Emily and Einstein

by Linda Francis Lee

  I stabbed a piece of lettuce. “It’s a novel. Ruth’s Intention. It’s dying a quiet death before it ever hits the shelves.”

  “Lord, this business is brutal. Who knew? But look, even in the short time I’ve been at Caldecote I’ve seen that books fail all the time. And tons of them are Victoria’s. Her making noise about one of yours failing is like the pot calling the kettle black. Sheez, she is such a witch.” Birdie chewed thoughtfully. “Is there anything you can do to save Ruth? Sure, it would be good for you, and yeah, even the book. But hello, save the book just to bite Victoria in the backside.”

  I cracked a smile. “You’re bad.”

  She snorted. “Focus, Emily. The book. Remember. You need to save it.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, considering. “The book really is amazing.”

  “I assume sales knows it’s amazing.”

  “I’ve forwarded them all sorts of reasons why it’s amazing. But the month is swamped with other books, and sales doesn’t have a lot of time to think about Ruth.”

  “Then force them to think about it.”

  “I can’t force them to think about it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Then cajole them into thinking about it.”

  “Birdie—”

  “Don’t Birdie me.” She polished off the croissant and dug into the pizza. “You’re the creative problem solver. Figure something out.”

  As we were walking back to the office, Birdie unwrapped another candy bar. It was when I nearly gave in and lunged for it that the idea hit me.

  We parted ways after I stopped and made a purchase, then hurried back to my office. By the end of the day I had gathered some advance reading copies of Ruth’s Intention and put them together with a color printout listing fabulous quotes and a letter I’d written from “Ruth.” I hand delivered the books to every member of the in-house sales team along with a Baby Ruth candy bar tied on top of each with a bow.

  It was a silly gesture, no question, but I prayed that if nothing else sales would get a smile out of the correlation, take pity on poor Ruth, and at least read the printed highlights as they ate the candy. My gut told me that if they took the book home over the weekend and read even the first sentence, they would fall in love.

  As I was turning off my computer to head home, Victoria strode into my office.

  “What is this I hear about you wasting everybody’s time by passing out ARCs of Ruth along with chocolate bars?” She smirked. “It’s going to take more than ninety-nine-cent bribes to get support for your little book.”

  “Maybe. But I looked over the pub list for the month and there’s nothing on it that has the kind of media appeal Ruth does. I mean, it’s a fictional version of what the author actually experienced saving her own son when he was dying. Ruth is perfect for morning news and talk shows. And I hardly think talk shows are a waste of time.”

  Victoria scoffed, but I didn’t let her get to me. And when I got on the subway and saw one of the sales guys sitting toward the front of the car eating the Baby Ruth and opening to the first page of the ARC, I felt sure my instinct was correct.

  einstein

  chapter seven

  As long as I lived, I wasn’t sure that I would ever truly believe what had happened to me, not even when I turned back into a man.

  A shiver of unease raced down my spine, and my hackles rose. Every quivering strand of this little dog’s double helix DNA went still at the memory of my human body lying dead in the slush and snow. But I dismissed any hint of concern as ridiculous. There was no way I could spend the rest of my days as a dog. Things like that just didn’t happen. I mean, really, was it possible anyone could actually believe that little Fido next door was harboring the soul of a man? Or Rex down the street was really a Brooklyn-born tough? No, I assured myself. Sooner or later something would happen and poof, this nightmare would be over and I would wake up back in my body, back in my bed, back in my life as a man who had it all.

  Once I had gotten over the shock of the bizarre situation, I decided to look at my sojourn as a canine in the best possible light. I was a glass-half-full sort of fellow, after all. I might be a dog, but I wouldn’t think of it that way. I would think of it as being on vacation from being a man. Like going to St. Barts in winter or the South of France in spring—only smellier. The only snag in this plan was that dogs were dependent on their humans. No wonder Lassie was loyal. What choice did she have if she wanted to eat?

  Given my state of dependence, I had little choice but to depend on Emily. It’s not hard to imagine that I didn’t do, and had never done, dependence all that well. But rather than give in to frustration, I decided to look at her as, say, Julie on the Love Boat, my cruise director.

  Whatever the case, I found it easy enough to get her to do what I wanted. When I didn’t like the food, I refused to eat. Eventually I had her sharing her own dinner with me. When I wanted a scratch behind the ear, I nudged her hand. If I wanted a Mozart sonata played on my sound system, I trotted over to the CD changer and growled.

  When I wasn’t getting Emily to do my bidding I was sleeping. And when I wasn’t sleeping, I was lying in the sun. All in all, it was a somewhat acceptable interim situation, at least for me. It might not have been so great for my wife, but that hardly seemed like my problem.

  My head snapped back when I felt a zap to my flank. I jerked around, but no one was there. “Old man?” I growled.

  But nobody answered.

  Saturday morning I was pleasantly surprised when we headed across the street to Central Park, passing the line of park benches, the late winter sun catching on the small rectangular dedication plaques embedded in many of them.

  Emily had pulled on sweaters and a muffler, topped with a heavy coat, mittens, and a hat. You could hardly see any of her, but her eyes looked like giant blue sapphires. Even bundled up you could tell she was beautiful, which somehow made me angry.

  But we were going to the park and I wasn’t going to let her good human looks ruin my day.

  We walked underneath the twisting wood-and-vine-covered archway leading deeper into the park and caught sight of a group of dogs and their owners. I started to turn my nose up at the bourgeois scene, but then again, when in Rome. I tugged on the leash. Emily seemed to debate, then shrugged. As soon as she unclipped me, I walked with regal bearing over to the canine masses in the clearing.

  Instantly, I was set upon. Noses up my hindquarters, muzzles in my face. Good God, almighty. “Back off,” I barked.

  Not that this did any good.

  The dogs yelped with excitement over my arrival. And really, I might be in Einstein’s body, but at some level I was still me. Sandy Portman. No wonder they were clamoring all around.

  I put up with the attention as best I could until an overly amorous poodle tried to have her way with me. I had dated models more discreet than that blasted poodle. So really, what was I supposed to do?

  I turned on the wench and snapped at her.

  Every dog in the bunch leaped back—all except the poodle. She sidled closer like a downtown hooker with a bad perm and worse haircut who preferred playing rough.

  The group of humans consisted of four women and one scrawny-looking man. Unlike my wife, the women were dressed surprisingly well for an early morning dog walk in the park. Not that I cared. What interested me was that the man had a ball thrower, and while the women started talking, the man resumed throwing a tennis ball for his schnauzer.

  Hmmm. Chasing a ball seemed beneath me, but on the other hand I felt a strange urge to do just that. But just then everyone turned to welcome a newcomer and his dog.

  “Hey, Max,” the scrawny man said.

  This Max fellow was tall and handsome, if you went for the Marlboro Man sort, in his sheepskin and shearling coat. He had the kind of simmering sex appeal that even I knew made most women do crazy things. Where I had always been a beautiful man, this guy was ruggedly handsome, nothing pretty about him. This, I realized, was why the women were ove
rdressed for an early-morning dog outing. The only person there who didn’t seem to notice him was my wife.

  See, I really was impossible to forget.

  When Marlboro Man came forward he noticed me right away. He crouched down. “Hey, boy,” he said, scratching behind my ears.

  Despite better intentions, I closed my eyes and leaned into him, my back leg thumping in pure bliss.

  “No offense,” one of the women said. “But your dog is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  My eyes popped open and I looked at her. I had the urge to trot over and tear into the woman’s fancy designer jeans. But then I took in the dog the woman owned—a yappy little Chihuahua that wore a rhinestone-studded hot pink coat. I looked at Emily. She shrugged as if to say, You’re going to listen to a woman who dresses her dog? In rhinestones?

  True. I turned my nose up and went to stand by my wife.

  Marlboro Man joined us.

  “You two been together long?” he asked.

  Emily blinked. “What? Einstein and me?”

  “It’s rare that you see a dog and human communicate like that. Most of us have to use words like ‘sit’ and ‘stay.’ ”

  Emily blushed, as if she finally got what he was talking about—our silent less-than-kind, though effective, interaction over the woman and her Chihuahua.

  “Don’t worry; no one else noticed.” The man laughed. “I’m Max Reager.” He pointed out the golden retriever. “That’s Beau, short for Beauregard.”

  Emily still didn’t seem aware of him.

  “Yes, well,” Emily said. “Come on, E. Time to go.”

  She clipped on the leash and we headed out of the park.

  “We’re here every day,” Max called after us.

  Emily didn’t look back.

  The next day was the same, with the exception of the walk in the park, and by late Sunday evening I was bored out of my mind. The anxiety I had managed to suppress reared its ugly head. Vacation over.

  “Damn it all to hell!” I barked.

  The drooling thing started up again, the tongue flopping around in my mouth.

  “Someone get me out of this body!”

  But still no one answered.

  Sinking down on my makeshift bed I realized that in all my musings about Love Boat Julie and enjoying myself during my vacation as a dog, I had given no thought to what would come next.

  emily

  My mother always said that if you didn’t maintain the upper hand, a man would take advantage of you. She might believe in equal rights, but equal rights didn’t and couldn’t apply to men who still belonged in the Dark Ages.

  —EXCERPT FROM My Mother’s Daughter

  chapter eight

  Monday morning everything changed.

  When I woke, my heart pounded with a vague sense of disquiet as if something was about to happen. The reprieve I’d managed to cobble together with work and Einstein was gone, as if I could only hold out against the creeping grief over my husband’s accident for so long.

  Although it seemed like it was something more than even that.

  I had to force myself out of bed, and then couldn’t remember what I was supposed to do next. Everything felt out of order, dread ticking through me. I dressed, then realized I still hadn’t taken a shower. I got Einstein’s leash before I put on shoes.

  I closed my eyes and tried to think. Einstein. Food. Subway. Work. In that order. I could do this. I wouldn’t fall apart now.

  I arrived at work to a voice mail from the head of sales asking me to come to her office. She left no clue that she had good news or bad.

  “Emily,” the woman said when I knocked on her door. “Come in.”

  Mercy Gray was nothing if not sensible, practical, and good at her job. I had always liked her.

  She didn’t waste time with small talk. “I love Ruth’s Intention,” she said.

  My shoulders came back.

  “I love it so much, in fact, that I came into the office ready to send the sales force back out to increase orders.”

  Hope started filling me, pushing at the unease I had woken with that morning.

  “But when I talked to Nate, he had already moved another book into what you know is a crowded month.” She looked me in the eyes. “I’m sorry. I want to do more. It deserves more. And I appreciate your effort to get us to notice the book. But my hands are tied.”

  “But … can’t we move the book?”

  “I asked. Nate said no.”

  Hope rushed out. The unease wrapped around me even tighter as I returned to my office. Victoria was waiting.

  “Did you hear?” she practically squealed. “My little book, The Reverend’s Wife, has been moved up a month and is being featured as nonfiction disguised as fiction!”

  I knew right away which month she was talking about. Ruth’s month.

  I didn’t waste my breath on Victoria. I walked straight to Nate’s office, startling him. “Ruth’s Intention should be getting the media attention.”

  Victoria hurtled in behind me. Nate fumbled his pen and looked at me uncomfortably.

  “Ruth would be good for the media?” he asked, practically squeaking.

  “Yes, and you know it.”

  The man looked like he wanted to be anywhere but in that room. “Actually, I know no such thing,” he mumbled. “And if you had bothered to let me know that, then maybe I could have done something about it. As it is now, I’ve already shifted support to another book.”

  “Victoria’s,” I stated.

  Nate Clarkson jerked up from his chair. “As I said, had you mentioned Ruth in terms of the media, the support could have been yours.”

  He left the office. Victoria smiled like she felt badly, then followed him.

  I could barely breathe as I made my way back to my office to pack up my things. I would go home. I would sleep. I would not think. But as some sort of Hail Mary pass, I packaged up one more advance copy along with the last Baby Ruth bar, and included a letter, not from me, but from “Ruth.” I had nothing to lose when I sent off the package.

  By the time I headed home the sky had grown ominous, the wind picking up, snow threatening. On the subway platform, I raced for a C train just as the doors slid closed in my face. The next train was packed, riders crammed together, the car thick with the smell of bodies and damp wool. When I came up the steps to Central Park West it had started to sleet.

  The sidewalk was icy and I slipped, catching myself on the ornate railing that lined the perimeter of the Dakota. The unease that had been riding me all day rode harder. Johnny the doorman was on duty when I got to the entrance, and I said a prayer of thanks that he was busy directing a messenger to the service entrance. I didn’t have it in me to smile and say anything polite. I was afraid if I opened my mouth at all I would scream.

  But just before I could dash under the portico the doorman stopped me. “Miss Emily. This guy has a letter for you.”

  I blinked, then instinctively backed away.

  “Miss Emily?” Johnny asked, confused.

  “Ah—” I shook myself. “Yes, of course. I’ll sign.”

  The messenger extended a Bic pen with no top then pulled out a thin manila envelope, the name of Sandy’s estate lawyer bold on the masthead.

  I shoved it into my satchel, shifting my purse, both seeming impossibly heavy. A gust of wind caught me from behind and pushed me through the portico, my heels echoing on the granite cobbles. I bypassed the lobby and concierge, and was buzzed through the inner gates. I half stumbled, half ran across the courtyard despite the sleet. Leaping over a puddle of slush, I headed toward the far steps leading to the northeast elevator. But before I could make it, my shoe caught on a rough spot and I tripped, flying forward onto my hands and knees.

  Pain shot through me, but it was watching my leather bag flop open that hit me the hardest. The pages of an already-edited manuscript fell out and started dancing in the wind.

  “No!”

  Still on my knees, I gra
bbed at the pages, catching one, missing another.

  “Let me help.”

  The voice barely registered as I snagged another sheet, feeling a disjointed sense of accomplishment mixed with an anger I didn’t understand.

  “Careful, you’re going to do more damage.”

  I still couldn’t focus on the voice. A white page fluttered in the wind, the black, typed sentences marked with my red pencil edits. At this point, shouldn’t the character of Bess be suppressing her grief, not giving in to it? I had written. The irony of the statement made me groan.

  I felt strong hands circle my arms before I saw him, felt the way he pulled me up with ease and set me back on my feet like I was an elementary school girl who’d taken a spill on the playground. When he had me upright I tipped my neck back to look into his face, all hard angles and strong planes, his longish dark hair raked back. He had dark eyes and his wide, full mouth pulled up in a friendly smile.

  “Tough day?” he asked.

  He seemed vaguely familiar.

  “I’m Max. From the park.”

  He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, and tall with broad shoulders, making me feel tiny. Despite the fact that he wore jeans and a heavy coat, he had an undeniable stance or bearing that spoke of discipline and strength. It was easy to see that he was at ease in his surroundings, comfortable in his own skin, confident he could handle whatever came his way.

  Odd that I sensed so much about him in such a short period of time. Perhaps it was because somehow I had become the exact opposite of everything he exuded. But more than that, I could tell he was young, at least younger than me, perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight.

  I remembered him from the park, but I realized I had seen him before that day. He either lived or worked at the Dakota. But I couldn’t place him; he didn’t seem old enough to own in a building like this, but he seemed too old to be someone’s son still living at home.

  We gathered as much of the scattered manuscript as we could before I noticed the blood smeared across my palms.