Emily and Einstein

by Linda Francis Lee

  “What?”

  “Ah, how your mother loved her parties.” She shot a wry glance over her shoulder. “Not so unlike this one, I might add, only hers were smaller, with people who rejected the idea of being politically correct. They spoke their minds, debated difficult ideas. Lord, those were heady days.”

  She spoke more softly than I would have believed Hedda Vendome, publishing legend, possibly could.

  “Your mother and I came from a time when people believed in changing the world, one march, one commune, one move back to nature at a time. But even back then, still naïve in my own way, I wondered if it was really possible to achieve what we said. Later, after I grew more jaded, after you were born and your mother refused to let go of those earlier beliefs, I would arrive at her parties, wherever she was living at the time, get bored, wander around. And always, in each apartment, one thing remained the same. Your books.

  “I watched you grow up, Emily, saw what these stories meant to you … and I’m convinced they saved you from the madness that was your mother’s life.” She turned back to me, drink and unlit cigarette forgotten. “Call me clichéd or melodramatic, or any other adjective I would slash out of a manuscript, but I realized by watching you grow up that books could make a difference. More specifically, children’s books could change the world.”

  Hedda smiled wryly. “If you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.” Then she sighed. “But truthfully, for all my showy ways, what I still truly believe in is the power of a good story. And I’m certain you believe the same thing. You can make a difference, Emily, a real difference, alongside me at Vendome Children’s Books.”

  I grimaced at her words. But then she placed her free hand on my forearm, surprising me even more.

  “You know,” she said, “it always seemed odd that your mother didn’t see the same little girl I did. She saw stubborn and immovable. I saw a little girl who was caring and loving, a little girl who desperately wanted her mother to notice her.” She squeezed my arm. “But sometimes we are blind to the qualities in others that we’re afraid we don’t possess. You had a strength even back then that your mother never had.”

  This time I stared at the books, unable to look at her. My throat was tight, my eyes burned. I didn’t know what to make of Hedda’s claim. But there was something inside me that had always wondered how strong my mother really was.

  “I’m sorry if that tarnishes your view of her,” she said.

  “No,” I managed. I hesitated then looked at her, finally willing to face the question I hadn’t wanted to ask, despite how long it had been in the back of my mind. “What I don’t understand is why she gave up her position in the women’s movement. It defined her. It defined our life. If she was such a force, why did she leave the organization she founded?”

  “Don’t look at me for answers, love. I was stunned when she announced she was hanging up her marching shoes. But Lillian swore she was determined to stay home with her girls.” Hedda was quiet for a moment. “Though did you know that after Jordan graduated from high school, your mother went back?”

  My brow furrowed in confusion. I remembered my mother’s short stint returning to work dressed up in a suit and carrying a briefcase. “You must mean when Jordan was little.”

  “No, later. You had just been hired at Caldecote, and Jordan had left for South America. Lillian announced it was time to get back in the game. But she didn’t go to WomenFirst. Instead she went to Women in Motion. You can imagine they were thrilled to have someone of her stature show up at their door. But the world had moved on. The girls on the front lines were just that. Girls. Raised in a world your mother didn’t recognize, one she no longer belonged in.” Hedda looked at me with the kind of caring I had always longed for from my mother. “You don’t belong in adult publishing, Emily. You belong with me at Vendome. All I ask is that you think about it.”

  Hedda left me surrounded by my books. I refused to believe that I didn’t belong at Caldecote. Ruth had worked. And I would make My Mother’s Daughter work too. I had just gotten my legs back underneath me at Caldecote. I had no intention of giving up on that now.

  I don’t know how long I stood there, but I was aware of nothing else until I felt someone come up behind me.

  “Hey,” Max said softly against my ear. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Without thinking, I leaned back against him. He didn’t seem surprised. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me closer.

  “I vote we blow this pop stand,” he said.

  I smiled. “You just got here.”

  “I can think of better things to do than play nice with a bunch of strangers.”

  “Those strangers are my guests.”

  “They seem pretty content to me.”

  “You’d make a terrible host.”

  He turned me around to face him, my head tipping back so that I could look at him as his fingers slipped into my hair, his thumbs lining my jaw. “I want you,” he said, before he brushed his lips across mine, that commanding though gentle promise of all the things he could do to me.

  The truth was I wanted him too. It was more than wanting to be touched or held. I wanted this guy, no matter what. I still thought of Sandy, and I knew that there would always be at least some pain whenever I thought of him, but it was time to move on.

  When Max took my hand and pulled me toward the kitchen, then out the back door, I didn’t stop him. I forgot about the guests and followed him up the stairs to his little apartment, letting him undress me. When he laid me on the bed, his palm slowly skimming down the inside of my thigh, I gasped and forgot a little bit more. I forgot for hours, forgot about any and every thing until he arched over me, clinging to me in some primal way. And later, when his heartbeat slowed, he held me close. “I love you,” he said. “Please don’t slip away.”

  I held on tight and promised him I wouldn’t.

  einstein

  chapter thirty-two

  My wife was nowhere to be found.

  Strange. But with the party in full swing, the place packed, it was hard for me to see anyone clearly.

  My inclination as Sandy Portman was to search out a martini, extra dry, straight up, with olives. As Einstein the Dog, I opted for a place near the dining room table and the spread of food I knew wasn’t good for me but made me salivate nonetheless. If anyone dropped a goat cheese and caramelized onion tart it was mine, finicky stomach be damned.

  I can’t say how much time passed, but eventually even the tarts couldn’t hold my interest and I started weaving my way through the sea of legs—some decent, some which should have been covered up by pants. And the shoes—high heels, low heels, loafers, lace ups. There was more scuffed footwear than not. In my Sandy days, I had been meticulous about whatever I wore. As Einstein the Dog, I found it hard to care.

  That was the thing about this new life. The longer I lived it the more I felt it changing me. No question I had progressed from the old Sandy. There were moments when I felt smug over the knowledge that the old man had underestimated my ability to change. But there were other moments when I felt a vague sense of concern. I couldn’t put a name to it, despite my newfound insightfulness. Something was wrong, something beyond my ability to comprehend. While I had made progress, something out there was still a threat.

  I needed to find Emily. I knew being close to her would calm me.

  I went from gallery to library to master bedroom, working my way through the crush of people. What had started out as an interesting diversion now felt overwhelming. The noise felt deafening, the clatter of heels on hardwood, silver on china, voices of all tones. I even went upstairs to the suite hoping Emily had needed a break as much as I did. But the door was shut, and a quick sniff told me Emily was nowhere in the vicinity.

  No question I wanted to be with my wife, and yes she brought me ease. But I couldn’t quite let myself think about feeling anything deeper than that. I pushed away the thought that I couldn’t afford to care more for her at this point. I was
a dog, after all, and while Emily at some level sensed that there was more to Einstein than met the eye, I couldn’t imagine that my wife could ever truly see me as anything more than a canine. And even then, if she could, how did that help either of us?

  I felt more of that concern, but pushed that away too.

  Like the bloodhound I wasn’t, I put my nose to the ground and tried to sniff her out. But downstairs in an apartment overflowing with bodies, distinguishing Emily’s scent was next to impossible.

  I trotted toward the kitchen, thinking she might be in there. Halfway down the hallway, my quest was diverted when I caught sight of that lovely Victoria. Call the woman what you will, but in another life, namely as Sandy, I would have been enamored of her fiery beauty. In this incarnation, or at least in this phase of it, I saw her differently. Through clear eyes? Who knows. But I saw the shallowness of her good looks, the thinness of her smile, so different from my wife, who had depth and warmth beneath her cool beauty.

  Yet more progress.

  When I saw Victoria and a decidedly dorky man sneaking off toward the back bedrooms, I decided to turn my Sherlock Holmesian skills toward my wife’s nemesis. I hurried after them, but when I turned down the hall they were nowhere to be seen, forcing me to go room by room to sniff them out. With my nose to the ground, I tried to catch their scent.

  But I forgot about smells when something in Emily’s room caught my attention.

  I had determined that Victoria and the man weren’t inside the room or the bathroom and turned to leave. Then I saw the bank statement from the joint account. Because of my tremendous growth, I commended myself for being concerned about how my wife was doing monetarily. I did the squint and cock thing to make sense of the numbers. It took a while, but finally an amount registered. Even after Emily paid the maintenance there should have been plenty left. But the account was nearly empty, with a large withdrawal made just last week.

  At first I was shocked. Then all the goodwill I had felt began to evaporate, replaced by a growing tick of unease. What had she done with my money?

  Before I could fully absorb the emotion, or even get my head around where the money could have gone, I noticed something else. A New York City Marathon registration packet.

  Memories of another life hit me, a life before Emily, a life that had been taken away. I hardly knew what to think. Like a lion stalking its prey, I crept closer, then nosed through the contents. I sat down hard, my tail catching awkwardly between me and the rug. I had once received my own packet—for all the good it had done me after breaking my leg—so it didn’t take much deciphering to figure out what it meant. Emily had managed to get herself into the marathon. My marathon.

  Fueled by jealousy, the frustration over the money ignited. I felt betrayed. Whatever those emotions and traits were that had allowed me to never actually deed the apartment to Emily when I was a man flared back to life like a spark to dry kindling. Without warning, a mewling cry came from deep inside me, twisting into a mournful howl as it hit my lungs. Somehow everything that had happened hit me all at once. All the hope I felt minutes earlier crashed around me as if it had been nothing more substantial than a dyke made of sand. I had put rose-colored glasses on in my attempt to learn and grow and appease the old man. But sitting there I was confronted with the facts. Emily was living in my home, entertaining as I had hoped to, getting ready to run the race I had coveted. Emily was living the life I had dreamed about, the life that was no longer possible for me.

  Anger and defeat, jealousy and something even darker mixed in my belly. I raised my head and bayed, not caring about the crowd. I wailed for a loss I realized now I hadn’t completely accepted or even understood. I wailed for all that I would never do. But just as quickly as the despair hit, it was gone, shifting, morphing like a beast let out of a cage, solidifying into fury.

  emily

  When my mother was young she was known for her extreme views. Soon after I was born she gave up controversy, but with the success of an alcoholic giving up wine, always yearning, forcibly abstaining, good for those around her, bad for a soul that dried up when it found no other joy.

  —EXCERPT FROM My Mother’s Daughter

  chapter thirty-three

  I woke in the semidark and for half a second I had no idea where I was, or for that matter, how I had come to be asleep.

  Then I remembered. Me. Max. Sex. In his little apartment. After we left the guests to fend for themselves.

  My chest literally hurt at how irresponsible I had been.

  Though when I glanced next to me and found Max lying sprawled on his stomach without so much as a sheet or blanket to cover him, his arm pinning me to the bed, I felt a soft contentment that I had never felt before in my life.

  He loved me.

  And amazingly, I had no doubts that he did.

  As carefully as I could, I slipped out from underneath his arm. With his hair falling forward across his forehead, it took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to brush the strands back and return to his arms. But I was made of more responsible stuff than that, even if I had left my guests in the lurch.

  I felt badly for slipping out of Max’s bed. But I wasn’t ready to face him. I had no idea what this meant, us having sex. Him loving me. I cut the thought off. I really didn’t need to think about that. At least not yet. I wanted to be able to start fresh in my life, hopefully with Max, but in order to do that, first I needed to tie up loose strings. The apartment. Jordan’s book. Which reminded me of something I couldn’t quite shake. Hedda’s words about my mother.

  Now that I thought about it, if my mother really had wanted to stay home, would she have fought with teachers and dry cleaners like she was fighting for some greater cause, then gone back to work the minute after Jordan moved out? I had long believed that Mother had given up her job and stayed home because of her devotion to Jordan. After talking to Hedda, I wasn’t so sure.

  I managed to dress and tiptoe out of the apartment. The building was quiet as I made my way downstairs to the servant’s entrance of my own home. It was ridiculous, really. I was a grown woman with no one to answer to.

  My nose wrinkled as I turned the knob, trying to be quiet. I prayed I could make it past Einstein, who at five in the morning surely would be asleep. Which was crazy, I told myself, since why would a dog care if I slept with a man?

  The light was out in the kitchen. Birdie must have taken over, directing the catering staff to clean up and close down. Thank you, Birdie.

  The door clicked shut. With high heels in hand I turned carefully.

  “Oh!”

  Einstein stood in the kitchen, the hackles on his back rising, his lip curled. Seeing me, he gave a deep, low growl. He crept closer, and his nose twitched as he sniffed me. For half a second he froze in shock, then he growled again. I had the startling thought that he was going to attack me.

  Was it possible he was jealous over me being with another man?

  I shook the thought away. Coffee. I needed coffee. Then I could think.

  I walked past Einstein, not saying a word. I put on a pot and had to force myself not to stare at the dripping brew. Einstein continued watching me, as if assessing.

  “Stop staring at me.”

  He growled.

  I had just poured my first cup when I heard the front door open quietly, then click closed. Einstein and I both cocked our heads, realizing that based on the sound of tiptoeing combat boots, Jordan was trying to sneak in.

  “Didn’t she come home last night?” I asked.

  Einstein ignored me.

  I set the coffee down and counted to ten, bracing my hands against the counter. Then I left the kitchen to confront my sister, Einstein following.

  “Tell me you ran over to Starbucks for a cup of coffee to keep you awake,” I said.

  Jordan went stiff with guilt, which was immediately replaced by her own anger. “So what if I wasn’t?”

  “You told me you had to lock yourself in your room so you could fin
ish the book.”

  “Yeah, that’s all you care about. That freaking book.”

  “It’s your book!” I snapped before I could stop myself. I took a moment, drawing a breath. “You’re the one who wanted to write it. Not me. I didn’t want anything to do with this. But I did it for you.”

  Jordan rolled her eyes. “You did it for me, right. You did it because your ass was on the line and you didn’t have anything else to pitch.”

  My shoulders tensed.

  “That Victoria is a piece of work,” she added. “Yeah, I ran into her in the lobby last night. ‘You’re Jordan, aren’t you,’ ” she mimicked. “I said no, but she only laughed, said I looked just like you. Then she asked all about the book, told me about you blurting out the idea when you were under the gun. My book saved your ass. Though you always were good at that, saving your ass.”

  It took me a moment to regain my composure. “If I’ve had to save myself it’s because I didn’t have a mother coming to my rescue every time I got in trouble.”

  “Oh, that’s rich. You were so damn boring I doubt you even knew how to get in trouble. Little Miss Goodie Two Shoes. Yep, no one could ever live up to Miss Perfect. Certainly not me, Little Miss Screwup.”

  “If you’d ever thought about being responsible, you wouldn’t … mess up all the time.”

  “Yeah, that’s the answer. I could grow up to be another you. A rigid sap who sucks the life out of everyone around her … including that jerk you married. Is it really any surprise that he had affairs?”

  My head snapped back as if she had slapped me. Jordan stopped, stared, the words frozen in her mouth.

  “Freakin’ A, I’m sorry, Emily. Again. Hell, I didn’t mean it.”

  “Yes, you did. You’ve always thought of me that way.”

  Jordan frowned. “I’m such a bitch. I’m sorry. I just wish … I just wish you could love me for who I am. Just me—stupid, irresponsible Jordan. Why can’t I just be me?”