July 1975 – Cos Cob, CT

"Feet," Mona said as she lightly swatted Angela's sneakers off the table. Angela let out an exaggerated groan and thumped her feet to the ground loudly.

"Mother!" Angela whined petulantly and chucked her half-eaten cookie into the trash. "There's nothing! Nothing is available!" Angela used the sleeve of her oversized sweatshirt to wipe the cookie crumbs from her lips and turned to the next page in the want ads.

Mona shook her head. "This is pathetic," she said in a solemn proclamation.

Angela rolled her eyes and stood up, putting the cap back on her red marker. She walked to the refrigerator, looking as if she were dragging her whole person. Ugh! New topic, please! "You want a Diet Pepsi, Mother?" Mona just watched her daughter incredulously.

"What's happened to you?"

"What?" Angela faked, not looking away from the inside of the fridge.

"You? What happened?" Mona walked over to her. "Where's my conquering kid? Where's the girl who aced everything the snootiest P-school, and two separate branches of the Ivy League could dish out?" She snatched the pudding cup out of her daughter's hand. "Where's the girl who realized she was worth saying, 'No' to?"

Angela stared into her mother's eyes. Finally, she exhaled, and looked down. "Nobody wants her," she said quietly. A few seconds went by, then Mona's face hardened.

"And you call BS on me…" Mona shook her head, while Angela sighed in defeat. "Don't you believe that. Do you hear me? Look at me! Don't you let them have that. Don't you let that man of yours convince you you weren't worth having if he didn't want to keep you. Don't you let these hiring squads kill your self-respect. And don't-" she shook the pudding cup in Angela's face. "-hurt yourself because you think you deserve it. You don't. You're just sad. And that's okay..." Mona sighed and spoke softer but just as intently. "You don't have to tell me exactly why. But tell yourself why. Believe it. Clearly, you have a reason to be. But don't start believing a colossal pile of bullshit to make it easier to explain. You are too much to lose!"

Angela's face relaxed, and after a couple seconds, a small smile appeared. In just as small a voice, Angela said, "Thank you, Mother." And she commandeered the space between them into a tight hug.

Mona took a couple seconds, but then squeezed her back. "Yeah, yeah. Go take a shower."

Angela pulled back, rolling her eyes. She smiled as she looked into her mother's eyes. "After I go for a run."

Mona smiled widely. "Atta girl."


That night, Mona was walking past Angela's room, when she saw her daughter on her bed with a book. She stopped and leaned against the doorframe. "Hey." Angela looked up. "I was just thinking how insufficient resumes can be." Angela was confused but waited for her mother to continue. "See, as impressive as your resume is, and it is that," Angela smiled, "they don't know you. They don't know you from any Tom, Dick, or Harry with the same degree."

"Okay, I think I'm following you. So how do I differentiate myself?"

"Networking. Go to the club. There's a lot of executives who lunch who could really use a leg up on getting that potential new hire. Hand them your resume with a smile on your face and a size 4 Balenciaga on your back," Mona said with a knowing smile.

Angela rolled her eyes. "Schmooze."

"Dear, you need to realize that you are not just what you've accomplished. You are also a beautiful woman that can talk an executive into giving her a job because-" she emphasized at her daughter's exasperated look – "he's smart enough to realize that you could also talk their clients into signing with them. Don't just tell them what you can do. Show them!"

Angela arched a speculative brow. "This seems sketchy."

"It's not sketchy. It's a gray area. Besides, would you deny a man his ability to use his charm and know-how in a business setting? Business is about relationships. It's about communicating, and making things run smoothly. Trust me. I know these people. I was around them for years. Any number of people can do a baseline job for them. Only you can do it the way you can. If it takes some Givenchy III to get them to pick you out of a crowd, you're no different than the bloke in the Armani suit vying for the same position."

I'm not sure it's the same thing. But maybe it is more in the gray than the black…

Mona continued, "Look; just think about it. There's a professional mixer every Friday this summer. I've seen several Madison Avenue stiffs the nights I've gone. Remember, you know what you can do. They don't."

Angela considered this, and a conviction arose. "I'm not interested in flirting my way into an organization."

Mona laughed as she left. "Trust me, dear. You won't have to."


That Friday evening, it was still 78 degrees at 7 o'clock. Angela had decided to go with a cream, textured cotton, Chanel skirt suit with peach gridwork, and a fringe along the edges. She replayed her mother's words before she left, 'Walk like you own the place,'. Angela lifted her head and walked her peach stilettos with a purpose straight to the ladies' room. She took her time washing her hands, and smoothing non-existent stray hairs back into her French twist. Finally satisfied, Angela popped up her chin, and looked at herself. Polished. Professional. Sexy. Her peach lipstick looked youthful and pretty against her summer-tanned skin, and she maximized the effect with her brightest smile. Ugh! She ran to the paper towel dispenser and tore off several feet. Rolling them into two smooth wads, she put them in the armpits of her jacket, and tucked her arms close to her sides. At least it's not wool! She bolstered herself with a quick puff of decision and marched out of the bathroom.

Angela scanned the room and found several men and women talking and laughing over various mixed drinks. She pinned her shoulders back and walked to the bar. The bartender smiled politely, "What'll you have?"

"Surprise me."

He shook his head but got to work on the shaker. Angela felt childish, but she figured she'd have to lean on others' experience for a while.

He handed her a drink. "Try this. It's called a very dry martini."

"Thank you."

"And ma'am? Don't ever tell a bartender to surprise you."

Still not entirely sure of her faux-pas, she did glean he was looking out for her and smiled warmly with a nod of gratitude.

"You here for a date or a job?"

"Job," Angela said, smiling cautiously. Is he hitting on me?

"What's your field?"

Angela's brows furrowed. "Um, I have an MBA, but I'm very interested in advertising." Where's he going with this?

"Hmm…" He looked around the room, then nodded away from himself. "You see the navy pinstripe at 2 o'clock? That's Marc Joliet, of Huffington, Joliet, and Lee, one of the biggest ad agencies in the Northeast."

Angela was dumbfounded and felt every bit of it. I can't believe I dismissed him, she chastised herself.

"Thank you…I'm sorry; what's your name?"

With kind, brown eyes, he gave her a lopsided smile. "Anthony."

Of course, it is.

Shaking out of her disbelieving, tipped smile, Angela regained her footing. "Well, thank you, Anthony… And the drink is delicious. Just right." It's not him, but his eyes are the same shade.

He nodded. "Drink it slow. Eat both olives. Drink some water. And make sure you get some of that salmon dip over there in you soon." At her confused look, he said, "Your stomach will thank you."

Angela smiled shyly, but gratefully. "Got it…And thanks, again." He smirked sweetly, then took the order of a lady who had just walked up.

Taking another sip as she turned back toward the room, Angela narrowed her eyes. Jawline level with the floor, she walked closer to where Marc Joliet was talking with a well-dressed woman and another man. They all seemed well into middle-age, all with wedding rings. The men were leaning in and making the occasional exaggerated gesture. She saw the woman looking distracted. She was smiling but looked a little dismissed in the conversation. One of their wives. Angela's eyes narrowed. She didn't like that the woman wasn't being included. She looks reasonably about her wits. There's no reason she can't participate. Now with a somewhat altered mission, Angela walked up to the group and touched the woman's wispy sleeve.

"What a lovely Valentino."

The woman brightened up immediately. "Why, thank you. That suit is quite becoming on you, as well." Then men had stopped talking and were now listening to the ladies. "I'm Susan Joliet, this is my husband, Marc, and this is Dr. Jason Fontaine."

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Angela Robinson." She shook their hands. "Tell me, what were you all discussing so earnestly?"

"The pull out of Vietnam," Dr. Fontaine said dryly, taking a sip of his earthquake - clearly eliminating Angela's opinion on the issue.

"Oh, really? And what is your take?" Angela countered.

The man squinted his eyes, and proclaimed, rather exasperatedly. "It's about time! …Peace with honor," he said with a explaining shrug. Angela's mouth flatlined.

"And you, Mrs. Joliet?"

"I have heard so many things on both sides, and none of them sit right. We lost tens of thousands of our boys, and it is their war. But what was the point in all those lives lost when we just retreat?"

Angela smiled.

"The bigger picture," Mr. Joliet pursued, "as I was saying to Dr. Fontaine, is to cut the losses. Those lives are a sunk cost, and cannot be retracted, regardless of what their sacrifice meant."

"Interesting," Angela said before she took another sip of her martini.

Mrs. Joliet tilted her head. "What do you think about it, Miss Robinson?"

Dr. Fontaine took another drink and pressed his lips together. Mr. Joliet's eyebrows went up, waiting.

"I have a dear friend who was in the Great War. He's talked to me at length about the stalemate they suffered. He was 19 years old, shivering in a ditch in the middle of France - the air a mixture of blood, gunpowder, and urine. It was ghastly and horrifying." Mrs. Joliet put her hand to her chest in empathy, and the men's faces turned to those of boys' being told a story. "He'd look up every night at the constellations and try to find the ones he knew from home. He'd point them out to his friends, to help them all breathe easier. Three of his closest friends, all younger than I am now, died not ten feet from him."

"You see? We can't be subjecting our young men to this. War is inhumane and costs a fortune," Dr. Fontaine barked loudly.

Angela paused. "Why do you think we were there, Doctor? No disrespect to France," Angela said directly at Mr. Joliet and smiled. "-but a warzone isn't where I'd go for R and R. So why were we there?"

Dr. Fontaine tipped his head mockingly at Angela. "Because we can't mind our own damn business, young lady. That's why."

Angela kept her face completely unchanged. "I think it's because if we don't help our allies challenge a great evil abroad, it is only time before it comes here. Chamberlain learned that the Sudetenland wasn't enough for Hitler after having touted the Munich Agreement as, "peace for our time". And yet, that was only a year before Hitler had taken Poland. And that's assuming you don't mind a deal with the devil, or what he agrees to consume. But don't ever think you can bargain with a bully. The pact is for your ego, not their boundaries."

She thought of Ben as she looked sadly over at Mrs. Joliet. "As for the men we lost in Vietnam, it's…excruciating. A magazine actually published a picture of our men's bodies piled up, like it was trash day. The specific nature of war is now not only for those directly haunted, but for their families, as well. Can you imagine the hit morale took when that circulated?"

Mrs. Joliet nodded, considering. "Mmm."

Angela turned her attention to Dr. Fontaine and started to speak sharply. "The cavalier and disrespect with which the lives of those men were approached, was unadulteratedly unconscionable. We flaunt our indecision over the support of our mission all over the airwaves and every periodical, thinking it's about us and our freedom, conveniently disregarding the impact it has on the very lives of our troops who, at that same moment, are defending our right to do so – not to mention the impact on the resolve of our enemies. What would have become of the world had the same attitude been driving our mission in World War II? Hitler and Stalin combined didn't have the kill count of Mao. And he was the supplier and inspiration of Ho Chi Minh."

She looked at Mrs. Joliet. "Which is not to say the sedentary position of our establishment didn't need a severe shakeup from the people. Women and minorities in this country have been trampled under the same bend of authoritarianism that can sway the rest of the world. After all, "Absolute power corrupts absolutely." That's human nature. But I am grateful we can point to our founding documents, like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. pointed out, and demand an accounting. Not a blind shift to the other side completely. Otherwise, where do we net a gain?"

Refocusing on Dr. Fontaine, Angela's eyes re-narrowed. "And the real problem is not even that our last helicopters left the top of the American embassy with terrified South Vietnamese pleading and scrambling to get aboard, knowing that we were the only thing stopping the quickly advancing North from annihilating them – which is not 'peace with honor'. But the real problem is why we are even talking about this."

She looked at Mr. Joliet and spoke distinctly. "When you commit to a campaign, whether you're gambling lives or money, you go all in, or you don't go. Regardless of what, possibly well-meaning, but ultimately ignorant, voices are shouting from the sidelines. They aren't privy to all that's going on, and they aren't willing to look at what they can see. I'm not saying we need to be everywhere. I'm saying we need to be everywhere we are. If you agree to go to war, then go. Don't half-ass it. Go for the throat. Too much is at stake."

Angela looked at Dr. Fontaine. "Forgetting that is what's inhumane. We were so afraid of stepping on political toes, that we subjected our soldiers to ridiculous rules - like allowing the North to stockpile and ready their munitions gifted from China in Cambodia, even though we knew what they were doing, and where they were doing it."

"We did go into Cambodia! And China is something to worry about." Dr. Fontaine said derisively.

"For half a minute, yes, we did go into Cambodia. But we buckled under the pressure to leave – before we confiscated what we could and built a stronghold – and what happened? The Tet Offensive." The tight expression on Dr. Fontaine's face retreated to one of forced boredom. "And if the cost was too great, remembering where China's loyalty lay, then we shouldn't have gone at all. But digging in our heels for 12 years, allowing China to run the show from behind the scenes, was a mockery to our men and of our nation. Our government was a sacred steward of those soldiers' lives, lives that were often not valued any more by our own protestors than by the Communists sitting back and watching. Many people, good people, thought of our presence over there as expansionism and a disregard for Asian life. What a perverse twist on the truth: stopping the spread of genocide and dictatorship and aiding those trying to do so in their own land."

Angela looked again at Mrs. Joliet in comfort, putting a hand on her sleeve. "But those men that died didn't die in vain, because they did all we ever asked them to do. They did die in honor, bulwarking against an evil regime to 'the last full measure of devotion'."

She withdrew her hand and turned her final attention to Dr. Fontaine. "John Stuart Mill said, 'War is an ugly thing. But it is not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse.'"

Angela turned to Mrs. Joliet and smiled. "That's what I think."

Mr. Joliet looked at his wife, then over at Angela. "What exactly is it that you do, Miss Robinson?"

"I'm actually here to talk to you about a job, Mr. Joliet. I've recently received my MBA from Harvard, and I'm looking to get into advertising."

Mrs. Joliet nodded at her husband, who grinned, and fumbled through his wallet to find his business card. "Call my office on Monday." He laughed, handing her the card. "I want you on my side." Angela smiled at the Joliets, and got out a soft, "Thank you," before they walked away.

"Tough break, Jason," Mr. Joliet said patting the man's shoulder as he walked away, still laughing.

Angela stood there for a few seconds, looking down at the business card. Suddenly, the biggest grin dawned on her face. She marched over to the buffet table and picked up a salmon dip crostini. Catching Anthony's eye from across the room, she raised the hors d'oeuvre in salute. And moments later, as she walked out to her car, Angela didn't have to tell herself to lift up her chin.