by Amanda Brown
“I am busy,” he heard himself saying. He called out to Emily, patting the bench to invite her to sit with them. Emily declined, finding that the grass in front of the bench, in a little clearing shorn of trees, functioned like a shadow box, with the sun almost directly overhead. She stuck out her arm to point out a snake creeping in the direction of the duck’s crumbs, and chattered about the great battle that was in store.
Becca withdrew a large, worn Filofax from her bag and got ready to make notes of Emily’s commitments. Edward could see that her pages were already full of notes. Having recently reviewed his swirl of cotillions, benefits, and galas with Alice, Edward had a good sense of his own commitments. He would be flat-out busy once the event season kicked off after Labor Day. Evening galas tended to tie him up until the early morning hours—past the time Emily’s day had begun. And the four-year-old’s days were booked by the hour.
“How about—you take Monday through Wednesday? I’ll do Thursday and Friday, and we’ll wing it over the weekends,” Edward suggested.
Becca’s smile dropped. “Eddie, I can’t, not this week,” she said. Her tone was gentle, apologetic, but without room for discussion. “I’m out of town Wednesday,” she added. She flipped through her Filofax and began to read from it, as if it took the matter out of her hands.
“I’m booked on the early shuttle into Boston to start a day of back-to-back board meetings. Then Thursday afternoon I’m in Pittsburgh to review an RFP proposal for one of my portfolio companies—an aerospace firm. NASA has a big exclusive provider deal up for bid. If we get the nod we’ll be in Annapolis to meet with one of the admirals who got us on the approved vendor list. Then we’ll do some site testing.”
Edward met her eyes with an even stare. He was holding a highlighted page of Emily’s day planner. “I don’t know what to do, then, Becca,” he said. “You’ve got to cover Wednesdays. Emily has playgroup in the one o’clock slot, and the nanny left word that it’s very exclusive—mothers only. She couldn’t even go.”
“Mothers only?” she repeated in disbelief. Who did that sort of thing? Didn’t people work?
He nodded. “It’s called My Special Playtime.” The sound of the group made him laugh, and Becca laughed with him.
“You’re kidding.”
“Not even a little,” he assured her. “So Wednesdays are all yours.”
Becca slumped into the bench, trying to visualize My Special Playtime.
Edward smiled, pointing at Emily, who was wearing on the patience of the ducks by throwing bread crumbs to tempt them and then racing for the prize herself, laughing to see them flurry away, at which point she would throw the bread at them all over again.
“The nanny said most of the playgroup kids are also in Opera for Tots, so you ought to go to that one too. Or the other mothers will think you’re avoiding them.”
Becca dropped her chin into her hands. “When’s the opera class?” she asked.
“It meets Tuesday at five, but there’s a voice warm up and soft-drink cocktail reception beforehand at four. The nanny said it’s a must.”
Becca, uncharacteristically silent, continued to stare ahead.
Edward continued. “The mothers provide refreshments. They rotate. Next week it’s your turn. They are studying German opera, so the snack should be culturally appropriate.”
“No problem,” Becca said, noticing the street address on Edward’s schedule. “There ought to be a hot dog stand in shooting range. We’ll call them wieners.”
Edward laughed. “That ought to do it. The rest of your schedule is pretty well laid out here. French for Tots, Fairy Tales in Motion…”
He handed Becca the schedule, on which he had scribbled the class names.
“Tap for Tippy Toes, Creative Parent-Child Clay Play,” she read. “I don’t believe this.”
Edward gave an accepting shrug. “It could be fun.”
Becca nodded, but her eyes were wide with apprehension. Her tone changed from hope to exasperation as she noticed the schedule continued on another page.
“I also get Piano for Pee-Wees and Tiny Tumblers?”
Edward nodded.
“What do you get?” She held him in a suspicious glare.
“I knew you’d ask,” he laughed, handing her his list.
Becca laughed out loud. “Flipper-Toot Swim Splashers? Little Squaws Singalong? Weaving and Believing?” She tried to imagine Edward taking the lead in “Princess Yoga,” and her eyes teared up with laughter.
Birds less desirable than mallard ducks had begun to swarm Emily’s crumb feast. As Edward gathered Emily’s schedule into his bag, he spotted the file of school applications.
“Emily has some school interviews coming up,” he observed casually. “Towards the end of the month. The applications are in, that’s the good news. But we pick up right at face-time, you know, when we have to make nice with the admissions people.”
Becca stared at her Filofax, unable to close it. The reality of inheriting a child with her own prescheduled life was hitting her hard.
“What’s wrong?” Edward asked, leaning down to let Emily climb onto his back. They actually moved faster when he carried Emily piggy-back than when the dawdling little dreamer walked on her own, stopping at every tree to search it for angels or elves.
In answer, Becca handed him her calendar page. She recited it from memory.
“I have conflicts. Next week I’m in town on Tuesday, but on Wednesday I’m supposed to testify in Washington, D.C., before the Senate Finance Committee. They have a hearing on volatility in the financial markets.”
He breathed in heavily. “We’ll figure something out,” he said, without much force.
“I’ll be back on the shuttle that afternoon.” she offered. “But I have meetings until late. Then I’m in town Thursday, but Friday I’m on the red-eye to Paris. I have a meeting with the head of the Bourse to talk about the two companies we’d like to take public in France. Then I’m staying to give a talk at a dinner Saturday night. Topic is the convergence of computing and communications.”
Becca stared straight ahead. Her expression was dark. She had left Sunday open, but she was sure the Bourse meetings would go through the weekend. From Paris she had an open ticket; but she had wanted to stop in Stockholm. Hong Kong was fun, with the kimonos and the chopsticks, but she wasn’t sure Emily would find Stockholm so interesting, and they’d be on airplanes practically every day.
“Stockholm?” Edward was surprised at the extent of her travel.
She shrugged. “The European Union’s finance ministers and central bankers meet there on Monday. They’re changing EU law on bank capital adequacy regulation.”
She took a nervous breath. She really didn’t have to go. She was not a participant in the conference, but she was always there for the big meetings.
Make time, she heard her mother’s voice echoing. Emily was tapping her shoulder for attention. She was reading letters, trying to sound out the words of a street sign.
“I’ll skip it. The weekend will be cleared,” Becca muttered. “Sam, one of the partners, was going with me anyway; I’ll just ask him to handle the meeting.” She swallowed hard. “He can give the convergence speech. I already wrote it.”
He looked at her gratefully.
“Forget about it,” she said, stopping him before he could speak.
“What are you guys talking about?” demanded Emily. She was growing insistent, as she had noticed a bird that seemed to be from dinosaur times and wanted to show off the word pterodactyl.
Becca reached over to tickle her.
Edward paused. A good judge of people, he knew how much could be gained with humor when no other avenue looked promising. He leaned down to let Emily show the dinosaur bird to Becca, and impulsively picked up his pen to scribble on the spiral pad Becca had given him. When they resumed their walk he gave the page to Becca.
“What’s this?”
“Your new schedule,” he told her, grinning.
“I haven’t gotten to Thursday, yet. Do you want to cook dinner for us?” he asked, teasing her with his smile.
Her eyes flew open. “Cook?” She laughed, shaking her head no. She couldn’t gauge how much he was kidding.
“How about quit your job?” he tried.
She gasped in shock.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll put you down for ballet.”
Becca’s beautiful, loose hair swung around her shoulders as she laughed. Take her with you, again her mother spoke from the place Arlene reserved inside Becca’s head.
“Why don’t we take this week by week? Don’t worry, somehow I’ll cover my commitments. I wonder if grandmothers can go to the mothers-only meeting.”
Edward took Emily’s hand and demanded that Becca go check in at her office. He had resolved to take his little girl to the Racquet Club. He was suddenly hopeful that she had a talent for squash.
CHAPTER 13
The Zeitgeist
Edward’s tournament started that Friday, so Emily went to the office with Becca. She had covered every inch of her dazzling ruby ball gown with yellow and blue tape flags when Dick buzzed Becca’s intercom. She scribbled a few edits on a report from her energy sector analyst, then went to meet with Dick. She laughed to see Emily gathering her skirts to make her entrance in the fanciest possible way.
“Congratulations to the new mother!” Dick said. She shrugged off his hug with a friendly smile.
“Thanks,” she said, “but here’s the real star,” she said, lifting Emily, who beamed at the pleasure of meeting new people in all her glorious dress-ups.
Emily smiled and waved one hand silently in the fashion of Miss America. She had learned this move in MiniModels, a pre-modeling program that she took over the summer. The class was designed to ensure success in preschool social environments. They had, for example, spent a week on strategies for parallel play. Boys were advised to make an impression by lifting large things with ease; girls were taught to lock in a smile and wave blindly to passersby.
“She’s a perfect beccisima,” Dick pronounced, pinching the air to put emphasis on his Italian.
Becca smiled proudly. “That’s my girl!”
They had entered Dick’s office just as he was celebrating a perfect nine-foot putt, achieved from the low point of his putting green. The golf ball was a lucky one, marked with the crest of St. Andrews. Dick pumped his fist in the air victoriously.
Emily raced to the putting green. “Cool!” she exclaimed.
With a quick switch to a plain, dispensable ball, Dick handed her his putter and let the child try her hand at golf.
“Becca!” He flung one arm around her neck, once again welcoming her with a chummy hug.
“What’s with the love-in today?” she asked, brushing contact dust from her sleeves.
“I see motherhood hasn’t softened your edges,” Dick said, smiling. “Hi, Emily.” He extended his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Emily, face down on the putting green, waved her hand.
“Emily, meet my boss, Mr. Davis,” Becca said, laughing at the sound of Dick’s formal name. “Dick, my fairy goddaughter, Emily Stearns.”
Emily’s manners class kicked in and she turned, switched the club to her left hand and stuck out the right. Looking way, way up so she could attempt to look Dick directly in the eyes as she’d been taught, Emily shook his hand. Then went back to the green.
“Becca, Becca,” Dick sang out. “If you knew what I know,” he explained, dancing around her, “you would be singing!” He clicked his heels in the manner of the tin man on the yellow brick road, but without falling down.
“Impressive,” Becca said, walking across the room to pour herself some coffee. “Your yoga classes are improving your flexibility.”
“Two things, darling Becca,” Dick said, gliding to his desk. “First,” he announced, cradling a file folder with an adoring look, as if it were a gift of the Magi, “the Santech deal closed, FDA approval went through, and twenty-four hours later your little New Jersey garage company is up 450 percent!”
He danced over to Emily, who by that time had discarded the golf club to attempt a more accurate, soccer-style putt with her ballet slipper.
Emily followed Dick’s antics with eager eyes. “Dance, dance,” she urged Becca.
Laughing, Becca agreed to be led in a celebratory waltz to the tune of Dick’s own humming, the sight of which transported Emily Stearns into a happy trance. Emily’s view of life, outside the oppressive moments when she thought about her parents, was a constant kaleidoscope of twirling, flouncing gowns and falling glitter. All the world through Emily’s eyes, overseen from her shining turret, was achirp and aflutter, studded with rubies, galloping with stallions, glowing in magnificent splendor. The loss of her parents would find its place when it was time.
“It isn’t easy, being rich,” he sang with glee, turning his face upside down in front of Emily’s dazzled smile.
Becca shrugged, but she shone with pride. “I told you I liked that company. One of a handful this year.”
“It’s almost unseemly, really,” he returned dryly as he sailed by on the wings of a 450 percent increase in a three-hundred million initial investment. “Only the tax man makes returns like you do. And he puts nothing in.”
“Who’s the tax man?” Emily asked.
“You’re happier not knowing,” Becca answered. But Emily did not wait for an answer. She had retrieved the golf club, deciding it functioned more properly as a magic wand, and was pointing it at objects around the room.
Becca removed a book from the center shelf of Dick’s perfectly functionless egg-shaped end table.
“Liberating Everyday Genius?”
“I’m mastering gifts I didn’t even know I had,” came Dick’s response. He trotted from his desk with some reading material of his own.
“Which brings me to the second of the twin pillars of my astonishing news, Becca Reinhart.”
“Aren’t you the wordsmith?” she teased him. She sat on his boomerang couch and laid her espresso carefully on the coffee table in front of her knees. She wanted to be comfortable. From experience she knew that Dick would victimize her for a while with the most fashionable management theory of the moment. He had the virtue of believing so firmly in the jargon of self-improvement that he was unfazed by Becca’s skepticism. He regarded her as his teaching opportunity.
Emily, lying on the putting green, was trying to roll golf balls down her arm into the cup.
“Becca,” he asked her, shaking pages from a magazine with a flourish, “how is it that you’re always on top of the zeitgeist?”
“I don’t know zeitgeist,” she said, her eyes sparkling, “but whoever he is I swear I wasn’t on top of him.”
Dick chortled, then sat next to her with the earnest look in his eyes that usually followed a meeting with his executive coach.
“You just have it, kid.”
“Spit it out,” she said, smiling.
He ruffled her hair. “You never could take a compliment. Beautiful thing about you. I met with Christine-Elaine Piper—my executive coach—yesterday.”
“How is Coach Piper?”
“She’s fine,” he said, ignoring her mockery in his earnestness. “And from what she says, you’re on to something.”
Becca grinned. “Shoot.”
Dick glanced at his aquarium, where Emily had dropped a neon golf ball into the water. Gulping back the acid reflux that affected him when his inner nervous old lady surfaced, Dick controlled the impulse to protect his tank.
He walked to the couch and squatted down next to it, so his eyes were staring close to Becca’s, like a coach in the huddle.
“Kid, the zeitgeist,” he said, speaking in a slow, firm voice, “is creativity.”
“What?”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t
have guessed you a natural for it either. But the big idea now is associative thinking. It’s naturally creative. It triggers the concepts that we need for more progressive management decision-making.”
Becca, who had closed her eyes pretending to fall asleep, made a snoring sound.
He poked her. “Come on. I mean it. This is really influential stuff. The point of more progressive decision-making,” he said with emphasis, “is to beat the market. Okay? That’s the point.”
She stared at him. “Dick,” she said, “an efficient, publicly capitalized market works on the basis of all available information. It can’t be beat. It can only be survived.”
Dick laughed. “And if you believed that, you’d be a librarian.”
It was Becca’s turn to laugh. “Okay, so you can win on good days. What’s your new angle?”
Dick pointed at Emily, who had climbed high enough on a tower of self-help books to peek over the side of Dick’s tropical aquarium.
“Who has the most open, spontaneous, creative mind you know?” he asked her, still pointing.
Becca smiled. “The four-year-old with a putter in the fish tank.”
“Exactly,” Dick answered. His voice wavered as he glanced toward his prized aquarium. Emily had dug the golf club into the tank’s colorful gravel, trying to get her golf ball through the fish bridge.
Dick, in the sway of the creative-thinking hype, clapped his hands to encourage her.
“Eureka! Do you see that, Becca? She’s playing through! That’s the name of the game, now, Becca. Creativity! It’s the zeitgeist! The very spirit of executive success.”
With a crash, Emily’s golf club punctured the glass. The tank shattered in an instant, making an extremely creative sound. The water purifier hummed, spinning dry air, dulling the sound of six dehydrating fish flopping on their last fins.
“I’m told that mothers learn to be experts at crisis management,” Dick said to himself, watching Becca race to the fish tank to make sure Emily didn’t get cut.
His carpet was littered with broken glass, colored rocks, strange plants, and exotic fish. It looked like the parking lot at a Grateful Dead concert, and smelled worse.
