by JoAnn Durgin
The twosome closely resembled one another, but they also shared an ease of familiarity and camaraderie. Not only were they siblings, these two were close friends. That thought brought a quick, unexpected rise of envy. His dinner companions were engaged in an animated, ongoing political discussion while he half listened. Amy and Mitch were now huddled close, exchanging a more serious, involved dialogue.
When he’d met Mitch three weeks ago at a Knicks game, he’d immediately liked him. Waiting in the concessions line next to each other, he’d made a random comment about coming straight from work, still dressed in his suit pants and dress shirt. When Mitch introduced himself, something about him seemed oddly familiar. Listening to the cadence of the man’s voice and observing his mannerisms, it took him a few minutes to understand the reason. “Sorry for staring,” Landon finally said, “but you look and sound an awful lot like Eric Carlisle, the movie actor. Anyone ever tell you that?”
Mitch chuckled. “All the time. My mom happens to be Eric’s daughter. Live theater was actually his first love. After twenty years in Hollywood, he traded it all in for Broadway and meatier character roles. Grandpa earned a shelf of Tony Awards and performed up until the night before he died. Not many of us have that luxury, but he knew how blessed he was.”
Family loyalty was getting harder to come by these days, and—after hearing Mitch’s appreciation for his famous grandfather—he liked him even more. They’d discussed New York sports teams and the stock market and, for once, he didn’t grumble about the wait to buy a soft pretzel and a beer. After exchanging business cards, they parted ways but met again when a mutual Wall Street acquaintance had invited them both to the same charity event.
Mitch caught his attention when he mentioned his sister Amy worked for Juliet Hargrove at Habits. Juliet had never been fond of him—a sentiment he returned—but they shared a healthy respect for one another. Still, every time he ran into the Habits senior editor, she never failed to get in a dig about the whole Lenora Granaud debacle, an unfortunate miscommunication. Juliet would hate him if he “stole” another one of her promising staffers. She’d also never forgiven his unfortunate remark claiming her magazine sounded like the preferred reading material of high-end drug dealers. He’d checked out the latest issue of Habits and read Amy’s article about a current art restoration project at The Met. The best editors were usually writers-at-heart, and her writing voice was engaging and intelligent with a hint of playfulness to make the driest subject fascinating. Much like the woman herself, from all appearances.
Lord, let me meet Amy tonight and I’ll owe you a lifetime of Sundays.
~~**~~
“You look like you could use a good meal,” Mitch said.
Amy hid her smile. Payback for the Felicity comment, although he couldn’t know how it secretly thrilled her. “You’d understand if you had to squeeze into a skinny bridesmaid’s dress in less than two weeks.”
He chuckled. “That statement’s wrong on so many levels. The TeamWork wedding, right? Ken and Barbie?”
Balling her damp napkin, Amy tossed it at him. “Stop that. Kevin and Rebekah. You know better than to insult my TeamWork friends.”
“I’m sure they’re all wonderful people and not a snob in the bunch,” Mitch said, draining his second glass of club soda—or was it his third?
“One of these days you’ll meet them and find out for yourself.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” His attention riveted to the hostess—this one tall and blonde, lithe and cat-eyed—as she stepped into the bar and purred Mitch’s name.
Please. No woman’s natural voice sounded that deep and sultry. Amy tried not to roll her eyes as she caught the gleam in his eye. Are men really that gullible? Retrieving a couple of dollars from her purse, she left them on the bar. “Come on, Mitch the Itch. Our table’s finally ready.”
“I’m right behind you.” He smirked and replaced her money before pushing the bills back in her hand. She half expected it and knew not to protest, especially since his job paid five times more than hers.
As they threaded their way among the tables, Mitch flirted with the Nordic-looking hostess, no doubt intent on collecting a new phone number before evening’s end. Whatever he said brought a rush of color to the woman’s lovely, fair complexion. Based on his behavior, he must not be as committed to Brad’s widow as she presumed. That observation brought more satisfaction than it should.
“So, what’s happening in the exciting world of magazine publishing this week?” Waiting by her chair, Mitch helped her scoot closer to the table. The way he thanked the hostess, you’d think she possessed an advanced degree in the art of menu distribution.
“Apparently I have a new assignment but not a clue what it is.”
“Daydreaming again?” he asked, dropping into the chair opposite her.
“Always, Romeo. I’m thinking of forming a support group.”
He shook his head and made an annoying tsk tsk sound. “Better pay attention or that dream job of yours at Habits will morph into one at Unemployment Weekly. Considering your magazine caters to the upwardly mobile urban professional, it sounds almost . . . seedy.”
“It’s all about publishing a magazine you can’t live without, something you crave because you can’t get enough.” Even as she said the words, Amy cringed, detesting the worldliness of it all.
“Then why not migrate to a magazine with things that matter and you’re passionate about? Life’s too short to waste on anything less than what you really want.”
She tamped down her irritation. You should talk. “It’s not easy to find a job—much less keep one—in publishing these days, and migrating is something birds do. It was a boring meeting, that’s all. If you want the truth, I got distracted making my mental to-do list for the trip to Baton Rouge.”
Mitch looked up from his study of the menu. When he smiled, it eased the lines across his forehead. “Being with your friends at the wedding will give you a chance to relax. You could use the break.”
“That’s what you think. Weddings aren’t relaxing until after the ceremony, and we both got Dad’s strong work ethic, you know.” Her eyes widened. “Here’s a thought: why don’t you come with me? I know it’s late notice, but you can be my date. We’d have fun.” With Mitch as her escort, she’d feel less of a tagalong since most of her TeamWork friends were pairing off these days.
“Sorry. Can’t this time.”
“I’m sure Felicity could spare you for one weekend.”
His eyes met hers over the top of the menu. “I’ll pretend that statement doesn’t make you sound petulant and me a kept man.”
After placing their dinner orders, she gave him a bright smile. “Your turn. Tell me what’s happening on Wall Street. Any new hot stocks or insider trading tips?” She knew he hated it when she posed that particular question in a room crowded with Wall Street types. “Lighten up. It’s not like the stockbroker police are lurking around the corner, waiting to handcuff and haul you off to minimum security prison.”
“Very funny.”
Her lips twitched. “At least if that did happen, you’d finally get some decent rest and improve your puny backhand.”
“Puny nothing. I’ll schedule a match and beat you with one hand behind my back.”
“You’re on.”
Hearing laughter at the next table, Amy peered over his shoulder and locked eyes with . . . . Oh my.
Chapter 3
During a break in the discussion a few minutes later, Landon stole another glance at Amy. Judging by her expression when she looked his way, she recognized him. In a good way. This was one very focused woman, but he liked that about her, along with the genuine smile and the honesty in her expressive face. Even her nervous habit of tucking hair behind one ear was endearing.
Although he wasn’t looking for a serious relationship, a steady companion might be nice. For the last decade—after earning his graduate degree in journalism at Columbia—his sole focus had been on establis
hing his presence in the publishing world and making a success of New York Scene, leaving precious little time for much of a personal life. He knew his mom and Dona meant well, but their increasingly overt suggestions to find a lifetime mate were beginning to needle him. The last year, his social life consisted of charity gigs or perfunctory business dinners. He usually arrived and departed alone, but that didn’t stop the roving photographers from snapping his photo with any available female in close proximity. Those events provided ample opportunity to meet beautiful women, but most were pampered and self-indulgent, focused on snagging a man to maintain their lifestyle. His dry cleaners regularly brought back an envelope along with his clothes—crammed full of notes and phone numbers—none he requested, none he returned. Then there was that inane magazine article naming him as one of New York’s most eligible bachelors. Yeah, right. No thanks.
Perhaps he was getting older and facing his mortality, but faith mattered and he needed a woman who would share that part of his life. While many ladies professed to be “spiritually-enlightened,” their lifestyle didn’t back up their words. Of course, it would help if he’d get back into church on a semi-regular basis again. Time to reassess priorities. The last time he attended a church singles event, he was swarmed by Bible-thumping spinsters who lived with mama, wore sensible shoes and focused their conversation on pets or food preparation. Then there were the overly clingy types who bordered on desperation and tried way too hard. He’d seen Amy’s name on the roster for a few of the TeamWork inner-city projects and he’d made a few discreet inquiries. From what he knew, she was a woman of strong faith and active in a number of Manhattan charities, especially those benefitting children.
You’re working, so act like it. His thoughts brought back to the present, Landon started to ease the magazine into the discussion, presenting the magazine in a way to make his guests believe they’d come up with the idea to advertise, all without bombarding them with numbers and statistics. Advertising revenues were the lifeblood of New York Scene, and now wasn’t the time for humility or reticence. Time to employ his advertising director’s motto: Speak up and talk it up.
A few minutes later, during a momentary lull in the conversation, he kept his eye trained on Mitch, willing the other man to look his way. When he did, Landon quirked a brow and angled his head toward Amy. Mitch’s barely perceptible nod accompanied by a small, knowing smile pleased him. Good thing the guy was sharp and intuitive.
Game on. Let the adventure begin.
~~**~~
“What was that?” Straightening in her chair, Amy forced her attention back to her brother. She hadn’t heard a word he’d said. Worse yet, Mitch knew it.
“Focus please.” Faint irritation laced his tone. “Look, I know stocks and bonds might not be the most exciting vocation to you, but it’s what I do. Rudeness aside, when you ask a question, at least pretend to pay attention.”
“I want to hear all about it and you can tell me in a minute, but this is important.” Leaning across the table, she lowered her voice. “Don’t look now, but Landon Warnick’s at the table right behind us.” Deeply engrossed in their conversation, she hadn’t even noticed him. Celeste often teased her, saying the world could crumble around her and she’d be oblivious.
“Really?” Mitch’s quick intake of breath and feigned shock almost made her laugh. “Who’s that? Some hunky soap opera actor?” He turned in his chair, not being very subtle. “Let me guess: this Warrick person’s the youngest, tallest one, with a bright blue tie and a head of hair most men over thirty would envy? Looks your type, but the real question is, can he keep up with you?”
“Warnick, and don’t be ridiculous. Besides, since when have I ever had a type? Never mind. Don’t answer that. He’s the founder, editor in chief and publisher of New York Scene. The man’s brilliant and he’s written some of the most hard-hitting and insightful articles I’ve ever read.”
Mitch pointed his finger at her. “And there you go. That’s your type since you’re a card-carrying literary geek. You sound like the guy’s PR person with that little spiel. Let me guess—he writes thought-provoking articles about things that matter?”
He could read her so well and understood her better than anyone. “Exactly. From what I know, he’s as ethical as they come, at least in his professional life.” The man’s photo graced the society pages on a semi-regular basis, always with a gorgeous woman nearby. She’d also seen a recent magazine cover article naming him as one of New York’s most eligible bachelors. Ah, well, no point in dwelling on the man’s personal life.
“Then it sounds like you definitely need to meet Mr. Publisher. Give me a minute, and I’ll be happy to arrange something.” Mitch started to his feet, but dropped back into his chair when she gripped his arm and stared him down. “Humor me, Amy. It’s the least I can do for my little sister. Actually, it’ll do us both good.”
“I’ll ‘little’ you.” She leaned slightly to the left to gain a better vantage point. “Have you been working out? You seem . . . broader, not to mention I detect solid muscle.”
Male pride creased Mitch’s lips and relaxed his features. Better. “Thanks for noticing. I’ve been working out some and all the work at Felic—” He stopped and grunted. “I’m encouraged by the fact you seem interested in this guy. Here’s a thought: how about I ask Lover Boy Marco to mix a getting-to-know-you drink and have it delivered to Mr. Warnick’s table compliments of the lovely young journalist the next table over?”
Amy pinned him with a warning look. “Not on your life, and please don’t tell me you’re insinuating the man drinks.”
“No,” he said slowly, as though addressing a child. “I’m suggesting we get Marco to whip up some kind of love potion.” He chuckled. “Since this guy shares your passion for words, it’d be a marriage made in Heaven. I can see it now: the two of you sitting across the breakfast counter—glasses perched on your respective literary noses—writing or editing away, sharing granola with fruit, anecdotes and bemused smiles. If you eventually get around to having a little Warnick, the uncommonly verbal tyke would be babbling away in a nearby port-a-crib while classical music plays in the background.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “I didn’t know there was such a thing as a ‘literary nose,’ and now who sounds like a snob?”
“Look, it’s obvious you’d like an introduction to this Warnick guy. Being such a powerful force in the publishing world, maybe he’s exactly the man to contain your sarcasm. Or at least match it word-for-word. You two could sit around and challenge one another. Indulge in lots of . . . I don’t know . . . word pl—”
“Watch it.” Amy narrowed her eyes.
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “If this guy’s ethical, then I’m sure he’s not disingen—what was that word again?”
“The word is insincere, Mitch. Still, the idea’s not totally without merit. The man’s a master with words.” From a few feet away, she could tell Landon’s eyes were as blue as some of the ladies at her magazine said. She’d heard the talk in the lunch room . . . and the rumors. Still, she knew better than to listen to idle gossip. If the man got around town as much as purported, he’d never have time to sleep or helm such a high-quality publication. Perhaps Mitch was right. Not that she was interested in pursuing anything serious or long-term, but a few hours spent in this man’s company would be time well-served.
“Okay, that’s it.” Tossing his napkin on the table, Mitch started to scoot back in his chair. “If you want an invitation to the prom, Amy, allow me to arrange it. Sit back, relax, be quiet, listen and let me take care of you.”
She grasped his arm again, squeezing tight. “Stay in your chair. It’s not like I can waltz over there and ask out a man like that, especially when he’s with dinner companions. Not that I’d want to. It enables the masculinity of a man to let him do the asking, the seeking, the pursuing, the wooing.”
“Where’d you get that? Some kind of mid-century finishing school handbook? I think he�
��d probably welcome the interruption from his dinner with the stuffed shirts over there. Besides, you’re a whole lot prettier.” Mitch took a sip of his water. Lowering his glass, his eyes lit. “Here’s an idea: why don’t you invite Mr. Publisher to Bible study tomorrow night? That could be your opening line. I doubt he’s heard that one before.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to take this.” He rose from his chair. “I’ll be back in a few.”
“Give Felicity my regards,” she called after him. Not surprisingly, he didn’t acknowledge the comment.
Settling back in her chair, Amy nodded at a couple of copyeditors and a photographer she’d met at a holiday party last year. Servers moved among the tables with deft skill, carrying steaming plates of food. Her eyes gravitated to Landon. An animated conversationalist, he moved his hands a lot. She would have imagined him to be more serious, but the sound of his laughter was rich and hearty without being overbearing or annoying. A nearby acquaintance caught her eye and raised his glass in a salute. After returning the gesture, she retrieved her cell phone again to occupy her time and keep her eyes away from the man the next table over.
A few minutes later, Mitch returned to his chair. His brows rose when she shifted to the right. “Maybe I should move? Heaven forbid I should block your view.”
Amy shrugged, feigning nonchalance, knowing her brother could see straight through her act. “Your prerogative. How’s Felicity?” She bit her tongue not to ask for the woman’s list of current needs.
“Sends you her best regards.”
To her relief, Mitch launched into a story about his latest work adventures while they waited for their dinners. He always managed the impossible: making the stock market enthralling. Her heart swelled when she heard him laugh. Amy told him about her latest conversation with Celeste, and they discussed plans to visit their mom in Pennsylvania for Christmas. Mitch asked for gift ideas and she did the same. As usual, he said he didn’t need anything and not to bother. Maybe she could ask Felicity. As long as the widow didn’t suggest power tools, they might be valid ideas.
