Emily and Einstein

by Linda Francis Lee

  “You want Runner’s World?”

  More happy weeping.

  Both the store clerk and I exchanged an incredulous glance.

  “Your doggie likes to read?” he asked with a laugh, his foreign accent heavy.

  “So it would seem.”

  Einstein turned around, facing the counter, as if ready to pay.

  “But I didn’t bring any money, E. These aren’t free.”

  The clerk leaned over the counter, studying my dog. “You take,” he said to me. “Bring money later.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Your doggie wants to read.” He shrugged. “So you get him magazine.”

  I glanced between the clerk and Einstein. “Well, thank you,” I said. “I’ll bring the money tomorrow.”

  “Yes, okay. Now out,” he added, shooing us out of the tiny shop.

  We left, Einstein prancing.

  “Emily?”

  I whipped my head up to find Tatiana walking toward us wearing skintight workout clothes, bottled water in her hand. Her dark, chin-length hair was pulled back with a sleek band, not a strand out of place. She could have been a model for a health food ad.

  “Ah, hello,” I said. “I didn’t know you lived around here.”

  “At the Majestic. I’m on my way to spinning class.”

  The Majestic was another A building on Central Park West where both rich and famous people lived.

  “Shouldn’t you be busy catching up on work?” she asked.

  My mouth opened and closed.

  “Nothing to say for yourself?” She shook her head. “Charles was too easy on you. I’m not so easy, Emily. I have to wonder if Charles promoted you prematurely.” She unscrewed the cap on the water. “Perhaps you’re not ready to work on your own list.”

  “But I am!” I blurted.

  “Well, well, there’s that gumption again.”

  Einstein swung his head back and forth, taking in the conversation. Why I was embarrassed in front of my dog, I couldn’t say.

  “So tell me, Emily. What is it that you’re doing while you’re at the office? I hear you’re behind on all your projects. And you haven’t bought anything new in months.”

  Blood drained out of my face. Einstein seemed to notice this too and moved closer to my leg, then barked.

  Tatiana paid him no mind. “How are you going to get back up to speed?”

  Einstein craned his neck to look at me, then turned back to Tatiana and barked again, tugging on the leash. When Tatiana tried to say something else, he barked even louder, the sound surprisingly ferocious for such a small dog.

  The new president of Caldecote Press gave him a wry smile. “Fine, Toto, take her away from the awful green witch. But you can’t protect her in the office.”

  Tatiana continued on toward Columbus, downing the water.

  “This can’t be good,” I said.

  Einstein just looked at me, and I swear he was once again evaluating me, or the situation. Though for once, it felt like he was on my side.

  *

  The next morning, Jordan was home but still asleep when I left Einstein with his magazine.

  “Don’t eat it,” I told him.

  I dropped money off at the little store and caught the C train to Fifty-ninth. I was running late, and it was no surprise that my mood wasn’t the best when I arrived at the Trigate building.

  “Look who’s here at a reasonable time for a change.”

  At the sound of Victoria’s voice, I grimaced. She looked at me with the dewy-eyed innocence of someone who hadn’t just stolen credit for a book I had slaved over.

  I scowled and pushed through the revolving doors, all but running for the security turnstiles. Balancing my belongings, I dug around in my purse for my credit card–sized ID. I hit the turnstiles, zipping my card through the reader at the same time I pushed through the metal arms. But halfway through, the metal arm yanked to a halt, stopping me. A copy editor from production who had raced in behind me, slammed into my back.

  Nick was a large man and I grunted. He lifted his arms and backed up fast, as if to say, “Not my fault.”

  I tried to move forward again, but the strap of my satchel had tangled up in the rotary arms. A line started to form.

  “Come on!”

  “Hurry!”

  It was Tatiana who walked up, moving people aside, swiping her own card, allowing the rotary arms to turn again and release me.

  As always, Tatiana could have stepped out of the pages of Vogue. She wore a knee-length pencil skirt, a flowing silk blouse, and a princess jacket, all in shades of brown, gold, and café au lait, with hints of violet. And, of course, painfully high heels.

  Flustered, I muttered my thanks then hurried on. But Tatiana stepped into the elevator right beside me.

  Standing side by side, she didn’t say a word. When we got to my floor, I swallowed back my relief and jumped off. But Tatiana got off with me. Alone in the vestibule outside the security doors, I could hardly pretend I didn’t see her.

  “Your dog isn’t here to save you. Now, I want an answer. How are you planning to catch up?”

  It didn’t take a genius to know that telling her I had no idea wasn’t going to win me any prizes. “I should be up to speed in no time.”

  “No dates. No specifics. Code, I suspect, for you don’t have a clue where to start.”

  No one said Tatiana Harriman wasn’t smart.

  Anger and frustration and a whole host of other emotions that I wasn’t used to rode through me. But I hadn’t a clue what to do about any of it.

  She scowled at me and took a step closer to me. “I can feel your anger, Emily. You’re miserable but you don’t do anything about it. Why don’t you tell me to shove it and quit? Go home, stick your head in the oven, finish yourself off? That’s got to be better than this slow death you’re putting us all through.”

  My mouth fell open.

  “Don’t look so surprised. I knew your mother. She might have been half visionary, half nut job, but she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. So tell me, where did you come from?”

  I blinked, though I wasn’t blinking back tears or even shock. I felt validated and furious in the same moment. I had never heard anyone encapsulate my mother so perfectly. And I experienced a wave of guilt for the gratitude I felt that someone understood.

  When I didn’t respond, her eyes narrowed, and she leaned closer.

  “Damn it, fight, Emily. Fight for what is wrong. Like the fact that Victoria is taking credit for your book. Or that after losing your husband your brain is so disjointed that you’re having a hard time stringing together words that make sense.”

  Yet again, she surprised me, and for a second I thought she would reach out, a very different Tatiana standing before me. But then her chin rose.

  “The fact is I feel for you, I do, but regardless of how good you were in the past, if you don’t get your head back in the game I can’t keep you on.”

  The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Victoria stepped out.

  “Oh! Tatiana!” she said.

  Tatiana didn’t give her a second glance.

  “I’m serious,” she said to me, “you can do this.” Then she turned away. “Hold the door,” she called, and slipped into the elevator.

  Victoria glanced back and forth between me and the closing elevator doors. “What was that about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you talk about the editorial meeting?” she persisted.

  I had to swallow back a groan.

  Since Tatiana joined the company, we had been inundated with meetings. Cover art meetings, sales meetings, marketing meetings. She had also instituted a new sort of brainstorming meeting that was more gladiator sport than creativity enhancer.

  A little over an hour after our confab in the entry vestibule, I had no choice but to head for the conference room for one of the brainstorming sessions to pitch new proposals for books we wanted to buy. Victoria was already there with
a color-coordinated folder system. I sat down across from her at the large conference table. Everyone else was busy reading through their notes. No one but Victoria appeared at ease.

  Tatiana walked into the room and went to the head of the table, glaring at a science fiction editor who’d had the misfortune to take the seat next to her. When understanding finally dawned, Eric fumbled around gathering his things. “Sorry,” he managed.

  “Okay, people, dazzle me with your ideas. As I told you before, I want energy, I want excitement. I want to make Caldecote Press pop.” She settled into her chair, her assistant poised with notepad ready. “Who wants to go first?”

  Everyone except Victoria tried to look invisible. Victoria raised her hand.

  Tatiana didn’t exactly sneer, but it was close. “We are not in fifth grade, Ms. Wentworth.”

  Victoria snatched her hand back like she didn’t know how it got up there. Marshalling her unruly thoughts, she pulled her shoulders back and said, “I have a fabulous idea.”

  “Great. Let’s hear it.”

  Victoria launched into one of her typically long, boring explanations. It was half enthusiasm for the material, half enthusiasm for herself.

  Tatiana cut her off. “What’s the idea, Victoria?”

  Red flashed through the editor’s pale cheeks like mercury rising in a thermometer. Had I not seen it with my very own eyes I wouldn’t have believed it.

  “Ah, well. It’s a book about a man who travels to a small town and falls in love with a married woman whose family has gone away for the weekend. I see it as a little like The Bridges of Madison County.”

  Tatiana stared at her. “That isn’t ‘a little like’ The Bridges of Madison County. That is Bridges of Madison County.”

  Subdued laughter rippled through the room.

  Victoria’s cheeks grew brighter.

  Tatiana turned away. “Who’s next?”

  Victoria couldn’t have been more surprised had Tatiana leaped across the table and belted her. I couldn’t remember the last time Victoria had a proposal turned down cold.

  “Jerry?” Tatiana said.

  Jerry Martin appeared surprised that the new boss not only knew he existed, but also knew his name.

  “Uh, uh, I have a proposal for a book about the brain—about the difference between the amygdala and the neocortex.”

  Tatiana sat back and tapped her pen. “The primal part versus the more civilized portion used to reason. Hmmm.”

  “Wow, great that you know about it.” Jerry warmed up immediately. “It could be a really cool book. I mean, who isn’t interested in the brain?”

  Tatiana straightened. “Not many, actually. As is, it’s a no go. If you can come up with a way to make it less about science and more about the human condition, we’ll revisit. Next?”

  She surveyed the crowd. Whether they volunteered to present or not, everyone was asked. Each idea was met with a variety of responses.

  Too boring.

  Too done.

  Who cares?

  It all amounted to the same thing. No.

  “People,” she said, her jaw tight. “How many times do I have to tell you we are going for three things? Fiction with a hook. A fresh twist on an already-beloved theme.” She glared at Victoria. “Or big names—as in, either big authors or famous people.”

  Everyone started closing notebooks and pushing back from the table. I started to breathe again when I realized I wouldn’t have to make a pitch.

  “People, we’re not done.”

  My lungs constricted and I would have bet my pupils dilated. The primal portion of my brain told me to run like hell.

  “We haven’t heard from Emily.”

  All eyes turned in my direction.

  “What do you have for us, Ms. Barlow?”

  I couldn’t figure out how to say nothing, zero, zip in a way that would not have Tatiana escorting me to my apartment and shoving my head in the oven for me. While few good ideas had come across the table, everyone had at least had one.

  My palms grew clammy. “Ah…”

  Victoria covered a laugh. The others squirmed uncomfortably. But more than that, I was sure Tatiana looked disappointed.

  “Fine,” she snapped, starting to push back her chair.

  “There’s this one proposal I have,” I blurted.

  The room went silent, Tatiana freezing in place. After a second, she nodded and reseated herself. “Let’s hear it.”

  “It’s called My Mother’s Daughter.”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth I willed them back.

  “Keep going,” Tatiana said.

  “On second thought, I’m sure it won’t work.” I was insane to have mentioned Jordan’s book.

  “Emily, just tell us the idea.”

  I pressed my lips shut before launching into the pitch. Call it insanity, call it finally leaping back onto the playing field, whatever it was I found I couldn’t do anything else. “It’s a memoir.”

  A murmur sounded through the room. The memoir had grown in popularity despite the hit the genre had taken when several famous works turned out to be more fabrication than truth.

  “Whose memoir?” someone wanted to know.

  I looked directly at Tatiana. “It’s about Lillian Barlow.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  Old-school Bart stopped whatever he was writing. “The feminist?”

  “Your mother?” Victoria scoffed. “You want to publish a memoir about your mother?”

  “Who’s the author?” Tatiana asked, sitting back and studying me.

  “My sister.”

  Victoria slapped her notebook shut on her multicolored files. “You can’t edit a book by your sister about your mother.”

  Which I knew. Which I agreed with. Which was the reason I deserved to be shot for mentioning it.

  “Why can’t she?” Tatiana asked.

  “Why?” Victoria’s brow creased with exasperation. “Because editing a relative’s book, a sister’s book, I might add, is … is … weird.”

  “Under normal circumstances I would agree,” Tatiana said. “But this is different. Two sisters working on a book about their once-famous mother.”

  Half visionary, half nut job, Tatiana had said.

  “It gives us multiple media angles,” she continued. “Back when I was at Chronicles we did a piece on the feminist movement. The Hidden Cost of Equality. We were flooded with reader mail.”

  I remembered the article, remembered the controversy it spawned when modern working women started wondering if the price they were paying to have a full-time job and raise a family was worth the toll, not just on them but on their children. Looking at Tatiana, I couldn’t tell if she was thinking about the possibility of a controversy that might sell books or if she was wondering about the price a daughter would have paid.

  I remembered her standing coldly outside the magazine store, pushing me. Then in the vestibule, telling me she had known my mother, again somehow pushing me. Toward what? Doing my job seemed too easy.

  Tatiana leaned forward. “Work with Nate on an offer. Then buy it and get a delivery date. Given your eye for books like Ruth’s Intention, I suspect that My Mother’s Daughter will be just as strong.”

  Victoria choked out an involuntary squeak.

  Tatiana met her gaze, raising a brow in challenge. Victoria glanced down at her folders and didn’t say a word.

  Tatiana stood. “I expect more from the rest of you next time.”

  I sent up a silent prayer that Jordan really did have a proposal to sell.

  *

  When I walked into my office, my BlackBerry rang. My heart leapt when I saw the display.

  “Emily Barlow,” I answered out of habit.

  “Hey Emily, it’s Max. I talked to Howard and he can see you during lunch today. It’s short notice, but he’s flying to the UK tonight and won’t be back until next week. I figured you wouldn’t want to wait.”

  He gave me an address in the Financi
al District. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at twelve-thirty,” he said, then hung up before I could tell him he didn’t have to go with me.

  I took the Number 1 train downtown to Wall Street, got off and walked to the address Max had given me. At twelve-twenty-five, I spun through the revolving doors of the towering office building. At exactly twelve-thirty, Max strode in.

  As always, he did something to my stomach, or maybe it was my heart. I couldn’t help myself when I smiled at him.

  “Hey,” he said softly and smiled.

  He wore a white button-down shirt tucked into charcoal gray pants, and a crisp blue blazer. With his hair brushed back neatly, he seemed very different from the rugged man who had scooped me up in the courtyard.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

  He took my arm and guided me to the security desk where we signed in, got our photos taken, and were given visitor badges. On the sixty-fifth floor a receptionist led us back to an office with amazing views of Manhattan.

  “Wow,” I said.

  Max looked out for a second, but didn’t appear happy. He guided me to the chairs in front of a desk.

  “Max,” said a man who was probably in his early forties. “Hey, buddy,” he added before turning to me. “I’m Howard Deitz.”

  We shook hands. “I’m sorry for your loss,” the man added.

  I liked Howard instantly. He was a little on the chubby side and not great looking, but he seemed funny and kind, and as soon as we started discussing my predicament I could tell he was smart.

  I handed over my prenuptial agreement, which he scanned. “We’ve got a great prenup guy here, Bert Warburg, good friend of mine, who said he’d look it over.” He smiled a crooked smile. “I’m a tax guy.”

  “I don’t want to impose—”

  “Forget about it. We do family stuff for each other all the time.”

  Family stuff.

  I felt that same yearning I thought I had fixed when I married Sandy and started making a home at the Dakota.

  Howard turned to Max. “So what about you?” He leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. “Have you talked to anyone at Goldman? I know they’d take you back in a second.”

  “Goldman?” I asked, not that it was any of my business.

  “Goldman Sachs,” Howard explained. “My brother-in-law was one of their top recruits out of Penn State.”