Emily & Einstein (8 page)

I woke the next morning and saw that it was six
A.M.
, not two or three-thirty. With that little dog’s presence, I hadn’t dreamed at all.

Einstein was still asleep in the kitchen when I walked in. As quietly as I could, I put coffee on to brew but the noise woke the dog and he sat up groggily. For a second he looked confused, craning his neck to look at his paws, twitching in surprise. Then he groaned, falling back against the towels as if something about those paws upset him. Which was as odd as it was crazy.

Come on, Em, get a grip,
I told myself.

From the pantry I retrieved the dog food the clinic had sent home with us. I shook the small box, but Einstein wouldn’t look at me.

“You’ve got to be starved.”

I shook it again, this time louder. After the third shake, he sighed and got up.

“You’re okay, right?” I bent down to hug him. “Tell me you’re all right.”

Einstein stiffened. He was funny about hugs. Like my husband in the strange months before the accident—and unlike any dog I had ever known—Einstein seemed to be allowing me to hug him rather than enjoying it.

The concierge had given me the name of a dog walker who walked other dogs in the building, and she had agreed to take Einstein out when I was at work. After I managed to settle Einstein with food and water, then forced myself to close the door on his unhappy face, I squeezed myself onto the last car of the C train, grabbing a tiny handhold to keep myself upright among the swaying work-bound bodies of hardcore New Yorkers.

When word had gotten out about Sandy, Charles Tisdale, the president of Caldecote, encouraged me to take some time off. But the last thing I wanted was to be alone. At Fifty-ninth Street–Columbus Circle, I spilled out of the train and walked the two crowded blocks to my office on Broadway. I ran my Caldecote Press badge through the card reader and pushed through the turnstile. Once at my desk I listened to voice mail.

“Hey, Em!”
my sister said.
“Just wanted to call and see how it’s going. Everything’s great with me … well, everything’s great except my dad’s wife is bad-mouthing me to their kids again. Hello, all I did was bring my little brother and sister presents. Whatever. Anyway, we’ll talk later.”

As usual, Jordan failed to acknowledge the fact that the presents she took her grade-school-aged half siblings were anything but appropriate for anyone under the age of twenty-one.

I threw myself into work. I finished editing a manuscript, wrote jacket copy, attempted to return phone calls I had let pile up. But after no more than a handful of conversations, I stopped. Authors’ and agents’ well-meaning condolences reminded me of soft-boiled eggs, nine-grain bread, and the box of Sandy’s perfectly folded dress shirts from the dry cleaners that I had started wearing to bed.

The morning passed in a blur of keeping busy. As soon as the clock struck noon, I heard Nate Clarkson coming down the hall. While publishing was a collaborative effort, Nate was our company’s publisher and made the final decisions about book scheduling and book positioning for our list. Charles, as president, could overrule Nate’s decisions, but he rarely did, concentrating instead on the overall vision for the company.

It was no surprise when Nate stopped to talk to Victoria Wentworth, another senior editor at Caldecote. Like me, Victoria was in her early thirties. She had pale white skin, long red hair, and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose that tricked you into thinking she was as sweet as she looked.

Even though the president had taken me under his wing when I first signed on at Caldecote, until a year ago I had technically worked for Victoria. We only had one book left that we had worked on together—though
together
hardly covered it. While Victoria had officially bought the novel, I found
Ruth’s Intention
in Victoria’s slush pile of unagented submissions. From the first sentences of
Ruth,
which so beautifully brought to life the small heroic acts of a young mother determined to save her son, I had known it was a book that should be published.

Victoria had never been one to take advice, least of all from me. But I waited for just the right moment to pitch the idea, assuring her that she wouldn’t have to do any of the work. She debated, but eventually gave in.

“Fine, work up an offer, then I’ll get it approved and make the call,”
she had said.
“But after that, don’t come crawling to me for help.”

While anyone with half a brain steered clear of her, Victoria dazzled our publisher. For once, with several e-mails from the man sitting unanswered in my in-box, this served me well. While Nate was preoccupied with Victoria, it gave me a chance to dash for the elevators and head out for lunch. He might see me, but he wouldn’t be able to recover his wits fast enough to stop me and ask his questions in person.

After signing out of e-mail, I made it past Nate. He sort of jerked in surprise when he saw me, his smile starting to straighten. “Come on,” I muttered under my breath. I might have thrown myself into work, but I was smart enough to know that my brain didn’t have the ability to sort through problems, argue my point, or defend any position. “You can make it.” The exit was in sight, only a couple of feet to the security doors.

“Emily!” he called out. “A minute, please.”

For a second, I debated the wisdom of pretending I hadn’t heard. That seeming ill-advised, I stopped, exhaled.

“I haven’t heard back from you regarding any advance blurbs or reviews you’ve gotten for
Ruth’s Intention,
” he said.

“Yes, Emily,” Victoria added. “How’s the book going?”

I rummaged around for a smile, only managed a grimace, and said, “I’ve gotten several advance quotes, all raves.”

“Really?” Nate said. “Then why haven’t you let the sales team know about them? Orders are extremely low.”

Victoria looked at our boss with the sort of professional concern she must have practiced in front of the mirror. “Unfortunately, the orders are low because not everyone is
raving
. I told Emily she never should have bought it.”

No one could blame her for distancing herself from a project that wasn’t going well, especially when it wasn’t her idea to take it on. But since the day I was promoted to senior editor, Victoria had seemed determined to see me take a fall.

“Victoria.” The word sounded strange in my head. “One person in sales read it and loved it. The low orders have nothing to do with what people are or are not saying. The month is jammed with other titles that are getting support. If we could reallocate some money to—”

Nate cut me off. “Get more early blurbs. Tell the author to start a blog. Become someone who Tweets. Something, anything—short of spending money—to get attention.”

Victoria gave me one of those fake concerned smiles, then followed him down the hall.

As soon as I made it to the elevator, my good friend Birdie Baleau came up beside me.

“Hey you,” she said. “How’s it going?”

Birdie was about my height, filled with energy, and close to my age, though she was only an assistant. Everyone knew she was from Texas—it was hard not to know given the accent she swore she didn’t have. She was rarely found without a candy bar in hand; today it was a Milky Way.

After one look at me, she extended the chocolate. “It looks like you could use some, sweetie.”

“I’m fine,” I told her. I tried to sound convincing.

She scoffed and took another bite when I refused. “You are not fine. But I know you. Holding on. A pillar of strength. Not a bother to anyone. If I were you I would fall apart and scream and cry and make everyone feel sorry for me.” She shrugged and swallowed. “But that’s just me.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, relieved. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

“Of course. What’s not to love?”

Bundled in our coats, we rode down together and walked to lunch. Ever since Sandy’s accident, I’d had the urge to eat, a lot, as if food could solve my problems. Psych 101, sure, but even knowing that I had to force myself past little food markets filled with preservative-and-fat-laden foods that beckoned to me like an apron-clad grandmother offering instant comfort.

Birdie and I made it to Whole Foods at Time Warner Center without me hijacking a hotdog stand or snatching her candy bar and making a run for it. From the wide variety of prepared foods that were more healthy than not, I got a salad. Birdie chose a slice of whole wheat pizza—grumbling that pizza and whole wheat should not be mentioned in the same sentence—soup, three tacos, some curry, a Parker House roll, and a chocolate croissant.

“I’m hungry,” she stated when we stood in line.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinking it.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything. I am intentionally
not
thinking.”

“Ah, yes, I should have known. How’s that working for you?” she asked with a raised brow.

“Surprisingly well.”

Which made her laugh.

In the crush of people and clamor of voices against the stone floors and walls, we managed to get a booth. As soon as we sat down on the hard wooden benches, she bypassed the pizza and soup, took a bite of croissant, and asked, “So, what is really going on? I heard Victoria making noise about some book you have coming out.”

I stabbed a piece of lettuce. “It’s a novel.
Ruth’s Intention
. It’s dying a quiet death before it ever hits the shelves.”

“Lord, this business is brutal. Who knew? But look, even in the short time I’ve been at Caldecote I’ve seen that books fail all the time. And tons of them are Victoria’s. Her making noise about one of yours failing is like the pot calling the kettle black. Sheez, she is such a witch.” Birdie chewed thoughtfully. “Is there anything you can do to save
Ruth
? Sure, it would be good for you, and yeah, even the book. But hello, save the book just to bite Victoria in the backside.”

I cracked a smile. “You’re bad.”

She snorted. “Focus, Emily. The book. Remember. You need to save it.”

“I don’t know,” I said, considering. “The book really is amazing.”

“I assume sales knows it’s amazing.”

“I’ve forwarded them all sorts of reasons why it’s amazing. But the month is swamped with other books, and sales doesn’t have a lot of time to think about
Ruth
.”

“Then force them to think about it.”

“I can’t force them to think about it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Then cajole them into thinking about it.”

“Birdie—”

“Don’t Birdie me.” She polished off the croissant and dug into the pizza. “You’re the creative problem solver. Figure something out.”

As we were walking back to the office, Birdie unwrapped another candy bar. It was when I nearly gave in and lunged for it that the idea hit me.

We parted ways after I stopped and made a purchase, then hurried back to my office. By the end of the day I had gathered some advance reading copies of
Ruth’s Intention
and put them together with a color printout listing fabulous quotes and a letter I’d written from “Ruth.” I hand delivered the books to every member of the in-house sales team along with a Baby Ruth candy bar tied on top of each with a bow.

It was a silly gesture, no question, but I prayed that if nothing else sales would get a smile out of the correlation, take pity on poor
Ruth,
and at least read the printed highlights as they ate the candy. My gut told me that if they took the book home over the weekend and read even the first sentence, they would fall in love.

As I was turning off my computer to head home, Victoria strode into my office.

“What is this I hear about you wasting everybody’s time by passing out ARCs of
Ruth
along with chocolate bars?” She smirked. “It’s going to take more than ninety-nine-cent bribes to get support for your little book.”

“Maybe. But I looked over the pub list for the month and there’s nothing on it that has the kind of media appeal
Ruth
does. I mean, it’s a fictional version of what the author actually experienced saving her own son when he was dying.
Ruth
is perfect for morning news and talk shows. And I hardly think talk shows are a waste of time.”

Victoria scoffed, but I didn’t let her get to me. And when I got on the subway and saw one of the sales guys sitting toward the front of the car eating the Baby Ruth and opening to the first page of the ARC, I felt sure my instinct was correct.

einstein

chapter seven

As long as I lived, I wasn’t sure that I would ever truly believe what had happened to me, not even when I turned back into a man.

A shiver of unease raced down my spine, and my hackles rose. Every quivering strand of this little dog’s double helix DNA went still at the memory of my human body lying dead in the slush and snow. But I dismissed any hint of concern as ridiculous. There was no way I could spend the rest of my days as a dog. Things like that just didn’t happen. I mean, really, was it possible anyone could actually believe that little Fido next door was harboring the soul of a man? Or Rex down the street was really a Brooklyn-born tough? No, I assured myself. Sooner or later something would happen and
poof,
this nightmare would be over and I would wake up back in my body, back in my bed, back in my life as a man who had it all.

Once I had gotten over the shock of the bizarre situation, I decided to look at my sojourn as a canine in the best possible light. I was a glass-half-full sort of fellow, after all. I might be a dog, but I wouldn’t think of it that way. I would think of it as being on vacation from being a man. Like going to St. Barts in winter or the South of France in spring—only smellier. The only snag in this plan was that dogs were dependent on their humans. No wonder Lassie was loyal. What choice did she have if she wanted to eat?

Given my state of dependence, I had little choice but to depend on Emily. It’s not hard to imagine that I didn’t do, and had never done, dependence all that well. But rather than give in to frustration, I decided to look at her as, say, Julie on the
Love Boat,
my cruise director.