Serendipity

by Fern Michaels

  “Tomorrow morning I want you to call New York and find out if there are any plastic surgeons who will agree to an interview and if they have a patient who will agree to . . . you know, go public. It will be good press for the doctor, and we can even pay for the surgery. What do you think, Patsy?”

  “My mom!” Patsy squealed. “My mom would do it She hates the bags under her eyes and her double chin. Jeez, wait till I tell her!”

  “Now that’s a thought, Patsy. Tell her to come in tomorrow and we can talk. Around noon. You can go home if you want, Patsy. I’m going to stay on for a while. Since we don’t have an assignment editor as yet, I’m going to see what I can come up with. also want to call my old boss in Florida and ask him some questions. He might be able to get me some leads on top-notch professional writers willing to jump ship or at least freelance.”

  “I’ll stay,” Patsy volunteered. “Mom keeps dinner warm for me. I can get a head start on transcribing all these notes I took.”

  “I’m scared, Patsy. What if I’m wrong, what if I have to go back to Mrs. Landers and tell her this is all a pipe dream and it won’t work? She’s counting on me. Why she has all this faith in me is something I’ll never understand. I believe in what I’m trying to do, but what if it isn’t enough?”

  “Then,” Patsy said, “you memorize that little ditty under the glass on your desk.” Her dark eyes danced merrily as she pointed one long-tipped nail at the white square of paper Justine had left behind.

  In the end, vision, drive, energy, singleness of purpose, wise use of resources, and a commitment to a destiny worthy of his efforts become a character of a chieftain who excels.

  —Attila the Hun

  Jory giggled as she read the words aloud. “Actually, Patsy, I think I like the one pasted on the door just as much as I like this one. Listen to this and give me your opinion: ‘There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain of its success than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things.’ . . . Niccolo Machiavelli wrote that.

  “Let’s do this. Tomorrow I want you to take both of these . . . whatever they are, to a photo studio and have them blown up to the size of, say, Justine’s picture, order one of each for every room in this building. I want them framed and hung side by side. If they were good enough for Justine to go by, then they’re good enough for me.”

  Fresh out of Kathryn Gibbs, Patsy did her best to look and act professional, but sometimes, like now, Miss Ryan just made her want to giggle. Imagine hanging a quote from Attila the Hun in every room in the office. Miss Gibbs would surely faint if she ever saw such a thing.

  Jory joined in the giggling and clapped her hands gleefully. “That should give them all something to think about. And wait until they find out whose picture is going on the first cover. No name, just the picture. I’m going to need a photographer who really knows his business to enlarge and reproduce a picture I have of Justine drying dishes in my kitchen.”

  “What if your staff disapproves?” Patsy asked.

  Jory shrugged. “I’m in control. I owe it to Justine, and she’s absolutely perfect for the first issue. People are still wondering where she is and why she folded TIF. I’m going to go ahead with it until someone can convince me it’s a mistake.”

  “Oh, I’m really going to like working here,” Patsy said, laughing.

  “And I’m going to like having you. All those others . . . I saw the way they looked at me. Who am I? Where did I get all this money and the nerve, the gall, to think I can pull something like this off? Ha. They should all have known Justine Landers.”

  “Can I get you some coffee or a soft drink, Miss Ryan?”

  She’s nice, Jory thought as she congratulated herself on picking Patsy from the five interviewees the Gibbs school had sent a week ago. She’d been so anxious, afraid to stand straight because she was almost six feet tall in flat-heeled shoes. She was incredibly thin, with an eighteen-inch waist and legs like matchsticks. Jory had seen past the thinness, the awkwardness of the young woman’s first job interview. Jory had liked the way she spoke of her family, of putting herself through the Gibbs school. She’d made the decision to hire her the moment Patsy confided that she’d heard the other girls talking in class, saying she’d be the last one to be placed because she was tall and gawky. She’d showed spunk when she said, “If you turn me down for this job, is it because I’m too tall or because I can’t type or take dictation fast enough?” Jory had hired her on the spot.

  “Where did you get those dimples?” Jory asked now, grinning.

  “From the same place I got these chipmunk cheeks, my dad. My mom is thin like me, but my dad is kind of round. My brothers are built like him too. It’s awful to be so tall. I probably wouldn’t mind so much if I wasn’t flat-chested. My mother builds up the . . . you know. I’ll get right on this, Miss Ryan,” Patsy said, backing out the door.

  “Olive Oyl,” Jory muttered to herself when the door closed behind Patsy. “It’s those damn sausage curls she wears.” Maybe she could find a tactful way to get Patsy a new hairstyle more in keeping with the times. God, that was it, a makeover for an article. A good hairstylist. A cosmetician could do wonders for Patsy. Providing she was amenable to it.

  Jory kicked off her shoes and fired up a cigarette. She blew a perfect smoke ring before she leaped up from her chair, her clenched fist shooting upward. This is going to work! Her sudden display of emotion made her weak in the knees. She sat down. Justine’s words rang in her ears. Publish a magazine for old broads like me, follow my plan and I’ll put up the money. You’ll have carte blanche. No one to answer to but yourself. Go on your instincts and you’ll make as much money as I did with TIF, and at the same time you’ll be filling a void out there for older women.

  God, she had so many ideas. The cigarette was a stub now. Jory put it out and lit a second one. A fast-paced article on the empty-nest syndrome. All she had to do was find a woman whose youngest child left for college. The stay-at-home woman. Housewife. Gray hair, wrinkles. The list was endless. Ordinary people with a sprinkling of celebrity. Divorce . . . what it’s like for the woman? Welfare mothers . . . What happens to a widow when her husband dies?

  How does she manage? Can she manage her affairs?

  Five minutes later she was speaking to her old boss in Florida. “The best, Sy, I need the best. Preferably women. Of course I have a pencil. Paper too. Yes, it will work, don’t sell me short. I won the Irish Sweepstakes,” she lied. “We’re going with six issues the first year. Hopefully we can go monthly the second year. Okay, I’m ready.” She scribbled furiously. Several minutes later she said, “Thanks, Sy. I’ll airmail you a copy of our first issue. The cover? Oh, you bet I have one in mind. Does Macy’s tell Gimbel’s? Thanks again.”

  Jory clapped her hands gleefully. She took a deep breath before she placed her next call. Lillian Masters, feature writer for Redbook. The moment she finished identifying herself and explaining what she was about, Jory squelched the fear building in her stomach and said, “I’d like to put you on the payroll, not on a freelance basis. You’ll have an expense account. You don’t write for anyone but Serendipity. Call me in the morning and give me your answer.” She doodled as Lillian posed several questions. She answered them as she added and subtracted. Money was literally flying out the window. Another call to Justine was in order.

  By evening’s end she felt confident that Lillian Masters and Russell Clark would be added to her payroll. She signed on three freelance writers at fifty cents a word. She knew it was an outrageous sum because the writers hadn’t been able to stifle their gasps of surprise. Don’t be afraid to pay for the best.

  “It sounds like you’re off and running, in the right direction,” Justine said, chuckling from across the world. “Whatever it takes, you do. Marjory, it’s in your blood now. Make me proud of you. No doubts now. One piece of advice, my dear. Don’t become friendly with any of your people. Patsy and Clarence are different. You’re
the boss, don’t ever let them forget it. You pull rank every single day. And for God’s sake, don’t worry about Russell Clark being a homosexual. He’s a wonderful writer. He’ll never let you down, and his style is unequaled. Now, if you can just get Bella Ingram, I think you’ll have your ducks in a row. There isn’t anything she doesn’t know about banking and investments. I approached her once to talk about my own investments. She didn’t like my brand of publishing, but as two older woman, we hit it off. She’s the reason I was able to make the move. There isn’t anything she doesn’t know about investments, trusts, etcetera. She’s one of the very few who’ve made it in this man’s world. Call her and set up an appointment. Don’t bring my name into it unless she balks. Pay her whatever she wants. She’s worth it.”

  “Justine,” Jory said uneasily, “the money is flowing out of here in a stream.”

  “That’s my problem, Marjory. We agreed to all this before I left. Finance is my problem. Look at it this way, if we have to, we’ll mortgage the building. You can do that, you know. It’s time for you to go home. Tomorrow is another day. Keep in touch.”

  “Don’t worry about finances,” Jory muttered to the dogs as she gathered up their leashes.

  “Patsy! I thought you left an hour ago! Come on, cover your typewriter and I’ll give you a ride home. It’s eleven o’clock. I haven’t had any dinner, and I know you haven’t either. From now on if we work late, order dinner. We can’t have this. First thing you know we’ll get run-down and then we’ll get sick. God, I’m tired. You must be exhausted. Now, Patsy!”

  Jory described herself to Justine and Patsy in the weeks and months to come as an accident waiting to happen. There was no doubt in the staffs mind as to who was in control, and Jory exercised that control to the limit. Her blue pencil came to be known as a weapon and was aimed at anyone who didn’t do things her way.

  On a blustery winter day in November, Jory entered the offices to see a homemade sign that read, RYAN IS A DICTATOR. “It was here when I got here,” Patsy bleated. “I was going to take it down, but decided you better see it. Someone is unhappy.”

  “Really,” Jory said through clenched teeth. “It’s probably the same person who sicced the Times on me.” She tossed a copy of the paper onto Patsy’s desk. “It’s on the first page of the second section. Read it and weep. Is the coffee on?”

  “I’ll bring it in, Miss Ryan. You have several messages. I left them on your desk. It’s not eight o’clock, and the phone’s been ringing off the hook. Now, I know why,” she said, her eyes raking the Times article.

  “Close the door, Patsy. Who took this picture of me and the dogs? Do you know?” Patsy shook her head. “Who do you think told this Times reporter all this . . . garbage?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Ryan. Everyone has been grumbling and complaining about you. I’m sorry. They say you’re running amuck, that you’re out of control. They say you’re going to ruin this endeavor before it gets off the ground. The worst thing they say is that you’re like . . . they said it must be the building or something, you know . . . a bitch like Mrs. Landers.”

  “They said that? For God’s sake, why?” Jory gulped at her coffee. “See if everyone is here, Patsy. If they are, go in the hall, blow that whistle we use for the dogs, and tell everyone to assemble in the conference room. So I don’t know my ass from my elbow, huh?”

  “Oh, I know who said that, Miss Ryan. It was Brian Andrews. He says that almost every day.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Jeez, I’m sorry, Miss Ryan. I kind of thought it was one of those inside office jokes and you knew about it. I guess that means we know who gave the information to the Times, huh?”

  Jory looked down at the dogs, her eyes misty with tears. “I guess this is how Justine must have felt when everyone turned against her. I wasn’t wrong. I know what I want, what Justine wants, and what they’ve been giving me isn’t it. All I did was make it better. Dictator my foot. This is my magazine. I have creative control and editorial control. They all knew that from the beginning. Now, when we’re ready to go with the prototype, they pull this. My God, what they must be saying behind my back. Well, gentlemen,” she said to the dogs, “I don’t care what they’re saying. I can finish this myself if I have to. But by God, I’m not giving up without a fight. And I’m not calling Justine either.”

  The dogs watched her with unblinking intensity, their tails swishing furiously. The moment the whistle blew, they ran for the door.

  “Everyone is in the conference room, Miss Ryan. Clarence is serving coffee. I’m ready if you are,” Patsy said coolly.

  “There won’t be time for coffee, Patsy,” Jory said, falling into step, the Times under her arm.

  How innocent they look, Jory thought. But then betrayal always looked innocent in the beginning. The dogs barked as they raced up and down the room chasing one another, something they’d never done before. She issued a sharp command. The dogs quieted immediately.

  Her heart thumping madly, Jory took her time looking at each member of her staff before she spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to show you all something.” She pushed her chair back against the wall, turning slightly. She raised her skirt and pulled down her panties. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is my ass.” She turned again and pushed up the sleeve of her blouse. “This is my elbow. You’re all fired with the exception of Russell Clark and Bella Ingram. You can pick up your checks at the close of business today. You have exactly ten minutes to gather your things and clear the premises.”

  Back in her office, Jory collapsed into her chair. There was an angry knot in her throat. She would not cry. Her heart was beating so fast she thought it would leap into her throat, fight with the knot and strangle her. She looked up to see Clarence, Russell, and Patsy. Clarence held up a bottle of brandy. Russell made a low sweeping bow, and Patsy giggled.

  “Mrs. Landers would have loved that performance,” Clarence said, pouring brandy into three water glasses.

  Jory snorted. “She would have, wouldn’t she? I can’t believe I did that!”

  Russell chuckled. “They couldn’t believe it either. Why did you single me out?” he asked curiously.

  “Because you love words the way I do. You’re the only one who really understands what it is I’m trying to do here. If I told them once I told them a hundred times, I didn’t want them to use the words ‘mature’ or ‘older woman.’ One of them used the word ‘ripe.’ Now I ask you! You and Bella are the only ones who are staying. Provided you want to stay. Do you, Russell?”

  “Hell yes! I like it here. I feel like I’ve found a home. I like what you’re trying to do, and I think you’re going to pull it off. So count me in.”

  Patsy giggled. “Me too.”

  “I’m here for the long haul,” Clarence said, filling the three glasses again.

  It was a miserable, wet, gray day in February when Jory, Patsy and Clarence at her side, entered the printer’s offices to view the prototype for the first time.

  “Ohhh. I love this smell,” Jory said in a shaky voice that matched the shaking in her legs. “God, I can’t wait to see it! I have to see it, Herb, I can’t wait another minute. Did it come out okay? Is it first-class? Does it shout at you? Will women back up, take a second look and buy it? Oh God, oh God. You look at it first, Patsy. . . . Well?” she said hoarsely.

  “Oh, my goodness, it’s . . . it’s . . .”

  “Stupendous,” Clarence said gruffly.

  “You got a first-rate magazine here, Miss Ryan,” Herb said blandly.

  “Oh, my God!” Jory said, holding the magazine up in front of her. “This is . . . this is . . . about as perfect as you can get. Doesn’t Mrs. Landers look . . . normal? Look at those wrinkles. That’s my dish towel and plate she’s holding. Oh God, oh God, and it’s mine. I did it. I really did it. I think I’m going to faint. . . .”

  “My mother is gonna love this,” Patsy shouted, to be heard over Jory’s and Clarence’s jabbering.

  “Clarence, stick this first copy
off the press into an envelope and take it to the airport. Make arrangements to have it hand delivered to Justine the moment the plane lands. Take the money out of petty cash in my desk. She’s going to . . . to like it, won’t she, Clarence?” Jory said anxiously.

  “I think you’ll hear her all the way over here,” Clarence said, tongue-in-cheek. “Sometime I want you to tell me how you managed to keep it a secret from her.”

  “I just told her Patsy’s mother was going on the cover. She thought it was a good idea. I figure she’ll be rip-snortin’ mad for about five minutes, then she’ll laugh her head off. My God, it’s gorgeous. Now all we have to do is sell it.”

  “It’s gonna sell, Miss Ryan. Trust me.” Patsy grinned. “I’m buying three copies myself.”

  Jory giggled. “I’m buying a dozen.”

  Clarence chuckled. “Put me down for three.”

  “See, we’re in business,” Jory said, picking up a stack of magazines to take back to the office.

  On the long walk back, Jory said to Patsy, “I didn’t think we’d do it. When I fired the staff, I thought for sure I would go down the drain. By God, it was the best thing I ever did. Who needs those . . . those . . . what are they, Patsy?”

  “Nonbelievers,” Patsy volunteered.

  “Right, nonbelievers. Our new staff is working out well. I think we should throw some kind of party to show our appreciation. Let’s do it two weeks from Saturday. Make up a list, Patsy, all those nonbelievers from the Times and every other magazine that took potshots at me. The magazine will be out, the reviews will be in, and we’ll know if we’re selling. Engraved invitations. Call Herb. We’ll cover the affair and do an article in the next issue. Comments and all.