Serendipity

by Fern Michaels

  The door to the carriage house opened and closed. Footsteps again, the tap of the cane, and then the furious sound of heavy knocks on the back door. Jory rolled over, trying to remember if she’d locked the door. She had. She’d also attached the chain guard. “Stay out there till you freeze, Pete Woojalesky,” she said. “See if I care.”

  She did care, that was the problem. She started to cry then, sobbing into the mound of pillows. “I hate men,” she sobbed.

  The whirlwind was intense, the four dogs burrowing and scurrying in the covers to lick her face, to paw her shoulders and arms. She gathered them close when the phone rang again. Suddenly her arm shot out. She picked up the phone and yelled, “What do you want? Do you know what time it is? You stood me up. Go to hell, Pete Woojalesky!” She slammed down the phone so hard the lamp moved two inches on the night table.

  The dogs literally flew off the bed five minutes later when Woo banged again on the kitchen door. Jory pulled on her bathrobe and stomped her way to the kitchen, turning on lights as she went along.

  “It’s about time, I’m freezing my ass off,” Woo said tightly.

  “You should be so lucky,” she said as she closed the door behind him. “You said you’d be here at seven. I waited. Obviously, you had something more important to do,” Jory said pointedly.

  “I tried calling you six or seven times today, but there was no answer. I even called the Landers Building, thinking you might be there. I didn’t stand you up.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter now. It’s late,” Jory said, looking at the clock.

  “I have something to say and I’m going to say it, then I’ll leave,” Woo said.

  He looked tired, Jory thought. She could feel herself start to weaken. Today must have been torture for him, his first day back, and then the late hours and the drive back.

  She was about to ask him if he wanted a cup of tea, when he said, “I’ll be moving the first of February. I won’t mind if you show the carriage house to prospective renters while I’m at work. I don’t want you to lose money on my account. I’m sorry about this evening.”

  Jory clenched her hands into balled fists then jammed them into the pockets of her flannel robe. This wasn’t what she expected. She felt sick when she said, “Why are you moving, do you mind telling me?”

  “I had dinner with Ross and his father this evening, and—”

  “You let me sit here and wait for you while you had dinner with Ross! Don’t tell me, he told you you should move, and you always do what Ross says. Is that right?”

  “No, that’s not right, Jory, and you know it. It’s been a long day for me, driving back and forth. It makes sense to move closer to where I work. Ross told me . . . he said you and he . . . well, what he said was, it didn’t matter to him that you couldn’t have children and he was going to marry you anyway. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out like that, I really didn’t,” Woo said miserably.

  “Ross told you that?” Jory whispered. “I see. What that means to me is because Ross said all this, you’re going to step aside for your best friend in the whole world. By stepping aside, I mean, you’re negating whatever it was that we had and going on about your business. Yes, that sounds right to me. Plus,” she said, jamming her index finger under his nose, “you don’t want to be saddled with someone who can’t turn out babies every nine months. Yes, that sounds right too. Now, you turn around and get out of my house before I sic all four of these dogs on you and I take the frying pan to the back of your head. You know what, Pete, like Ross, you’re too late. I’m not marrying Ross. I never gave him any encouragement at all. It’s all in his head. You should have seen that. You are a dumb shit, just the way Ross said you are. I was falling in love with you. I would have told you before we . . . we . . . about not having children. Damn it, I would have told you! I don’t want you to wait till February to move. I want you out of my carriage house tomorrow. I’ll refund your rent and mail it to your office. Now, get out of here and don’t ever come near me again. Give the same message to your friend. If I ever see either one of you on my property, I’ll call the police. Out!”

  “Jory—”

  “Out! You have to pack. Don’t call me either, and don’t put notes in my mailbox. If you call me, I’ll hang up. If you write me notes, I’ll tear them up unread, so don’t waste your time.”

  “Jory, please, let me—”

  “I’ll push you right out!” Jory said angrily, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Get out of here!”

  “You don’t understand—”

  “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong. My mistake was in thinking you were different, that you were your own person. You aren’t. You’re just a goddamn extension of Ross.”

  Woo opened the door, and Jory slammed it so hard behind him that the glass rattled. She snapped the lock and slid the chain into the groove at the same moment she turned off the porch light. “Break your damn neck, see if I care.” The kitchen light went off, as did the dining room light and then the hall light. She ran upstairs and flew into the bedroom, the four dogs on her heels.

  “Don’t cry. Don’t cry,” she said over and over as she fought to take deep breaths. “He’s not worth it. You knew this was going to happen. That’s why you drew back and waited. You did the right thing. Don’t cry.” The dogs nuzzled her, their furry bodies warm and comforting. She picked them up one at a time and lay them on the bed. She covered them with a light afghan she’d found in the attic. They were as close to children as she was going to get. She crooned to them, a silly little nursery rhyme she remembered hearing from somewhere. She stroked their heads until they were asleep.

  Slowly and deliberately, Jory walked over to the night table and picked up the phone. She dialed Ross’s number. He picked it up on the second ring. Jory identified herself and didn’t bother to apologize for the call. “Ross, I want to tell you something and I want you to listen. When I’m finished, I’m going to ask you one question and you will give me an answer. Other than that I don’t want you to say anything. I am not going to marry you. Not now, not sometime in the future. Not ever. I appreciate the fact that you would be willing to marry me anyway, even though I can’t bear children. I do not want you to come to my home ever again. I do not want you to call me or write me letters. I am severing our . . . friendship. That’s all it ever was, Ross, a friendship. Tomorrow I will mail you a check for the money I owe you. That makes the break clean. I plan to move on with my life, and that life does not include you, your father, or Pete. Pete, by the way, will be moving out of the carriage house tomorrow. Do you understand what I’ve just said, Ross? Just say yes or no.”

  “I heard what you said—”

  Jory broke the connection, then laid the receiver on the floor.

  “So there,” she sniffled. “So there.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Jory settled herself behind Justine Landers’s desk. The moment she was comfortable, she raised her eyes and snapped off a smart salute in the direction of her benefactor’s portrait. “It’s been a hell of a year, Justine. I’m about as ready as I’ll ever be.” Her stomach lurched when she thought of the commitment she’d made to Justine and herself. God, what if she fell flat on her face? Her hand snaked out to draw the phone closer. She didn’t hesitate, instead she cleared her throat and spoke briskly. “I want to place an overseas call.” She rattled off the number from memory. While she waited for the call to go through, she stacked the mounds of paper on her desk into neat piles. Her fingers tapped on the glossy surface of the desk for another minute until she heard Justine’s familiar voice. “I’m scared,” she blurted out.

  Justine chuckled. “That’s good. Your adrenaline is flowing. That’s just another way of saying you’ll stay on your toes. You aren’t making a mistake, Jory.”

  “It’s just . . . what if women over forty aren’t interested in this magazine? You’re absolutely sure of this, Justine? I didn’t do any market research. Instincts—yours, mine—God, what if they’re wron
g, Justine?”

  “You have to be confident even when the ground is shaking underneath your feet, and for God’s sake, never let them see you sweat, and by them I mean anyone who looks at you crossways. You have more going for you than I ever had. Today is scary because you’re finally going to make this past year pay off. So what if you foul things up? You’ll correct your mistakes and go on from there. How’s it looking?”

  Jory thought about the question. “Good, Justine. Real good. It’s the money thing that’s scaring me. If this doesn’t work, I’ll be in debt to you for the rest of my life.”

  “You don’t see me making demands, do you? Stop whining, Marjory, and get to work. Follow the plan I outlined for you, and do not ever, under any circumstance, even if you find yourself on your deathbed, relinquish editorial control. That was our only stipulation. Now, I suggest you straighten your seams and act like a publisher and the editor-in-chief that you are. Call me anytime.”

  Jory stared at the pinging phone. She slammed it back on the cradle. She slapped her hands palms down on the desk to stop them from shaking. The moment she felt in control, she looked over her shoulder to check the seams of her stockings. Satisfied, she saluted Justine again. “Yes, ma’am. I’m ready.”

  And she was ready. She’d risen at five o’clock and spent two hours looking for just the right outfit. Her Dartmouth-green suit wasn’t just a suit, it was a creation, and it fit as if it had been made especially for her. She felt comfortable as well as professional. Her lizard shoes had cost a fortune, twice as much as the matching briefcase. Justine had roared when Jory told her she’d dunked the elegant case in the bathtub and dried it in the oven to take away the newness. Two days ago she’d mastered the art of doing her hair into a French twist. This morning it had taken her only five minutes to twist and twirl her locks and expertly pin them into place. Her makeup was subdued, her jewelry in good taste. Even the dogs had new collars. Yes, she was ready.

  There would probably be a few raised eyebrows when she walked into the conference room with all four of them. Too bad. This was who she was. Like it or lump it. This was her magazine, her building, she would be signing the checks, and if she wanted four dogs running up and down the halls, she would damn well have four dogs running up and down the halls.

  She walked slowly, the dogs trotting alongside her. Patsy, her skinny secretary, fell into step with her, her notebook and pencil clasped to her thin chest.

  “It’s our first day, Miss Ryan,” she gushed, “isn’t it thrilling?”

  “It certainly is. I just hope the world is ready for my magazine.”

  “Oh, it is, Miss Ryan. When I told my mother about it, she said it was about time someone recognized older women as real people. She’s going to buy it, and so are all her friends. My mother has lots of friends.”

  “I needed that, Patsy. Thanks.”

  “Nervous?” Patsy asked.

  “I feel like I got an itch in my git-along.” Jory smiled at the blank look on Patsy’s face. “It’s just an expression. Here goes,” she said, opening the door. Her itch intensified. Never let them see you sweat. God, what were they all thinking? She smiled before she took her seat, and motioned to the dogs to lie at her feet next to her briefcase. She smiled again as she greeted each person by name.

  They were the best. Justine had said, “Pay them whatever they want and they’re yours.” What she’d done was pirate them from other magazines, and made no apologies for doing so. Money talks, she’d found out when Brian Andrews of Time jumped ship and signed on as her first editor. Morgana Sinclaire, a former high fashion editor, had been enticed from Vogue and appointed first Beauty and Fashion Director. It would be Morgana’s job to find the Serendipity Woman. She’d jumped at the challenge to create the image of an attractive, sensuous, sexy woman. Morgana, in her mid-forties, said it was about time someone took the middle-aged and older woman seriously. Six section heads, three males and three females, lined one side of the long table, their pencils poised, their eyes expectant. Flanking Morgana and Brian were two columnists snatched from the New York Times. With their salaries doubled, Jory had no reason to think that their monthly columns would be anything but power columns. The last man to be acknowledged was Roger Tyler, who would head up the advertising department. He had been recruited from Young and Rubicam at a salary that made Jory’s head spin. They were the best, and they now worked for her.

  “I have some ideas,” Jory said brightly. As one, the department heads groaned. The dogs barked. The ice was broken.

  Five hours later they were all on a first-name basis. Jory leaned back in her chair, the last of her lunch coffee in front of her. It was going to work, she could feel it. For someone who knew diddly about starting up a magazine, she felt she’d done well. Her insistence on a business-money-investment column as well as a political column was met with enthusiasm when she said it would generate advertisers. Tyler had smiled at her and nodded, as much as to say, So you do have a brain in that pretty head. Morgana had loudly approved when she said she planned to write a regular feature called “Serendipity,” in which she would interview someone, male or female, with whom their readership would identify. She’d clarified “someone” as an ordinary person. The staff approved.

  “I see our typical woman as being in her mid-forties with a household income of, say, fifteen thousand dollars, whose home is probably worth, let’s say, forty thousand dollars. I’ve worked up some figures here and would like to see what you all think. I believe, if we all do our jobs, that the growth of the magazine’s target market would be from forty percent of the women who are over forty, this year, to forty-six percent in say 1960. I see a boom in advertising revenues as well as circulation increases. I predict our inaugural issue will fly off the stands. Now, this is what I want to see, what we’re all here to work toward. Listen carefully. We sell out our first issue of three hundred thousand copies. I expect circulation to increase to a half-million copies over the year. As circulation increases from our guaranteed rate base of two hundred thousand to total circulation of half a million, advertising pages will follow right behind. I expect our advertising pages—and I think Roger will agree—will go to three hundred or three fifty.” Tyler nodded. Jory felt giddy. These people knew what they were talking about. Justine had said don’t be afraid to pay for the best. You won’t fail if you surround yourself with people who know the business, and you’ll learn at the same time.

  The mood shifted then, grew intense as the staff began talking among themselves as though she wasn’t there. Jory sat back, not knowing if she should be offended or not. Justine would have jumped in, refusing to be left out. Well, she wasn’t Justine, but she damn well owned this project. She lit a cigarette, puffing smoke in every direction. Her eyes narrowed as she saw several editors frown. She blew more smoke as she listened.

  “I’m not convinced older women will buy magazines . . . So what, being forty doesn’t mean you’re over the hill? . . . Hell, I don’t even know if there are models out there over forty . . . You really think women are going to buy a magazine with an old broad’s picture on the cover? . . . How many consultants are on our roster? . . . Who said we have unlimited money? . . . Budgets . . . Top names want top dollar . . . I’m game, but I think you’re trying to target an illusory market . . . Who the hell is going to go out there and snatch all these top writers? . . . Goddamnit, you’re putting the cart before the horse . . . Do we have a production advisor? Well, now would be a good time to tell us who he is . . . Do you really like the idea of a centerfold? . . . A show of hands here . . . Eight months isn’t enough time . . . Did you say there’s a printer and a printing schedule? . . . Bullshit . . . Do we have a fucking assignment editor? . . . Who’s doing what? Who makes the final decision here? . . . Run that by me again . . . We need Madison Avenue and New York . . . Who in their right mind is going to pay to see before and after pictures of some woman’s face-lift? . . . Who’s fucking idea was that anyway?”

  “It was my i
dea,” Jory said quietly. “We’re doing it, there’s no room for discussion. Continue.” She blew a perfect smoke ring and watched it float over the conference table. Blank stares greeted Jory’s benign gaze. “This is good, we’re talking. Or did you forget I was here?” This last was said so coolly, the women looked embarrassed, the men brazen.

  “We’re going to do our best, Jory, but it’s my personal opinion this magazine is ahead of its time. I hope to God you can make believers out of all of us. I’ve always been one to go with my gut instincts, but starting a project this size on guts alone is bending my mind. I want that out in the open, right here and now,” one of the men snapped.

  “Then why did you sign on?” Jory asked quietly.

  “For the money,” another man said quietly.

  “And that money will only continue if we are a success. I trust you will do your best, that all of you will do your best. We will not be an overnight success, but we will be a success. There is a market out there for this magazine, and we are going to tap it. If you all do your jobs right, we won’t have any problems. You can come to me any time. My door will always be open to you. I promise to listen. I think we can adjourn this meeting now. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning at seven o’clock here in the conference room. Breakfast will be catered. Don’t be late. Gentlemen and ladies,” Jory said, getting up from her chair. The dogs leaped to their feet at the same moment the others stood, confused looks on their faces.

  In the hall, Jory turned the dogs over to Clarence. “A long walk would be nice, they’ve been cooped up too long.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Ryan,” Clarence said happily.

  “What do you think, Patsy?” Jory asked the moment both women were in her office with the door closed. “Did I do okay? Do you think those people in there are going to give me a hundred percent?”

  “It’s a man’s world, Miss Ryan. I don’t care what anyone says. My mom agrees. The ladies are behind you. I could see some doubt, but like you said, instincts are important, and they use theirs just the way you do. They’re behind you. I don’t know about the men. This is a job, and they’re doing it for the money. At least they were honest about that. I don’t think I’d let them make any real important decisions. If you have to fire someone, have somebody standing by just in case. Preferably a woman. That would be neat if you had all women working for you. I can’t wait to tell my mom I sat in on the first meeting. Ohhh, this is going to be thrilling! When Mom hears about that face-lift, she’s going to be so excited.”