Читать книгу On Second Thought - Kristan Higgins - Страница 15

Chapter Seven

Ainsley

“Just when I’d accepted the divorce,” Candy liked to tell people on book tour, “Phil showed up with his child.”

I remembered thinking at age three and a half that it would be fun to live with a lady named Candy, that her house would be sparkly and we’d eat mostly pink foods. There’d be a lot of singing, I imagined.

There wasn’t. Candy sighed a lot. She had a daily headache.

Hence, my childhood of guilt. Candy would buckle me briskly into a car seat, then wince as she stood up, hands on her back. She was in her forties when I came to live with her, and she’d tell her friends that she’d forgotten just how hard little kids were. She was dutiful, showing up at parent-teacher conferences because Dad was off with the boys of summer. She made sure I ate nutritious—and tasteless—dinners, but it was pretty clear. I was not her daughter. She already had one of those.

When I came along, Candy had been working on her PhD. It took her four more years to finish her dissertation, which became her most famous book—Stuck with You: Raising the Recalcitrant Stepchild. It took me decades to figure out it was about me.

Unlike Sean and Kate, I was a day-care kid. From their stories, it seemed they were raised in a magical kingdom of sibling friendship and parental delight. Candy baked back then, coconut cookies and angel food cake. Kate and Sean had stories of the time their mother made a tepee in the living room over winter break, or read The Wind in the Willows out loud, doing all the voices to perfection. Sean and Kate even shared a room until he turned seven.

There were dozens of pictures of them before I came along, laughing together, arms slung around each other, Sean steadying Kate on her bike, the two of them eating Popsicles on a summer day, or standing in front of the house on the first day of school, Kate’s hair in neat ponytails, Sean’s freshly cut.

Day care was fine. To the best of my knowledge, I was never dropped on my head or burned with cigarettes or put in toddler fight club. When I started kindergarten at the age of four and a half, I went to after-school programs, envious of the kids who got to ride the bus home.

As I got older, Candy signed me up for pretty much anything that kept me out of the house. I was a Daisy/Brownie/Girl Scout, played soccer from the age of five, was forced into volunteering at Adopt-a-Grandparent, spending many a high school afternoon talking to elderly people who kept asking me to take them home.

My father liked me quite a bit, though he wasn’t around too much, always flying off somewhere to do his umpire thing. But when he was home, life was a lot happier. “I’m taking the Ainsburger on some errands,” he’d call to Family 1.0, and once or twice a month he would take me off, my little hand so happy in his. We’d visit one of his friends, and I’d get to have ice cream and watch TV, maybe play computer games, something Candy forbid. Dad and his friend would go into the bedroom to “have a little talk in private,” and hey, I didn’t care. Dad often took me to the toy store for a new stuffed animal after the visit. For years, I thought errands meant visiting ladies.

Kate and Sean were fine. They didn’t hate me, beat me, tease me. They just kind of...ignored me. Not in a mean way, but in a slightly confused way. I remember knocking on Sean’s door, asking him if he’d play with me. He looked utterly baffled as he groped around in his desk for something I could do with him. (He showed me how to shoot an elastic band, then told me he had to study.) Kate wasn’t the type to brush my hair or play dolls with me, though she would, if I asked.

I just got a little tired of asking.

So instead, I made up friends. Lolly and Mr. Brewster, the tiny humans who lived in the mountains of my blankets, would ski and slide down the hills made by my knees and have terrible crashes and vivid arguments about whose fault it was. There was Igor, a tiny elephant who lived in shoe boxes I decorated with scraps of fabric and paint.

I sound tragic, don’t I? I wasn’t, I’m pretty sure. By the time I was eight or nine, I had friends, and it was such a relief, having people who really seemed to like talking to me. In middle school, I joined everything, did the grunt-work jobs (always secretary, never president, equipment manager rather than star player). High school was the same; I was always Switzerland, staying friends with everyone, never taking sides.

I didn’t have a boyfriend. But I was great at giving advice to my friends who did have boyfriends, and I got a vicarious thrill every once in a while, approaching Seth to tell him that Lucy really liked him, and did he like her?

When Kate went off to NYU, my parents and I moved to Cambry-on-Hudson, and I made the most out of being the new girl. I’d learned long ago that being a superfriend was the way to make people like me back. Adore, and ye shall be adored.

Sean went from Harvard to Columbia Medical School, because he was a show-off. After NYU, Kate got an MFA in photography from Savannah College of Art and Design and immediately started working as a professional photographer. She was dazzling to me, so sophisticated and urbane, living in Brooklyn (I barely knew where that was back then, but it sounded so cool).

I went to a pretty nice college in New York City—well, it was Wagner College on Staten Island, in the shadow of the mighty skyline but technically still in New York City.

Unlike my siblings, I wasn’t driven to achieve or study anything in particular. College was wonderful, and I loved being away from home. My siblings were off leading their fabulous, very adult lives; Sean married Kiara, also a surgeon, specialized in some kind of brain surgery and did the occasional TED Talk. Kate lived in her brownstone, a world away, it seemed, though she had me over for dinner once in a while, always nice but a little unsure where I was concerned.

Then, junior year, I met Eric.

Wagner was a small school, but somehow, we didn’t know each other. He was an accounting major; I was studying philosophy, because doesn’t the world need more philosophers?

I saw Eric as we were moving back in on the first day of the new school year. His parents were saying goodbye, hugging him, and his mom was laughing and wiping tears. He kissed her on the cheek, hugged his dad, not the awkward thanks, gotta run hug of most boys our age, but a real hug, a loving hug.

And Eric was handsome. Dark hair, dark eyes, attractively dorky glasses, lanky build.

He looked up, saw me watching and smiled, and that was it. I fell in love.

It took two weeks for me to speak to him, which was getting awkward, since we lived in the same dorm that year. But one happy night, my key card wasn’t working, and I was patiently reinserting it for the fifteenth time when Eric came up behind me and said, “Want me to try, girl who doesn’t talk to me?”

I blushed.

He smiled. “Maybe we could grab a coffee,” he suggested, and my heart ricocheted around my chest.

We grabbed a coffee.

By the weekend, we were a couple. It took him all of two weeks to get me into bed; basically, the amount of time it took for the Pill to kick in. I couldn’t believe love had finally found me in the form of affable, well-liked, dorktastic Eric Fisher...my boyfriend!

And even more remarkable...he felt the same way about me.

We could talk all night. It was more important to talk than sleep. He was funny, and he was so nice that it took my breath away. I hadn’t met any boys like that. Boys who held the door and bought you cold medicine when you were sick and snagged a blueberry muffin from the dining hall just because you loved them.

With Eric, I finally belonged. Finally, I was special.

That summer, we both got internships in Manhattan, me with a tiny publishing house, him with a bank. His parents let us stay in their apartment on 102nd Street—the building was named The Broadmoor, which I thought was so sophisticated. I’d never lived in a building with a name before. The apartment had belonged to Eric’s maternal grandmother, and it was a tiny, unglamorous place with a bedroom so small it could fit only a double bed. The living room was also the kitchen, and our table could fit only two people, and even then, our knees had to touch.

Mr. and Mrs. Fisher approved of me, which in itself was dazzling. “Are you religious, sweetheart?” his mom had asked on our third dinner together.

“Not really, Mrs. Fisher. Don’t let the name O’Leary fool you,” I said. “I can’t remember the last time we went to church. Maybe when my cousin got married a few years ago?”

She beamed. “Call me Judy, honey.”

“Sorry about my mom,” Eric said, smiling at his mother. “She wants to make sure the kids will be raised Jewish.”

Kids! Raised! My knees thrilled with adrenaline and love.

After graduation, we stayed together. It was always we. “We should go to San Francisco,” Eric said late in our senior year, “though it would kill my mother. By the way, she wants to take you to Phantom again. I’m sorry.”

I adored him. He was smart, kind and thoughtful. He told great stories, making his happy, normal childhood seem utterly hilarious without ever mocking his parents. His devotion to me didn’t even flicker. That was another thing I loved about him. His constancy.

The difference between being someone’s friend, sister (or half sister, as the case was), daughter (or stepdaughter)...and being someone’s love was breathtaking. I felt like the most wonderful creature in the world.

Upon graduation, Eric and I got jobs in the city, making Judy just about cartwheel with joy (they lived in nearby Greenwich, Connecticut). My B+ average and philosophy major qualified me to be nothing, but I got a job as a receptionist at NBC. Eric got a position at the bank where he’d interned, and we moved back into The Broadmoor, much to the jealousy of our friends, who had to endure complicated commutes from Queens or Yonkers.

It was perfect. The thrill of our first real jobs, riding on the subway, getting pad Thai for dinner and watching TV, fooling around in our tiny bedroom...it was everything I imagined adult life should be.

I loved working at Rockefeller Center, liked seeing the celebrities going in and out. I liked dressing up for work in my retro-cute dresses or sweater sets and A-line skirts. I was outgoing, I was cheerful, I said hello but didn’t ask for a selfie with the talent or try to kiss up to the producers and writers (though I did text Eric every time I saw Tina Fey). The job wasn’t rocket science, but I did it well.

Eric had a higher-paying job, and I encouraged him to look into MBA programs, because he had a really good brain for numbers. After just two months at the bank, he was already restless and irritable about his entry-level position. He wanted something with status, with an office and a personal assistant.

Personally, I felt there was a lot of peace in doing a not-hard job. Besides, my real adult life lay ahead of me, in some happy, vague fantasy that involved me wearing a lot of Armani, but still being a stay-at-home mom to our kids. Surely Eric and I would be getting married soon; we talked about it without reservation, not the specifics, but just when we’re married or that would be a nice place to settle down or when we have a baby. There was no rush. We were just out of college, after all.

NBC was fine. I never minded delivering lunch to the newsroom or standing in the rain to grab a taxi for someone who’d forgotten to book the car service. Then one day, a reporter from The Day’s News asked me to run out and buy him a new shirt and tie; he had to go on air unexpectedly and had sweated through his original shirt running back from lunch. “I hate to ask you,” he said. “But I’m in a jam, and my assistant isn’t in today.”

“Oh, I don’t mind!” I said. “No problem at all.”

He gave me four hundred dollars. “Buy yourself something for your trouble,” he said, “and thank you. Really, Ainsley. I appreciate it.”

How nice that he knew my name! Well, I wore a name badge, but most people just called me “Hey,” as in “Hey, I need a cab/lunch/reservation...”

I went to Brooks Brothers, got him a blue shirt that would bring out his nice eyes and a cool blue-and-purple tie with a pattern that wouldn’t strobe on TV. I brought the stuff up to the office and left the receipt and change in an envelope on his desk.

Two days later, there was a beautifully wrapped box on my desk. I told you to buy yourself something nice, the note said. Thank you again. —Ryan Roberts. Inside was a stunning pink-and-red silk scarf, so fine it practically floated. As Candy had drilled into me, I handwrote him a thank-you note.

Three weeks later, Ryan asked if I wanted to work on The Day’s News as a production assistant. There was an opening, and he’d thought of me. Eric just about fainted when I told him. “That’s great! Honey, I’m so proud of you!”

So even though I had only a vague idea of what a production assistant did, I said yes.

And here’s a secret. If you didn’t mind doing anything anyone asked, you were an amazing production assistant. Make coffee, get lunch, proofread this copy, get the art department to change this graphic, cut this story down to three minutes, call this restaurant and make a reservation for this anchor...it was easy. Other production assistants ran around sweating and panicked, trying to outsweat and outpanic each other to show how very important they were. I didn’t. I knew I wasn’t.

That was the thing that really stood out at NBC—my complete lack of ambition. I didn’t want to be a journalist or an on-air reporter. I didn’t want to go to Beirut (are you even kidding me?). Let other people go to dangerous places filled with bombs and rubble and gunfire. Me, I liked running water and flirting with the seventy-five-year-old doorman at The Broadmoor. I liked sleeping with Eric, because even though we both worked long days, we still fell asleep cuddled together every night.

I didn’t want a corner office. I never asked for a raise or a promotion.

This somehow got me a raise and a promotion every six months. For some reason, Ryan thought I was invaluable.

I know what you’re thinking. That he put the moves on me. Nope. He took Eric and me out to dinner with his wife. He showed me pictures of his kids, whom he truly adored. He thanked me for remembering his mom’s birthday when he forgot.

I went from production assistant to assistant producer, making my colleagues grind their teeth. Six months later, Ryan was tapped for more airtime, and I got another promotion so I could go along with him (associate producer). A year and a half after that, he was made lead anchor of The Day’s News, and at the age of twenty-six, I was made senior producer of the country’s second-largest news show.

Eric was so proud. He took both the O’Leary and Fisher families out to celebrate at a superfancy restaurant, and everyone came, even Dad, who happened to be in town for a Yankees-Orioles series. Judy and Aaron continually toasted and praised me, and Kate asked for celebrity gossip. Even Sean was impressed. Candy wondered how I was qualified, and Eric said, “Because she’s wonderful at everything she does.”

Ryan’s popularity soared; he was young enough to still have boy-next-door good looks, old enough for a sense of gravitas. He had a great sense of humor (hosted Saturday Night Live, in fact; I got Judy and Aaron tickets) and was adored by everyone at NBC. He treated me like an equal, listened to my suggestions and took them.

When he interviewed the President, I told Ryan to ask about the day his kids were born, and sure enough, the leader of the free world teared up, and ratings and social media went wild. Ryan knuckle-bumped me after the interview and introduced me to the President. Of the United States.

Meanwhile, Eric graduated from Rutgers with his MBA, got a job on Wall Street, and we were living the Big Apple dream. We traded in The Broadmoor for a two-bedroom in Chelsea (no name for the building, alas).

Despite my shiny title and brushes with the rich and famous, I made only a fraction of what Eric did at his job. Unlike me, he was very ambitious. But he was also fretful about work. On Wall Street, in a job with three hundred other bright, ambitious people, it was hard to stand out.

So I jumped in, his secret weapon. I had him invite his boss over for dinner, where I cooked and charmed with work stories and befriended the boss’s wife. I urged Eric to join the company softball team and volunteer for the American Lung Association stair climb in his building. When the CEO had twins, I had Eric make a donation to Save the Children in honor of the newborn boys. (She came down from the top floor to personally thank Eric, by the way.)

Ryan liked to say I had my finger on the pulse of humanity—yeah, yeah, a little over the top—but I did read people well. Eric...not as much. He was a little too used to being the worshipped only child to see what other people needed. I was the opposite. Unworshipped and clear-eyed.

Every so often when we passed a jewelry store window, Eric would look at me and grin. I’d feign innocence, and he’d say, “Just trying to see what you’re looking at.” So there were assurances and hints and references to us getting engaged...but still no ring.

One night, when we were having a rare dinner together in our beautiful apartment, and were both happy and full of good wine, I heard myself ask, “Hon? When do you think we’ll get married?”

He put down his fork; he’d cooked shrimp risotto, my favorite. Nodded, and gazed at me with his kind eyes. “I want that, too. You know I do. I love you so much, Ains. But the last thing I want to do is start our married life at a time when I’m so busy that I can’t spend time with my wife. Another year and a half, maybe two, and I’ll be over the hump. Can you hang in there that long?”

And not wanting to sound like a dependent, weak female, I said, “Of course! I’m busy, too, definitely. No, it was just a... I just wondered.”

“Obviously, we’re gonna get married, babe. You’re the love of my life.” He smiled, poured me more wine, and we had a lovely night. With great sex, I might add.

And then...well...then the shit hit the Peacock, as it were.

In addition to being the country’s most trusted source for news, Ryan Roberts also seemed to be a bit of a magnet for the action.

There was the time a bullet whizzed past his head during a hostage situation, and Ryan had the cameraman shoot him giving the update live, pointing to the hole in the building behind him. How about the time his car was lifted right off the ground in Tornado Alley? The fire in Queens, the terrorist threat in California. Exciting, terrifying stuff, right? I’d write the lead-in: This evening on The Day’s News—Ryan Roberts on the DC hostage situation, too close for comfort. Tune in at five!

At first, I didn’t know anything was amiss. I thought he just wasn’t that good at remembering the details when he called in. I was just down the street from the gunfire, he told me on the phone, but in our news meeting, it was a lot more dramatic—bullets streaking past my head. The big explosion that rattled the windows in the building down the street became a hair-singeing brush with a fireball.

Details can come back to people. It happens all the time. Besides, I trusted Ryan. He was the best boss in the world.

But it became a pattern. His SUV was fired on in Afghanistan. In Botswana, he held a dying AIDS patient in his arms. The news story—and ratings—were so much better, so much juicier when Ryan was part of the news, not just reporting it. And he was on the scene, after all. It was his job.

It didn’t happen all the time. Maybe every few months, but enough that my antenna started to twitch. I finally asked him about it over a late dinner in his office one night. It was hours after a hurricane had socked Brooklyn, and Ryan had been on the scene. “There I was, just trying to get a feel for the area,” he said, “and this woman called out from the subway. She was drowning, Ains! I ran down the stairs, into the water, which was completely filthy, by the way, and dragged her out. She was barely conscious.”

The antenna quivered. Why would he wait all day to tell me this? “Where’d you take her?” I asked.

“Huh? Oh, someone helped her to the hospital. She was fine.”

The antenna twitched.

“Did you get her name? It would make a fantastic piece.”

“I should’ve asked, right? Guess I was just too caught up in the moment.” Except he was a newsman. Getting the story was his life.

The antenna began voguing, Madonna-style.

I took a bite of my sesame noodles. “It’s funny. Sometimes it seems like you only remember the best details after you’ve had a couple hours.” I didn’t look at him as I spoke, and I kept my tone careful.

This was my boss. He made sixteen million dollars a year. He’d given me an incredible career, and I wasn’t exactly awash in life skills.

Ryan didn’t answer. Just looked at me and took another bite of his Reuben.

“I just want to be sure the story is...clean,” I said.

“Of course it is, Ainsley,” he said with that crooked grin America loved. “Sometimes it takes a little while for everything to filter through. The adrenaline, you know? Well.” There was a significant pause. “Maybe you don’t. Since you don’t go on scene.”

In other words, don’t push it.

Every news show probably did the same thing, right? I mean, it didn’t simply rain anymore—we had rain events. Fog warnings. Anchors were sent to stand in front of empty buildings in the middle of the night to create a sense of drama. “Earlier today, a shocking story...”

Really, what did I know? I wasn’t there. My antenna knew nothing.

Then came the point of no return.

It shouldn’t have been such a big deal. Really, of all of Ryan’s exaggerations to cause a frenzy, this one was the most harmless. But the frenzy happened just the same.

Ryan was doing a story on the cuts Congress had just made to veteran benefits. He was interviewing a vet who’d lost both her legs and part of her face to an IED. They all sat in the humble living room, the husband’s voice gruff as he spoke about his wife’s courage and determination, the American flag in its triangle box on a shelf behind them.

Ryan looked so gentle and concerned that I myself teared up. He asked about what the benefit cuts would mean to the family, how much her physical therapy (no longer covered) had helped, and what her prosthetics and additional plastic surgery would cost.

Then the kicker. The couple’s three-year-old wandered into the shot and climbed right on Ryan’s lap. “Hello, there, sweetheart,” he said, and he carried on the interview just like that. She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder.

You could feel America sigh with love.

I mean, talk about good TV! The noble warrior, her hardworking husband, their adorable toddler and America’s most trusted face. You couldn’t script that stuff.

Except apparently, you could.

Two weeks later, the New York Post ran the headline: Ryan Roberts Bribes Military Family for America’s Tears. An email had been leaked—the veteran’s husband wrote to thank Ryan for doing the story and apologized that it took so long for Callie to warm up to you. Hope your ears don’t still hurt from her crying!

Crying? There’d been no crying!

The email went on. The extra money sure will help. We really appreciate it.

Ryan could not be reached for comment.

Turned out, he’d offered the couple a thousand dollars to have their kid come sit on his lap, coached into the shot by the grandmother. It had taken quite a few tries before little Callie trusted Ryan.

Bill, the retirement-age cameraman, had leaked it. Though he’d been in on Ryan’s exaggerations all along (for a few extra thousand each time), this story was the straw that broke his back. He was a veteran himself. The couple admitted they simply needed the money for better prosthetics, due to the Congressional funding cuts.

Long story short, Congress got off their asses as if they were on fire.

A GoFundMe page was set up for the family, and more than $1.4 million was raised in the first day.

Ryan’s other stories came to light. The tornado. The bullets. The drowning woman in the subway. He was fired, and after a six-month period of head-hanging and sheepish apologies, he was rehired at another network for a paltry half of his sixteen-million-dollar salary.

I was fired, too. I was not rehired. It was my job to make sure the news was clean, to know if Ryan was stretching the truth, to keep an eye on these things, goddamn it! as the head of NBC screeched.

So I joined the ranks of the unemployed, as appealing to other networks as an Ebola-riddled leper holding an open jar of typhus.

After my one hundred and fiftieth job rejection in four weeks (Starbucks wouldn’t have me), I lay on the couch, ten pounds heavier than I’d been a month ago. It was okay, I told myself between bouts of sobbing and Ben & Jerry’s. I never wanted to be a producer in the first place. At least I had Eric. And Ben. And Jerry.

Eric sighed as he came in; I was in the “pajama” phase of grief. “Babe, come on. You were gonna leave anyway once we had kids.”

“It’s just... I didn’t do anything wrong. Technically.”

“I know. We’ve been over this.”

Oh, God. If Eric didn’t want to talk about it—Eric my rock, my love, my best friend—I was really, really pathetic.

Then he threw me the best bone ever. “Listen, with my salary, you don’t need to work. Take your time, find something you really love, something that will work in the next phase of our lives. Besides...” He paused and stroked my unclean hair. “Don’t you think it’s time we bought a house?”

Hell’s to the yes! It was exactly what I needed. I’d figure out what the next phase was (marriage and children, thank you very much). First step, a home for all of us.

We found a house in Cambry-on-Hudson, where I’d spent my teenage years, where Candy and Dad still lived, forty-five minutes from Judy and Aaron in Greenwich. An easy commute for Eric via the train, close enough to the city that we could still pop in for a show or to see friends, far enough away that it felt like the country. The posh little town was filled with interesting shops, some great restaurants, a couple of little galleries and a bakery that could be compared only with paradise. A marina jutted out into the Hudson, and high on a hill sat a huge white country club that we nicknamed Downton Abbey (which would be perfect for our wedding).

“Wait till we have kids,” Eric warned me when we found the house. “Don’t be surprised if my parents buy the house next door.” That would be great with me.

Our house was a little soulless from the outside, but fabulous on the inside. Huge bedrooms, a sunken living room, a kitchen with granite countertops and a nice front porch. It was in a development, which I hadn’t wanted, but the yard was landscaped and pretty.

We went to the animal shelter and picked out Ollie, then a skinny little bag of bones who’d been found tied to a phone pole. Still, when we reached out to pet him, he wagged so hard he fell down.

“Our family has begun,” Eric said, kissing the dog on the head.

When it came time to sign the papers, I had a little shock.

“Um...my name isn’t on here,” I told the real estate agent.

“Oh, no! Did I make a mistake?” he asked. “I can draw up new papers. I just... I’m sorry, it must’ve been a misunderstanding.”

“No, let’s do this,” Eric said. “We can fix it later, babe.” He signed with a flourish, grinning at me, and when the Realtor left, we made love in the empty living room. His parents came over that night, and even though we drank champagne and laughed, I kept thinking about that. Eric Fisher. Not Eric Fisher and Ainsley O’Leary.

“I wonder if we’ll ever have grandchildren, Aaron,” Judy said, subtle as a charging lion. She held Ollie, stroking him as he crooned with joy. “Grand-dogs are lovely, too, but...”

“Mom,” Eric said. “Why do you think there are four bedrooms?”

He kissed me, and Judy sighed, and Aaron chuckled, and I put my worries aside and waited for a marriage proposal. Kept waiting. Waited some more. Started volunteering at the local senior housing complex where Gram-Gram lived, bringing Ollie in for pet therapy. Planted tulip bulbs. Painted rooms, refurbished a table, bought furniture.

Two months after we moved, Eric got another promotion. He apologized, saying he really, really wanted to tie the knot and spend more time at home but this job would put us over the top. I tried not to feel glum. His career was on fire; I was an anomaly in Cambry-on-Hudson—a stay-at-home person. Like a shut-in, Kate mused, or a kept woman. She smiled when she said it, but I knew she meant it.

I missed my old job more than I ever would’ve guessed.

That was when Candy got me an interview for features editor at Hudson Lifestyle. “Don’t mess this up,” she said over the phone as I stood in front of the fridge, eating Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, Eric in Dallas yet again.

“Thanks for your faith in me, Candy,” I said. “I’ll try not to blow it.”

“It’s just that I have a professional reputation there. I recommended you for this job. If you don’t make a good impression, it will reflect badly on me, and let me tell you, I worked very hard to get where I am. It wasn’t easy, especially having a toddler thrust on me when I was forty years old.”

Lest we forget. “Got it, Candy. And really, thank you.” I hung up and polished off the entire pint of ice cream like any good American.

The offices of Hudson Lifestyle were in a brick building in the old part of downtown. There were six people on the staff, most in cubicles, most dealing with advertising and bookkeeping.

A secret about print journalism—the writers are often the least valued people on the job. Advertisers keep any paper afloat, and the graphics people have to set the thing up, and someone makes those irritating calls to see if you want to subscribe, and someone has to empty the trash and clean the bathrooms, but writers? Pah. A dime a dozen. There’s always some college intern who can do what you do. Besides, everyone reads only the Huffington Post and BuzzFeed.

I waited in the reception area, which was small but nicely furnished. The glossy magazine was spread out on the coffee table—a picture of a farmhouse on one cover; a head of lettuce on another; a sailboat on another. Headlines such as Best Plastic Surgeons in Westchester! and Farm to Table Dining and Area’s Top Garden Centers! told me all I needed to know about the magazine, which I’d never read before. The receptionist told me to have a seat, then disappeared (probably to clean the bathrooms and empty the trash).

I missed my old job. I missed Rockefeller Center. I missed Ryan. I missed being important.

Tears filled my eyes, and my nose prickled. Did I have a tissue? No, I did not. It’s just that this job...after my other job...it was such a step down. It was humiliating. I’d produced news stories on rebels in Afghanistan. I’d met the leader of the free world. Now I’d have to write about lettuce. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve, leaving a smear of eyeliner and mascara. Great.

A man came out to greet me, already seeming pissed off, as if he could read my mind. “Ashley?” he said.

“Ainsley. Ainsley O’Leary. A pleasure.” I stood up and stuck out my hand, which he looked at and didn’t shake.

“Are you crying?”

“Oh... I just... I’m a little, uh, premenstrual.” Shit.

He gave me a long, unblinking look. Strange, pale blue eyes, like an alien. “Will that be a problem during this interview?” he asked.

“Let’s hope not. But those first two days can be murder.” I smiled. He did not. I felt my uterus shriveling, as if his disapproving gaze was bringing on menopause.

Finally, he blinked. “I’m Jonathan Kent. This way.” I followed him into a big, sunny room divided into cubicles. One of the men gave me a half smile and, unless I was wrong, an eye roll.

“You have an appointment at eleven, Mr. Kent,” the receptionist said.

Mr. Kent, huh? He couldn’t be past forty, but he sure didn’t give off that easygoing Mark Zuckerberg vibe.

There was only one office on the floor—his. It was scary-neat, a clean desk (sign of a sick mind), one photo facing him. On the wall, a painting of, you guessed it, the Hudson River. A bookcase that contained books only, no statues, no photos, nothing personal at all.

“Remind me why you’re here,” he said, sitting behind the desk. “You want an internship, your mother says?”

“No, and she’s my stepmother. Not my mother. Candy, that is. Um, you’re looking for a features editor?”

Another long, pained, uterus-shriveling glance. “How old are you?”

“I believe it’s against the law to ask that question.” He stared. “Thirty,” I added.

“You look younger.” It wasn’t a compliment.

He stared at my résumé, glanced up at me. I smiled, or continued to smile, as the case was. He didn’t smile back. Looked at the papers again. My smile felt stiff. The left corner of my mouth was twitching.

People usually liked me right away.

Jonathan Kent wore a suit, and his tie was not loosened. He was clean-shaven, which was kind of rare these days. Dark hair combed back severely. Cheekbones like dorsal fins, and those pale eyes. He was neither attractive nor ugly. Generic Caucasian male with potential to be a serial killer, please. Back when I was the receptionist at NBC, I’d made calls for the casting director.

“Do you really want to work here?” he asked, looking up at me.

“Yes! I’m here for an interview, after all.”

He blinked. Finally. “Why?”

Because I’m bored didn’t seem like a great answer, though it would be honest. “Well, I really, uh, respect what you do and think I could positively contribute to the content of the magazine.” Ta-da! The perfect answer.

“What do we do?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“What is it you think we do?”

“Is that a trick question?” No answer. “You publish a regional magazine.”

“And why would we do that?”

Because it’s a cash cow. “To showcase the beauty and vibrancy of life in the Hudson River Valley,” I said with my best Girl Scout smile.

“Your résumé says you graduated from Wagner College. I assume you have a degree in journalism?”

“Uh, no.”

“English?”

“Nope.”

“Do I have to keep guessing, Ms. O’Leary?”

I winced, then smiled to cover. “Philosophy.” Another stare. “It’s one of those degrees that can be used for anything,” I said, echoing the duplicitous guidance counselor at Wagner.

“Is it?” Mr. Kent said. I couldn’t argue that point. “You worked for Ryan Roberts.” He waited, expressionless.

“Yes.”

“Who was fired for an egregious breach of professional ethics.”

“And rehired by another network. But yes. That’s correct.”

“Putting aside your possible complicity in his journalistic deception, do you have any actual skills or education to recommend you?”

I felt a sudden rush of anger. What a rude man. Ryan had not been my fault. (Okay, fine, a little bit my fault, but mostly not.)

“Wow, Jonathan,” I said. “Those are a lot of big words. I’m not sure I follow you.” Clearly, I wasn’t going to get the job, so why not go for broke? “But after seven years with NBC, I think I can write about the great lettuces of Westchester County and who does the best boob jobs.”

His expression didn’t change.

“Have a lovely day,” I said, standing up and reaching for the door.

“You’re hired,” he said. “You’ll have a three-month probationary period. Be here tomorrow. We open at 8:30. Don’t be late, Ms. O’Leary.”

And so I went from writing news that tens of millions of people would hear to editing fluff pieces—the historic Groundhog Day parade in Smithville and the artisan potter who’d had a piece bought by the White House. Where the prettiest wedding venues were (okay, that piece I enjoyed), and how shipping lanes had changed on the Hudson.

It was fine. It was pleasant. I made friends fast, as I always did, though Jonathan failed to succumb to my charms and didn’t eat the cookies I occasionally brought in. I was just killing time, waiting for Eric to propose so we could get married and have kids.

Instead, he got cancer.