by D. M. Barr
Camarin blinked. What does she want from me? How do I get past her?
“Sorry to change the subject, but is Mr. Fletcher available? I have a nine AM. appointment with him this morning.”
“As opposed to nine AM this afternoon?”
Camarin sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’ve done to offend you. I’m just a little nervous today. Could you please take it easy on me?”
“Nothing to be nervous about, love.” Rachel giggled. “I was just having some fun. You’re already hired. Mr. Fletcher left a contract for you to read and sign.” She handed Camarin a thin manila envelope and pointed to two chairs on either side of a water cooler wedged into the corner of the room.
“You mean he isn’t here? And he’s offering me a job without reading any of my clips?” Camarin was torn between disappointment and suspicion.
“He said something about having read them online. He must have liked them, eh? And now, he’s off somewhere, as per usual, no doubt trying to raise funds to keep this place open.” She lowered her voice a decibel. “I’m afraid you’ll have to use your knees to lean on. There are desks in the back, but I’m not allowed to let anyone past the entrance area.”
Camarin immediately switched modes from crestfallen to curious. “Why not?” she whispered back.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Secret-keeper is my middle name.”
“Really? Your parents must have been a right pair of sadists. Anyway, it’s because you, prospective employee, are supposed to think there is a massive office complex behind me. Rows upon rows of desks filled with writers and copyeditors and layout people and what-not.”
“And there aren’t?”
“You might as well know before you sign that contract. There are four rooms behind that door,” she said, signaling to her right with a tilt of her head. “First, there’s Fletcher’s office. Then one glorified cubby where the accountant usually spends his monthly visits looking through the books, stifling his tears. All the meetings are held in a cramped conference space they call the war room. And last, and certainly least, a run-down little piece of heaven they call the bullpen, where all the writers and editors work. Though I picture them spending most of their time quaking, waiting for the ax to fall. Once you sign on the dotted line, you’ll get to join them. Unless I’ve totally dissuaded you with these shocking truths.”
The reasons why Fletcher might have hired Camarin in absentia were suddenly coming into sharp focus. No need to defend Trend’s financial health, for one. “Sounds like you need someone to turn this place around.”
“A miracle worker. Might you be she? I do hope so. It would be nice to have someone else around here who isn’t a total prat.”
Camarin relaxed slightly, her nerves slowing from a boil to a simmer. Despite her earlier misgivings, she couldn’t help but like this blunt, flippant receptionist. “Let me check out the contract, and I’ll let you know.”
Deep down, she knew she would sign, no matter what it said. She needed the paycheck.
She sat in the corner—handbag by her feet, thank you very much—and gave the document a perfunctory read through. There was no real job description, other than the title Investigative Reporter/Editorial Assistant, and no restrictive, noncompete clause that would prevent her from working elsewhere if this job didn’t pan out. The hours seemed reasonable. The start date was open; she imagined that was to accommodate her finals and graduation.
The salary, at a thousand dollars a week, was much higher than she’d expected, especially surprising considering Rachel’s depressing appraisal of the magazine’s bottom line. It was even more than Drift would have paid. At least that alone gave her enough ammunition to explain to DeAndre why she’d chosen Trend over the job his parents had offered. Plus, the unexpected income would go a long way toward saving for law school.
She laid the contract on her lap, reached down and rummaged through her handbag for a pen, and added her name to the bottom with a flourish.
“You’re one of us now,” Rachel said as Camarin handed her the signed agreement. “And as the greeters said on the Titanic, glad to have you aboard.”
Chapter 4
Lyle Fletcher anxiously sat at the dining table of his Manhattan apartment as his real estate agent gave the grand tour to a prospective buyer, some millennial from Long Island. He hoped Remy could negotiate a better deal for him than his Westchester agent had procured for the White Plains property, a measly $450,000. He could eat through that amount in three months, especially considering Trend’s hefty payroll and overinflated NoHo rents.
For this sale, a two-bedroom, high-rise duplex on the Upper West Side that he’d once shared with his late wife, Margaret, he needed at least $3.5 million. It was a giveaway price, maybe half of its true value, but desperate times called for desperate measures. With that sum, even if his plans hit a snag, he could still keep operations going for what…two, three years? Long enough, he suspected, to accomplish his goal of avenging Margaret’s untimely demise.
He stared out the window at the southern exposure that Remy guaranteed would pad his bottom line by an additional ten percent. Under his breath, he cursed the buyer who had demanded a rush showing this morning—the one day he had warned his realtor was sacrosanct. Then he had the audacity to show up thirty minutes late. After all that, if this joker didn’t make an offer…
Fletcher strummed his fingers anxiously on his thigh, a tic that betrayed his normally confident demeanor. What if Camarin turned down the contract? He had impulsively offered double what he normally might have paid a junior reporter, but perhaps a better job had come along? If she didn’t agree to work for Trend, it would definitely be a setback. He’d done his research, read some of the articles she’d posted on her website. They were impressive. Cam could add the cover he needed to turn some of his more elaborate plans into reality.
As much as he hated to admit it, her activism and audacity reminded him of Margaret. Not to mention her allure—that long, lustrous hair, her smooth cappuccino skin, that unwavering optimism. He wanted to have her in his orbit, even if he had no intention of acting on his attraction. While he was at a loss to decipher the dating scene—one he hadn’t navigated in nearly two decades, not even during the three years since his wife’s passing—he was not clueless enough to risk being accused of sexual harassment in the workplace. And anyway, she’d probably laugh at him, a foolish widower almost twice her age, making overtures.
He heard someone turn on the shower upstairs—the water pressure is perfect, you supercilious hedge funder—and felt his fingers strum even faster. He glanced over at the Louis XIV sideboard where their wedding portrait sat encased in an eight-by-ten-inch Baccarat crystal frame, flanked by a pair of antique candlestick holders that he and Margaret had picked up at a flea market one carefree day early in their courtship. Though they were brass, and therefore conspicuously out of place, he displayed them prominently—a statement of substance over style. Guilt stabbed at his gut as he realized he’d been daydreaming about Camarin while staring into his wife’s wise and trusting eyes.
“I’ll never stop loving you, Maggie,” he whispered. “Everything I’m doing is to fulfill my promise to you. They’re already starting to pay for what they did.”
Two sets of footsteps barreled down the stairs. The buyer remained out in the foyer while Remy joined Fletcher at the dining room table. She leaned in close, like a conspirator sharing classified government secrets.
“He’s offering $3.25 million,” she said in hushed tones. “I know it’s lower than what you were hoping for. But it’s all cash, and he’s willing to close as soon as his lawyers can pull title, so probably less than three weeks from now. No inspection, no contingencies.”
He stopped strumming and instead dug his nails against his Brioni suit pants.
“Do you think you can find me a cheap place to move into that quickly?”
“You were thinking Putnam, right?”
“Whatever.
Just something with an easy Manhattan commute that will run me under two grand a month.”
“Yes, I can absolutely do that. No problem.”
Fletcher eased the attack on his thighs. “Fine, but $3.25 million is too low. Tell him $3.4 million, with half at contract. Nonrefundable. I don’t want anyone playing games. Think that will fly?”
“Whatever you say,” Remy said with a wink.
Was she flirting? he wondered, and then decided it didn’t matter. Romance was a distraction he didn’t need right now. Once the appointment ended, he could call Rachel and see if Camarin had agreed to work by his side. For credibility. Nothing more. If he repeated the mantra often enough, maybe even he might start to believe it.
Chapter 5
Camarin stood in front of Carl and Diana Robinson’s prewar town house on Riverside Drive, ten minutes late, willing herself to ring the doorbell. She’d been invited to Friday dinner at least once a month since she’d befriended DeAndre in Journalism 101. The Robinsons were like her adopted family, in many ways kinder and more accepting than her own. But ever since she’d affixed her signature to the bottom of Trend’s contract, she had been dreading this moment when she’d have to share the news with them.
Courage. She pressed the buzzer and heard footsteps rumbling down the stairs. Xavier, their butler, opened the door with his usual smile and beckoned her inside. “Good evening, Ms. Camarin. Mr. DeAndre was speculating that you might not show, but his parents assured him you’d never skip dinner without calling.”
“It’s nice to know that at least they had faith in me. Thanks, X-Man.”
She followed him up the stairs, past the dining parlor with its carved mahogany and antique mirrors, and into the kitchen, which, as always, was a madhouse. Trying to ignore the room’s seductive aromas—and the hungry voice at the back of her head, begging to be fed—Cam concentrated instead on Carter, Jamal, and Kit, her roommate’s three younger brothers. The carousing trio paused from chasing each other around the granite-topped island long enough to hug her en masse before returning to their gameplay.
Dee was in the corner, absentmindedly pulling on his dreadlocks and yelling into his cellphone to be heard over the din. Carl was sitting at the island, attempting to ignore the hubbub and concentrate on his newspaper. Diana, still clad in an elegant Dolce & Gabbana blue pinstripe suit, blew Cam a kiss and then continued to ladle tomato bisque into individual tureens. Though they could have easily afforded a cook, Diana wouldn’t hear of it. She said that preparing dinner was her only way to reconnect with family after a busy day at work.
“I’m so sorry to be late, Diana, especially on soup night,” Camarin said. “If tomatoes had free will, yours would be the only soup delicious enough for them to willingly sacrifice themselves.”
“No apologies necessary. You can do no wrong,” Carl said as he rose, walked over, and embraced her. “You are, after all, our favorite daughter.”
“She’s our only daughter,” corrected his wife. “And even then, only on loan until they call her back home.”
In a fleeting memory, Camarin pictured her actual father, one of the few things she hadn’t blocked out from her early childhood. Looking debonair in his Navy uniform, he’d hug her tightly upon returning home between stints in the South Pacific. His embrace was always loving and unconditional, with no mention of size or looks. Even back then, she could appreciate the value of true acceptance, a rare commodity in the Torres household. She’d found it again years later with Carl and Diana. She only hoped that tonight’s revelations wouldn’t destroy the bond they’d forged together.
“I have no plans to head back to California. I’ll stay your daughter…no matter what happens,” she said weakly.
“Hmm, what could possibly happen?” DeAndre said, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
She shot him a dirty look. Breaking the news to him back at the apartment had been had hard enough. He didn’t need to twist the knife deeper.
Diana peered into the oven. “Okay, everybody, take a bowl by its handles and carefully carry them to the table. Prime rib in about fifteen. Let’s go.”
Feed me! Feed me! Camarin gave her head a quick shake, attempting to silence the intrusive voice that plagued her whenever food was near. Then she picked up her tureen and joined the others.
Soon everyone was busily slurping their soup. The Robinsons launched into their usual monthly litany of questions: How were her parents? Was Benji, her boss at the piano bar, still as demanding as ever? How was the job search progressing?
DeAndre jumped on that as his cue to bring up the issue she’d been carefully dodging. “Mom, Dad, I think Camarin has something she wants to share with you. Don’t you, Cam?”
She was certain her face was redder than her bisque. “Dee, really, it can wait until after dinner.”
“No, it cannot. When my roomie gets her first big job, everyone has to hear about it before the main course.”
Traitor! And after all she’d done for him—poor, easily duped, heart-on-his-sleeve Dee. All the nights she’d consoled him over this girl or that one. The cupcake baker who needed a backer. There was five hundred dollars he’d never see again. The botanist searching for a safe place to hide her pot. The rebellious daughter of the Saudi Arabian diplomat who used their apartment as a haven to trade in her burqa for a minidress before she and Dee went out clubbing. Cam had been his counsel and confidante through every ugly breakup.
She got it though. He’d been hurt by her decision. Just like her sister had been by one of her decisions a few years before. Hopefully, Dee’s voice wouldn’t continually play in her head the way Monaeka’s did, accusing her of selfishness and abandonment.
“Yes, tell us, Cam. We’re so happy for you. Where will you be working?” asked Diana.
She looked down at her bowl, having suddenly lost her appetite. “I took a job at Trend. I didn’t expect to get it. It was sort of an accident,” she said sheepishly.
“Trend? Why would you do that?” asked Carl. “We offered you the junior editor’s job at Drift. Why would you want to work for strangers?”
Carl had a valid point. It would have been fun working every day alongside Dee. She’d watched him push himself hard all semester, taking publishing classes in the mornings, then apprenticing at the magazine every afternoon, all before hitting the keyboards at Benji’s at night. But even if she had been interested in writing about fashion and gossip, where would the challenge have been in working for friends?
She shrugged. “I met this man on a train. He just took over the magazine, and they’re going to steer it in a different, newsier direction. It’s an opportunity for me to write stories about prejudice and hate, just like I’ve always told you I wanted to do.”
Diana, who’d remained silent up to this point, pushed back from the table and started collecting empty soup tureens to carry into the kitchen. “Carl, didn’t you say something a few months back about some guy named Fletcher buying Trend and bringing in some hotshot from Business Day to run their editorial?”
“Yeah, and their ad pages have been climbing steadily ever since. They must be rolling in cash these days, certainly enough to pay our girl more than we can afford.”
That’s odd, Camarin thought. Didn’t Rachel say the magazine was floundering, that the accountant cried every time he looked at the books? How exactly were they able to afford to pay her the high salary they’d offered?
“The thing is, Cam, we understand,” Carl continued. “If this is what you want, we’re with you. No matter how uncomfortable our lousy son is trying to make you feel. He’s just sorry to lose the talent. Aren’t you, Dee?”
Now it was DeAndre’s turn to look sheepish.
“Maybe you can be a spy,” suggested Kit, bouncing up and down with the level of enthusiasm only a six-year-old could muster. “You tell us what they’re writing about, and we’ll beat them to the newsstands. Right, Dad?”
Carl shook his head. “Son, calm down. You know that’s not
how we do things. We don’t snoop on our competitors. Anyway, in another year, those decisions will all be up to your big brother. After he graduates, we’ll be retiring, and he’ll be running the place.”
Kit settled back down in his seat. “You should let me run it. He’ll just put girls on the cover, but I want pictures of more important things, like Transformers and the Guardians of the Galaxy.”
While Kit rattled on, Camarin stood up and joined Diana in the kitchen, seeking any excuse to duck the awkward conversation. Together, they prepared and carried out dinner plates stacked high with rare prime rib, mashed potatoes, and broccoli.
“My new position won’t be an issue, I assure you,” Camarin said while she served Carter and Jamal. “If anything, Trend will soon be less of a competitor to Drift because of its new focus.” She stuck out her tongue at her roommate before heading back to help Diana bring out the remainder of the meals.
Diana set down Carl’s dinner plate, and then finally her own, before sitting back down at the table. “Whatever makes you happy, Cam. Just know, if you ever change your mind, there will always be a place for you at Drift.”
Cam set down her own plate, piled high with broccoli over a thimbleful of beef, and walked over to Diana and Carl. She bent down to give them each a hug. “Thank you for your understanding. And your professionalism. I love you both. I would hate for this to come between us in the future.”
“Nah,” said DeAndre, throwing a rolled-up napkin in her direction. “It’s all good. Maybe now she’ll stop getting on my case about changing our content. But Ma, next time she comes to dinner, instead of prime rib, she gets gruel.”
Chapter 6
In the predawn hours of a Monday morning three weeks later, Camarin tossed and turned on sweat-drenched sheets, her fevered dreams the result of her refusal to consciously admit to first-day-of-work jitters.
Age eleven. She, along with Monaeka, were sleeping over at their Aunt Sirena’s house, a necessity on nights when her mother Ana worked a second job as a hospice nurse. But her slumber was infiltrated by the disturbing sound of incantations emanating from down the hall, yanking her into an unwelcome state of semi-consciousness.