My wife sighed. “This is crazy.”
“Please,” I murmured.
My wife pressed her eyes closed, exhaling sharply.
“Emily,” Nurse said. “Don’t get any ideas. You’d take every dog home if you could.”
She opened her eyes slowly, looking directly at me. “This is different.”
The skin beneath her eyes was shadowed with half-moon bruises as if she had been working around the clock—or been hit. She walked up and took me from Vinny. “Really,” she said so softly that only I heard. “I don’t know why, but Einstein is different.”
Relief soared, making me weak, and for a second I leaned into her with whimpering gratitude. But when I looked back into her sad luminous eyes, my relief shifted and jarred, replaced by frustration. Sure I should have been nothing but grateful. It’s easy to see that now. But in that moment I realized that despite the fact that her life was threatening to fall apart, somehow she still managed to be a warrior who I couldn’t afford to admit was saving me once again.
emily
My mother was a woman with a grand appetite for the possibilities of life, if not the actual living. She was glorious and wild, demanding something from the world that it was never quite willing to give. When I was born she was certain she was a hero to women. In a time when the world didn’t want to change, she fought against complacency. How could you not live in awe of this woman who was my mother?
—EXCERPT FROM My Mother’s Daughter
chapter six
After I took care of the necessary paperwork, I walked out of the clinic with Einstein. I was stiff with shock. What had I been thinking? What in the world was I going to do with a dog? But I hadn’t been able to ignore Blue’s last frantic message that if I didn’t save Einstein, he was going to be put down.
With Einstein at my side, we took a cab to the Dakota. My new dog stood on the seat next to me, his paws on the armrest so he could look out the window. He panted excitedly at the sight of the light brown sandstone and brick building with its high gables and deeply pitched roofs, balustrades and spandrels, the porte cochere archway leading into the inner courtyard and entrance. During the day, the old building looked almost white in the midday sun. But at night, when the hundred-year-old gaslights that lined the property came on, the bricks took on the rich hue of melting caramel.
The doorman opened the cab door.
“Whoa,” Johnny said, stepping back when Einstein rocketed toward him. Thankfully, my new dog thought better of pouncing. E stopped and sat abruptly, then did the smiling thing that was like no other dog I had ever known.
Johnny laughed.
“Mrs. Portman,” the man said, extending his white-gloved hand to help me out. “You got a new friend?”
“You could say that. I adopted him.”
“Really? Hey, buddy.” Johnny leaned down and scratched the dog behind the ears.
“His name is Einstein,” I said.
“A smart one, huh?”
I glanced at the dog. “Smart enough to get me to take him home.”
Einstein led the way through the portico. As New York apartment buildings went the Dakota was on a short list of the most illustrious. The grande dame had seen her share of grief and joy, and had survived, built in a square around a large, open courtyard with two massive fountains and main elevators in all four inner corners. Since it was built in the 1880s, a long line of famous people had lived there. John Lennon was probably the most famous, mostly because it was in the portico that he had been shot. But there was also Judy Garland, Boris Karloff, and Leonard Bernstein—to name a few. A mix of famous, wealthy, and regular people lived there now.
I didn’t care about the famous residents. I loved the Dakota for its old-world elegance, its roots in New York’s past, and for the fact that it had survived over a hundred years of history and heartache.
We took the northeast elevator up, and as soon as it opened Einstein strode out, heading straight for the fine French doors with inset stained glass of my apartment. Just when I thought Einstein was going to stop at the front door, he glanced back at me as if considering, then continued on, sniffing around the large common area, peering down the series of descending stairs to the bottom floor.
“For a second there I thought you knew exactly where I lived. Which is impossible. Right?”
I think he shrugged.
Once I opened the door, he trotted through the vestibule and stopped in the gallery with its intricately laid floor and massive light fixture of frosted glass and ornate metalwork hanging from the fourteen-foot-high ceiling. The gallery led directly into the library with its high, wide windows and rich draperies. To the left of the library, through a massive set of double doors with glass transoms, stood the master bedroom, which in turn circled back through a long hallway to the gallery.
I was seven years old when I first saw the glossy magazine photograph of the Dakota. From the beginning, I loved the building. I suspect it had something to do with the way it looked like the building where Eloise lived. The tale of a little girl with no discernable family who had the run of the Plaza Hotel had been my favorite book when I was growing up.
At eight, when my mother took me with her to the Dakota to visit some man, I was left to my own devices for the bulk of an afternoon. I climbed stairwells and rode elevators, sitting on the elevator’s bench seat like a princess. When the concierge told me that the building had been designed by the same man who designed the Plaza Hotel, my love of the building was solidified. Just as Eloise belonged in the Plaza, I decided I belonged at the Dakota. That Sandy had brought me to this very building as a bride had seemed prophetic.
Einstein stood in the gallery much as I had the first time, absorbing the silence, the thick walls blocking out the city noise.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Einstein jumped as if he had forgotten I was there.
“Sandy loves this place.”
The little dog seemed to sigh.
My throat tightened at the memory of my husband, tears threatening to squeeze over, but I shook them away. I hadn’t cried since the accident. That was how I saw it, an accident, something that could be fixed, undone, made right, like chiseling away broken bathroom tile and replacing it with perfect squares that matched the old. Which was crazy. But I ignored that too.
I headed down the main hall with the things the clinic had given me. “You’ll sleep in here,” I called back. “It’s the kitchen, but it’s a whole lot nicer than the clinic.”
He didn’t follow me. Instead he stayed in the gallery, glancing up the stairway that led to a separate suite of rooms on the floor above. The suite had always been Sandy’s private space, especially in the last few months. I hadn’t ventured up there since the accident.
“What is it, E?”
He raised his muzzle and continued past the stairs, marching down the hall toward the master bedroom.
“Hey!” I called after him. “No way, Einstein. It’s too late for me to figure out how you know so much about this place, but if my motherin-law shows up and finds you on her precious son’s duvet there will be no mercy. I need that like I need a hole in my head.”
I didn’t add that I had been avoiding Sandy’s mother and estate lawyer since the funeral, holding on to some gauzy-brained idea that maybe they would forget the apartment and go away.
Einstein stood at the foot of the huge bed Sandy loved, seeming to debate. With a huff, he turned back and retraced his footsteps down the hall.
When I got over the strangeness, I grabbed three of the fluffiest beach blankets I could find and dashed after him. My new dog had found the kitchen on his own and waited for me with impatience.
After I piled the blankets in the corner, Einstein strode past without so much as a nod, circled twice, and flopped down with an exhausted groan. I put out a bowl of water for him, waiting a second to make sure he was settled. When he didn’t move a muscle, I turned off the light. “Good night, Einstein,” I sai
d. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Strangely, I was.
*
I had taken up residence in the yellow guest room where I had painted the wall border, the drop cloths removed, furniture put back into place, my collection of children’s books returned to the tall shelves. I managed to stay in the numb, unfeeling place during the days by making a plan. Wake up, shower, find clothes, eat. I did everything in order, the same order every day.
But at night … I hated the nights, hated the dream that woke me up screaming, as if my subconscious played a continuous loop of what my conscious mind refused to accept. When I gasped awake, I couldn’t breathe, my eyes burned, and I was unsure how to move forward. Then I would remember the plan. Get up, shower, find clothes, eat, and the day would lurch forward.
I woke the next morning and saw that it was six A.M., not two or three-thirty. With that little dog’s presence, I hadn’t dreamed at all.
Einstein was still asleep in the kitchen when I walked in. As quietly as I could, I put coffee on to brew but the noise woke the dog and he sat up groggily. For a second he looked confused, craning his neck to look at his paws, twitching in surprise. Then he groaned, falling back against the towels as if something about those paws upset him. Which was as odd as it was crazy.
Come on, Em, get a grip, I told myself.
From the pantry I retrieved the dog food the clinic had sent home with us. I shook the small box, but Einstein wouldn’t look at me.
“You’ve got to be starved.”
I shook it again, this time louder. After the third shake, he sighed and got up.
“You’re okay, right?” I bent down to hug him. “Tell me you’re all right.”
Einstein stiffened. He was funny about hugs. Like my husband in the strange months before the accident—and unlike any dog I had ever known—Einstein seemed to be allowing me to hug him rather than enjoying it.
The concierge had given me the name of a dog walker who walked other dogs in the building, and she had agreed to take Einstein out when I was at work. After I managed to settle Einstein with food and water, then forced myself to close the door on his unhappy face, I squeezed myself onto the last car of the C train, grabbing a tiny handhold to keep myself upright among the swaying work-bound bodies of hardcore New Yorkers.
When word had gotten out about Sandy, Charles Tisdale, the president of Caldecote, encouraged me to take some time off. But the last thing I wanted was to be alone. At Fifty-ninth Street–Columbus Circle, I spilled out of the train and walked the two crowded blocks to my office on Broadway. I ran my Caldecote Press badge through the card reader and pushed through the turnstile. Once at my desk I listened to voice mail.
“Hey, Em!” my sister said. “Just wanted to call and see how it’s going. Everything’s great with me … well, everything’s great except my dad’s wife is bad-mouthing me to their kids again. Hello, all I did was bring my little brother and sister presents. Whatever. Anyway, we’ll talk later.”
As usual, Jordan failed to acknowledge the fact that the presents she took her grade-school-aged half siblings were anything but appropriate for anyone under the age of twenty-one.
I threw myself into work. I finished editing a manuscript, wrote jacket copy, attempted to return phone calls I had let pile up. But after no more than a handful of conversations, I stopped. Authors’ and agents’ well-meaning condolences reminded me of soft-boiled eggs, nine-grain bread, and the box of Sandy’s perfectly folded dress shirts from the dry cleaners that I had started wearing to bed.
The morning passed in a blur of keeping busy. As soon as the clock struck noon, I heard Nate Clarkson coming down the hall. While publishing was a collaborative effort, Nate was our company’s publisher and made the final decisions about book scheduling and book positioning for our list. Charles, as president, could overrule Nate’s decisions, but he rarely did, concentrating instead on the overall vision for the company.
It was no surprise when Nate stopped to talk to Victoria Wentworth, another senior editor at Caldecote. Like me, Victoria was in her early thirties. She had pale white skin, long red hair, and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose that tricked you into thinking she was as sweet as she looked.
Even though the president had taken me under his wing when I first signed on at Caldecote, until a year ago I had technically worked for Victoria. We only had one book left that we had worked on together—though together hardly covered it. While Victoria had officially bought the novel, I found Ruth’s Intention in Victoria’s slush pile of unagented submissions. From the first sentences of Ruth, which so beautifully brought to life the small heroic acts of a young mother determined to save her son, I had known it was a book that should be published.
Victoria had never been one to take advice, least of all from me. But I waited for just the right moment to pitch the idea, assuring her that she wouldn’t have to do any of the work. She debated, but eventually gave in.
“Fine, work up an offer, then I’ll get it approved and make the call,” she had said. “But after that, don’t come crawling to me for help.”
While anyone with half a brain steered clear of her, Victoria dazzled our publisher. For once, with several e-mails from the man sitting unanswered in my in-box, this served me well. While Nate was preoccupied with Victoria, it gave me a chance to dash for the elevators and head out for lunch. He might see me, but he wouldn’t be able to recover his wits fast enough to stop me and ask his questions in person.
After signing out of e-mail, I made it past Nate. He sort of jerked in surprise when he saw me, his smile starting to straighten. “Come on,” I muttered under my breath. I might have thrown myself into work, but I was smart enough to know that my brain didn’t have the ability to sort through problems, argue my point, or defend any position. “You can make it.” The exit was in sight, only a couple of feet to the security doors.
“Emily!” he called out. “A minute, please.”
For a second, I debated the wisdom of pretending I hadn’t heard. That seeming ill-advised, I stopped, exhaled.
“I haven’t heard back from you regarding any advance blurbs or reviews you’ve gotten for Ruth’s Intention,” he said.
“Yes, Emily,” Victoria added. “How’s the book going?”
I rummaged around for a smile, only managed a grimace, and said, “I’ve gotten several advance quotes, all raves.”
“Really?” Nate said. “Then why haven’t you let the sales team know about them? Orders are extremely low.”
Victoria looked at our boss with the sort of professional concern she must have practiced in front of the mirror. “Unfortunately, the orders are low because not everyone is raving. I told Emily she never should have bought it.”
No one could blame her for distancing herself from a project that wasn’t going well, especially when it wasn’t her idea to take it on. But since the day I was promoted to senior editor, Victoria had seemed determined to see me take a fall.
“Victoria.” The word sounded strange in my head. “One person in sales read it and loved it. The low orders have nothing to do with what people are or are not saying. The month is jammed with other titles that are getting support. If we could reallocate some money to—”
Nate cut me off. “Get more early blurbs. Tell the author to start a blog. Become someone who Tweets. Something, anything—short of spending money—to get attention.”
Victoria gave me one of those fake concerned smiles, then followed him down the hall.
As soon as I made it to the elevator, my good friend Birdie Baleau came up beside me.
“Hey you,” she said. “How’s it going?”
Birdie was about my height, filled with energy, and close to my age, though she was only an assistant. Everyone knew she was from Texas—it was hard not to know given the accent she swore she didn’t have. She was rarely found without a candy bar in hand; today it was a Milky Way.
After one look at me, she extended the chocolate. “It lo
oks like you could use some, sweetie.”
“I’m fine,” I told her. I tried to sound convincing.
She scoffed and took another bite when I refused. “You are not fine. But I know you. Holding on. A pillar of strength. Not a bother to anyone. If I were you I would fall apart and scream and cry and make everyone feel sorry for me.” She shrugged and swallowed. “But that’s just me.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, relieved. “You know I love you, don’t you?”
“Of course. What’s not to love?”
Bundled in our coats, we rode down together and walked to lunch. Ever since Sandy’s accident, I’d had the urge to eat, a lot, as if food could solve my problems. Psych 101, sure, but even knowing that I had to force myself past little food markets filled with preservative-and-fat-laden foods that beckoned to me like an apron-clad grandmother offering instant comfort.
Birdie and I made it to Whole Foods at Time Warner Center without me hijacking a hotdog stand or snatching her candy bar and making a run for it. From the wide variety of prepared foods that were more healthy than not, I got a salad. Birdie chose a slice of whole wheat pizza—grumbling that pizza and whole wheat should not be mentioned in the same sentence—soup, three tacos, some curry, a Parker House roll, and a chocolate croissant.
“I’m hungry,” she stated when we stood in line.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“But you were thinking it.”
“I wasn’t thinking anything. I am intentionally not thinking.”
“Ah, yes, I should have known. How’s that working for you?” she asked with a raised brow.
“Surprisingly well.”
Which made her laugh.
In the crush of people and clamor of voices against the stone floors and walls, we managed to get a booth. As soon as we sat down on the hard wooden benches, she bypassed the pizza and soup, took a bite of croissant, and asked, “So, what is really going on? I heard Victoria making noise about some book you have coming out.”
Emily and Einstein Page 6
