Emily and Einstein

by Linda Francis Lee

  “It’s Monday!” she said. “It should have been turned in.”

  “Then how did you get it?” Tatiana persisted.

  Victoria huffed. “It was out on a desk in one of Emily’s bedrooms, sitting there plain as day. How in the world was I supposed to overlook it?”

  I had been in Jordan’s room several times, and not once had she left a single page out for anyone to see. And there was no way Jordan would have willingly forked anything over to Victoria. To find the manuscript Victoria had to have searched hard.

  “Let me see that.”

  Victoria handed it over, albeit grudgingly.

  Nate raked his hand through his hair. “This is a debacle.”

  But I hardly heard. I flipped through the pages. The opening was there, still phenomenal. But once I got beyond that the manuscript was indeed a mess. Paragraphs filled with a garble of incomplete sentences. Disjointed statements such as: Insert description, and Figure out what the hell Mom was thinking then. But I could still detect Jordan’s voice in the words that were written.

  Nate droned on in his serious way. “We never should have chased attention. Caldecote has always been known for good sense! Now we’re going to be an embarrassment. We have everyone in the media talking about this book, and now, it’s a disaster.”

  “We’ll have to pull it,” Victoria added, barely able to hide her pleasure. “And everyone is watching us, Tatiana. Everyone is watching you.”

  “Enough,” Tatiana said. Everything about her exuded calm, but it was like the calm before a storm.

  Victoria turned smug. “I know how to fix this.”

  “How?” Nate asked.

  “We move fast to plug the hole in the schedule with an exceptional book. A book that will make everyone forget Emily’s fiasco.” She paused, squared her shoulders. “I have that book. I will come to your rescue, Tatiana.”

  Tatiana’s eyes narrowed.

  “What’s the book?” Nate pressed.

  “It’s a story of a love that can’t be denied set during the Great Depression. I see it as a cross between Doctor Zhivago and The Grapes of Wrath. But this book is filled with hope and triumph. It’s the kind of story that will fill readers with courage during this modern day when we are struggling with our own form of trying times. The book is based on the true story of the author’s parents.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, the idea had merit. As I had done with Ruth’s Intention, Victoria could play the nonfiction angle to get attention.

  Unable to take any more, I left the room, Jordan’s partial manuscript still in my hands.

  “Emily,” Tatiana said.

  But I kept going. I needed time to think.

  *

  The next morning I woke with a start. I didn’t gasp awake because I had dreamed of Sandy’s accident, or even of the night before he died. Yesterday I had wanted Caldecote to pull Jordan’s book just as I’d had moments when I believed it was time to pry my fingers free from this old apartment. But after a night of sleep, I realized that after I had made it this far I would hate myself if I gave up now.

  I whipped back the covers, pulled on running clothes, and searched my brain for solutions.

  Einstein was still in the kitchen when I entered. He blinked when he saw the running clothes, then looked at me with what I can only call astonished frustration, maybe even anger.

  I squatted down in front of him, scratching his head. “You want to go for a run?”

  He looked tired, though thankfully when I touched his nose he didn’t have a fever.

  After I took Einstein out, then returned him upstairs, I headed to the park. I didn’t worry about Max and his increasingly concerned messages. I put from my mind that on the last message he had told me that clearly I wanted him to leave me alone, and he would honor that wish. I refused to think about how much I didn’t want that, because the truth of the matter was whether I wanted to be with him or not, there was no future for us. He was a twenty-seven-year-old ex-Navy SEAL who loved to climb mountains and didn’t know what to do with his life. I was a thirty-two-year-old widow who still hadn’t completely reclaimed herself.

  I went to the bridle path and headed north. I lost myself to the rhythm of the run and by the time I hit the top of the reservoir a plan began to form in my head.

  An hour later when I got to Caldecote, I went straight to Tatiana’s office. The publisher was there along with the heads of sales and production. It saved me the trouble of having to track everyone down.

  Victoria was there as well, which neither surprised nor intimidated me.

  “I have a solution,” I announced.

  Nate scowled. “We already have a solution.”

  “My book!” Victoria crowed.

  Everyone ignored her, including Nate.

  Tatiana considered me. “What are you thinking, Emily?”

  “Give me six weeks,” I said. “Six weeks and I promise My Mother’s Daughter will be done.”

  “How are you going to accomplish that?”

  “Your sister clearly can’t write,” Victoria stated.

  “Look, everyone loved the opening pages. They are phenomenal. But Jordan got overwhelmed. She’s never written before. If I have to I’ll hire a ghostwriter for her.” I didn’t mention the one little snag in my plan, the fact that Jordan had already left. “One way or another, I will get the book turned in.”

  No one looked convinced.

  “We’re in a sticky spot,” I said. “Enough people know about the book that if we pull it off the schedule we definitely look indecisive.”

  “We already look indecisive. Face it, we look bad,” Victoria countered.

  “No, not yet. No one but the people in this room knows the book is”—I shrugged—“less than perfect.”

  Victoria snorted.

  I pushed ahead, all the while aware that Tatiana was studying me. “Let me fix this. No one has to know we hit a snag.”

  Nate looked grim. Victoria looked at me as if I were delusional.

  “Whether you believe it or not, Victoria,” I continued, “Tatiana looking bad, even me looking bad, doesn’t help you.”

  “I never said—”

  I cut her off. “Caldecote Press announced the mandate that it is focusing on gaining market share in the industry, which everyone knows means that our priority is making money. Even if we hadn’t announced it, Tatiana being brought in says as much. And sure, Ruth’s Intention succeeded. But as far as outsiders are concerned, that book was well underway when Tatiana got here. My Mother’s Daughter is the first big book acquired under her watch. Announcing a screwup right out of the gate undermines Caldecote’s position as a publishing company capable of redefining its position in the marketplace.”

  “One book isn’t going to change the face of Caldecote,” Victoria snapped.

  “No, that takes a series of successes. But a substantial embarrassment up front prejudices industry opinions from here on out.”

  Nate didn’t look happy, but he didn’t disagree.

  “Give me six weeks to help Jordan figure out how to finish it,” I reiterated. “I will fix this.”

  Tatiana considered, then turned to the head of production. “Tell me, Erin, if we expedite production can we get it done and have review copies for magazines ready to go out in time?”

  I could see the woman doing mental calculations. “Yes, but it’ll cost a fortune.”

  “Mercy, what do you think?” Tatiana asked.

  The head of sales looked at me, considering. After a second she nodded. “I say we go for it. If anyone can get it done, it’s Emily.”

  Nate compressed his lips. “I don’t like this one bit.”

  Victoria’s stiff shoulders sagged with relief.

  “But I don’t see that we have any choice,” he added. “And if all goes well, you’re right, Emily. It could work.”

  Tatiana turned to me. “Get the book done.”

  einstein

  chapter thirty-seven


  No one was more surprised than me when Emily came home from the office with a box of her belongings.

  I tried to pull myself up from where I had been lying for hours—or maybe minutes. I no longer had an accurate sense of time. “Ha!” I barked, the effort making me cough. “You’ve been fired!”

  I might have been surprised that things were going wrong for Emily so quickly, but I was bitterly pleased. And with each bitter or hateful thought, the pulling and sucking sensation increased. Yet I still found it hard to care about the disjointed feeling my mind and body had begun to experience.

  “E, can you believe it?” Emily asked, her voice full of excitement.

  My hackles rose, my spine going stiff. She wasn’t acting like a woman who had just been fired.

  “I’m working from home until Jordan’s book is finished!”

  “What? How did this happen?”

  “I convinced them it was in the best interest of the company for me to work from home so that I can edit while Jordan is writing!”

  My mouth fell open. She grimaced. Clearly, she didn’t need me to remind her of the pesky little detail that Jordan was gone. But her grimace didn’t last.

  “I know I should have told them about Jordan, but I couldn’t. Forget about me, but if this debacle hurts Caldecote because of my harebrained idea to publish this book, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

  She gave me one of those wry smiles, and I was struck with the memory of that seemingly immortal Emily. Vibrant, full of energy, a deep belief in herself. I realized with a start that despite my hope that my wife was falling apart again, I was wrong. The old Emily was back.

  My anger and bitter frustration swelled.

  “Besides, look at it this way,” she said. “If it doesn’t work out, it will be easier for them to fire me if I haven’t been in the office for six weeks.”

  Not only wasn’t she a wreck, she moved around the apartment with a barely contained energy, going through every inch of Jordan’s room.

  “Surely she left behind whatever else she had on the book.” She swung her head around to look at me. “Do you think she took it with her to the jungle?”

  Not that she waited for an answer.

  “No, she wouldn’t have done that. What is she going to do with computer files in the jungle without a computer?”

  Like a dervish, she zipped through drawers and the closet. “Pay dirt!” she exclaimed, dancing around the room like Rocky at the top of that ridiculous Philadelphia staircase. It was as if this potential career catastrophe had finally snapped her into full gear.

  She had found an outline of sorts, along with pages of barely legible notes. Not that this cramped Emily’s style. She shoved every scrap of paper into her box of office things. Next, she turned on the computer. As soon as the machine booted up, she went straight for the My Mother’s Daughter folder. Sitting behind Emily, panting with effort, I barely made out a listing of chapters. She opened each one. “Not much, but that’s okay. There’s enough here for me to get started.”

  She turned the computer off.

  That was it? She spends two seconds going over the files, then shuts down? Not exactly the way I would have gone about thoroughly assessing the situation, but heck, the worse she did, the happier it made me. So fumble away!

  It turned out, however, that she wasn’t done. As soon as the machine powered down, Emily unplugged it and disconnected the monitor, keyboard, mouse, and hard drive.

  Suspicious, I followed her down the hall toward the library.

  “You can’t clutter up my five-thousand-dollar desk!” I barked.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to work in the library.”

  During the next hour, she did far worse. She transported every piece of computer equipment and scrap of paper upstairs to the suite. My private suite.

  My apartment, my money, my marathon, my life. Now this? I was incensed and I let her know it.

  “Calm down, E. It’s just for six weeks. I need a private place to do this.”

  Like we were overrun with guests. I snorted.

  “I need a place that’s just for writing.” She glanced down at me. “I am going to be the ghostwriter for Jordan. I’m going to write her book, and I’m going to write it from her point of view.”

  Oh, yeah, that’ll work.

  “I know, it’ll be hard to see the story through her lens, but that’s what I’m excited about. I’m excited to tell my mother’s and my sister’s stories. Quite frankly, I’m excited to learn my mother’s and sister’s stories.”

  Spare me.

  Emily didn’t waste a second. No sooner had she set up her command center than she got to work. She used Jordan’s erratic outline and notes to create a real outline, each chapter of the book detailed. I had never seen my wife at work, nor had I been interested in listening to her talk about her job, but even I was impressed with her sheer dedication once she got started.

  Interestingly, though, she didn’t start to write. She made calls and set up interviews, coming home from each with pages full of notes about her mother.

  This went on for days, and during that time I hit a sort of reprieve from the fading. I didn’t get better, but I didn’t get worse, and I had the distinct thought that the old man was waiting for something.

  Once Emily finished the research, she worked at all hours, never seeming to stop. Early, late. It would be two A.M. and I’d hear her get out of bed and go upstairs. I’d hear the suite door squeak open, the light switch flip, then the computer whirring to life, always followed by the tap, tap, tap of the keyboard.

  For the next four weeks Emily wrote. She also made time to go to some lawyer about the apartment. When she returned I knew she had gotten bad news. But she only nodded with determination.

  “I believe it’s going to work out.”

  Emily and her faith.

  If she thought to win me over with her impassioned declaration she was mistaken. I dragged myself up off the floor and walked out on her.

  *

  The only other thing Emily did besides work on that book was run. Always with the running. That, and I have to admit, she continued to love me.

  When she finally realized that my energy wasn’t getting better, she took me to the vet. When the doctor said there was nothing wrong with me, then took her aside and told her he thought I was depressed, she brought me home and showered me with even more love and praise despite my ill-mannered attempts to make her miserable. If I was unpleasant before, I became horrible to Emily over the next few weeks.

  I growled, I nipped at fingers. If she left something out, I destroyed it. Her favorite shoes. Ruined. Pages left on the floor. Ripped to shreds. When she lost herself to the words, I launched into a round of barking. I even peed on my precious floors.

  No matter what I did, she hugged me every morning, and kissed me on the forehead before going to bed every night, as if the sheer determination of her love could pull me out of the supposed depression. But I was immune to her charm. I was progressing, but not to something greater. I had progressed from hating her to loathing her. I loathed her vitality, despised her ability to come and go, linger in a bath or talk on the phone.

  I hated that despite the stress of writing Jordan’s book, and being on the verge of losing her home, she was happy. I hated that most of all.

  *

  Finally the day came when I heard her whoop. “It’s done!”

  Despite myself, I felt a sizzle of excitement, not that it helped get me up the stairs. By this time I no longer even tried to make it to the suite. She came flying down, falling to her knees in front of me and hugging me tight.

  “We did it, E! We did it!”

  As it turned out, everyone back at Caldecote, at least the ones who mattered, were excited too. It didn’t take long before Emily heard that they loved the manuscript. I determined this based on the congratulatory notes, candy, and flowers that arrived. Tatiana sent a bottle of Dom Perignon. The card read, “To Jordan, for a f
abulous book. And to Emily, for saving the day.”

  Excuse me, I wanted to shout. Emily was the one who got you in that mess in the first place.

  I left my wife to her celebration, heading to the master bedroom to curl up with what had become the continuous loop of my discontent. Whether I liked it or not, Emily was saved. Whether I cared or not, Emily had saved herself. I had done very little to help.

  To add insult to injury, the marathon was right around the corner.

  My mother had moved on months ago, and now my wife was as well. Not only had Emily been able to succeed at work, now she was going to run, building a new life, while Sandy Portman was in the process of becoming nothing and being forgotten altogether.

  chapter thirty-eight

  With the manuscript turned in, Emily was able to devote herself full time to training. I thought it odd that she hadn’t gone back to the office, that she was still working upstairs in my suite. Strangest of all, some sort of reporter came by the apartment.

  She showed him around. He asked about pictures he saw of me, the Sandy me, showed interest in photos of Jordan and Lillian Barlow, before they left together.

  Tatiana called repeatedly, even came by one evening without warning.

  “Finally,” the woman said when she walked into the gallery like she owned the place. “You are trying my patience, Emily. You did a great job. Now it’s time to come back.”

  My wife wasn’t cowed. “I’m working on something,” she said, her excitement making Tatiana eye her with speculation. “And it’s not like I have a bunch of things going on at the office.”

  “And you won’t have anything going on at the office until you get back there to start filling your pipeline with potential product.”

  Emily cringed. “You make it sound so sterile.”

  “Fine, let me rephrase. You have to get back to the office so you can start developing your list of literature that will inspire the masses. Better?”

  Emily chuckled. “Yeah, that’s better, but the marathon is on Sunday. I’m dealing with some things on that end. Let me get through that. I’ll come in on Monday.”

  *

  The day of the race, in the wee hours of the morning before she had to head off to Staten Island and the starting line, Emily turned on the television for me.