“I broke off my engagement with Rusty,” Dorothy said, a little too much gusto in her voice.
Trying not to stammer, Amy responded. “But? But? Why?” She was also trying to hide her excitement.
“I had lunch with Lloyd Luttrell last week. He gave me a lot to think about.”
“Oh? Do tell.” Amy was trying to sound like she wasn’t prying.
“I won’t go into details right now, dear, but I wanted you to know that I’ve kicked Rusty to the curb, and you won’t have to throw a bridal shower for me.” Dorothy laughed at her own joke.
“Really?” Amy dragged out the word.
“Yes, really, darling.”
“Are you going to clue me in?” Amy’s curiosity was through the roof.
“Let’s just say that Rusty and I had a difference of opinion. Lloyd gave me a lot to think about. And I am totally fine with my decision.”
For a moment, Amy thought her mother had been drinking. Her mother wasn’t a big drinker, but she wasn’t a teetotaler, either. In fact, Amy could not remember if she had ever witnessed her mother drunk.
“Mother? Are you sure you’re OK?” Amy was dubious.
“I’m just fine, my dear.” Dorothy paused. “I know you were not a fan of Rusty, but for a while he made me feel important. It’s something I rarely felt with your father. My insecurities, I suppose.”
That was the word Amy had contemplated. “Insecurity.” That must have been one helluva lunch, she thought.
“I understand now, Mother. Remember, I was in college when you got divorced. I knew nothing about what an adult relationship should look like. To be honest, at this rate I don’t know if I ever will.” Amy cracked a smile.
“You will, my dear. Just never settle for less than you want or you deserve. Granted, sometimes there is a gap between the two, but you are smart, cute, responsible, and loving.”
Amy held the phone away from her for the second time. Could this really be her mother on the other end?
“Mother, you have rendered me speechless.”
“Amy, honey, I know I haven’t always been the most approachable sage for you. We women are extraordinarily complex, and sometimes we get caught up in our own mental calisthenics. I hope we can bond better in the future. We need each other.”
Tears were rolling down Amy’s cheeks. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too. And I liked that you called me ‘Mom’ instead of ‘Mother.’ To be quite honest, I hate ‘Mother.’ It reminds me of Norman Bates in Psycho.”
Amy hooted so loud both cats jumped. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I thought it was more respectful, but then I kept remembering Norman Bates.” Dorothy chuckled. “I suppose I just didn’t have the heart to tell you.”
The two women roared.
“Listen, Mom.” Amy emphasized the word. “I am incredibly happy you sound happy. I cannot tell you what a relief this is. I know I will have a much better time on my cruise knowing you are not going to marry Rusty. I’ll reserve my other adjectives for now. It’s too soon to be bawdy.”
Dorothy laughed with more gusto than Amy could ever remember.
“Yes, we can save the name-calling for a later day. Onward to new things.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Amy once again thought perhaps her mother had been hitting the bottle.
“I shall, too.”
“Have you started already?” Amy pretended to tease her.
“Not yet. A little later perhaps.”
“What are you doing later?”
“I’m having dinner with Lloyd Luttrell.”
Another astonished “Really?” came from Amy’s mouth.
“Yes. He’s a good friend and wants to discuss a few things.” Dorothy was cautious in her enthusiasm. She didn’t know exactly what Lloyd wanted to discuss, but just being in his company was delightful. He was attentive, witty, and smart. Being handsome with a full head of silver hair didn’t hurt. Dorothy had to admit that Lloyd wasn’t at all bad to look at.
“Whatever you say, Mom.” Amy was elated. She knew that her mother was going to be OK.
* * *
Back in Ridgewood, Lloyd Luttrell was planning his dinner with Dorothy. He was taking her to Latour, a wonderful French-American restaurant. It had a quaint atmosphere, furnished with antique furniture and oil paintings. He was salivating thinking about the menu. Should he order the beef Wellington or the lamb? Decisions. Decisions. One thing was for certain, he was going to have the chocolate ganache for dessert. Once again, he was contemplating what he should do about wine. He knew he was having beef, so a cabernet sauvignon was on the ticket, and recalled Dorothy’s having enjoyed the Gaja, so he’d send over another bottle as well. Lloyd hoped he wasn’t giving her the impression he was going over the top, but Dorothy was a fine woman and needed all the support she could get. Too many women get “catfished” by younger men, especially good-looking charmers. He finished his grooming with a light splash of Hugo Boss aftershave. Just enough to smell fresh but not too much to knock her over.
He picked out a pale purple tie to go with his burgundy shirt and burgundy-and-navy-plaid blazer. Dark navy trousers finished his ensemble. Casual, yet elegant. He picked a simple Cartier watch to complement his look. He wondered if he should add a matching pocket square. No. Too formal. He then gave the tie a second thought. No tie? Too casual. He didn’t want to scare off Dorothy by implying the dinner was some sort of date. Although, a man could dream, no?
Chapter Eleven
December 21
New York City
Frankie made her way through the throng of onlookers, tourists, and other office workers at Rockefeller Center, uttering a lot of “excuse me, pardon me, sorry” as she inched her way to the revolving door of her building.
The city was bustling for the holiday season, during which eight hundred thousand people pass the famous Norwegian spruce each day, over 125 million tourists visit the plaza over the entire season, and seven million people flock to the city for the holidays.
This year, the majestic tree, weighing over nine hundred pounds, was eighty-nine feet tall with over eighteen thousand lights and a magnificent star made of three million Swarovski crystals. Below the regal spruce was the rink, decorated in garland and large ornaments, where anyone could ice-skate to holiday music.
On the promenade, twelve eight-foot luminous, winged, robed, and haloed angels with six-foot golden trumpets lined the Channel Gardens running from Fifth Avenue to the plaza. Each angel was slightly angled toward the tree. The view from Fifth Avenue was glorious.
Across Fifth Avenue, opposite the promenade, is Saks Fifth Avenue, whose entire building was covered in thousands of lights, creating the look of an ice castle. At night, the building came alive with animated brilliance. The bare-limbed trees lining the avenue were ablaze with miniature white lights, and giant stars were draped overhead from one side of the street to the other.
On the next corner, across from Saks Fifth Avenue, is the famous St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Hundreds of poinsettias were placed throughout the church while choral music played constantly. Nine blocks north, on Fifty-Ninth Street, was the world’s largest menorah. No matter what you believe in, you could feel the spirit of the season and find joy in the magical wonderland.
Frankie squeezed her way through the lobby, trying not to spill the two cups of coffee she held in a cardboard box. As she approached the security desk, she handed a cup to one of the guards. “Cappuccino with two shots of espresso, one sugar.”
Sam smiled at her. “You know the secret code.” Frankie smiled back. “Looks like today is going to be a doozy.”
“You got that right. With the long weekend, it’s going to take a few of these to get me through.” He held up the cup and gestured a toast. “Thanks, Frankie. Have a good one.”
She winked back at the man who had been working at Rockefeller Center for over sixty years. She had no idea how old he was, but Sam
was as much a fixture at Rockefeller Center as the life-size toy soldiers who stood guard by the famous tree.
Frankie wriggled her way toward the elevator, clutching the box holding her coffee and muffin. More “excuse me, pardon me, sorry” as she scrunched into the car. As she looked around the stuffed elevator, she wondered if the weight-limit sign near the panel of buttons was merely a suggestion. When she reached the fourteenth floor, she gave another round of “excuse me, pardon me, sorry.”
Her first stop was the conference room, where the giant television was tuned to one of the morning shows. One of their authors was doing a cooking demo for a new book, Five, Ten, Fifteen or Twenty. Frankie wasn’t thrilled with the title even though it was exactly what the book was about. Five ingredients, ten minutes to prepare, and fifteen or twenty minutes to cook.
Congenial greetings and nods went around the room. Frankie tossed her coat on an empty chair along the wall, took a seat at the table, and cracked open the tab of her coffee cup. She hated drinking from a cardboard container. She felt it changed the taste of the coffee, but she didn’t think she had time to go to her office to grab a mug and get back in time. Matt, her assistant, glanced at Frankie and left the room to get her the mug. In a few minutes, he returned and handed Frankie her favorite mug, the one with the black cat on it.
Frankie was not a demanding boss in the sense of being unreasonable. She did, however, expect people to do their best, be honest, and conscientious. She made sure she was always available and approachable to her staff. Even a mistake could be remedied if handled properly. She gave Matt a nod. She was glad she had chosen him from all the other candidates. He was eager to learn and often worked past five o’clock to read the media news feeds.
Everyone turned toward the TV as the camera panned in on the dish Judy Jackson was working on. It was some sort of zucchini casserole. As she mixed the five ingredients, she chatted with the hosts of the show. Judy had been a best-selling cookbook author for many years, but over the past decade, cookbook sales were dropping owing to the ease of getting recipes off the Internet. But when the novel coronavirus upended life, people confined to their homes began cooking and baking, and the demand for new ideas increased.
With many people working from home and trying to school their children, there wasn’t a lot of time to prepare a meal. That’s when Judy came up with the idea for the book. Rachael Ray had done something similar years ago, so this was actually a new twist on an old idea.
The camera cut away from the kitchen area and focused back on the hosts. “We’ll be back with Judy in fifteen or twenty minutes,” the sappy male host said with feigned enthusiasm.
Frankie took a sip of her coffee. “So far, so good. Let’s hope it doesn’t turn out like mush.” A few nervous giggles were heard around the table. A show like this could make or break the sales of a cookbook, especially since it was being broadcast live. No room for error.
Frankie took the few minutes to rush to her office to see if she had any messages. Matt was right on her heels. He handed her several “While You Were Out” slips of phone messages.
“Those came through earlier today,” Matt said.
“Thanks.” She flipped through the slips. Nothing earth-shattering.
“Your mother called asking if you could stop at Leonelli’s and pick up some pastry. I called them. They said if you place the order by the end of the day, they’ll have it ready for you Monday morning.”
“You are a peach,” Frankie exclaimed. “OK. We’ll handle that after Judy. Let’s get back to the conference room.” Frankie lived a few short blocks from Leonelli’s, which is where Marco bought his desserts for the restaurant. The two scurried back to where Judy was about to reveal her masterpiece.
The bubbling casserole looked festive. Round slices of zucchini with bits of red bell peppers in the shape of wreaths topped the dish.
“Looks yummy.” The bubbleheaded blonde hosting the show peered at the food.
“This is one way to get your kids to eat vegetables,” Judy exclaimed, as the audience applauded.
Everyone in the conference room gave a group sigh of relief and commended each other for a job well done. It was a good beginning to a day that would finish with an in-office lunch and early dismissal. It had been several years since the company hosted a holiday party. Someone finally realized that not only did it cost a lot of money, but that people got drunk, said or did stupid things, and everyone would be missing an evening that could be put to better use preparing for the holidays. The company decided to arrange for sandwiches and salads, cookies and brownies, and nonalcoholic beverages to be delivered from Pret A Manger. Each of their floors had a large conference room, which is where the lunch would be served. The buffet would start at one o’clock. It gave people an opportunity to mix and mingle with coworkers, grab something to eat, then go home, go shopping, or hide out somewhere.
Frankie thought it was a solid idea. As beautiful and wondrous as the holidays are, there is a whole truckload of stress that goes along with them. Buying the right gift. Paying for the right gift. Who gets a gift? What about cards? To send or not to send? What kind of cards and to whom? Decorations. How much? How little? That’s a lot of questions. Then there’s the food dilemma. What to eat? Where to eat? When to eat? How much to eat? Frankie shook and patted the side of her head as if she had water in her ears, attempting to rid herself of the angst.
Frankie was very levelheaded and quite capable of handling a crisis situation. As long as it didn’t involve blood. She tried to take things in stride, but even with her “superpowers,” she occasionally needed a break to recharge. She was very much looking forward to the cruise with her gal pals. Even though she had no idea what to expect out of it, she had every intention of enjoying it to the max.
Frankie went through her e-mail in-box, then the traditional in-box that sat at the corner of her desk. She clipped a few pages from the print editions of Library Journal and Publishers Weekly, and added a Post-it note to circulate to the editors of the books whose ads appeared. As much as computers and the Internet provided every piece of information you could want, need, or hope would go away, Frankie still liked the feel of a magazine in her hands. Just like she preferred a printed book over an e-book. There was something about the tactile feel of them. Reading something in print required one to use more than one sense.
She glanced around her office to see if there was anything else that needed her attention. She would be gone for almost two weeks. The longest she had ever been away from her office except during Covid-19, when everyone worked from home every day. Things were still operating at the “new normal,” with people alternating days of office time and working from home. For Frankie, being able to walk to work on a nice day meant she spent most of the work week in the office at Rockefeller Center. She enjoyed the personal interaction with other people.
Checking the time, she saw that it was almost one. She picked up her phone and buzzed Matt. “Hey, can you come in for a sec?”
“Be right there.”
When it came to holiday bonuses, it was up to each department head to divvy up the money. And each year, the sums were measlier than the previous. How do you explain to someone who had worked above and beyond that they’re getting half of what they got last year, while the business reports that earnings were up for her employer? Evidently, the executives felt that working from home saved their employees commuter costs. Frankie had complained to human resources earlier that week. “What does that have to do with anything? People were doing their jobs. That’s what they get paid for.” She lost the argument, and she wasn’t about to confront the CEO about it. One wrong move, and you could easily become persona non grata. She groaned, thinking about it. She loved her work but hated her job. Yep. This cruise can’t come soon enough.
Matt gave a light knock on the door frame.
“Come in,” Frankie said.
“Everything OK?” Matt asked.
“Yes and no. But before you ge
t worked up, it’s not about you.”
“Whew.”
“I don’t have to tell you that the company can be cheap.” She grimaced and rolled her eyes, something she was known to do. “The good news is that we actually got bonuses. The bad news is that it’s less than last year.” She handed Matt a check for $1,000.
“Wow, Frankie. I wasn’t counting on anything because of how bad the economy was earlier this year.” Matt was profoundly grateful. He was in his early twenties, brand-spanking-new from a Midwestern college, and sharing an apartment with three other guys. Frankie knew the scenario all too well.
Then she passed an envelope across her desk. It looked like a Christmas card. Frankie wanted to give Matt a little something extra for Christmas. She knew he would appreciate anything she would give him, but she also knew $100 would be largely appreciated. Yes, she remembered her early days in publishing.
“Open it later.” She stood up from her desk. “Come on. There’s a roast beef with cheddar on a multigrain roll with my name on it.” She wasn’t kidding. Everyone got to order what they wanted, and the assistants marked the small boxed sandwiches with their names. They even placed the sandwiches in alphabetical order. Frankie was proud of her crackerjack team.
As people entered the room, they shuffled to the buffet table to pick up their lunch, then to the conference table to sit. Some stood against the wall, munching down on the gourmet fare. She waited for the din to subside as people stuffed their faces. Pret A Manger could turn an average sandwich into a mouthwatering pleasure.
“Good afternoon. Just a brief message of thanks for your hard work during a tough year. I appreciate each and every one of you, and I hope you have a good, safe, and wonderful holiday.” She raised her glass of sparkling water.
Shouts of “Hear! Hear!” “Thank you, Frankie!” “You’re the best, Frankie!” came from her staff.
She almost got choked up. “Remember, I’ll be gone for a while, so I expect everyone to behave.” Laughter filled the room. “And if there is an emergency, lose my number, please.” She laughed, and everyone followed.
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