Jerica insisted on bringing Pinot with her wherever she went, transporting the small ball of fur in her purse. The canine was clearly of much greater importance to her than her readers were, and it wasn’t unusual for her to stop signing books to feed her. Once, at a particularly large and well-publicized signing that she was late to, I suggested that she wait to feed her dog until after the signing. She informed me—with indignation—that Pinot’s breed (which, she frequently reminded me, was of royal descent and even written about by no less than Aristotle) suffered from hypoglycemia and needed to eat regularly to keep their blood sugar levels up.
It gets worse. She would brush the dog’s teeth during the signing since, as I was also informed, Maltese are known for having dental problems. Twice I had to drive her to a dog dentist in New York. I’m not making this up.
If that wasn’t enough, Jerica would occasionally let Pinot relieve herself on the bookstore carpet. (At least Amy Tan made her dogs wear diapers.) Once, a manager told her that dogs weren’t allowed in the store and she responded by walking out, leaving almost three hundred fans standing in line. It’s how she does things.
I called my editorial assistant, Lori. She had been with me for almost six months. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“Not much.” Her voice sounded tense.
“Are you okay?”
She paused a beat before answering. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just stressed.”
“I get it,” I said. “Speaking of stress, I just heard from Jerica.”
“Yes, she brought her manuscript by. I left it on your desk.”
“That’s why she called. How was she?”
“Her usual,” she said. “How’s your father doing?”
“He passed away.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. When it rains it pours, doesn’t it?”
Her response confused me. “Did something else happen?”
She hesitated. “No, just that.”
“Good, because I don’t need any more bad news,” I said. “Oh, before I forget, would you email Baldacci and remind him that production is waiting to get his sign-off on his new box-set design, and publicity’s waiting for his approval on the flap copy.”
“I already did.”
“Aren’t you Ms. Efficient today.”
“I do what I can. When are you coming back?”
“I’m thinking next Monday or Tuesday. Trust me, I’m not staying here a second longer than I have to.”
“No rush. I’ve got things under control. We’re doing fine without you.”
That’s not something anyone wants to hear. “Thanks.”
“So, gotta run. I’ve got a meeting with Natasha. I’ll see you when I see you.”
Lori hung up first, something she never did. Maybe she was finally bucking for a promotion.
I took a shower, then, seeing as how I would be staying in the house for a few more days, foraged through the kitchen cabinets to see what food my father had on hand. There wasn’t much. I made a short shopping list.
Fortunately, Wendy had told me where the car keys were, a detail I was grateful for and, frankly, considering the circumstances, a little surprised she remembered.
I went out and manually opened the small one-car garage and got in my father’s car. My father kept his car immaculately clean; as usual, a pine-scented air freshener hung from the rearview mirror. My father was fairly tall, six feet and a couple inches, and I couldn’t reach the pedals without moving the seat up.
The grocery store wasn’t far. It was almost the same one I went to as a child. I say almost because it was the same location and building but had a new name and different gestalt. The store was now hip, with a large selection of organic foods, exotic fruits, and cheeses. There was also a full half-aisle devoted to Halloween, which was just a few days away—the same day as my father’s funeral.
Halloween was an event in these parts. We’d had an unusually large number of trick-or-treaters on our street. We lived in one of those staid, middle-class neighborhoods where the houses were close together, providing maximum efficiency for trick-or-treating. It seemed like every year more children would come, many from other parts of the valley. Family vans parked all along Parleys Boulevard and almost filled the church parking lot. The combined hordes looked like a Halloween parade.
Our family had a Halloween tradition. My mother would make chili and soft breadsticks for dinner, then my father would take me out trick-or-treating, holding my hand as we walked the length of our street and a few streets east of ours—enough to fill my plastic jack-o’-lantern with candy.
Along with a bag of Halloween candy, I purchased the basics, some rice and vegetables, oatmeal, milk, artisan bread, Greek yogurt, cheddar slices, protein drinks, and some canned chili.
That evening I was chopping carrots for dinner when my phone rang. I answered without checking the number.
“This is Noel.”
“Noel, this is Wendy. I was just calling to check up on you.”
“Thank you. I’m doing okay.”
“Good. Did you get my voice mail?”
“Yes. Sorry I didn’t get back to you. I got distracted by work.”
“That’s okay. I’m about to send the program to the funeral home. Did you want me to add you to the service?”
“No. I’ll just listen,” I said. “Will you be participating?”
“I’ll be reading the obituary. Maybe offering a personal eulogy.”
“I’m sure it will be nice.”
“I hope so. He deserves a nice send-off. I’ll see you Saturday morning.”
“Thank you. See you then.”
Did my father really think I’d want to speak? I don’t know what I’d say. In some ways it would be like eulogizing a stranger.
I went back to making dinner—a fried-rice recipe I’d picked up in Chinatown.
As I sat down to eat, I thought, I could use a glass of wine, knowing it wouldn’t happen. My father never had alcohol in the house. Instead I had a Coke, which I assumed Wendy had left in the fridge since my father didn’t drink soda either.
After dinner, I checked my emails. Still nothing from work. This was highly unusual. There were usually at least two or three group emails every day about some new company policy or a book being dropped.
I went to my father’s bookshelf in the front room and picked one of his favorite go-to books—one I hadn’t read yet. Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut. There was a dollar bill in it. My father used dollar bills as bookmarks. I’m not sure where I fell asleep reading. I just remember something about “legs like an Edwardian grand piano,” and “so it goes.”
CHAPTER three
Great editors do not discover nor produce great authors; great authors create and produce great publishers.
—John Farrar
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 29
I woke with a feeling of impending doom. Maybe that’s what happens when you fall asleep reading Slaughterhouse-Five. Or maybe it was just my life.
I don’t know why an early morning anxiety attack should have surprised me. I was in a strange bed, I had just gone through a divorce and a death, and I was getting kicked out of my apartment. I was basically checking my way down the official list of anxiety-provoking situations. All I needed now was to lose my job.
I was desperate to get back to New York, if for no other reason than to return to a little routine. And I needed to find an apartment. Put that on the list.
It was already past noon Eastern time when I checked my email. Again, there was nothing from work. There were two possibilities: either my employer was having a party without me, or the publishing house was respecting my privacy in a difficult time and I should regard their silence as a sign of respect. Why was I feeling so insecure?
I made myself a breakfast of oatmeal with craisins.* I thought of going out for a walk, but the kitchen windows were iced over, and I just didn’t have it in me that morning to endure anything that cold. I went back to the couch to finish the Vonneg
ut book. There were many places where my father had folded the corners or highlighted lines in marker. A few places he wrote HA, HA. My father had a slightly warped sense of humor, but I laughed at each of his notations.
I had been reading for about an hour when my phone rang. It was a 212 prefix, a New York area code, which pleased me. They haven’t forgotten about me after all, I thought. The number belonged to Natasha, my supervisor at the publishing house. I set down the book and lifted my phone. “Natasha, I’m so glad to hear from you.”
She hesitated. “Noel? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding a little confused. “I was told your father died.”
I understood her confusion. I lowered my voice. “He passed away Tuesday. Who told you?”
“Lori told me. I wanted to offer my condolences.”
“Thank you. That’s kind of you to call.”
There was another hesitation, and then she said, “Actually, that’s not the only reason I called.” Her voice tightened. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. There’s no easy way to say it, so I’ll just say it. We’re terminating your position.”
“Terminating my position? What’s wrong with my position?”
“By the HR book, I’m supposed to use that terminology, but you’re too smart for HR games. The truth is, we’re terminating you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re being let go.”
“No, that part I understand. I don’t understand why, out of nowhere, you’re firing me.”
“Actually, it’s not so out of nowhere. It’s been coming for some time now. HR has a collection of complaints. They have for a while.”
“Complaints? From whom? Christine? You know I don’t get along with her. Or with any of her sycophants.”
“It’s not just your colleagues, Noel. It’s your authors as well.”
For a moment I was speechless. “Who?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Then at least tell me what I did.”
Her voice took on an edge. “You want me to go down the list?”
“I think I’m owed that.”
“All right,” she said. “I jotted down a few of the complaints. ‘You’re not present.’ ‘You ignore suggestions and input.’ ‘You don’t pay attention.’ ‘Your personal life is negatively influencing your work—’ ”
“You think?” I blurted out. “I caught my husband cheating on me, my father was dying…”
“Shall I continue?” she said.
“If there’s more.”
“There’s more. ‘You’re unpleasant to work with.’ ‘You’re condescending.’ ‘You’re overly negative, you’re mean, and you snap when you’re contradicted or someone doesn’t agree with you on the slightest point.’ ”
“I can’t help it if I work with idiots.”
Natasha didn’t say anything. I guess my response proved her point. Finally, I said, “How long has everyone hated me?”
“No one hates you,” she said. “At least, I don’t. Look, I didn’t call to attack you.”
“… But you did.”
“I gave you what you asked for.”
“My books have done well.”
“For the most part.”
“What does that mean?”
“A few of your authors might disagree. One told me that she finally just surrendered her manuscript before she was done so she didn’t have to deal with you anymore.”
“Who said that?”
“Again, I’m not going to throw anyone under the bus.”
“Just me,” I said. “I gave you my best work.”
“No one is disputing your commitment or your talent. Just your manner. This is a people business, Noel. It’s like there are actors in Hollywood who can’t get parts because no one wants to work with them. Same here.”
“Give me just one example.”
She groaned. “All right. Two weeks ago you slammed the phone down on Camille LeCrux.”
“She was being incredibly rude.”
“She’s a house author, Noel. Yes, she’s petty, rude, and agonizingly demanding. She also happens to sell more than twenty-five million dollars in books a year. There’s not a house in the world that would keep you after that. And yes, she went straight to Jonathan. He had to talk her off the ledge. I’ve never seen him so angry.”
I was quiet. Jonathan was the president of the publishing house. Not someone whose radar you want to land on. At least, not in a negative way.
After a moment Natasha said in a softer, more sympathetic tone, “I read through all the complaints. There was one common denominator. They all say you’re just too angry to work with.”
I let the accusation sink in. “So you waited for me to leave so you could tell me by phone?”
“No, I was going to tell you Wednesday afternoon, only that morning you came to ask for time off because your father was dying. Not exactly the moment to drop a bomb on you. I was respecting your situation.”
“I think respecting my situation would have been to be truthful to me.”
“That’s your way of seeing it.” She paused, then said, “You really are angry, Noel. And I just delivered a big reason for you to be even angrier. I’m sorry.”
My chest felt heavy. “Why did you call today? Why not wait until I returned?”
“When I heard that your father died, I called to tell you so you didn’t have to run back, in case you needed to make long-term plans. I didn’t want you to hurry back just so I could fire you.”
For nearly a minute my thoughts were treading water. “Who’s taking my authors?”
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
“What about Lori?”
“You don’t need to worry about her either.”
“Is she taking my job?”
“Again, not your concern.”
I took a deep breath, trying not to cry. “Then I guess we’re done.”
“Almost. HR will be reaching out to you in the next few days with specifics of your termination. I made them delay that call until I could speak with you.”
I closed my eyes tight. Finally, I said, “I still need to clear out my desk.”
“I asked Lori to put your things in boxes. We’ll keep them in storage for now. We can ship them if you like.”
I sighed deeply. “All right.”
“Look, this isn’t any fun for me either. I’ve had your back for a long time. As a friend, or at least a former one, may I give you some advice?”
“If you must…”
“Do yourself a favor and don’t make any big decisions right now. Give yourself some breathing room. With your divorce, your father, and now this, your life is in a major upheaval. Let the dust settle a little before you start off on your next course.”
I considered her words. “Would you ever let me back?”
“Would you want to come back?”
“I don’t know. I thought I did well there.”
Natasha exhaled slowly. “Never say never, right? You’re a good editor. Would I hire back the woman I first hired? In a heartbeat.”
I swallowed back the emotion. “Thank you.”
She was quiet a moment, then said, “All right. I’ll let you go. Get some rest. You sound exhausted. And I meant what I said, Noel. Take some time to care for yourself.”
* The greatest man-made fruit since the tangelo.
CHAPTER four
You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.
—Ray Bradbury
I felt as if the very forces of nature had conspired to destroy me. All I could think to do was run, literally as well as figuratively. I put on my sweats, coat and gloves, and went outside.
It was cloudy when I emerged from the house. The flowers someone had left were still on the porch, frozen and dead. There was no longer any reason to salvage them, so I carried them around to the side of the house and dropped them, vase and all,
into the garbage can. I stretched lightly and then proceeded to run.
The street was quiet, the ambient sounds dampened by a layer of snow that fleeced the lawns and roofs but hadn’t stuck to the roads or sidewalks. After my mother’s death I began running almost every day. I ran the four hundred meters for the girls’ track team before I was kicked off the team for honor code violations.
Habitually, I started out following the same route I had back in high school. I ran half a block south to the church then west toward my old high school.
As I neared the school, memories flooded back. I don’t know if the school was between classes but there were kids standing in the cold around the front doors, hardly any of them were wearing coats. They looked like they were fighting off frostbite. Why don’t teenagers wear coats anymore? I was sounding sensible, like an old person. Why ask why?
I ran south, past the school, then crossed into the 110-acre Sugar House Park. I cautiously descended a steep, snow-covered hill, slipping just once, then at the base, ran straight until I caught up to the road that made a one-way circular tour of the park. I ran twice around the park, passing its barren pavilions and playgrounds.
On my way home, life hit me with a full-blown anxiety attack. My heart was pounding so fiercely that I gasped for breath. Was this what a heart attack felt like? I couldn’t run, I couldn’t even walk. I knelt down on a patch of grass and sobbed.
God, if there is such a thing, I thought, why do you hate me?
CHAPTER five
Tears are words that need to be written.
—Paulo Coelho
When I finally stopped crying I looked up. An Asian couple, a man and woman, were standing across the road looking at me.
The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection Book 4) Page 3
