Who Do You Love?

by J. M. Bronston

  “Oh, Warren.” Beyond those two words, Gena was speechless. She knew how much this vote of confidence meant to Warren, and she was truly delighted for him.

  “It might even mean a new title,” Warren added.

  “Jesus, that’s great. Congratulations, Warren.” Dan lifted his glass. “Here’s to New York’s next billionaire. We wish you lots of luck.” The others joined in, lifting their glasses and drinking to him.

  Wordlessly, Gena let her eyes meet his and signaled I’m so glad for you. And Warren’s smile let her know he got her message. He was basking in this moment.

  The rest of the dinner was devoted to Warren, his current success, and his future in the world of investment banking. And Gena was okay with letting him have the limelight. There’d been too much talk about her, and she knew Warren was happier when all eyes were on him.

  She said no more about the dog. And she didn’t mention anything more about the interview with Romy deVere in Connecticut. That could wait. And anyway, she needed more time to think about Romy.

  But all through dinner, she realized something every dog owner knows: If you own a dog, you are no longer a totally free person. In a restaurant, at the theater, in church, wherever you may be, you know there’s someone at home, someone who not only misses you, but also needs you.

  Wiley needed to be walked!

  And so Gena realized, as they were all examining the dessert menu and making their choices, that she couldn’t just hang out at Galba’s for as long as she might like, for as long as they usually did, for as long as it suited Warren to go on talking about his wonderful new opportunities. While the two men ordered chocolate cake with ice cream—as they always did—and Viv agonized over the diet-friendly bowl of fresh berries or her favorite, the spumoni, Gena was looking at her watch and thinking, I don’t even know if Wiley’s housebroken. I hope he’s all right. I hope he can wait till I get back. Should I just leave without Warren? Not a good idea—he’s already not happy about my having Wiley.

  She decided to say nothing; she’d stay to have coffee and dessert, and then as soon and as tactfully as possible, plead fatigue or a headache and get Warren to leave.

  She opened the menu and scanned the desserts. Poor Gena, she was afflicted with a metabolism that burned up calories faster than she could consume them. As hard as she pushed the carbs, as much as she ate ice cream by the carton, as dutifully as she chose the richest desserts, and every night (ever since childhood) drank a bedtime glass of warm milk with a couple of Oreo cookies, she remained reed-slim. While other women suffered with their extra pounds and the ups and downs of diet successes and failures, spending fortunes on spas and gyms and yoga classes and Pilates sessions, trying, trying so hard! to slim themselves down, Gena longed for voluptuous curves. Or at least a small amount of body fat she could pinch between her thumb and forefinger. And she did not believe, not even for a minute, that the many women who told her they envied her slim figure really meant it. How could they? How could anyone envy a girl who felt like a beanpole, like a gangly whooping crane, like a giraffe girl, like a stick figure walking around on stilts—all the teasing names she’d heard since childhood—a girl who tried so hard, with pleated skirts and horizontal stripes and big, bulky coats, to make herself look less awkward, less stringy, less sharp-edged.

  Viv, her friend since sixth grade, always understood. She didn’t torment her by doing the usual reassuring and cheering-up that most women offered when she vented about her looks. Viv knew that it was a rare woman who liked what she saw in the mirror, and if her friend really felt like a lanky scarecrow, the magical formula had not yet been invented that would convince her that she was just fine. The best she could say about any woman’s preoccupation with her weight was: “It’s like the stock market. It goes up. It goes down. And nobody knows why.”

  So Gena studied the menu and ordered the tiramisu with extra crème fraîche, and when the desserts arrived at the table, she was willing also to take a taste of Viv’s spumoni and Warren’s chocolate cake.

  Warren had had another martini, so he was feeling really good as they walked back to their place. Alfie was on, and Warren gave him a big hello. There was no one in the elevator and as soon as the door closed, he got Gena into his arms, ignoring the not-so-concealed security camera up in the corner that Gena was pointing to. “So what,” he said. “Let him look. Can’t a guy kiss his girl when he’s got something really big to celebrate? When the whole world is his oyster and he’s feeling ready to take it on?”

  He was still kissing her when the elevator door opened at the forty-first floor.

  And still as he fumbled for his key, got it into the lock, and got the door open.

  And would still have been kissing her as they got into the apartment if it weren’t for the barking and carrying-on that started up around their feet.

  “God-damn!”

  Warren was not a man to kick a dog, but if ever in his life he came close, this was the moment.

  “I’ll take him out,” Gena said quickly. She scooped Wiley up off the floor and into her arms. She whispered into Wiley’s ear, “Shh. Shh, Wiley,” as she put on his leash. “You and Warren are going to have to get along, or you won’t be able to stay.”

  Wiley was quiet in her arms, but over her shoulder he and Warren glared at each other, and each one’s expression was clear: I’ve got my eye on you!

  And later that night, Warren made it clear that Wiley was not welcome in the bedroom. “That dog is not coming in here with us,” he announced. And under his breath, as he shut Wiley out, he muttered, “So now I’m supposed to close the door to my own bedroom, in my own home?”

  Chapter Six

  Another beautiful day. Gena didn’t want to wake Warren so she got out of bed quietly, dressed quietly, and quietly got Wiley’s leash on him. They made it into the elevator without making a sound. Out on the street, New York was in its early Sunday morning gentleness, its streets silent and empty and all the shops not yet open. In the park, the morning sun, just coming up over the East River, lighted up the tops of the trees, turning them all golden.

  Early morning runners were out and a few bicycle riders, along with other dog owners, who gave brief nods to each other, all moving at that easy, contemplative, Sunday morning pace that accommodates a dog’s interest in sniffing his or her way along their path, when there’s no rush to get to the office and the only thing waiting at home is bagels and cream cheese and the New York Times.

  Gena took her time getting back to the apartment, where she found a note from Warren:

  Had a call from the office. Something’s come up. And I’m going to play tennis. Don’t be lonely. (You and that mutt can spend the day together.) Home by dinner.

  ☺

  She wasn’t sorry. Her head was buzzing with ideas, and a few quiet hours would be a good thing. She put fresh water into Wiley’s bowl and added a cup of kibble to the crumbs that were left from yesterday. Then she brewed up some coffee, scrambled a couple of eggs, added two sausage links and some toast with lots of butter, and put a doughnut she’d picked up at the corner bakery onto a separate plate. At the breakfast island in the kitchen, she laid out her plates and put a yellow legal pad and a pen next to them. And as she ate, she worked on her agenda for Monday:

  1. Call Viv. Meet with Harriet van Siclen? Contact info?

  (Learn more about this breed)

  2. Pitch something to Marge about a New York dogs story.

  Rich dogs/poor dogs? Lifestyles

  Westminster Kennel Club—dog show. (When?)

  Dog fashion, accessories, costs (range? fancy—plain)

  Costs, generally.

  Laws?

  Homeless?

  Compare—city dogs, suburban, country?

  Do city dogs suffer, confined to apartments? (Really?)

  She looked at Wiley, who was curled up on the pillow she�
��d put in the corner for him.

  “Are you suffering?” she asked him. Wiley opened an eye, acknowledged her question, dismissed it, and went back to sleep.

  When she was a kid, her dad wouldn’t let her have a dog. Besides being allergic, he insisted it was wrong to keep a dog shut up in a confined space, allowed out only for walks, and only on the owner’s schedule. And her mom was sure every dog was out to get her. So there was no question about it—there would be no pets in her home. Until this morning, she’d never even thought about it. But now?

  Now there really was no question about it.

  She looked at her funny little dog, with his random tufts of hair, his long, long legs, and his utterly improbably skinny little self, and she realized the truth:

  She’d fallen in love. She and Wiley were kindred spirits. Fate—or something—had brought them together.

  Warren could object all he wanted. He and Wiley would have to learn to get along, because this was her dog and she was now totally committed to him.

  And then she turned to item number three on her list:

  3. Romy deVere

  There’s something there????

  Need to get into the archives. First thing on Monday!!!

  Chapter Seven

  She absolutely loved working at Lady Fair. Each time she entered the building, she felt the same magic when the elevator doors opened up onto the thirty-sixth floor. Everything about the Lady Fair offices delighted her, the spare, sleek design of the work spaces, incongruously almost obliterated by the jumbled, overflowing excess of stuff, stuff, and more stuff, from the masses of shoes collected on shelves to the randomly parked racks of dresses and pants and jeans and skirts, the photos tacked up everywhere, thick as wallpaper, the accessories—the belts and gloves and hats—stuffed into fashion niches and crammed into cubbyholes, the curling irons and electric razors pushed under desks and tossed into file cabinets with stacks of papers, articles, works-in-progress, notes, and memos, all piled up precariously on desktops and file cabinets with photos of family members nestled and tilted and jammed up against potted plants and cups full of pencils. Cosmetics flowed in a steady stream from companies eager to get their newest product into Lady Fair. Thick and fast the stuff came, every day, creams and lotions and gels and foams and oils in bright colors and brilliant packaging. Seductive tubes of lipstick and pots of blush and little tubs of concealers and foundations. New perfumes and hair products, enough to dazzle whole villages of beauty-eager women of all ages, from dreamy little girls to hopeful eighty-year-olds, tumbling-over stacks of boxes and elegantly designed and beribboned bags of beauty products perched on every surface, on the “guest” chair, on top of cabinets, on bracketed shelves.

  Four years now, and Gena had not lost the excitement she’d felt from day one, when they took her on only a year out of college, first as an intern and then as a features writer, assistant to the features editor, Dinah Featherington.

  This morning, as she arrived with a Starbucks latte in hand and her big tote bag swinging from her shoulder, she stopped to poke her head in at Annelie Magano’s office. “Nell, honey,” she said. (Annelie was the beauty editor’s given name, but she’d become Nell when she’d entered a first-grade classroom graced with six girls who had Ann-like names.) “Do you have a lipstick or a gloss or something? I was so late this morning, there was no time—”

  “Come on in,” Nell said. She was used to being the go-to person for all cosmetic needs around the office. This was a precious perk of a beauty editor’s job. The massive quantity of free product was hers to use as she pleased—which was mainly to keep her co-workers looking lovely, and to hand out lavishly as gifts to friends and family. Now she did a quick scan of Gena’s outfit, starting at her feet: beige ballet flats, burnt-orange blouson dress, broad brown belt riding low on the hip, all covered with a cropped, cream-colored jacket. Then Nell swiveled her chair around to face the clutter on her desk. There was always something amid the jumble that would be just the thing. She poked through the unruly pile of cosmetics, a pile she kept pushed back just far enough to clear some space for her to work, and fished through the mass of creams and shampoos and body scrubs and bath gels until, as always, she found the right item.

  “This should work,” she said, holding up a sleek black tube. “A new color from Lancôme. Very subtle, should work perfectly.”

  “Thanks a bunch,” Gena said. “This’ll get me through the day.” And she rushed off to her office.

  She kept the reason she was running late this morning to herself.

  Actually, it wasn’t her fault. If Warren hadn’t turned off the alarm, she’d have been up at seven and out by eight. Plenty of time to get properly ready for the day. But the clock said 8:10 when she opened her eyes, and it was the Bloomberg business news blaring from the kitchen that woke her. Warren had already shaved, dressed, and was brewing the coffee when she opened her eyes. He’d have let her sleep all morning.

  “Oh, God!” She sent the duvet flying and ran barefoot to the bathroom. “I won’t even have time to shower. Warren!” she shouted down the hall at him. “How could you?”

  “Take it easy, hon,” he called back from the kitchen. “What’s the big deal? It’s not like it’s the end of the world if you sleep in one morning.”

  She brushed her teeth at top speed and didn’t bother to answer him. She knew what Warren thought of her job, like it didn’t matter if she was late for work. “Fluff stuff for airheads,” he’d called it when she first started working at Lady Fair. “Gena’s doing her bit for the world of lotions and potions,” he’d say to friends. Like he thought it was on a par with babysitting. Or being a school monitor. It was an old issue between them, but it was not the time for an argument, not the time for Warren’s notions. She made a face at herself in the mirror and decided there was no time for makeup.

  “And I need to walk Wiley! Oh, God!”

  She needed to be moving, and fast. With a twist of her long, bright hair into a scraggly bun, with a stick pick to hold it together, she got herself quickly dressed, grabbed her handbag off the doorknob where she always hung it, and snatched her jacket from the chair where she’d last dropped it.

  “Honestly, Warren.”

  “I thought you’d like a few extra Z’s.”

  “You just don’t get it,” she said as she attached the leash to Wiley’s collar.

  And she was out the door.

  * * * *

  She put her Starbucks cup on her desk, pulled her notebooks and her to do list out of the tote bag, and laid them next to the coffee. She slipped out of her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. She was just opening up her computer when the phone on her desk rang.

  “You there?” It was Viv calling.

  “Viv. I was just going to call you.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “The other night, you mentioned a client of yours, Harriet van Siclen. You said she had a Powderpuff Crested. I’m working on a story idea, and she might be a good person to talk to.”

  “What’s the story?”

  “I’m thinking of doing something about New York dogs. How being a dog in New York affects a dog’s life. Just kicking it around at this point. You know, clothes, accessories, high-rise apartment living. No backyards. Rich dogs, poor dogs. Like their owners. Lots of angles.”

  “Sounds like a great idea. I can give her a call and let you know if it’s okay with her. I’ll text you her contact information.”

  “You’re a peach, Viv.”

  “No problem. But I want to hear about your trip to Connecticut. Your interview with Romy deVere? You never got to tell us at dinner.”

  “I wanted to, but Warren was so full of his great news, I just let it go. Maybe we can have lunch or something—”

  But just then the intern, Selma, stuck her head around the corner, signaling for Gena’s attention. Gen
a held up a finger to tell Selma to hold on a minute.

  “Listen, Viv, I’m kind of backed up here right now. Maybe later in the week. We can talk about it then. Lots to tell you.”

  “Okay. Give me a call.”

  “Okay. Bye now.” She hung up and motioned Selma to come in.

  “Morning, Selma. You need me?”

  “Ira Garlen wants to talk to you about the deVere shoot. Soon as you get in, he said. They’re setting up the schedule now.”

  “Right. Thanks, Selma. And we’ll need Nell and her people in on this, too. I’ll let her know, okay?”

  * * * *

  An hour later, when she got back from her meeting with Ira and his staff, there was a voicemail from Viv:

  “Gena, I called Harriet but we were interrupted. I didn’t get a chance to explain why you wanted to talk to her. I could hear someone talking to her and it sounded sort of urgent. She just said, ‘Yes, yes, have her call me. I must go now. Sorry.’ And she hung up. So I guess you can go ahead and contact her. I’m texting her phone number and address to you now. And her dog’s name is Sweetie Pie. But she’s mostly called the Pie. Or just Pie.”