He paused. “The opening’s good.”
“So’s the rest.”
He read on silently then, except for hmmm-hmmming and uhhuhing occasionally. He had picked up a pencil, and every now and then made a slash or a squiggle in the curious language that only editors and typesetters understand.
Joyce shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She could tell he liked the piece. He hadn’t looked up yet. Nor had he uttered even one incredulous epithet. Finally, he closed the folder, scribbled something across the front and set it aside. Then he looked up.
“Not bad. Nice balance of information and human interest. You did O.K., Joyce, and now you can congratulate me.”
“Congratulate you? What for?”
“For thinking up this idea in the first place, and for picking you to do it, in the second place. I am a terrific editor.”
“Congratulations,” said Joyce flatly.
Harry let out a rumbling, good-natured laugh. “Come on, I was only kidding. You did a good job. A real good job. Now, how about we have a little lunch to celebrate?”
“Sorry, Harry, lunch is booked.”
“Dinner?”
Joyce shook her head.
Harry thought for a minute. “Joyce, this is probably none of my business but.…”
“You’re right, Harry. It is none of your business.”
He looked hurt. Joyce relented. “Look, you’ve been married almost all your adult life. You’re used to having one woman around. It’s cosy, comfortable, secure. I understand that. But I’ve been single all my life. I’m not used to having one man around all the time. I’m not sure I’m ready for the responsibility of that kind of relationship. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Harry hunched his shoulders. “Sure, I get your drift. You want to see other guys. No big deal.” But his voice gave his feelings away.
Joyce went and stood beside him and, placing her hand on his forearm, gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. “Harry, we have something very nice going on here. It might develop into something more. It might not. Let’s give it some time. O.K.? See how it goes.” And then she smiled up at him urging him to agree. She knew that he was still mentally married and that it would be very easy for him to just switch “wives,” but becoming a stand-in for Maxine was not the way she envisioned herself. Let him get used to being single for a while. It would give them both the time they needed to adjust.
After a moment or two, he made an attempt at a grin. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. You’re always damn right. Now how about getting outta here so I can get on with some work.”
“I’m gone.” Joyce headed toward the door and then turned around. “Brunch on Sunday?”
“Brunch?” Harry said the word as though it were part of a foreign language.
“If you’re going to learn to be single, you have to learn brunch. It’s required.” She opened the door. “Well?”
“O.K. brunch it is. But no weird food, alright?”
“No weird food, I promise.”
When Joyce got back to her office, Michelle was firing off rounds of sneezes like an unrestrained Uzi.
“Look at these! Aaaaa-chooo! What am I going to do? Aaaa-choo! Where am I going to put them? Aaaa-chooo, Aaa-Aaaaa-choo! Woses make me sneeze.” She finished with a plaintive snuffle, and fished a Kleenex out of her purse.
“A vase in my office would be nice,” suggested Joyce, picking a little white card from atop one of the several bunches of long-stemmed red roses that occupied Michelle’s desk.
“Easy for you to say. Aaaa-choo! We’re a magazine, not a florist. Where am I going to find enough vases for all these?”
“You’ll figure it out. And look at it this way, the sooner they’re out of your office, the sooner you’ll stop sneezing.” Joyce started to go into her office. She wanted to be alone when she read the card. She guessed who it was from. But Michelle stopped her.
“Wait. That’s not all. This came just before you got back.” She reached under the desk and handed Joyce a large box wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with a white satin ribbon.
“What’s this?” asked Joyce.
“You could open it and see,” coaxed the curious Michelle.
“You mean I could open it and you could see.” But she began to tear at the wrapping paper while Michelle hovered behind her, trying to stifle the urge to sneeze.
“Well, what is it? It’s too big for jewellery. Too small for a fur. Ooooo, I can’t stand it. Hurry up!” she pleaded. “Aa-Aa-aa-choo!”
“Just let me get the lid off and we’ll both know,” said Joyce, lifting the lid off the box. Inside, lying on a bed of tissue paper, were a diving mask and a pair of flippers.
Michelle looked disappointed. “I don’t get it.”
“But I do,” replied Joyce and, smiling to herself, she took the card and the box into her office and closed the door.
Carefully, as though she were dealing with potentially volatile objects, she placed the card and the box on her desk and then, sliding into her chair, she sat staring at them for a few moments. If she opened the card, wouldn’t she be putting herself in the position of having to make a choice? Cliff or Harry. On the other hand, if she threw it into the garbage pail, her life would go on in much the same fashion as it always had—except perhaps for the peripheral addition of her new relationship with Harry and whatever it might develop into. This, she reflected, was one of life’s turning points. She took a deep breath and picked up the card. But before she could open it, Michelle came in bearing two vases thick with roses.
“I’m dying to know what this is all about,” she said pointedly. “But I won’t ask … unless you want me to.”
“You’re not sneezing.” replied Joyce.
“I took an anti-histamine, and I can take a hint. So where do you want me to put these?”
“Wherever,” answered Joyce absently, fondling the little white envelope in her right hand.
Michelle placed one vase on the desk and one on top of the filing cabinet and, with a parting look at her bemused boss, she left the room.
The minute she was gone, Joyce tore open the card and read the inscription.
“Just in case you decide to take the plunge,” it read.
And it was signed. “Cliff,” with a P.S. “My number is 555-7492.”
Well, I was right, thought Joyce. This has all the earmarks of a definite turning point. All I have to do is pick up that phone and dial … or toss this into the trash.
“Well mother,” she said to the empty room “you usually have an opinion at times like this. What do you think? What should I do? Who should I choose?
“Choose? What’s to choose? Harry is a nice man, a decent man. He has a job. The other one has a life that reads like the National Enquirer. His résumé is People magazine!”
Joyce looked at the card again and then at the contents of the box. And then she thought about Harry.
“It doesn’t bother you that Harry’s been married to someone else?” she asked the voice.
“Pssssh!” said her mother’s voice. “So he’s second-hand. Look at it this way—at least he’s house-trained. You won’t have to break him in. You could have a future with a man like Harry.”
“A future,” mused Joyce. “It might be nice. But still.…”
“Take it from me, you’re thirty-eight. If you don’t start making a future soon, it’ll be too late. Believe me, a man who can give you a future is just what you need. This other one, this actor, is just a passing fancy, a little excitement, a few fireworks. And you can’t live on fireworks. Six months, a year, and what’ll you have? A few memories, that’s all.”
Joyce put the phone back into the cradle. “Maybe you’re right.” If she wanted to, she could make this thing with Harry into something more. Something permanent, maybe. It would be so easy. So comfortable.…
“Of course I’m right. I’m your mother.”
So predictable … so secure. So completely different from
whatever she might have with Cliff. So, what was the problem? And what was wrong with a few fireworks while you’re waiting for the future to unfold? She picked up the phone again.
“What’re you doing?” demanded her mother’s voice.
“Take it easy, mother. Harry may be the man to make a future with but, until then, Cliff is the man to make one terrific memory.” And she began to dial.
A few minutes later she dragged her purse out of the bottom drawer, put the lid on the box, tucked it under her arm, and left the office.
“Cancel my lunch,” she called over her shoulder to Michelle as she started through the double glass doors. “If anybody calls, tell them I’ll be back later.”
“Where are you going?” asked Michelle, eyeing the box.
“Swimming,” replied Joyce, as the doors swung shut behind her.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1988 by Olivia De Grove
Cover design by Kat JK Lee
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1397-0
Distributed in 2015 by Open Road Distribution
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
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