Emily & Einstein (13 page)

He barked at me.

“Go away,” I told him. Not that it did any good.

With Einstein’s determined nudging, I got myself showered and dressed. I even boxed up the baked goods and headed for the door. After a crisp nod as if his work here was done, Einstein trotted over to a sliver of sun and curled up with a contented sigh as I headed out.

I arrived at the Trigate building late, though it hardly mattered. I had missed four days with nothing more than an e-mail to Nate Clarkson saying I’d had an emergency. I hadn’t responded to any e-mails or voice mails since.

My attire was haphazard, though I only gathered this when Wanda, the full-figured African-American security guard at the main entrance raised a brow and said, “You get dressed in the dark, girl?”

Glancing down, I tried to make sense of the bright yellow sweater over the brown-and-black floral dress, and the black loafers I normally wore with pants. I hardly remembered dressing at all, much less so badly. “It’s the latest style,” I said, rustling up a bag of German chocolate cupcakes and thrusting them into her hands.

“Latest style for bag ladies, maybe.” She glanced inside the bag. “Though mmm-mmm, a mighty sweet bag lady.”

I made it to my office without seeing anyone on my floor. After surreptitiously unloading the rest of the sweets in the break room, I tried to regain my control by diving into a manuscript. If closed doors in the workplace hadn’t been weird when you weren’t having a private conference or call, I would have shut mine to keep everyone out.

I should have gone for weird.

“You’re back.”

I glanced up and found Victoria standing in the doorway. I managed a big, if forced, smile along with a reflexive squint. “Yep, I’m back. Got the emergency dealt with.”

I might be struggling, but I was no fool. Not that it looked like she believed me.

“Are you ready for the big meeting?” she asked.

Big meeting?

“You know about the big meeting, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Said with a scoff to cover the trepidation I felt over not having a clue.

Had she been nice at all, she would have tossed me a bone and told me where the big meeting was being held. But this was Victoria. She left without giving me a hint. Fortunately, seconds later, the mass exodus of the Caldecote staff toward the main conference room made digging around in my e-mail for the lost, missed, or discarded
big meeting
memo unnecessary.

Caldecote Press was a small publisher, more literary than mainstream in an age when mainstream was all most anyone cared about. I had always been proud of the fact that I had gotten a job with one of the few publishers who remained dedicated to books that mattered. What I frequently forgot was that Caldecote was owned by the media conglomerate, Trigate.

Charles Tisdale had never succumbed to Trigate’s desire for us to publish big, commercial works of fiction or tell-all types of nonfiction. Charles had won the day by arguing that those books cost money to acquire, big money, the kind of money Trigate didn’t want to spend, at least not on its little publishing business.

We had continued on our way, publishing award-winning work that got lots of attention for its importance but failed to consistently move books off store shelves. But every so often this mix produced a significant book that achieved blockbuster sales. Thankfully, the paradigm kept Caldecote out of bankruptcy, though never quite solvent.

Every chair in the conference room was taken, the rest of us crowding around the perimeter to find out what was going on. Speculation ran rampant in the group of editors who stood on either side of me.

Birdie nudged in beside me with a cupcake in her hand. “Have you tasted one of these? They are insane. Where’d they come from?”

I shrugged.

“What’s up? another editor asked.

“Beats me,” Birdie responded, running her finger through the icing.

Several of the younger editors looked at me. “What have you heard?”

Somehow I had turned into a den mother for the younger women. Before Sandy’s death I had helped them with cover copy, letters to agents, brainstormed with them on ideas.

I was saved from having to say I hadn’t heard a thing when Charles Tisdale walked in wearing his standard tweed jacket, khaki pants, and cordovan loafers. His gray hair was brushed back, his navy, burgundy, and forest green–striped bow tie perfectly tied.

The room began to quiet, though a few hushed conversations continued as he headed for the front of the room. The second an unfamiliar woman walked in behind him you could have heard a pin drop.

Birdie sucked in her breath. “Oh my God! That’s Tatiana Harriman. What’s she doing here?”

The woman at the front of the room was petite, made taller by four-inch heels. Her hair was shoulder length, jet black, and cut so bluntly that it looked like it could slice paper. If I recalled correctly, Tatiana Harriman was fifty. I had read an exposé of her once, had seen a photograph. In person she looked younger, with the face and body of a thirty-five-year-old.

“This can’t be good,” Birdie said.

Nan Beeker grabbed my arm. “The rumor must be true!”

“What rumor?”

“That we’re getting sold,” Lori Monroe said.

“I heard the same thing!”

They all turned to me. “Even if we get sold, everything’s going to be fine, right, Emily?”

Sold? Harriman? My sluggish brain tried to catch up.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Charles said. “I have brought you here today to put rumors to rest. Many of you have heard that WorldPass Corporation has been courting Trigate.”

“Yeah, for Trigate’s digital content,” someone muttered.

A ripple of unease ran through the room.

“Now, now,” Charles added calmly. “I am here to tell you that indeed Trigate and WorldPass have merged.”

Tension buzzed through the room before someone blurted, “What’s going to happen to Caldecote?”

“Please, stay calm,” Charles continued. “There is nothing to be concerned about. I have been assured that Caldecote Press is a priority.”

“Yeah right,” someone scoffed.

Tatiana Harriman glanced around the room like a teacher surveying her class, as if trying to put faces with outbursts.

“To show their commitment to Caldecote, WorldPass has brought in Tatiana Harriman to head our prestigious publishing house.”

Tatiana straightened and smiled, indifferent to the mouths that dropped open at the news.

“No way,” someone said.

“That’s insane,” another added.

“People, people,” Charles said, attempting to speak over the growing cacophony of unhappy voices.

“I’m a dinosaur,” he said, flashing the kind smile I had grown to love. If it hadn’t been for him, I was certain I’d still be an associate editor underneath Victoria. It was Charles who had shown me the ropes, pulling me into meetings so I could learn the things Victoria refused to teach me.

“My way of publishing books is antiquated. As of today, I am stepping down as president of Caldecote Press—though I will remain on as a consultant for as long as Tatiana needs me.”

From the look that crossed her face, I was sure Tatiana Harriman believed she didn’t need anyone. Ever.

“And now I have the privilege to introduce you to Ms. Tatiana Harriman.”

Charles pulled note cards from his breast pocket, then found his reading glasses. Not that a speech was needed. Everyone in the room already knew the legend that was the woman.

She had been the youngest editor-in-chief of the big British tabloid magazine,
Sass,
before it was gobbled up by WorldPass, who promoted her to head up
House of Mirth
magazine in the U.S. In record time she had turned the struggling monthly into a thriving must-read, before WorldPass trotted her over to their foundering
Chronicles,
the literary magazine that made no money but was often quoted by world leaders.

WorldPass contended that she saved the magazine, while the staff writers swore she ruined it. Not that it mattered. Now she was here, at Caldecote Press, and it didn’t take a genius to understand that she was here with a mandate that we start making money.

I shuddered at the thought.
Ruth’s Intention
was on the verge of failing. Victoria wanted me to take a fall. My mother-in-law wanted to take my home away from me. And as it turned out, my husband had been having a string of affairs before he died. Was it possible my life could get any worse?

Birdie glanced at me. “Are you all right, sweetie?”

I forced a smile. “Sure. I’m fine.”

But when I straightened, Tatiana Harriman was looking right at me.

*   *   *

First thing the next morning, Victoria came into my office. Somehow I had managed to dress in a skirt and blouse that went together, and even managed to wash my hair. I hadn’t baked nearly as much the night before, though
not as much
was still a lot by anyone else’s standard, and I had managed to sneak most of that into the break room again.

“I adore Tatiana!” Victoria beamed.

“Tatiana?”

“Ms. Harriman to you. By the bye,” she continued, “did you see the memo she sent out yesterday? The one about the importance of good health, eating well, and the mental benefits of dressing powerfully for work? The one that said that whoever was bringing all the cupcakes needed to stop?”

I must have looked as confused as I felt, not to mention a tad uncomfortable since I knew exactly who was bringing the cupcakes.

Victoria shook her head at me. “Do you even read your e-mail these days? Anyway, we’re supposed to take care of ourselves, eat healthfully, and dress as befits people who work in offices, not college campus coffee shops.”

“She said that?”

“I added the part about college campus coffee shops.” Victoria shrugged. “I think it’s a great idea. When Charles was here, everyone and their brother took Casual Fridays way beyond Friday, not to mention way beyond acceptable attire. I’ve never been so shocked as the day Lori Monroe pranced in here with a belly ring showing.”

Victoria had no piercings, belly or otherwise. Not that I was one to cast stones. I had been as surprised as Victoria when Lori came to the office, midriff bare. But that was hardly the point. The message of Tatiana’s e-mail was clear: I couldn’t afford to miss any more work, I needed to stop baking, and I needed to find a way to make
Ruth’s Intention
succeed.

Victoria left, and I dove into work. My voice mail was overflowing, my e-mail ready to explode. There were several messages marked urgent, including the infamous big meeting memo, though most were from the production head wanting a manuscript I’d been going through, checking the author changes.

By noon I still hadn’t gotten to the end, but could think of nothing but eating. I pushed the manuscript aside and went to lunch. Healthy sounded horrible, and I gave in and went for the prefabricated food filled with preservatives at the corner market.

“Emily!”

Birdie came up behind me at the food bar. She wore a suit I had never seen before, one that registered in some part of my brain as too expensive for a publishing assistant. She bypassed the fattening foods and started loading her container with lettuce and raw vegetables.

“The woman is insane, demented, completely unfair,” she said, tonging up a square of tofu with a grimace and a hiss.

Carla, another associate editor, came up behind Birdie. She was wearing a little black business suit. “This is ridiculous,” she said.

Though I noticed she too loaded up on salad. She bit into a carrot stick with relish. “She can’t do this. She can’t dictate what we wear.” She shook the carrot at me. “Or what we eat!”

Technically, Tatiana wasn’t. She was providing reasonable dress guidelines and healthy tips. No corporation in the land, at least outside California, allowed bare bellies in the workplace.

Not that I said that. I turned back to the food bar and added another helping of cheddar cheese mashed potatoes to my container.

“Don’t let the new boss see you eating that. I don’t think cheddar mash is considered health food by anyone.”

“Potatoes are a vegetable.”

Birdie giggled.

Carla rolled her eyes. “One, I doubt there is a real potato anywhere in the mix—”

True.

“—and even if there was, the fake, processed, sodium and fat-filled cheese undercuts any nutritional value a starchy potato might provide.” She smiled proudly. “I’m editing a diet book.”

Birdie looked at me. “If we’re quick, we can take Carla out back and choke her with tofu.”

“I’m just saying,” Carla said.

I responded by adding more potatoes for good measure.

But when I turned back, none other than Tatiana stood behind me.

“Cheddar mash?” she asked. “I take it you also subscribe to the theory of candy corn as vegetable, and strawberry jam as fruit.”

Birdie and Carla snapped their plastic containers shut and bolted for the checkout line.

“You’re Emily, right?” she said.

“Yes, Emily Barlow.”

“Charles speaks highly of you.”

“Charles has been an excellent boss.”

Tatiana considered me. In her high-fashion cherry suit and black stiletto heels, she looked out of place in the cramped food market, her sharp bob, severe curtain of bangs, and small, round, black-rimmed glasses marking her as a player. I couldn’t imagine what she was doing there, couldn’t put together the perfect woman and her health memo with this appearance.

Then I noticed the container of fresh-squeezed orange juice. The corner market did a lot of things in a preprocessed, preservative-laden way, but it provided fresh-squeezed orange juice pretty much 24/7.

“Vitamin C,” she explained, as if reading my mind.

She turned, walked directly to the front of the line, handed the clerk three dollars, didn’t wait for change, then clipped out of the store without another word.

The following week, some of the younger editors at Caldecote cornered me in the women’s room.

“Tatiana’s unreasonable.”

“She acts like it’s my fault when an author doesn’t deliver on time.”