Who Do You Love?

by J. M. Bronston

  “Go on.”

  “You’d already left, and we didn’t want to trust any kind of communication about it, not by mail or phone or fax or text or email, not carrier pigeon or smoke signal. They want absolute secrecy until publication. The camera crew, Nell and her people, et cetera, et cetera. No one. The nondisclosure paperwork is at legal now, and if they approve and everything is signed by everyone here, everything should be ready by Monday, which is the day we were scheduled to go down there anyway for the shoot.”

  Marge’s wheels were already rolling. “If we really push,” she said, “we might be able to have the story ready for the next issue. We should try to do that. No way this wedding is going to stay a secret much longer than that. Stories like this are so porous. Can’t keep it from leaking all over the place. Even though we know our people will be reliable, you can bet there’ll be someone else ready to sell it to the tabloids. Or at least it will be on social media in no time. But they’ve given us an exclusive, so we need to make the most of it, if we can. I’ll have to pull something to make room for it. Would you say two thousand words, plus photos?”

  “Whatever you say, Marge. Two thousand should be good.”

  “I’ll meet with layout, have them clear the space. And I’m counting on you to deliver the copy.”

  “Of course.”

  “But Gena. Why you? No offense, sweetie, but you’re young and fairly new. Why did they hand this story over to us here at Lady Fair? What magic spell did you throw over them when you were down there in Tennessee?”

  “I have no idea. I was surprised, too.”

  “Well then, I’m just happy to count our blessings and move on. What’s next? Where are you on the Romy deVere story?”

  “Ah. That one is even more interesting.”

  Marge’s eyebrows rose again. “This I want to hear.”

  Gena had all the deVere material in a Redweld expanding file. She took out the papers, put them in front of Marge, and, with careful explanations along the way, laid the whole story out. Marge listened intently. And silently. She went carefully through the patent office documents and the other papers, the scientific articles and the newspaper articles.

  “This is a totally different kind of story,” Marge said. “Much more meat here. You have a major piece here.”

  “That’s what I was thinking, too, Marge. This goes to the heart of stereotypes about beauty, about beautiful women. It touches on the generational changes, the politics and the economics of the movie industry, the choices they made, their influence on the role—the roles—of women, then and now. I’m really eager to sink my teeth into this one. If you’re okay with it, I’d like a little more time to do this one.”

  “Do you have a timetable in mind?”

  “Not yet. I just got back this morning. But I can have something for you by tomorrow. Will that be okay?”

  “Tomorrow morning. First thing.” She looked at a photo of Romy that accompanied one of the articles. “My God, she sure was a beauty.”

  “She still is. And Ira was really happy with the shots he was getting. He had some interesting ideas—but you’ll see. We’ll put something together to show you.”

  Marge studied Gena as though she was seeing her in a totally new way. Getting to know this new person who’d emerged out of the young, raw writer who’d been only a new intern not so long ago.

  Finally, she spoke. “I’m impressed. This is good work, Gena.”

  Gena tried to take this with professionally cool aplomb. But praise from the editor in chief was not handed out liberally, and she felt enormously honored.

  “Thank you, Marge. That means a lot to me.”

  “All good.” Marge was already moving on to the next matter before her. “Now get to work. And close the door. I have calls to make.”

  And with a wave of Marge’s hand, Gena was dismissed.

  * * * *

  Outside of Marge’s office, once she’d closed the door, Gena walked a little way down the hall, then stopped, made sure no one was around, and allowed herself one terrific, celebratory fist pump.

  “Yes!” she whispered.

  She’d hit a home run. Wow!

  “I am so proud!”

  Then she scooted back to her office. There was plenty to do now. She couldn’t wait to get home that night, to tell Warren all about it. This was the kind of success that would impress Warren.

  But there was still one more interruption in her day: Selma stopped her in the hall.

  “While you were in Marge’s office, some man called. Paul something, started with a B, but I didn’t get it. Number’s on your desk. He sounded like you know him.”

  And Selma disappeared around the corner.

  Gena put all her stuff on the desk and then sat herself down, surprised, for she felt nervous about calling Paul. She needed to think for a moment: what was she to say? Like a schoolgirl. She cleared her throat, felt silly, and then dialed his number. When he answered, he said, “Hello, Gena,” and his voice had a smile in it.

  “Hello, Paul. Sorry I missed your call. I was in a meeting. But this is a nice surprise.”

  “I won’t keep you,” he said. “I just wanted to tell you, when I took the Pie to her day care place this morning, I talked to them about their ‘sibling’ policy. That’s what they call it. They have a discounted rate if you have more than one dog staying with them, so I got them to agree to take Wiley as Sweetie Pie’s sibling. As a favor to me. They kind of owe me. I’ve done some legal work for them, so they were willing to bend the rules a little bit—and they’ll bill it to my account. My firm’s account, actually.” He could hear her objection forming and he headed her off. “And before you start protesting, let me just say it would make me happy if you’ll let me do this for you. I hate to think of your having to navigate through your boyfriend’s opposition, and it will keep the stress level down if there’s a safe place for Wiley to stay every day.”

  There was silence—until Paul said, “Gena?”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “‘Thank you’ would be nice.” He was laughing.

  Gena laughed, too. “Of course, thank you. It’s just that I’m stunned.”

  “Well, listen. I called your office because I didn’t have your phone number. If you’ll give it to me, I’ll text Dog Prep’s contact information to you. They’re expecting to hear from you, and they’ll tell you what they need. You know, Wiley’s shot records, medical history, et cetera. And you can take him over there in the morning.”

  “I still don’t know what to say. Besides ‘thank you,’ again. This is very kind. And generous.”

  “My pleasure. And maybe we’ll meet sometime. At Dog Prep. With our dogs.”

  “I’d like that,” Gena said. And she meant it. She was probably not aware of the very nice smile on her face, and she was certainly not aware of the very nice smile that was on Paul Brackman’s face, too.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Did you remember the Glenlivet?” Warren looked up from his laptop as she came through the door.

  Surprised and instantly on the defensive, not even entirely into the apartment yet, Gena was stopped in her tracks. Wiley came running to her and she picked him up and held him in front of her chest, as though he’d be a shield against Warren’s apparent irritation.

  “No. I didn’t pick up the Glenlivet. I had too much to think about—”

  “Honestly, Gena.” Warren interrupted her. “Was it so much to ask? It’s not like you’re saving the world, or busy doing rocket science. The least you could do is remember a little request like stopping at the liquor store on your way home. Like it’s so far out of your way.”

  She put down her things on the nearest chair. “I’ve been away since yesterday morning, and I’ve got some really big stories going on, and I just didn’t think of your liquor needs. And you kn
ow what else? I’m tired. I’ve been seriously busy, and I don’t see why you couldn’t pick up the Glenlivet yourself if it’s so important to you.”

  “Oh, that’s just fine. Like I’ve got nothing to do all day except run household errands. Maybe I was busy doing something a little more important, like managing multimillion-dollar transactions. And what kind of big stories are you doing? Is Madame Fifi going to be wearing shorter skirts this year? Or are they going to be longer? Or maybe longer in the back and shorter in the front? Like, who cares?”

  “You’re right, Warren. Nothing I’m doing is that important. I’m not making millions of dollars from it, so it certainly isn’t anything you’d be interested in.” She picked up Wiley’s leash and snapped it onto his collar. “So why don’t you just order us in some Chinese food while I take Wiley out, and after we have dinner, we can fight about your Scotch some more, and then about whose work is more important.”

  And then Gena did something she’d never done before: on the way out, she slammed the door behind her.

  But Gena was incapable of being angry for very long. It just wasn’t in her nature. After a twenty-minute walk around the neighborhood, she’d talked herself down from her flare-up and convinced herself that, after all, Warren had asked her a couple of times to take care of that little errand, and, after all, he did have important matters demanding his attention, and, after all, getting mad is so unattractive—and, after all, Warren did bring a lot more money into the household than she did, and if, perhaps, someday they did decide to get married and maybe even have children, wouldn’t they likely have to rely more on his earnings than on hers? And so didn’t it matter more that his time be devoted to his work, and so shouldn’t the trivia of everyday life fall more on her shoulders than on his?

  By the time she’d finished making all these excuses, she’d calmed herself down and was ready to go home and make up. And apologize for slamming that door. So perhaps it was fate—kismet?—that she came to this conclusion just as she was passing the local wine and liquor store on Third Avenue. Wiley was sniffing at the bricks below the store’s front window, and the display of stock just happened to be a variety of whiskeys.

  She laughed at the coincidence, and as she walked inside she said to Wiley, “Let’s go make Warren happy.”

  She bought a bottle of Glenlivet and got the sales clerk to give her a bit of bright red ribbon to tie around the bottle’s neck. “A peace offering,” she explained to Wiley. “See?” She showed him the pretty bow she’d made. Wiley was unimpressed.

  They rode up in the elevator with the young man who was delivering their dinner. She stopped him outside the apartment door, said she’d pay for the food right then, tipped him, waited for him to get into the elevator and disappear, and then let herself into the apartment.

  “I’m home,” she announced, “and I’m bringing dinner and a gift.”

  Warren was on the sofa in the living room with his laptop open on the coffee table, obviously busy with something work-related. He looked up at her, preoccupied.

  “A gift?”

  She put the brown paper bag of Chinese food down on the coffee table, next to his laptop, and handed him the bottle of Glenlivet.

  “A peace offering,” she said. “I’m sorry I got mad. I hate it when we fight. Let’s not fight, okay, Warren?”

  “We’re not fighting, honey.” He looked at the bottle, noticed the ribbon, smiled and put the bottle down next to the bag. “I just don’t like it when you don’t pay attention to me. Or to what I ask you to do. I just can’t be bothered with the small stuff, and I rely on you to take care of those things for me.” He got up from the sofa, came over to her, and put his arms around her. Wiley started to circle around them, yipping nervously. “And you’re so good at taking care of the small stuff. I couldn’t manage without you.” He looked down at Wiley as though he’d like to kick him.

  “But sometimes it’s hard for me, too—having to take care of the small stuff. You’re not the only one who has work to do. I have work to do, too. Maybe it’s not so important, but it is my work and I can’t just set it aside any old time you want me to pick up your dry cleaning or take something to the post office. Or”—she gestured toward the beribboned bottle of scotch on the coffee table—“go to the liquor store for you.”

  It was astonishing how suddenly Warren’s mood changed. He stepped away from her abruptly, picked up the bottle, and took it to the bar. Wiley stayed close to Gena.

  “Well.” He managed to sound profoundly offended. “It’s sure good to know how you really feel. Just in case I was thinking you liked being helpful. Helping me keep the decks clear so I can go out and bring home the big bucks. The bucks, by the way, that paid for most of the stuff we have here.” He gestured around the room. “I thought I could count on you for support. Not for criticism.”

  “I support you, Warren.”

  “Yeah. Well, it doesn’t sound like it.” He clinked a couple of ice cubes from the ice bucket into a glass and poured a couple of fingers of scotch over them. “You know, there are plenty of girls would have been happy to be in your place. Prettier girls, too, I might add. It’s not like you’re the most gorgeous girl in the world.”

  Gena was stunned. They’d had arguments before, even a couple of snarling fights, but wow! He’d never been this mean.

  “I can’t believe you said what you just said.”

  Wiley started to bark.

  “Well, look at you. You’re skinny as a rail, not a curve anywhere on you, and could you maybe figure out how to do something a little more attractive with your hair or your makeup? You’d think you could have learned something from those glamour girls you work with.”

  “Warren, what’s gotten into you? Why are you talking to me this way? I don’t deserve this.”

  “Well, honey”—this time the endearment was sarcastic—“as long as you’re choosing to be so honest about how you really feel, maybe you ought to hear what I’m thinking, too. Seems to me if you’re going to go off on your high horse whenever you feel like it, anytime you get in a mood, then we need to rethink just what it is we actually do have here.”

  A hammer, it seemed, was hitting her in the stomach. And suddenly tears filled her eyes.

  “What are you saying? Are you saying you want to end things between us?”

  “Not at all. I’m just saying you’re going to have to make some changes. I’m looking ahead, and I’m seeing my future, and I need you to fit in a little bit better. That’s all.”

  Now the tears fell. She turned away to hide them.

  Warren threw up a hand in exasperation. “Oh, that’s just fine. Here come the waterworks.”

  And truly, the tears were now a flood. She picked up Wiley, who was barking excitedly, and without even stopping for her bag, her keys, or Wiley’s leash, she ran out of the apartment.

  “Gena!” Warren’s shout echoed down the hallway as she rang for the elevator, but she didn’t care, and she also didn’t care when she heard their door slam shut on his muttered “God-damn!”

  * * * *

  She wandered around the neighborhood, feeling miserable and desolate for maybe fifteen minutes, but by then Wiley was getting heavy in her arms, and she couldn’t let him off-leash on the city street. She couldn’t bear the thought of going back to the apartment and dealing with Warren—not yet—so she checked her watch and saw that it was close to nine o’clock. She headed for the open dog area behind the museum.

  It was a good choice. Wiley could stay close, which he seemed to want to do, but she could also be alone with her thoughts—and with this sudden upheaval in her life. It seemed too great to be kept in check, and now the tears were coming again, and because she’d come out without her bag or any money and she had no tissues or handkerchief with her, she could do nothing but cover her face with her hands and cry into them as quietly as she could manage. If anyone no
ticed her tears, they left her alone with them.

  For a while.

  And then there was a man sitting next to her, and a voice said, “Now, now, Gena. This isn’t good.”

  She took her hands from her face and there was Sweetie Pie at her feet. The voice belonged to Paul Brackman, of course, because who else in this park knew her name? And he was handing her a handkerchief. A man’s handkerchief, big enough to hold all her tears. She took the handkerchief, glanced sideways at him, and then without a word, not even a “thank you,” covered her face with the handkerchief and turned away, profoundly embarrassed to be seen in such an exposed emotional state.

  Paul said nothing while she blew her nose and dried her tears. She was still looking away from him, and with the bunched-up, sodden handkerchief clutched in both her hands, she said, “I’m so sorry. I feel so dumb.”

  “It’s none of my business,” he said. His voice was calm and quiet. “But I’m here, if you feel like talking.”

  She shook her head. How could she tell this man, whom she hardly knew, of the devastating scene she’d just been through? Devastating, and so humiliating!

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Yes. Every bit that bad.” Now she managed a small smile. “But you’re kind to offer.” She looked down at her hands. “I’ve made a mess of your handkerchief. I’m sorry.”

  He smiled, a nice big smile. “Then you’ll have to wash it first, before you give it back.”

  “Yes, I’ll wash it.” She laughed a little. “I’ll even iron it.”

  “That sounds very domestic. Are you a domestic sort of woman?”

  “Hardly. I suppose I can add being non-domestic to the list of my many inadequacies.” She stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans.