Cream of the Crop

by Alice Clayton

  This particular Sunday I was lounging at my end of the dining room table, croissant in one hand, fashion pages in the other, trying to concentrate on what I was reading. But my eyes kept wandering to the travel section that my father was reading, to the story on the back page with the picture of a small farm in upstate New York.

  Its claim to fame was a flock of imported Scottish sheep that were not only delightful to look at, all snowy white and puffy, but apparently gave some of the most delicious milk around. The farmer made incredible sheep’s milk cheese likened to a Spanish Manchego, salty and perfect. A husband and wife, living in the country, making things with their actual hands!

  I wondered if the wife was happy, if she loved her life. I bet she was adorable, all sunshiny and strong hands and cute cardigans. To bed early, up when the cock crows—I bet she lived her life according to the natural circadian rhythm of the earth; not segmented around fashion week and art gallery parties.

  I got all that from the back of the travel section in the Sunday Times that I was sneak-reading instead of reading my own section. I bit down hard on the croissant.

  I thought about my secret dream, the one that only Roxie and Clara knew about, which was to one day venture off my island and into the wild. To live on a farm and collect eggs and make gorgeous handcrafted cheese in sweet packaging from smiling sheep. And if there was someone sharing my bed who woke me with his crowing cock . . . well, that would be very okay.

  I sighed, thinking about cheese and the simple life and simple yet intense sex. I wondered if Oscar liked cardigans. I wondered if he’d like me in only a cardigan, the edges barely covering my breasts, one large button barely keeping it closed somewhere around my navel, crossing my legs just so as I perched on a hay bale to keep him from seeing my country kitty. His eyes would shine, his shirt would disappear, displaying all of that wonderful ink as he stalked across the barn toward me, his hands flexing as he ached to take hold of me, flip me over the hay bale and—

  “Natalie.”

  “Hmmmm?”

  “Natalie,” I heard again, and I blinked. My mother, father, and brother were looking at me with amusement, my croissant squished in one hand.

  My forehead was damp and I was hot all over, my pulse pounding. Good lord, I’d been daydream-fucking Oscar at Sunday brunch?

  “Excuse me,” I said, heading into the kitchen.

  My mother was close on my heels. “We lost you there for a minute. Where’d you go?”

  “Nowhere special.” I sighed, quickly drinking a cold glass of water. The chill spiked through my haze, bringing me back down to earth.

  “Sure looked special, from the dreamy look on your face.” She started slicing more bagels for round two. “Anything going on that I should I know about?”

  I’ve imagined an entirely separate life for myself based on the word Brie . . .

  I haven’t been able to concentrate on one guy for more than an hour at a time ever since I saw the Cheese Man . . .

  There was a moment yesterday where I thought thumb-stroking could quite possibly be my new favorite thing ever . . .

  “Nope. Same old, same old,” I said. “But I landed a new account on Friday.”

  “Sweetheart, that’s wonderful! Did you tell your father?” An artist by trade, my mother was tall, like me, but even more fair-skinned, which she took great pains to maintain. She kept the wide-brimmed-hat business hopping. Her long, thick red hair was usually worn in a lazy bun.

  “Go tell your father, I’ll bring this along in a moment. Ask your brother if he ate all the olives already . . . I could have sworn there were some for the platter . . .” As she looked for the lost olives, I smiled and headed back into the dining room.

  My father had begun the crossword puzzle, so before he got too far into it, I sat down next to him and plucked the pen from his hand. “I’m supposed to tell you I landed a new account on Friday,” I announced.

  Todd peeked over the top of his newspaper. “Congratulations!”

  “Thanks. And I’m supposed to ask you where all the olives are. Mom’s going crazy trying to find them.”

  My brother grinned. “Olives? Never heard of ’em.”

  “She’ll kill you,” I said with a knowing look.

  My father took off his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of his shirt, looking at my brother. “If you’ve hidden them somewhere, I’d strongly recommend that you go put her out of her misery.”

  Todd headed into the kitchen with a grin, and a moment later we heard, “Stop teasing your poor mother!”

  “So, tell me about this new account,” my father said, giving me his full attention. I told him everything, from how I’d come up with the pitch, to the research I’d done into past campaigns and how effective they’d been in the marketplace. He listened and nodded, asking a few questions as I went along.

  “I know Mike Caldwell, the guy you pitched to. He’s tough,” my father said, a look of pride on his face.

  My father was head of Grayson Development, a real estate development company operating in the five boroughs. He’d moved into Brooklyn ahead of the renovation curve twenty years ago, and could have retired long ago based on that building boom alone. He developed some commercial, but he mostly concentrated on residential. Occasionally high-rises, but mostly prewar conversions in the smaller buildings. He loved a brownstone.

  “You could have asked me for an introduction, Natalie. I would have been happy to put in a good word for you and MCG,” he said.

  “I know that.” And while he would have called up this client in a heartbeat, he also knew that I didn’t need him to. Which made him even more proud. Which in turn made me all preeny. From the beginning, my father had instilled in my brother and me that you carve the path you wanted, and then you work like hell until you get it. Not that he’d ever be opposed to offering a helping hand, as in introducing me to Mr. Caldwell. But I was proud knowing that I’d gotten where I was in life on my own. “I did kind of kill it in the pitch,” I said with a quiet smile.

  “Of course you did!”

  My mother came into the dining room with the bagel platter then, and all shop talk ceased as brunch continued. Where my father instilled the “get where you need to go on your own” mentality, my mother instilled the other half of my “take no prisoners” attitude. Family first, but never sacrifice yourself in the process. She was already an up-and-coming artist when she met my father, and in the middle of their whirlwind romance they had an unexpected surprise: my brother. She could have set her own life aside to make a home for my father, but they were equals in every way and they made sure neither sacrificed more than the other.

  As I watched them move around our dining room, each perfectly complementing the other, I sighed in contentment, knowing that no matter what happened outside these walls, my mother and father would be inside, keeping it together.

  Brunch continued, plans were discussed for the upcoming week, and other than an occasional look from my mother that told me she definitely knew something was up but was biding her time, I managed to keep my dairy fantasies to myself until I got home.

  When I got in bed that night, however, I let them fly.

  Chapter 3

  “Okay, team, did everyone bring their agenda with them?” Dan asked the assembled group, and was greeted with the usual acknowledgments. Monday-morning meetings were early, they were efficient, and they were murder without coffee.

  One of the reasons I chose Manhattan Creative to begin my career was their fine reputation, their wide network of colleagues across the country—the globe, really—and their barista-like coffee bar on the forty-fourth floor.

  The president of MCG worked his way through college at a tiny old-fashioned coffee shop, and prided himself on having only the finest coffee products for his hardworking team. It was a perk, pardon the pun, to an already incredible job.

&nbs
p; Over the weekend, a burst water pipe on the forty-fifth floor meant the coffee bar was no longer. They’d found beans down on twenty-seven, or at least that was the word on the street. Intern Rob had been sent down to bring back Starbucks for everyone, but until he arrived, those not smart enough to bring their own brew from home were struggling this morning.

  Not Dan. Dan was one of those herbal-tea people. He brought his own bags with him to work, even had a teakettle in his corner office, and therefore felt none of our pain this morning.

  “Let’s have another round of applause for Natalie’s team. Ms. Grayson managed to bring in the T&T Sanitation business with an . . . let’s say interesting . . . presentation late Friday evening. For those of you who didn’t check their email over the weekend, it was a success; we are now officially peddling shit!”

  “Hear! Hear!” a voice called out, and I stood to curtsy and wave à la prom queen.

  “Also, for those of you who didn’t check their email over the weekend, I’ll need your resignation on my desk by 5 p.m. today,” he finished, the twinkle in his eye missed by the very green and very young Edward, a junior copywriter who wore a look of panic and was slinking lower in his chair by the minute.

  “Easy, Eddie, he’s teasing,” I whispered, nudging him back up higher into his chair. “But way to call yourself out. Nice poker face.”

  “But I—”

  I shook my head at him, motioning for him to keep his eyes on Dan.

  “So, page one as always is new business. Let’s go through what’s in the hopper this week,” Dan continued, and we all read along with him as he outlined potential jobs on the horizon. A cat food brand, not too exciting but lucrative and great visibility potential. A small chain of boutique hotels was looking to go global next year, and wanted to raise some green quickly to look more favorable to investors. To raise the funds they needed, they were willing to spend some money to strengthen their brand. I immediately thought of Clara, and wondered if this might be an opportunity to work together. I put a checkmark next to that section, waiting until he finished going through every item on the agenda to formally put in for the job.

  Dan ran a very tight ship, with an impeccably tight team. If you brought a client to the firm, then that was your client. But when someone solicited us on their own? It was up for grabs. Each account executive made a case for how they would be the best point person on each project, and then he and the partners would select who got what gig.

  Due to my recent success, and the fact that I’d closed more accounts than any other account exec over the past eighteen months, I could essentially pick and choose the jobs I wanted. Like T&T Sanitation. Now, most didn’t want it, thinking it would just end up as a joke campaign. But I saw the potential to go out on a limb with new clients and really make something out of nothing. And, more often than not, the gamble paid off, and I made the partners and myself a nice signing bonus.

  I half listened to the rest of the agenda, waiting until it was time to officially throw my hat into the ring on the hotel chain. Might get some nice travel out of it, might get to work with one of my best friends if I could swing bringing in a consultant on this job, and, most important, it could be what finally made me a partner.

  A partner before thirty. That had always been the goal.

  My father ran his own real estate developing company. My mother was a famous artist. I needed this feather in my cap to keep the name Grayson held with the same distinction that my parents had, and I needed to do it on my own. I could have gone into business with my father; he’d have been thrilled. But other than taking him up on his offer to live in one of his fabulous brownstones, I managed my life on my own.

  I scanned ahead on the agenda and realized that Dan was almost through with the new business, and it would be time to formally ask to be considered for the hotel chain pitch. I began to rehearse in my head exactly what strategy to use when I heard him say, very clearly, Bailey Falls.

  “Wait, Bailey Falls?” I asked, interrupting Dan and causing the entire room to look at me strangely. “Did I hear you say Bailey Falls?”

  “Bailey Falls, yes you did. Looks like someone better hope Rob gets back with coffee soon,” Dan chuckled, and light laughter rang out through the group. “The Bailey Falls tourism pitch, it’s on your agenda there, almost at the bottom.”

  I quickly scanned toward the bottom, and right there were the words BAILEY FALLS, HUDSON VALLEY, NY.

  It seemed that Roxie’s small town was looking for some big-city direction.

  “I’ll take it!” I shouted, surprising everyone in the meeting, including yours truly.

  “Natalie, I admire your enthusiasm, but it can wait until the end of this, yes?”

  “Yes,” I answered back, a little embarrassed and more than a little confused by my outburst. I quickly rallied, listening to everything he had to say.

  Bailey Falls, like most small towns in the Hudson Valley, relied heavily on tourism as a source of income. But with the rise of cheaper flights to Europe again, they’d seen a drop in their tourist business, especially noticing that not nearly as many New Yorkers and New Jerseyans were as interested in weekending there as they were even ten years ago.

  People were gun-shy now about buying; they wanted the freedom of renting a summer house, a lake house, a winter camp. They wanted to rent and come and go and not suffer like an owner when the roof leaked or the plumbing broke, or a family of owls set up shop in the attic, which apparently was a common occurrence up in the sticks.

  Therefore, some of these smaller towns that featured a slice of Americana as their very bread and butter were not doing so well. And rather than wait, the town council of little Bailey Falls had pooled its town’s resources and decided to hire a big-shot New York advertising firm to put its town back on the tourist map.

  Huh. Roxie had just been saying she thought I should come up for a visit. Then Saturday, for the first time ever, something new happened with the dairy farmer, who just happened to live in Bailey Falls.

  Could be . . .

  Who knows . . .

  As I tuned out the last bit of my boss’s new-business speech, I heard the words of West Side Story: something’s coming, something good.

  When selecting a soundtrack for your life, it’s always good to throw a little Sondheim into the mix.

  New business was concluded. I took a deep breath. But before I could make a play for the Bailey Falls pitch, Dan looked straight at Didn’t Check His Email Over the Weekend and said, “Hey, Edward, how’d you like to work on the Bailey Falls pitch?”

  I fumed.

  I was still fuming when Intern Rob came through the door with hot coffee and I burned the back of my throat downing my venti double with three extra shots.

  Ouch.

  Throat crackly, I stormed down the hall to Dan’s office, practically dragging Edward by the collar. He knew better than to protest.

  “Dan. What the hell?”

  “You’re asking that question? I’m not the one who’s trying to hang Edward up like a trench coat. And stop doing that, by the way,” he said, sitting down behind his desk with a curious look in his eyes. No doubt wondering why his usually easy-breezy employee was foaming at the mouth over something like—

  “Bailey Falls?” I asked, settling Edward into a chair and beginning to pace in front of Dan’s desk. Edward just looked relieved to be off his feet. “You gave junior here that account without even asking if anyone else was interested. When did that become standard practice?” I gave Edward the side-eye. “No offense.”

  “None taken?” he said.

  “It’s not standard practice, but I decided to switch things up a bit. I knew Edward here would never step up to the plate unless I put the bat in his hand. No offense, Edward.”

  “None—”

  “None taken, we know,” I interrupted, resisting the urge to pat him on
the head.

  “Besides, why in the world would you be interested in working on a campaign like this anyway? It’s not your usual kind of job,” Dan continued, like Edward wasn’t even there. “What’s in this for you?”

  Orgasms. Endless orgasms. Brought forth into the world by a man who used his mouth and lips and tongue for something way more important than hooking up silly words and phrases and clauses. But not the kind of thing you could explain to your boss, and expect to keep your job . . .

  “What’s always in it for me, Dan. A chance to create something truly incredible, to elevate, to illuminate, to take something no one is talking about, and make it the thing that everyone is talking about.”

  Edward applauded. I smiled graciously. Dan was having none of it.

  “I have no idea what’s actually going on here, but I’m not buying any of it. You realize where Bailey Falls is, right?”

  I blinked innocently. “Hudson River Valley, upstate.”

  “In the country.”

  “Yes.” I blinked innocently.

  “Natalie.”

  “Yes, Dan.”

  “You once commuted three hours a day when working on a job in Paramus because you refused to, and I quote, “sleep in this godforsaken state.”

  “Well that’s entirely different,” I stated matter-of-factly.

  “Why is that different?” he asked.

  “That was New Jersey,” I said just as matter-of-factly. Dan groaned and buried his head in his hands, scrubbing at his face. “Look, Dan, before you go working yourself over here, this isn’t such a big deal. It’s something new, something different, and aren’t you always saying it would do me good to get off my island occasionally?”

  “You have an island?” Edward asked, looking impressed.

  “I do, you’re sitting on it right now,” I replied, no longer resisting the patting-on-the-head urge. I looked at Dan as if to say, See, this is exactly the reason you need me on this job.