Love-Lines

by Sheri Langer

  A quick peek out the window informed her that Cortazzo’s was having a special on salads. Lunch, she decided as she waved to a few assistants chatting about a web series that followed people going hand fishing. Fordham’s morning coffee had tasted like the bottom of a marsh, and anyone who tried could likely yank a putrid bass from the back of her tongue.

  She got a bottle of water from the lounge, grabbed a packet of smoked almonds, and headed back to her office. Fordham tried to get back to work, but her mind kept shifting back to wanting the comfort of her bed, Netflix, and a takeout menu. She idly worked on a message for Zoe, the intern she’d insisted Abe hire.

  Someone called out in the whiny tone of a wounded hound, “Fordham? Fordham?”

  Focusing on the message she was writing, she did her best to ignore the cries. Bingo says thank you for the adjustment and hopes he’ll see you at Vincent’s. Gay, sassy, and a far cry from the John Smith he’d been named at birth, Bingo Smack was one of their best-selling authors.

  She was trying to process the note when Abe burst into her office as if delivering the last call to get on the ark before the flood. “Fordham, didn’t you hear me calling you?”

  “Of course I heard you. North Korea heard you. What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on? You wouldn’t believe what’s going on.” He pushed over a pile of papers and parked himself on the corner of her desk. Anybody but Abe would have been given the evil eye for that, but he was more like a father than a boss, and that came with a lot of latitude.

  “Try me. It’s Monday. I’m approachable.”

  “We need to talk.” Suddenly, Abe wasn’t sounding very paternal.

  “Why? Everything is great. I know you were a little upset about the Zoe thing, but I promised to straighten everything out with Bingo, and I did. I told him she’s inexperienced but certainly enthusiastic. He knew she didn’t mean to grab his balls during the photo shoot, and according to a note I just read, I think he kind of liked it anyway. Truthfully, in those pants, he really was hanging way too far to the left. She was trying to get him at his best angle. And that nose is probably about as long as his—”

  “Breathe, Fordham. This isn’t about Bingo Smack or Zoe. And for the record, I know you’re doing a great job. This is about Margo Flax. She’s pregnant.”

  Fordham chuckled. “Very funny. Really, what’s going on?”

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Abe, what did you drink for breakfast? There is no way Margo is pregnant. I just had lunch with her Friday. We were chatting away. She said nothing. And she was eating—oh my God, was she eating! But it’s impossible. The woman is at least fifty. I was at her last birthday party. They were handing out estrogen with the favors. Granted, she looks great for her age, but Botox can’t perk up a uterus.”

  “She left.” Abe turned to the top of the file cabinet and picked up a framed photo of the three of them at an office picnic.

  “As in, she no longer needs to move her car for alternate-side-of-the-street parking? As in, ‘Abe, here’s my bathroom key?’ Left, as in moved?”

  “Oh yeah. She left the country!” Abe ran his hand over the picture and set it back as if it were a Fabergé egg.

  “Just like that?” Fordham stood at the window, and even though the windows on their floor didn’t open, she began breathing in deeply and slowly. She stared down at the cars going by as if they were the minutes of her life. She wasn’t sure which upset her more—the fact that Margo was gone or the fact that Margo hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her about the move.

  “Why didn’t she just get a Yorkie like normal childless Upper West Siders?” Fordham asked.

  “Margo is one of a kind. I knew that the day I met her.”

  “Sorry. Responsible people don’t just wake up one morning and say, ‘Oh, it’s nice and sunny today. I think I’ll get pregnant by my flavor du jour, quit my job, and leave the country.’”

  “You’re right. No one except Margo.” Abe let out a deep sigh.

  His secretary, Myra—a short, stocky woman in her early sixties—bolted into Fordham’s office. “Abe, Allen Clifford is on line one, and he insists on talking to you personally. What do you want me to tell him?” Her tone was as no-nonsense as her hairstyle.

  “Oh, I’ll take it.” Abe got up. “Big possibilities there!” He met Fordham’s eyes. “Stick around. We’re not done yet.”

  Before following him, Myra flashed a sympathetic smile that gave Fordham every reason to worry about what else Abe had to say. She was doing a good job. Abe had acknowledged that. Margo was gone, but the woman was emotionally needy and flighty. Thoughtless and egocentric. Self-serving and impulsive. The real shock was that she hadn’t planned her own surprise going-away party. Fordham winced. Maybe there had been a party, and Margo had chosen not to invite her.

  She went to her file cabinet, picked up the photo, and was about to throw it against the wall when she decided to weigh her options. She could call Margo. Confront her. Tell her how hurt she was. Make her feel good and guilty. But that would be showing her hand, and she wasn’t in the mood to be that vulnerable. It was easier to be angry.

  There was the possibility that Abe had misunderstood the situation. Maybe Margo was just taking a little break, like the time she told everyone she was going to Vegas to marry her personal trainer but really went to Mexico to get a tummy tuck and have her breasts lifted. When Margo returned, she claimed that she and her new husband had agreed to a quickie divorce, but her cleavage told a different story. When Fordham confronted her, Margo admitted that it had been a sham but swore her to secrecy. Fordham found it amusing to have something so benign to use as collateral should she ever need it.

  If Margo’s office was still home to her eyelash curler and her Clinique 50 SPF sunscreen, the whole situation might be chalked up to a face-lift. Somehow, Fordham doubted that would be the case. But the most infuriating part of all of this was that Margo had agreed to help her. At lunch, she seemed to understand that Fordham needed to spend more time with Whitty. The fact that she could so easily say one thing and do another was unforgivable.

  Feeling a little adrenaline rush, Fordham got up and snuck quietly into Margo’s office like one of Charlie’s less experienced angels. Other than the aubergine-colored walls, a box of Kleenex, and the faint smell of Poison—Margo’s signature scent—everything was gone, and nothing suggested that she had any intention of returning. Fordham felt a few tears well up in her eyes, but she wiped them away before they got out of hand. She was tossing away the tissue when Abe surprised her.

  “So this is why I couldn’t find you. What—did you think I was lying?” Abe tried to sound insulted.

  “No, I just wanted to see... I wanted to see if she left anything I could use.”

  “Here.” He picked up a jar of Oil of Olay from the top of a bookcase and tossed it to her.

  Fordham caught the bottle and set it on the desk. “Wow, she must have been in a real hurry.”

  Abe pulled out a folded envelope from his pocket and handed it to Fordham. “I found this taped to her computer screen. You read it to me. My eyes are tired.”

  Fordham snatched the paper out of Abe’s hand, ripped open the envelope, and whipped out the sheet of paper.

  Hello, Gorgeous.

  I’m assuming Abe or Fordham is reading this. If it’s Myra, a few highlights framing your face will immediately brighten your complexion and add interest to your eyes.

  Fordham, it turns out you were right. My secret is out, right along with my waistline. I’m pregnant! Please don’t hate me for not sharing sooner. I’ve waited for this moment all my life, and I wanted to make sure everything was in place before I told anyone. I haven’t been this excited since I hired my first personal shopper. I’ll fill you in on the details when I have the time.

  My plane leaves in an hour, and I’ve only packed four bags. Can you imagine? And Fordham, I know you’re upset with me, but stop wrinkling your forehead, or you’ll
end up with premature lines. They say everything happens for a reason. I know you’ll understand someday.”

  Fordham ripped up the note and threw the pieces into the wastebasket. “No, I will never understand, and I will never forgive her! And for the record, Margo Flax doesn’t fall in love. She falls in bed. End of story.”

  “Okay, champ.” Abe picked up the face cream. “Maybe, but this time, it sounds king-sized. She called as she was boarding the plane.” He spun the top off the jar. “Does this stuff work?” he asked, applying some under his eyes. “Anyway, she met the guy on a dating app. He’s some Hindu descendant of royalty, and she says she’s crazy about him.”

  Fordham felt like a bottle of cheap champagne—bitter and waiting to explode. She didn’t know why she was so angry or why she couldn’t just let it go. And Abe was taking the news way too well. At the very least, he could have confronted Margo and given her hell for abandoning everyone.

  Abe waved his hand. “So here’s what I’m thinking. You and Margo are friends—”

  “Were friends,” Fordham corrected.

  “Okay, you and Margo were friends, and you’ll be friends again when you get over this ridiculous, uncharacteristic bout of schoolgirl jealousy. And you two are about the same age—”

  “I told you. She’s fifty—at the very, very least!”

  “Okay, you’re a kid. The point is, I don’t have anyone I trust enough to step into Margo’s project. We’re on a tight schedule, and I can’t afford to have some wet-behind-the-ears freelancer waltz in and botch this up. I need you to do it.”

  “Me? So I can botch it? I’m a public relations manager, not an editor. Abe, I’m sorry, but there’s no way. I’ll go over her instructions if you want me to and give you my opinion, but—”

  “There are no instructions. And there is no ‘but’ or ‘I’m sorry.’ This is your project now.”

  “That’s not fair. Margo told me this project is a nightmare. Why should I be punished because she decided to go play instead of work?” She knew she was behaving like a kid ragging on her big sister. It was an act of desperation, but there seemed to be no alternative. A small part of her believed that if she stuck to her guns, Abe would cave and give the assignment to someone else. “Honestly, did she leave any kind of directions?”

  “No directions, just some sketchy notes and a bunch of assorted papers. I can’t tell what’s what.”

  “So where does that leave me?”

  “With a book to edit.” Abe hit his hands against the desk.

  “Out of what? I’ve never done this! I have no idea what you need, and if there are no notes, what am I supposed to work from? Do you have Miss Marple hiding out somewhere? Maybe she has a clue.”

  “You’re a professional. You’ll figure it out. Besides, I think you’re so upset with Margo you’ll try to outdo her.”

  “Margo isn’t outdoable. She’s just out of here, and I’m done talking about her.”

  Chapter Four: Lovers and Other Dangers

  Fordham stared at her computer, wondering what she was going to do. The book was due in May, only a short eight months away. Her pregnancy had seemed far less daunting. A recorded voice was blabbing on about Margo’s cell number no longer being in service, and of course, she hadn’t left another number where she could be reached. She’d told Abe they’d be traveling on official royal business and it would be impossible to keep in touch, at least for a while.

  Sifting through the papers Abe had given her, Fordham could tell there was nothing of value. The nerve—the gall—to dump this in my lap. She closed her eyes and tried to meditate... a warm tropical beach, a frozen daiquiri, the salty, pungent air... and then the shark showed up. She was standing, waiting for the waves to embrace her feet, when the great white jumped up to swallow her as if she were an amuse-bouche at a cocktail party. She opened her eyes. Clearing her mind was not possible.

  She went down the hall and grabbed a cup of stale coffee. Everyone had already left the office except for a couple of janitors who couldn’t finish while she was still there. She offered an apologetic nod, but none of this was her fault. Fortunately, her mother had taken Whitty for tacos and school-supply shopping. They’d be out for a while.

  She went back to her office, played with the stress ball Evie had gotten her when she started the job, and sat back down at her desk. There had to be something constructive she could do before she left for the night. Evie, her best friend since elementary school, had said something about personal ads on Craigslist. Maybe she could ask for submissions that way without having to deal with the hassle of dating sites and the inevitable red tape that would come with them. Businesses were all about making money, but all she was after were stories. It was worth a shot. She went to the site and jotted down a quick post.

  Haskins Publishing needs you for the next book in our Flowers from the Heart series, Love Online. We’re anxious to hear stories about your online dating experiences. Whether you found love, had fun, met your forever partner, or just learned something worth sharing, we’re interested. Don’t worry about length—we’ll do the editing. All submissions should be sent to Haskinspublishing.org and will remain anonymous.

  IT WAS POURING WHEN Fordham finally left the office well past dusk. She hadn’t remembered to bring an umbrella, and of course, this was the one day her usual parking lot was closed for repairs. She grabbed a garbage liner from the supply cabinet and caught the elevator. When she got to the lobby, she slapped the bag over her head and braved the storm to her car, which was parked on the street several blocks away. Never mind Manhattan’s legendary traffic—she couldn’t wait to drive home.

  She had no problem working in the city but was happy to leave it at the end of the day. There were too many people, and everyone looked intense and constipated. They’d think nothing of bumping into someone to get wherever they were going, which was always more important than where anyone else needed to be. The air always felt as if it was straining to be present and smelled like something that had nothing to do with nature. It was impossible not to feel lonely. No matter what people said about minivans, diner food, and soccer moms, Fordham loved the suburbs and couldn’t care less that she had to, as Margo put it, “drive across the map to find decent tiramisu.” Margo could take her tiramisu and shove it right up her—

  A chain of police cars went whizzing by, sirens screaming. She had to jump back onto the curb to avoid being run over—never mind that she had the light. Despite the plastic bag, she felt as if she’d been dropped in a dunk tank. All she could think about was getting home, changing into sweats, and crawling into bed in her nice cozy house.

  When she got to the car, she kicked off her wet open-toed shoes, tossed the plastic bag into the back, and sank into the seat. She would have to start listening to the weather report before she left the house in the morning or run the risk of looking like something the cat dragged in by evening. She went to turn the ignition, but there were no keys. Where did they go? She’d just had them in her hand. Fordham searched the front, but all she came up with was a near-empty container of Tic Tacs in a flavor she hadn’t bought in years. To avoid getting out of the car, she climbed over the console and combed the area. After retrieving a brush, a matchbook from a date at La Cucina that she preferred to forget, an old bank statement, and three used tissues, she finally found her keys hiding impudently under the mat in the back seat. Weird. Keys couldn’t live independent lives, yet they showed up in unexpected places.

  She couldn’t imagine anything else going wrong until she turned the ignition. Nothing happened. She tried again with the same result. She could not control a few tears of pure frustration. There was no explanation for days like this other than that they taught her to relish the ones that only involved deadlines, traffic, the frizzies, and water retention. She popped the hood, threw on her wet shoes, grabbed a flashlight, and hoped for the best.

  This was the first time in nearly three years that she’d been near anything that made a car functio
n. The last time she’d looked at an engine had been at Evie’s suggestion. Although Fordham hadn’t been remotely interested in mechanics, Evie—the only friend who understood what she’d been through with Gil—insisted she find ways to broaden her scope.

  “Divorce is a time for new discoveries about yourself and the world around you,” Evie had said, reading from a self-help book Fordham bought after the divorce. “Buy a new shade of lipstick, try growing your own tomatoes, take a memoir-writing class, but above all else, don’t allow yourself to get stuck in a rut, binge-watching every series with a fan page on Facebook and eating takeout when your ex has the kids.”

  Evie—and the book—had her pegged. “You’re not emotionally prepared to meet your future husband,” Evie insisted and read again from the self-help book: “Find a transitional activity to establish a new identity as a single person.”

  A single person. Fordham remembered saying it out loud and feeling stabbed. She was on her own. She didn’t have a husband to worry about her transmission or braking system. She had to personally fear what would happen if she overheated or leaked some vital fluid. The next day, Fordham had gone online and bought a book and a tutorial to learn all she could about auto basics.

  Meanwhile, the car still wouldn’t turn over. Fordham went back under the hood and poked at a red wire. Her head felt heavy, and figuring it was due to all the water, she wrung out her hair.

  “Hey,” said a familiar voice. “Need some help?”

  She looked up, not quite sure who he was. The man was medium height, with brown curls that stuck out from under a Mets cap. He certainly had a where-have-we-flirted-before manner about him. Her mood lightened when she finally placed him as Frankie Tancredi, the adorable manager of the Getty station near her old house.

  Once she recognized him, she remembered how into her he’d been. He’d say, “I hope your husband knows how lucky he is to wake up next to a beauty like you every morning. Check your oil?” Then she’d blush, and he would clean her windshield till it sparkled.