever seen. 

I wish I could snap a photo with just my eyes, because really, this is too freaking cute. 

I watch as Miranda’s hand lands on Patricia’s head, and turns to scratch her behind an ear. I sneak a glance at Miranda’s face. She’s wearing a smile I’ve only ever seen her give the girls—soft and warm, like a room lit by nothing but a few candles.

Really, if Nigel could see her now, he wouldn’t be able to call her an ice queen. 

Miranda looks up to address the vet, her hand still stroking the top of Patricia’s head. 

“How is she?”

The vet beams a professional, yet satisfied smile. “She’s doing great—no lingering effects. Just keep it low-key today. Short leash walks are fine, a little fresh air would do her some good, but no dog park or sprints around the reservoir. And stick to bland food. Of course, call if anything seems off.”

Miranda nods, and with the last of the technicalities squared away, she, Patricia, and I make our way out to the street. Except we don’t head for the car. Patricia’s leash in one hand, Miranda pulls her phone out of her coat pocket with the other. 

“Roy, don’t wait. We’ll be taking some time in Central Park. I’ll call when we’re ready.”

With a tap of her thumb on the screen, she puts the phone away, all of this while handing Patricia, and managing New York City foot traffic at her own pace. The sidewalks aren’t too busy yet, but still. It’s impressive. 

“It’s a bit of a walk,” Miranda says, glancing at me and then back to the not-quite-yet-bustling crowd. “But there’s a little café with open air seating.” She pauses to take in the sky. “It certainly is the day for it.”

I shrug with a smile. “I don’t have any plans.” Though I am wondering how she’s going to manage in those heels. 

***

As I should have predicted, she manages just fine. At one point, I offer to take a turn with Patricia’s leash, but she just waves me away. 

“You’ve certainly done your share,” she says on a faint chuckle. 

“We’ve had our share of adventures,” I agree. “Though I definitely fared better than Emily.” 

Miranda’s chuckle is darker this time, no doubt remembering the time she had Emily, still on crutches, take Patricia to a grooming appointment. She might not be quite the ice queen Nigel thinks, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t just a little bit evil. 

I feel my lips curving up. Apparently I’m not opposed to the occasional evil schemes. 

We come up to a nice little place overlooking the Conservatory Water. We’re quickly seated at an out of the way, shaded table with a picture perfect view of the water. Patricia settles next to Miranda’s chair, relaxing with a soft huff, as Miranda starts to peruse the menu. 

I lean back in my seat, close my eyes, and take in a deep breath. My lungs fill with the fresh air. I wouldn’t call it warm, but a day in the mid-sixties with the sun shining brightly is a great change from the cold, constant drizzle of the last month. 

It’s not a day to take for granted. Who knows when the rain will be back? 

I open my eyes to find Miranda staring at me. Elbow resting on the arm of her chair, chin propped on a finger, she’s taking me in like ... well, I’m not sure like what. I can’t help shifting under her gaze, my eyes flicking away to the water. 

“It’s a really nice view,” I say, watching the model boats glide across the water.. 

“Mm,” Miranda hums. “It’ll always be there.”

I look back at her, my lips parted to ask what she means, but our waitress appears. It only takes a moment to place our orders for coffee, frittatas, and side salads, but by the time our waitress leaves, the moment, whatever it was, is gone. 

Well, then. How about a different question? It still feels surreal that I even get to ask any. 

“What’s your favorite project you’ve worked on?” 

It sounds stupid as soon as the words leave my lips. I wish I could snatch them back and come up with something better, more clever. Unfortunately, I’m short a time-machine at the moment. 

Miranda doesn’t act like it’s stupid. She leans back in her seat, eyes searching for something in the distance, fingers sliding rhythmically over her bracelet. Her contemplation captivates me. 

“Every issue of Runway is a challenge,” she finally says. She takes a breath to continue, but our waitress is back. 

Her timing really is ... something. 

She drops off our coffee and food, and when she leaves again (hopefully for a good long while), Miranda lifts her cup to take a sip. I’m mentally kicking myself for another question lost and wasted, but after that first sip, she continues as if we hadn’t been interrupted. 

“But even the challenges become repetitive after a time, until they no longer stand out, only remembered as another inevitable success. In that sense, Runway is most certainly my legacy, and maybe once it was my favorite project, but ...” She stares into the distance, pausing to take another sip. Or using the sip to take a pause. 

“Cate Blanchett has been a friend for many years,” Miranda says. For a second, I wonder if a bird flew into my head and I passed out, missing the subject change. But of course I should know better. 

“So when she asked me to consult on the fashion in one of her new projects, nearly a decade ago now, I considered it a favor for a friend.” A fond smile. “It was quite the project, too. Set in the 1950s, exploring and subverting all the common stereotypes of that decade. The characters were complex, and of course we told their stories through their clothes. Ultimately, it was a story of authenticity, timing, sacrifice, and change. And love, of course.” 

She sets her coffee down and pierces a tomato with her fork. 

“It was nominated for hundreds of awards, and even won some. Though it should have won more, and it probably would have if the leads hadn’t been two women.”

There’s almost a reprise of the morning’s earlier nearly-choking incident. Almost. 

“What-” I have to take a sip of my coffee to smooth out my voice. “What movie was this?”

“Carol,” Miranda answers. “Based on the novel, The Price of Salt.”

I haven’t seen it, but I’ve heard of it. 

“I’ll have to watch it,” I say. 

Miranda nods. “I found it nearly worth the night away from my girls to attend the premiere. Cate wouldn’t take no for an answer. She said Di– that is, Richard could play at being a father for one night.”

From there, we slip into lighter conversation, eating our food and letting Patricia enjoy her nap until our cups are empty, our plates cleared, and the check settled. Miranda calls Roy to meet us at a spot nearby, and we head out to meet him. 

We pass a gaggle of children climbing over a large bronze statue. It’s not until we’re a little closer that I recognize the girl on the mushroom. 

Alice in Wonderland. I feel a smile stretch my face, and I can’t ignore how fitting it is. Afterall, the last twenty-four hours have made about as much sense as the words on the plaque near the statue. 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

Nonsense. Unexplainable. Random, curious, and disorientating. And yet, the stanza perfectly captures my time here in Wonderland. 

Things don’t need to make sense to be wonderful.