Emily and Einstein

by Linda Francis Lee

  This time when I pulled her close she didn’t resist. “Oh, Jordan,” I murmured. “You’re only human. Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “Mom would be totally mortified.”

  I hesitated. “Mother’s way isn’t the only way to live.”

  Jordan pushed back and looked at me. “Are you happy, Em?”

  “Touché.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that I’ve always thought of you as being happy despite that prick you married.”

  “Jordan.”

  “Well, it’s true. But since I’ve been here, sorry, but you don’t seem all that happy.”

  “I lost my husband. What do you expect?”

  She didn’t back down or even look contrite. “I don’t know. Something different. You don’t seem sad, like grieving sad. It’s more like you’re angry and … lost.”

  Jordan was like that, young and oblivious, then all of the sudden very smart. If I was truthful with myself, at first I had covered up my feelings by throwing myself into work. After the journals, I had felt more angry and lost than sad. Had those emotions gotten in the way of true grief? What would happen if I finally managed to deal with the loss of my husband, deal with the loss of the man who I had to believe once loved me, and also deal with his actual death?

  I realized I was afraid to really look at what I would find. If I had patched over the loss of my mother by marrying Sandy, then patched over the loss of Sandy with Einstein and work and even anger, when I finally let go what would be left of me? Who would I be?

  “You’re still going to publish my book, right?”

  My sister’s face was earnest and for the first time in years her hard edges softened. I didn’t know how to disappoint her. More than that, I didn’t see how I could backtrack. What she had written was good enough that another publisher would pick it up. If I lost this book to another publisher, Tatiana would have my head. The world might not care about the life of a former women’s activist, but it did care about a woman who had led an unconventional life, only to give it all up for the kind of conventional existence that she had fought so hard against.

  The surprise was that my little sister had understood that about our mother when I hadn’t, and had captured it on paper.

  “When can you have the whole thing done?” I asked her.

  She squealed, then danced me around the kitchen. She even leaned over and gave Einstein a hug. My dog looked at me in consideration. And while there was no way to turn back, I had a bad feeling that I was going to regret the day I pitched My Mother’s Daughter.

  *

  It was the next morning that I began to run in earnest. Not that I realized it at the time.

  With the sun not even a hint on the horizon, Einstein nudged my door open and shook his dog tags to wake me. When I grumbled and tried to shoo him away, he jumped up on the bed, dropped the leash on my face, and barked.

  “Okay, okay,” I muttered. “I’m awake.”

  As soon as he jumped down, I rolled over and burrowed deeper into the mattress.

  My dog was having nothing to do with this. He clamped onto the edge of the covers with his teeth, then pulled them off me.

  “It’s too early to run,” I complained. But by then I really was awake. I rolled out of bed, glowered at him, and pulled on shorts and running shoes. Einstein pranced ahead of me, while I grumbled the whole way.

  Once on the bridle path we didn’t run far, but I had to admit that by the time we staggered back to the apartment I felt a sense of hope I hadn’t felt in ages. It was the end of April, flowers starting to bloom. It was that same week that Max called.

  “I heard from Bert Warburg. He’s gone over your prenup and wants to know when you can come in.”

  “As soon as he’ll see me!”

  “His message said that tomorrow, first thing, would work for him, or at lunch.”

  I told myself I wasn’t disappointed that Max didn’t go with me this time. I hadn’t seen him since our ride uptown on the Number 1 train, and I hadn’t even been trying to avoid him this time.

  As it turned out, I was massively relieved he wasn’t there when the lawyer gave me the news.

  “This agreement is ironclad.”

  “But it can’t be.” I spread out my meager stash of apartment photos and receipts. “My husband gave me a verbal promise. And look at all this work I put into the place.”

  “Ms. Barlow,” he said with a sigh, “I’m sure you realize that this does nothing to negate the prenuptial agreement. And having only been married three years, your chances of getting the agreement overturned are beyond slim.”

  He considered me for a second, tapping his pen on the blotter. “But listen, given the prominence of the family, I’m sure if we sent a letter, threatening to sue for reimbursement, while they would know the claim would never succeed in court, I feel confident the Portmans will settle for some amount of money rather than deal with any possible bad press.”

  I had no interest in some monetary settlement from the Portmans. Despite that, I still couldn’t shake the sense that it wasn’t over. Something was making me hold on to the apartment. Something I didn’t understand told me that I still couldn’t give up.

  *

  The next morning I left the Dakota with instructions for Jordan to type up the pages of My Mother’s Daughter. When I got to the office Tatiana was waiting in the hallway talking to Nate.

  “Emily,” she said.

  I nodded. “Tatiana. Nate.”

  I didn’t linger. I continued into my office, flipping on the light. When I turned back Tatiana stood in the doorway. I barely swallowed back a squeak of surprise.

  “Did you get the delivery date from your sister?”

  “I did.” Thank God. “She said she should have the whole thing done in four months.”

  “Good.” She turned to leave then stopped. “I want to read the proposal. E-mail it to me.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, Emily. Now.”

  Before I could come up with some excuse not to send it, she was gone. Not that I could keep it from her forever. But as long as no one else saw the pages, somehow I felt I could find a way out.

  By the time I got home, Jordan had managed to input the pages. She still wore the jeans and sweatshirt she had pulled on that morning. Her long hair was pulled up in a messy twist, pencils stuck into the updo at odd angles.

  “I did it!”

  It was the first time I had ever seen her really work, and my confidence grew over the prospect of what we were doing together. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea.

  “Good! Tatiana wants to see it.”

  “Tatiana? As in your boss, Tatiana?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Cool!”

  I read through the pages, was impressed, and sent the file attached to an e-mail.

  The next day Einstein tried to drag me out of bed for yet another run. “You expect me to do this every day?”

  He ignored me and dropped a T-shirt on my face. But when I was dressed and ready to go, he rolled over on his back.

  “Oh, I get it. You’re taking the day off, but not me.”

  He leapt back up, nodded his head, then returned to the kitchen where he curled up in his bed.

  I nearly dove back under my own covers. But I was up, and what the heck.

  With the sun just brightening the sky, I made my way to the bridle path with a yawn, did a halfhearted job of stretching, groaning with each movement, and started to run. Or at least I started to jog.

  A few runners zipped past me, and several people walked along with coffee and a dog. I concentrated so I wouldn’t trip in a rut, and this time I made it from the Seventy-second Street underpass all the way to Seventy-seventh Street without stopping. Forget the fact that I was half dead by the time I got there. I made it and it felt amazing.

  Later, when I was headed for work, there was no denying that I felt I could take whatever anyone threw my way. Which turned out to be a good
thing because that afternoon Tatiana called me to her office for an impromptu meeting.

  “Brady,” she said, turning to one of the longtime Caldecote editors. “Did you have a chance to read the proposal for My Mother’s Daughter?”

  Brady cleared his throat, looking at her over his tortoiseshell reading glasses. “I did.”

  My heart raced in a way that was not so different from how it felt when I got to the Seventy-seventh Street underpass.

  “I must say, Tatiana, I was impressed.”

  “You were?” This from Victoria.

  Brady didn’t so much as glance at her. “I was moved by the content and was impressed with the writing. The pages had heart and were well written.” He turned to me. “Your sister is quite the storyteller.”

  “I thought you’d love it,” Tatiana stated. She turned to the art director. “Fernando, what do you have to show us?”

  My brain tried to make sense of what was happening, but even when the art director pulled out a cover mock-up, I couldn’t speak.

  “My Mother’s Daughter,” he read. “Living with Lillian Barlow. By Jordan Barlow.”

  “Edited by Emily Barlow,” Tatiana added.

  All in an elegant typeface, printed over an old black-and-white photograph I had seen many times before.

  It had been taken when I was thirteen, Jordan three, at one of my mother’s parties. A photographer had been hired to capture the event. In the picture, Mother was larger than life, full of the energy that drew people to her like bees to honey, Jordan and me sitting on the floor gazing up at her, like pages to a queen. All three of us wore elegant dresses more suited to the late ’50s than more modern times.

  Sitting in the conference room all these years later, I was moved. “It’s perfect.”

  Everyone in the room except Victoria started talking excitedly.

  “It is perfect!”

  “It’s fabulous.”

  “It screams Read me!”

  Tatiana quieted them. “We are going to publish it in time for Mother’s Day next year. And we are going all-out to make My Mother’s Daughter work. Television and print ads. A creative promotional plan. I want Jordan and Emily booked on every national talk show.”

  My brain struggled to catch up. “Wait. What? You want to publish next May? Isn’t that pushing it? We don’t yet have the book.”

  Generally it took a year to bring a book to the shelves. It could be done faster, though generally not when the book in question was by a first-time author who was going to get a big push. I would have even been okay with nine months for Jordan’s book, but nine months after we had the completed manuscript.

  “Next May is cutting it close,” I said.

  “Look, we’ll get the manuscript at the end of August. That gives us eight months, and we can do plenty for the book before it’s turned in. I want this done, Emily,” Tatiana said. “I’m counting on you to deliver.”

  What could I say?

  She sat back and considered me. “You’ve certainly turned things around. We have significantly increased the orders for Ruth’s Intention. And now My Mother’s Daughter. You went from being behind and foundering to having the potential for two very big successes.”

  Or two very big failures, she didn’t need to add.

  Victoria hadn’t been pleased before, but at this news she perked up. And why not? All of a sudden I had a novel that everyone expected to be a best seller, which meant that anything less would make it a disappointment. On top of that, I now had a memoir written by my generally irresponsible sister and a tight deadline. Given the combination, Victoria might finally get her wish that I fail in a quantifiable way.

  But there was something else that played in my head. A push. A big push from the beginning that wasn’t a stroke of luck gained from a candy bar. A push for a book that was indisputably mine from start to finish. This was how careers were made.

  I was surprised by the sudden sense of excitement I felt. For months I had faced nothing but a long stretch of emptiness lined by battles I had no idea how to fight. Now I felt almost drunk with purpose, drunk enough to push away whatever concern remained about working with Jordan.

  I gathered my notepad to leave.

  “And Emily,” Tatiana said, stopping me. “I want you to kick things off by taking your sister to lunch at Michael’s.”

  “Lunch? With Jordan?”

  If I had to choose one person I would never willingly take to lunch at Michael’s, it would be my sister. It was hard to picture her in the power setting wearing cargo pants and combat boots—or even flip-flops. I shuddered to think what Jordan would say to me if I suggested she wear something other than her normal attire.

  “Yes, Emily. I want you to take her to Michael’s.” Enunciated with crisp, schoolmistress diction.

  A heartbeat passed before I said, “Great idea. Can’t wait.”

  chapter twenty-seven

  “What do you mean we’re going to lunch at some idiotic place called Michael’s and you want me to ‘dress up’?”

  My sister paced the kitchen. “I am not going to kowtow to some stodgy establishment dress code, all because you want to parade me in front of media types to get attention for the book.”

  “You’re right.” I held my hands up in defeat. “I’ll tell Tatiana that under no circumstances will you do your part to help make your book a success.”

  “Well, I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Jordan said.

  “No problem, Jordan. Surely the book will sell on its own. It doesn’t need the kind of push so few books ever get.”

  “Tatiana is making my book special?”

  “She was. But now…” I let the words trail off.

  “Okay,” she griped. “I’ll go.”

  But I was no dummy. “Jordan, I appreciate that. And while I wouldn’t ever want you to wear some kind of little black suit, I can’t take you to a place like Michael’s in flip-flops. I’ll tell Tatiana it isn’t going to work.”

  My sister was no dummy either. “Buy me a new outfit, and I’ll do it.”

  Which was how Jordan and I, Einstein in tow, ended up on the second floor of Bloomingdale’s an hour later.

  “I’d rather go to SoHo to shop,” Jordan said.

  The smile I shot her way might not have been kind.

  “But hey, I can deal with this. For the book and all.”

  The first outfit Jordan pulled off the rack was awful, and I told her so, which made her want it all the more. Einstein growled at me.

  “Okay, I won’t say another word.”

  But Einstein did.

  When Jordan pulled out a three-hundred-dollar pair of ripped cargo pants, the dog growled at her.

  “Yeah,” Jordan said, “buying a more expensive version of what I already have doesn’t make sense.”

  He barked his approval.

  Neither Jordan nor I seemed to think it strange that Einstein was giving fashion advice.

  A pair of army green leggings?

  Growl.

  Some sort of sacklike minidress?

  A woofing scoff.

  An orange fedora and green blazer?

  He rolled over and played dead.

  “Then you pick something out!” Jordan practically barked at the dog.

  Einstein seemed to consider, then trotted through the different designers’ sections, settling on items from several departments. He led Jordan and me with barking commands, guiding us to pull out each of the pieces. Then he literally herded my sister back into the dressing room.

  “Get out while I change,” I heard her snap.

  He reappeared with what I can only call a swagger.

  “Yes, you’re the man,” I told him.

  Strolling over to a black leather seating area he looked ready to jump up on the cushions.

  “Hey,” the salesperson said. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Einstein seemed to debate. But she was big, outweighing him by a good two hundred pounds, and didn’t look like she
ascribed to animal rights. He shrugged and lowered himself onto the white shag rug instead.

  The woman harrumphed and went back to working the register.

  It didn’t take long before Jordan emerged in the first outfit. It was a silky dress that clung to her body in all the wrong places.

  Einstein lifted his head and bared his teeth.

  Next she appeared in a red-and-black knee-length wrap dress that didn’t do her any favors.

  Einstein lowered his head to his paws and groaned.

  Jordan came out in a parade of clothing. Theory, Juicy Couture, but it was a dress by someone I had never heard of that made me gasp and sent Einstein leaping to his feet, barking his approval. I was smart enough to keep my mouth closed and my approval to myself.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  I had never seen my sister look dreamy, and she actually twirled around in the short dress. The bodice was sleeveless, black, and fitted, a black belt at the waist, with a full flounced skirt of green, black, and white floral ombre print, a tiny bit of black tulle revealed at the bottom, just above the knees.

  She looked edgy yet sophisticated, youthful but not too young. And with that smile on her face, excitement lighting her eyes, I realized my sister was very pretty.

  “I love it,” she said almost shyly.

  “Then it’s yours.”

  “But it’s so expensive.”

  I could see the militant side of her doing battle with a never-realized girly side.

  “Don’t worry about the price.” I prayed my credit card wasn’t maxed out. “It’s just one dress. For a good cause. It’s not like you’re going to suddenly throw out all your cargo pants and join that bourgeois elite.”

  “You’re right!”

  After a quick trip to the shoe department—quick because Einstein picked out the shoes in a few seconds flat and wasn’t taking any of Jordan’s suggestions—we bypassed the escalator in deference to Einstein’s paws and headed for the elevators.

  “What are you going to wear, Em?”

  Einstein practically skidded to a halt and looked at me.

  “I have tons of things.”

  E scoffed.

  “I do.”